An Angel
By Benjamín Gavarre
© BENJAMÍN GAVARRE SILVA
Followed by an interpretation and analysis:
Characters
Host
The Angel
Monstrous Nymph
Lost Nymph
The Bride
The Groom
The Sailor
The Admiral
The Intern
1
Living Room
Host. — We're all set with the fancy tablecloths, and carpets and carpets and climbing plants.
The Angel. — Carnivorous?
Host. — Cheers, darling. Would you mind putting on some pants?
The Angel. — What?! Only fries? And what's with the fancy tablecloths for?
Host. — Food's on its way. Aphrodisiac, and also, why not?… Nutritious!
The Angel. — Thank heavens, because I'm totally battling diarrhea!
Monstrous Nymph. — Are you carrying that all by yourself, sweetie?
The Angel. — For real, I assure you. And it's no laughing matter. I've been consumed by a sadness for ages!… I'm always walking up and down Reforma, back and forth, back and forth…
Lost Nymph. — Siren soul, wolf's mouth, and a few stones in his rosy sphincter. Oh, if only I could enter the reddest cavity of his three-tailed heart!
Monstrous Nymph. — (Mocking) Oh! And what if from the depths emerged the persistent octopus, the one who poured his ink into the yellowish rice at the Wun Li Go! Chinese Café?
Host. — (To the nymphs) Glad you're enjoying the party. More guests will arrive soon, go wash and soap up. (The Nymphs exit the stage. A sharp bell rings) I knew it. (The Groom and The Bride enter) Come in, come in and place your peculiar existence in the coffin at the end of the hallway. Some glutton is throwing up in the toilet, pay him no mind. He's furious because the food hasn't arrived. I'll hurry things along. (He stands center stage and, ceremoniously, speaks into a cell phone) If the order of factors doesn't cause a wild mastiff to rip out some vital gland, this latex orgy, waiting to be satisfied by the tongue of someone who wants at least a margarita with very cold salt—essential for spreading legs and getting into, or being gotten into—begins here and extends in various directions, so the intern nurse can place a cold bedpan for comfortable urination.
In a brief white light spectacle, The Host vanishes through the trapdoor.
2
The Bride. — What beautiful tablecloths!
The Groom. — Museum quality!
The Bride. — And the young Angel? How gorgeous!
The Groom. — He's a green shoot, his translucent snail wings aren't fragile.
The Bride. — Let him dance! Let him sing! Let him strip!
The Groom. — Temper your urges, I'm right here!
The Angel. — (Falsely) I am wings, ethereal. I seek innocence in a willow branch, in a drop of adolescent lotion, in a twelve-minute hair.
The Groom. — He's a shoot, and I'll say more: he's cheesy. And his wings are flesh and blood.
The Bride. — He’s… mine.
The Groom. — No!
The Bride. — He's not?
The Angel ascends. The dazzled Bride climbs a spiral staircase in pursuit.
3
Shortly after, a bathyscaphe descends from the fly system. In the place where a porthole would be, we see a video screen showing the Admiral and The Sailor peering out.
The Sailor. — Admiral, we've submerged twelve hundred meters to latitudes where fish live with their own light.
The Admiral. — Abyssal, sailor.
The Sailor. — Yes, sir!
The Admiral. — Where could the mermaid be?
The Sailor. — Should I sound the alarm?
The Admiral. — Do it!
The Sailor. — Yes sir, help! This is the third call, third, third, third… Help! This is the third time I've called for help: We're going to drown!
The Admiral. — It's time for the ultimate reckoning.
The bathyscaphe vanishes back into the fly system.
4
The Groom. — Everything’s easier here. You just lie back among cushions and scarves and play at being hanged by someone else, hang others, watch others being hanged, and also watch someone bite the Admiral’s knee without him caring, as he’s thinking of hiring another sailor because the one under his command is extremely paranoid. My fiancée has gone after the Angel. I'm going to hang her when I catch up.
He climbs the stairs.
5
The Nymphs enter in a cart. They clean and adorn themselves. They hate each other, of course.
Lost Nymph. — (To the Monstrous Nymph) Should I soap your head, darling?
Monstrous Nymph. — No, darling. Oh, and don't pretend, I know you want to take my place, but I'm undoubtedly bolder, more sensual, and I get the applause because my breasts are like two great metaphors and you're flat and buck-toothed.
Lost Nymph. — You shouldn't smoke so much, it sours your temper.
Monstrous Nymph. — You just want to compete with me, and even garbage is beautiful if one thinks of you.
