National Theatre of Scotland’s new production follows the lives of youngsters who have left care
Nobody goes to the theatre to be preached at. A rule of thumb suggests most plays’ dramatic value is in inverse proportion to the worthiness of their subject matter. It’s something of an achievement, then, that the National Theatre of Scotland’s production of 365 should be one of the hottest tickets of this year’s Edinburgh International Festival. 365 follows the lives of 15 young people who have left care and are staying in “trainer flats”, where they learn to deal with the practical and emotional consequences of living independently for the first time.
So far, so worthy. But it is the triumvirate of talent behind the play that has got people excited. With a script by David Harrower — not known for trotting out social-realist pieties — direction by the NTS’s head, Vicky Featherstone, and movement from Steven Hoggett, who choreographed the company’s international hit Black Watch, it promises to be an issue play for people who have issues with issue plays.
Featherstone first had the idea some time ago after reading Nick Davies’s book Dark Heart: The Shocking Truth About Hidden Britain*. When she finally decided to go ahead with it, one of the first people she turned to was Donald Banning, children’s services manager for Barnardo’s in Edinburgh, which runs seven trainer flats in the city.
What is most striking is how young the people these trainer flats are designed for are: most are 16 or 17. “We’re asking young people who have had quite disadvantaged lives to do something at 16 that many of their more fortunate contemporaries won’t do for another decade.” says Banning. “We seem to expect more from these young people than we would from people who haven’t been in care.”
Even the most confident 16-year-old might find the practicalities intimidating. Although their rent is paid for them, each tenant is expected to live on £47 a week, a figure that has to include fuel and food. But, for many, particularly in the early days after moving in, emotional isolation is a greater problem. One condition of being granted a flat is that the occupier must accept some form of support. Ultimately, however, it is about living independently. Not surprisingly, some youngsters go off the rails.
“It can be a difficult time,” says Banning. “Lots of young people are going to leave care, see their families again and face rejection for a second time. The prospect of being free after years in, say, residential care affects different people in different ways. Maybe twice a year we’ll have to take one of the flats back.” In the worst case scenario, the young people risk ending up homeless if it doesn’t work out, although the charity will try to re-house those who don’t make a go of it. Those who succeed will stay in the trainer flat for up to two years before taking on an ordinary tenancy.
Liz Rae, who is in charge of young people leaving care at Glasgow City Council, was another of the figures NTS consulted. “We do have young people who have this fantasy of their own wee house and they will manage it,” she says. “Sometimes they’ll come back and say, ‘You were right. I wasn’t ready.’”
Glasgow has around 600 young people leaving care this year and not a tenth of that number of trainer flats. “We try to get everyone moved on within a year, although sometimes if a person has settled in really well, we’ll transfer the lease to them,” she says.
The more Banning and Rae speak, the more remarkable their projects seem: a relentless optimism and ability to hope for the best and deal calmly with the worst must be part of the job description. But for a playwright, admiration isn’t enough. Conveying a sense of what life in the trainer flats means is another matter. It is a challenge David Harrower has been struggling with and, mid-rehearsals, he sounds distinctly uncomfortable. “When Vicky first put the idea to me I was sceptical. I tend to stay away from social issues. I wasn’t even really aware that there were these flats. I knew there were kids in care, and I soon found out that you no longer stay in care. I thought, ‘I can’t just do an illustrated lecture’. You don’t want a load of facts and figures.”
365 marks new ground for Harrower in another way. Where he would usually buff and polish a play before presenting it whole to a director, the improvisatory nature of the project required him to write on the hoof, a monologue here, an exchange there. Describing this process — much of which took place in Govan town hall — he sounds both frustrated and energised, like a watercolour miniaturist who has been given a big pot of Dulux and told to splash it around. Much of what was written got ripped up from rehearsal to rehearsal as the play took on a life of its own. On the day we speak, less than a month before opening, there is still no agreed script. “I can’t pretend it hasn’t been difficult,” Harrower says. “The way I write tends to start with a kernel. It might be something tiny, like the way someone takes off their glasses, and I was aware I didn’t have that.”
After talking to the social workers, psychotherapists and young people themselves (some of whom came and watched rehearsals), what emerged was not a single image but “an accumulation”: “People would tell me tales about this kid or that kid at one remove. This world became peopled with these sort of ghosts. The kid that injected heroin. The kid that ran away from home.”
In the past, Harrower says, he has tried to create a back-story for his characters. But somehow that didn’t feel right. “It felt dishonest actually, like you’re checking off the stereotypes on some kind of list.” He also made the decision not to tell the stories of any of the individuals he spoke to. Instead, all the characters on stage are composites. “What you find anyway is that young people in care rarely talk directly about their experiences. I suppose that creates a challenge. Most of my plays have involved two people arguing over a version of the truth. That’s certainly the case with Blackbird and Knives In Hens. But here it has been so hard to get these characters to speak. As a writer, that can put you in a bit of a quandary: what do you actually make them say?
“Most of us grow up with access to family photographs, shared memories. But these kids have no idea of their own narration. They’re going through their lives trying to make a story for themselves. For a playwright trying to create a story, that parallel can be oddly useful.”
As ever, Harrower, Featherstone and the cast will be praying the critics like what they see on opening night. You suspect, though, that there will also be a few nerves about the reactions of Rae and Banning. “What I really hope from it is that it’s not all depressing,” says Rae. “It is really hard for our young people. But often what gets missed out is how funny and fearless they are.”
Harrower is clearly keen to get it right. “I asked some of the young people, ‘If you were coming to see a play about your lives, what would you want?’ and they said, ‘Make it dark f***ing humour.’ I hope we’ve managed that.” Is there a reaction that he wants to provoke from the audience? “I wouldn’t mind if they carried me aloft along Leith Walk,” he jokes. “But as long as the social workers aren’t picketing it on the opening night, I’ll be relieved.”
Adrian Turpin
17 August 2008
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/theatre/article4546808.ece
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