Lost Nymph. — To hell with that! You think you're Goddess Earth, the Mother who birthed us, Nefertiti clipping her nails. But I'm better than you.
Monstrous Nymph. — I'm not going to compete with you. Go on, get the nail file and start with the smallest toe on my left foot; be careful not to make me bleed.
Lost Nymph. — But what kind of ugliness do your feet have!
Monstrous Nymph. — You think so?
Lost Nymph. — I've never seen hooves like that in my life.
Monstrous Nymph. — Leave me alone. I'll file them myself. It's a vulgar job, which is why I thought you'd be the right one.
Lost Nymph. — And your ears! I hadn't noticed. You knew about how peculiar your ears were.
Monstrous Nymph. — Look, you idiot. Why don't you put on some music and go dance in the kitchen? You maid-wannabe!
Lost Nymph. — Do you want me to make you something?
Monstrous Nymph. — Your grave, if you can, but first a gin and tonic, extra dry if you can.
Lost Nymph. — Be right back.
The Angel descends from the fly system.
6
Monstrous Nymph. — Who arrives! You are a Renaissance ballroom-sized angel. File my nails. Don't get carried away.
The Angel. — A Black man tried, he tried, he wanted to rip off my wings because they bothered him… He wanted to…
Monstrous Nymph. — Get frisky? Did he succeed?
The Angel. — No. A lightning bolt came from Olympus in the form of a warrior.
Monstrous Nymph. — And it killed him?
The Angel. — No, but they both disputed the dubious honor of ripping off my wings.
Monstrous Nymph. — Well, well. I’d like to too.
The Lost Nymph enters. The cart disappears.
Lost Nymph. — What healthy fun! (To The Angel) Can I take off your wings? I can dance a volcanic jazz for you.
Monstrous Nymph. — Back off! I'll show you what volcanic means.
Lost Nymph. — (Dances) I am bronze, I am lust, I am the bronze they used to make Diana the huntress: I move! I move!
Monstrous Nymph. — Get lost, I'll be the favorite.
Lost Nymph. — Of course, madam, but first let the Angel decide who he prefers.
The Angel. — In my very, very long life I had never seen such captivating women, who wants to taste me?
Monstrous Nymph. — Me, but first please put on some pants.
Lost Nymph. — For me, he's perfect as he is, I swear.
Monstrous Nymph. — (Tries to touch The Angel's body, but he resists and makes sure she doesn't lift his tunic) You'll be mine, but first you must dress, as I said, in pants, I wouldn't want to do it without being the one to lower your zipper.
The Angel. — Back off! Let me think!
Lost Nymph. — That's reasonable.
Monstrous Nymph. — Alright, but make it quick.
The Angel. — Nothing of the sort, this is serious. Everyone lies. Everyone wants to rip off my wings. To get frisky!
Monstrous Nymph. — And why not! It's necessary!
The Angel. — She wants a fly, a fine zipper to reveal what she's almost seeing already. And I…
Lost Nymph. — No. The matter is one of clear logic. It's about knowing who the little angel prefers, her… Or me.
The Angel. — I see. Well, why don't we all dance and prefer each other for as long as we prefer each other.
Lost Nymph. — Sounds logical.
Monstrous Nymph. — Then let's dance!
The three fall to the floor, intertwine, and disappear.
Darkness.
7
The bathyscaphe descends, and we see the Sailor and the Admiral on a video. The Sailor is playing with a Barbie doll.
The Sailor. — The Admiral broke the rules, uncorked the red wine bottle, and instead of christening the ship, poured the contents on his shockingly white rubber hair. Murmurs were heard. Some insisted it wasn't a wig, that it was true the Admiral's head sprouted acrylic, bright white hair, like Barbie's. And it was because he liked dolls, he devoured them one after another. After eating their blue eyes, he disarticulated their precious legs, their turtle-like torso, and then, after licking their upturned nose, he filled his mouth with the head and the splendid hair, a special design, of the finest synthetic hair available on the market. The Admiral, satisfied, smiled, reclined in his favorite hammock, thinking about his good judgment and the luck he had working on a ship dedicated to the imports and exports of the leading toy company. As great as his gluttony was the indifference he felt towards the stomach storms his hobby produced. Without ever processing the material, the mucous membranes of his stomach allowed the nylon plastic to pass into his bloodstream, which the Admiral fruitlessly tried to shave off, and his skin, determined to remain present at least until the end of History, formed an epiplastified section that gave the Admiral that sweet and manageable expression, the main reason why, to the misfortune of tales of daring ships and admirals, our not-so-beloved hero became known as the Perverse Admiral who pooped Barbies.
The bathyscaphe ascends, video and all.
8
Hospital light. The Intern enters, pushing a gurney where The Angel is strangely, yet attractively, reclined.
The Intern. — And what if I told you that with just one hand…
The Angel. — Who?
The Intern. — The surgeon, who else? He leans in and, without a syringe, inserts the catheter or probe—the miserable thing is called… Well, they call it the Maleficent, and bam! the Surgeon attacks it with the injected force of his pupils. What is he going to put in?
The Angel. — And who is the Surgeon?
The Intern. — Someone who saw a lot and almost popped an eye out. He was worried about statistics.
The Angel. — And you've known him before?
The Intern. — He's bottled up several. Especially one who wouldn't cooperate. He'd do somersaults and get on all fours. His flabby flesh would spill out. I didn't even look out of disgust.
The Angel. — Did he have tonsillitis?
The Intern. — He had colostrum, too much.
The Angel. — He had milk, he was bovine.
The Intern. — On the contrary, he was seminal male, but the milk came out. It emerged from the depths, from the coldest region of his virile body, and ended up warm on his chest, which terminates in a nipple.
The Angel. — (Ecstatic) And light the Milky Way!
The Intern. — And then, well, the gum—that is, the surgeon's glove—and a sadistic nurse with a lubricated catheter and probe inserted it through the most extended orifice until it connected with the skin passages near the hairy mucous portion.
The Angel. — And everything went well?
The Intern. — They were jumping. They were elbowing each other in joy. They would have leaped if National Geographic or a Jacques Cousteau had filmed them, submerging the bathyscaphe into the deep membranes that sought an exit to the solar day.
The Angel. — So, who's operating on me?
The Intern. — The same surgeon I told you about.
The Angel. — I don't know. It can wait. Have the guests arrived yet?
The Intern. — Almost. It was quite the parade, very GQ, very New Fashion or Interview.
The Angel. — It already happened?
The Intern. — Yes, last night. Dozens of lubricated wigs astonished the first ladies. Some guests weren't sure if it was a costume party, but they brought dozens of latex suits in red, purple, and green just in case. Affable and condescending, the Pilot got rid of his helicopter and joined the party. The Boxer, the Black Triton, and the fat, fat Mermaid also arrived. The maids, flight attendants, were examining the guests to see if they were more horrified by the word cancer or the word AIDS.
The Angel. — And who else arrived?
The Intern. — A young man with a sequined mask, a rotating blonde who was filing her teeth, and a tenor who, at the slightest provocation, would sing the American national anthem.
The Angel. — I can imagine. And no one else?
The Intern. — A man with a large wart and an enormous sense of smell.
The Angel. — How do you know?
The Intern. — Near the threshold, a rolled-up Christ peered out, holding a plum-shaped phone. He said he was waiting for a call from God to know if the baseball player Rudy Nelson had managed to cover the bases and win the competition.
The Angel. — I can imagine how it all went. First the Individual arrived, the Groom.
The Intern. — Oh, yeah? And who else?
The Angel. — Who else? The Bride, in a leather bra.
9
The Groom and The Bride enter the stage.
The Groom. — I am the Individual, do you dance?
The Bride. — Maybe.
The Angel observes the couple closely, the Intern remains expectant by the gurney.
The Angel. — I imagine childhood no longer belongs to me. But what is an angel's childhood like?
The Groom. — (To The Bride) I am prodigious. I drag you, I take you to a dark den and make you climb onto my perfect stomach very close to my colossal jeans. And you, clutching your leather bra, tilt your head back. And we spin without risk until we settle just before the edit cut.
The Angel. — Who said cut! Cut!!!
The Intern. — I touch my knees and let out a little laugh: Brruuu! Raspberry noises for everyone and… what else? I observe them from afar, from my overflowing satisfaction.
The Angel. — She's a voyeur!
The Groom. — (Kisses The Bride while offering her chocolates) Choco-latex, look! You're going to devour them, swallow them, sweetly dissolve them while—under penalty of me cutting off your head, you know who—you send me playful glances that say everything, even your final prayers.
The Bride. — Don't be merciless.
The Groom. — Don't be weather.
The Bride. — Don't tear me apart.
The Groom. — You refuse?
The Bride. — You're mistaken. Here I am, ready for you to carry me in your arms.
The Groom. — Me?
The Bride. — Would it be someone else?
The Groom. — Another will come, I always think the same, even when you're in my arms, like this, in this way.
The Bride. — You're rough, you're tense, you don't know how to turn me. Put me down quickly or I'll call for help-xilio!
The Groom. — Help-xilio?
The Angel. — I can intervene.
The Intern. — I don't recommend it.
The Groom. — There you are. Comfortable on the floor?
The Bride. — I've always known how to behave. Is there a message for me?
The Groom. — (To The Angel) A message?
The Intern. — Tell her there’s a shmuj!
The Angel. — (Puzzled) A shmuj?
The Intern. — (Approaches with the shmuj and gives it to The Angel) A shmuj, a shmuj!
The Groom. — Spell it out.
The Angel. — You can't. It's a drawing.
The Bride. — (Hysterical) Interpret it!
The Angel. — Love is… interested, more than interested: engaged, attentive.
The Groom. — Attentive? Obsessed? Excited? Ready? Yearning? With superior desires to be and let himself be greatly enjoyed by each of us?
The Angel. — I wouldn't go that far.
The Intern. — I get a migraine when I hear all this.
The Bride. — Touch my navel, my armpit. Caress me like a clumsy dwarf from an eighth-rate circus!
The Groom. — Mademoiselle, veux-tu te coucher au tapis de mon atelier? Je suis le lendemain matin des tes rêves! (Mademoiselle, do you want to lie down on the rug of my workshop? I am the morning after your dreams!)
The Bride and Groom intertwine in a passionate knot.
The Intern. — Oh, what the hell! My blooming spring won't be torn apart without someone definitively obstructing my plans!
The Angel. — (To the couple) Do you want me to get you the incandescent oil lamp with some wild water?
The Groom. — No, thanks!
The Angel. — You don't feel like it?
The Groom. — No!!!
10
The two Nymphs and the Host enter.
Host. — One woman, two, three, four women gathered around a chair. Stripping contest!! Transform yourselves into a latex body!
The nymphs fight over the use of a chair for a striptease.
The Angel. — I have a premonition in my armpit. Is anyone touching me?
The Intern. — If no one else wants to, I will. I touch your hair, your eyes, your sweat, your thighs, your… navel? The bottom of your navel?
The Angel. — My navel is hermetic, and my nipples even more so.
The Intern. — Do you like it when I pull out your sparse hairs?
The Angel. — Yes.
The Intern. — Is that good?
The Angel. — Yes! Now, you will be an angel awaiting relief.
The Intern. — (Ecstatic) I am an angel! I am a hermit crab that has emerged from its confinement!
The Angel and the Intern fall to the floor, intertwine, disappear.
11
The Nymphs continue to dispute the chair, but in their struggle, they begin a strange game of seduction.
Lost Nymph. — Unable to contain myself, I took off my glasses and called my boss to see if I could continue taking off my watch, my bracelets…
Monstrous Nymph. — …earrings, blouse, and bra.
Lost Nymph. — Miniskirt, garters, and the lace set…
Monstrous Nymph. — Also the super-tampon, high-heeled shoes, perfume, painted lips, blush, forty-five shades.
Lost Nymph. — False eyelashes, bile, the choker… and then, when I went to the bathroom…
Monstrous Nymph. — When I went… to the bathroom… There wasn't, in the medicine cabinet there wasn't…
Lost Nymph. — No latex condoms, no cowhide, no anything.
Monstrous Nymph. — The pure truth. There weren't any.
Lost Nymph. — And who needs them?
Monstrous Nymph. — Not us?
Lost Nymph. — No?
Monstrous Nymph. — I don't know. We could try.
Lost Nymph. — True!
The nymphs fall to the floor, intertwine, disappear.
12
The Host. — (Speaks on the phone) Latex world, words emerge from the hollow of the stomach. Here almost everyone is hungry, everyone has time, and the place is still open for imagination to arrive and touch us from behind the head. Latex, rubber, plastic, glue, gum…
The Groom. — (With a suitcase containing a life-sized inflatable doll. He inflates it as the scene unfolds) Sometimes I'd strip naked, just from wanting to come see her. I'd tell myself aloud that the occasion would come, that no one would stop me from enacting the deed, that, determined to have my way, I'd go out and get it. And carrying her around isn't something that harms or concerns anyone. In fact, I'm not here preaching miracle cures or expensive satisfactions to the audience. I let myself be carried by the city air—very bad—and sometimes I find myself stopping here and excusing anyone who feels like it. And there I go, I open the suitcase, take a peek… and there she is, quiet. I open, and she stays, says nothing. And it's not that I'm interested in talking to her, but whenever I peek, I think: I'm going to show her to the others and see what they think. And yes, maybe they'll want a taste and want to try what I've never achieved, because, well, I'm not squeamish, but there are things beyond my capabilities. And then with what effort, right? You can't go through life wasting what feeds us, and especially since the material in here is excellent and… they'll tell me, how could I say otherwise if this is how I eat, and if I don't eat, well, even if my material is so unsurpassed, I can't spend my life feeding on what doesn't sustain the good health that has always characterized me. Anyway, just let them satisfy their most deeply archived desires, because how could they not suffer convulsions if they see you emerge?… Look, show them your absolute proportions. Here you are. Just let them smell, perceive, oh noses, be all scent, and remember that sensation of flesh that can never stop being chewed. Chew this, the best gum, gum-gum, gooey, gummily explosive, corrosive. This tasty corrosive gum burns, corrupts and cracks anyone's skull. But you are mute, and no, it cannot be that you corrupt your fraudulent forms with your inflated emergence into the open. You are nothing more than a portion of sinful liquid that I don't know why gives you shape. Hetaera and harlot, a whore you would be, who stays still without occupying my most secret interstices and the secretions of others. No, you cannot remain here, dismembered of flesh or bone to protect the passion that looks at you. Come, come and indulge my most morbid lucubrations. You, body of milky dimensions, I will pierce your minimal pneumatic breath, I will climb upon your many times traversed plastic body, and, moans will be guessed, infinite laments will be heard, at the same time you die deflated, you, rubber doll.
The Groom falls to the floor with his rubber doll. They intertwine, disappear.
The Host. — (Resuming his previous monologue) …rubber, glue, transparent cement, milk, miasma, paste, semen, foam, mucus, gelatin, blood, agar, emulsion, smoothie, liquids, fluids, secretions!
Darkness.
13
Hospital
The Host has the image of a doctor.
The Intern. — (Alarmed to the Host-Doctor) Doctor, doctor! The patient is bleeding out. Come, doctor!
The Host-Doctor. — (Pompously) Ah, my young dilettante. Docile with your eminence as always, it will be, I suppose, and not a violent rude woman who usually violates all orders of the organic kingdom… and also the inorganic.
The Intern. — What the hell, why don't you speak plain English?! The Patient Is Bleeding Out!
The Host-Doctor. — Well, in what epistolary academy did you cross the threshold without professing your vocation with intent, naive one?
The Intern. — I don't understand you. I'm going to get the patient. Hope he doesn't die.
The Host-Doctor. — Well, well.
15
The Nymphs enter, very friendly, very casual.
Lost Nymph. — An orgy?
Monstrous Nymph. — In latex. Like the erection of a monument.
Lost Nymph. — I'm not convinced. The manners… You understand. There's a way for everything.
Monstrous Nymph. — Imagine. Some bad-girl conjoined twins are coming… Lesbians, of course. And a boxer in lycra shorts.
Lost Nymph. — Transparent?
Monstrous Nymph. — Soooo transparent!
Lost Nymph. — And maybe it won't be latex?
Monstrous Nymph. — Lycra.
Lost Nymph. — I thought. Like the orgy… in latex. I thought. That the guy in the shorts, the boxer…
Monstrous Nymph. — It's a matter of habits, customs. People are going to try to spend a night where they don't have to ask anyone for permission and no one asks them for the bill at the end, to know, by the amount, if they had fun… or not so much.
16
The Intern enters, pushing the gurney where The Angel is covered with a sheet.
The Angel. — I am a patient but someone babbles endlessly over my closed eyes, over my sheet.
The Host-Doctor. — A white body under the sheet. The angel's feet speak to themselves about the mental weakness of some. The feet, his feet, behave like two people with opposing characters.
The Intern. — Doctor, you only cover sick patients when they die, and this one is bleeding with all life on its shoulders.
Monstrous Nymph. — Hey, Doc, we're inviting you to a ceremony after surgery. Bring gloves.
The Host-Doctor. — I'll bring "gloves and a jacket," don't doubt it. And where is the celebration and what celebrates whom and why does it do it?
Lost Nymph. — (Lifts the sheet and observes the angel) What a beautiful patient, don't you think, doctor? We should take him to the buffet.
The Host-Doctor. — (Pompously) Don't even think about it, nymphlet. To a ceremony, celebration, buffet…
Monstrous Nymph. — Orgy, party, in pure latex.
The Host-Doctor. — Already that much? Well, same case. At a celebration of such pomp, an altercation with the diners is likely if a subject in such a state is invited.
Monstrous Nymph. — Of course, apply the injection, the sanitary one, and let's get ready to depart for such a "pomp and circumstance" made of latex.
The Intern. — Just don't start talking like the doctor. It's so easy for such languages to adhere… The mannerism just sticks, you know.
Monstrous Nymph. — You are very right, let's go quickly.
The Angel. — I want a hamburger, a beer, and a hot dog!
The Intern. — Doctor, doctor! He's delirious!
The Host-Doctor. — Delirium tremens!
The Intern. — Fever, doctor!
The Host-Doctor. — Intervention will be necessary, otherwise, the structure will collapse… the structure in itself or for itself. Morphine is indicated. It will amply satisfy the acute state. Apply, intern, a dose of fifteen milligrams.
The Intern. — (Injects The Angel) Five hundred milligrams, no more, no less.
The Angel. — The maids, nymphs, flight attendants, nurses go to parties. An orgy, I heard, maybe a funeral. I never imagined that a hospital, a fever, and tonsil surgery would take me so far. Now I think I'm an angel. I'm like a newborn, pure and chaste. Who will come to my traceless grave? Who thinks about it?
17
The Bride enters, dressed as Death.
The Bride. — Who comes to care for you, angel who names each star with the wrong name? Open your wings, little one, I am a sinner and I will get involved with you. Give me a drop of your innermost warmth. I will make you laugh, I will take you to an endless space, a sweet tomb for you, where you can fly with me wherever you want.
The Angel. — Beneath the sheets lies a dying body. A warrior mutilated my wings, men injected me with thousand-year-old hatreds, and I am only of the structure that gives the red hue to the darkest wine. I am beautiful, I am young, I am a cursed one who gathers all hatred, I am hatred.
The Angel dies; the nymphs cover him with flowers. The Bride carries him away, pushing the gurney. The Intern bids The Angel farewell with a purple handkerchief.
Monstrous Nymph. — It's a shame.
Lost Nymph. — Yes, he would have liked to go to the party.
Monstrous Nymph. — We're running late. What do you say, doctor, are you joining us?
The Host-Doctor. — A party?…
Monstrous Nymph. — Life goes on, doctor.
Lost Nymph. — Is it much further?
Monstrous Nymph. — I know the host, he's a bit strange.
The Host-Doctor. — Really?
Lost Nymph. — Is it much further?
The Host-Doctor. — (To the Monstrous Nymph) Does she always ask the same thing?
Monstrous Nymph. — That's just her. She'll forget in a bit.
The Host-Doctor. — What a relief. Let's go.
Monstrous Nymph. — Yes.
18
The Angel detaches from his body.
The Angel. — I rise, I am the spirit. I have left my earthly form in the hands of orderlies and worms. I have left the fragile structure and the pain. So weak are the bodies of men, so vulnerable to carnal desire and the useless obsession to possess. So much suffering in that beautiful angel's body I leave behind. I will ascend and be where a god perhaps invites me to celebrate, far from fleeting satisfaction, far from plastic and the insatiable passions of so many fools, male and female. I will celebrate perhaps with that god, or goddess, who knows, but I will seek new ways to know apotheosis, beyond the narrow human limits. I will not return to the world. Those who return are either stubborn or have unfinished business. I am eternal, I am a celestial angel, and I am at peace.
Final Darkness.
Dramatic & Audience Reaction Analysis
This play, "Un Ángel," is a whirlwind of absurdism, dark humor, and unsettling sexuality. It's less about a coherent narrative and more about creating a bizarre, sensory experience.
Análisis Escénico y Reacción del Público (Español)
Interpretación Escénica:
La obra se presenta como un teatro del absurdo con fuertes tintes de teatro de la crueldad (Artaud). No busca la lógica causal, sino la yuxtaposición impactante de imágenes y diálogos dislocados.
* Escenografía: Minimalista pero cargada de simbolismo. Los "manteles largos y alfombras y alfombras y plantas trepadoras" sugieren una opulencia grotesca, quizás una fiesta decadente. El "ataúd" al fondo del pasillo es una constante macabra. La aparición y desaparición del batiscafo y la camilla, junto con la escalera de caracol y el carrito de las Ninfas, indican un espacio fluido y onírico, donde los objetos tienen vida propia y la acción transita entre lo mundano y lo surreal. La "luz blanca" que hace desaparecer al Anfitrión subraya su naturaleza mercurial, casi divina o demoníaca.
* Personajes: Son arquetipos retorcidos más que individuos con desarrollo psicológico.
* El Ángel: Un ser andrógino, vulnerable y deseado, pero también con momentos de hastío y pedantería. Su "diarrea" y la necesidad de "ponerse pantalones" lo anclan a lo corporal, desmitificándolo. Su ascensión y descenso son tanto espirituales como mecánicos (telar).
* El Anfitrión: La figura maestra de ceremonias, pomposo, enigmático, cambiando de rol a "Doctor". Es el orquestador del caos, un demiurgo perverso.
* Las Ninfas (Monstruosa y Perdida): Encarnan la sexualidad agresiva, la competencia femenina y la superficialidad. Su "limpieza y adorno" en un carrito, mientras se odian, es una imagen de la vanidad y la toxicidad.
* La Novia y El Novio: Representan una sexualidad retorcida y violenta, posesiva y autodestructiva. Su "nudo apasionado" y el discurso del Novio sobre la muñeca inflable son momentos clave de perversión y soledad.
* El Marinero y El Almirante: Figuras de autoridad degradadas, sumergidas en un absurdo mundo submarino donde la masculinidad se deforma (comer Barbies).
* La Practicante: La más "normal" y reactiva, pero también susceptible a la extrañeza que la rodea. Su transformación final en "ángel" es una absorción por el caos.
* Atmósfera: De decadencia, lujuria, enfermedad y una búsqueda desesperada de conexión o evasión. Hay una sensación constante de inminente catástrofe o revelación perturbadora. El lenguaje es crudo, poético, vulgar y filosófico a la vez.
Reacción del Público:
La obra está diseñada para provocar una reacción visceral y ambivalente.
* Confusión y desconcierto: Es probable que el público se sienta desorientado por la falta de una trama lineal y los diálogos ilógicos. Las alusiones a Reforma, los "shmuj" y las Barbies del Almirante son elementos dislocadores.
* Shock y asco: La constante referencia a lo corporal, los fluidos, la diarrea del Ángel, el vómito, el "esfínter colorado", las "pezuñas", la gula del Almirante con las Barbies, y el monólogo del Novio sobre la muñeca inflable, buscan impactar y quizás repeler. El sexo es explícito y a menudo violento o mecánico.
* Risas incómodas: El humor surge del absurdo y la transgresión. Las réplicas inesperadas ("¿Carnívoras?", "¿Solo papas fritas?"), las interacciones grotescas de las Ninfas, o el "¡Delirium tremens!" del Doctor, pueden generar risas nerviosas que alivian la tensión, pero también subrayan la extrañeza.
* Fascinación y repulsión: A pesar del desconcierto, el lenguaje poético y las imágenes poderosas (el Ángel elevándose, la Muerte como Novia) pueden generar una extraña fascinación. El público no puede apartar la vista de lo que es a la vez repulsivo y extrañamente bello.
* Reflexión (post-obra): Es una obra que se "queda" con el espectador. Una vez superado el shock inicial, pueden surgir preguntas sobre la fragilidad humana, la superficialidad, la vacuidad del deseo, la muerte, la búsqueda de significado en un mundo sin sentido, y la naturaleza de lo divino o lo angélico en un contexto tan degradado. El final del Ángel, elevándose y rechazando el regreso al mundo, ofrece una especie de catarsis, pero teñida de nihilismo.
Dramatic Interpretation and Audience Reaction (American English)
Dramatic Interpretation:
This play unfolds as a theater of the absurd, heavily infused with elements of the theater of cruelty (Artaud). It prioritizes shocking juxtaposition of images and disjointed dialogue over logical causality.
* Staging: Minimalist yet laden with symbolism. The "fancy tablecloths, and carpets and carpets and climbing plants" suggest a grotesque opulence, perhaps a decadent party. The "coffin" at the end of the hallway is a constant, macabre presence. The appearance and disappearance of the bathyscaphe and gurney, along with the spiral staircase and the Nymphs' cart, indicate a fluid, dreamlike space where objects have a life of their own and the action shifts between the mundane and the surreal. The "brief white light" that makes the Host vanish underscores his mercurial, almost divine or demonic nature.
* Characters: These are twisted archetypes rather than psychologically developed individuals.
* The Angel: An androgynous being, vulnerable and desired, but also prone to weariness and pedantry. His "diarrhea" and the need to "put on some pants" ground him in the corporeal, demystifying him. His ascent and descent are both spiritual and mechanical (fly system).
* The Host: The pompous, enigmatic master of ceremonies, shifting roles to "Doctor." He is the orchestrator of chaos, a perverse demiurge.
* The Nymphs (Monstrous and Lost): Embody aggressive sexuality, female competition, and superficiality. Their "cleaning and adorning" in a cart, while hating each other, is an image of vanity and toxicity.
* The Bride and The Groom: Represent a twisted, violent sexuality, possessive and self-destructive. Their "passionate knot" and the Groom's monologue about the inflatable doll are key moments of perversion and loneliness.
* The Sailor and The Admiral: Degraded figures of authority, submerged in an absurd underwater world where masculinity is deformed (eating Barbies).
* The Intern: The most "normal" and reactive, yet also susceptible to the strangeness around her. Her final transformation into an "angel" is an absorption into the chaos.
* Atmosphere: One of decay, lust, illness, and a desperate search for connection or escape. There's a constant sense of impending catastrophe or disturbing revelation. The language is raw, poetic, vulgar, and philosophical all at once.
Audience Reaction:
The play is designed to elicit a visceral and ambivalent reaction.
* Confusion and disorientation: Audiences will likely feel disoriented by the lack of a linear plot and the illogical dialogues. The allusions to Reforma, the "shmuj," and the Admiral's Barbies are dislocating elements.
* Shock and disgust: The constant references to the corporeal, fluids, the Angel's diarrhea, vomit, the "rosy sphincter," "hooves," the Admiral's Barbie gluttony, and the Groom's monologue about the inflatable doll are meant to impact and perhaps repel. Sex is explicit and often violent or mechanical.
* Uncomfortable laughter: Humor arises from the absurdity and transgression. Unexpected retorts ("Carnivorous?", "Only fries?"), the grotesque interactions of the Nymphs, or the Doctor's "Delirium tremens!" can generate nervous laughter that relieves tension but also underscores the strangeness.
* Fascination and repulsion: Despite the disorientation, the poetic language and powerful images (the Angel ascending, Death as the Bride) can create a strange fascination. The audience can't look away from what is both repulsive and oddly beautiful.
* Post-performance reflection: This is a play that "stays with" the audience. Once the initial shock wears off, questions may arise about human fragility, superficiality, the emptiness of desire, death, the search for meaning in a meaningless world, and the nature of the divine or angelic in such a degraded context. The Angel's ending, ascending and rejecting a return to the world, offers a kind of catharsis, but tinged with nihilism.
Crítica y Aportación Personal (Critique and Personal Contribution)
"Un Ángel" es una obra de Benjamín Gavarre que opera en un espacio liminal entre la provocación y la poesía. Su mayor fortaleza radica en su audacia y su rechazo a las convenciones teatrales.
Crítica (Critique):
* Fuerza en la Indefinición: La obra es poderosa precisamente porque desafía la lógica narrativa tradicional. No hay un "mensaje" claro o una trama lineal, lo que obliga al público a confrontar las sensaciones y las imágenes en lugar de buscar una resolución. Esto es un acierto en el teatro contemporáneo que busca experiencias, no solo historias.
* Lenguaje Vívido y Chocante: Gavarre utiliza un lenguaje que es a la vez vulgar y poético, creando imágenes memorables y perturbadoras. La mezcla de lo prosaico ("diarrea", "papas fritas") con lo sublime ("alas de caracol translúcido", "alma de sirena") genera una fricción fascinante.
* Exploración de la Abyección: La obra se sumerge en temas tabú: la sexualidad no normativa, la enfermedad, la perversión, la decadencia del cuerpo y del espíritu. Al no juzgar explícitamente, invita al espectador a confrontar su propia incomodidad.
* Ritualidad y Performance: Más que una obra de texto, es una pieza performática. Los movimientos, las entradas y salidas abruptas, la música (campana, jazz volcánico), y la interacción con objetos (el ataúd, el batiscafo, la muñeca inflable) sugieren que la experiencia escénica es primordial.
Sin embargo, esta misma libertad presenta desafíos:
* Riesgo de Alienación: La falta de un ancla emocional o intelectual puede alienar a una parte del público que busca un sentido o una conexión más directa. La acumulación de escenas inconexas podría sentirse como gratuitas para algunos, o incluso tediosas si la dirección no logra mantener el ritmo y la tensión.
* Dependencia de la Puesta en Escena: Al ser tan abstracta, la obra depende enormemente de la visión del director y del talento de los actores para darle coherencia y energía. Una mala puesta en escena podría hacerla caer en el mero caos o el ridículo.
* Potencial para la Redundancia: Aunque la repetición de temas (látex, alas, obsesión corporal) es intencional, en algunos momentos la acumulación de imágenes similares podría perder su impacto si no hay una progresión sutil o un giro inesperado.
Aportación Personal (Personal Contribution):
Lo que "Un Ángel" aporta es una descodificación radical del deseo humano y la espiritualidad en la era del consumo y la artificialidad. El "látex" no es solo un material; es una metáfora central de la artificialidad que impregna la vida, las relaciones y hasta el ser. El Ángel, esta figura de pureza tradicional, es corroído por las pulsiones más bajas y las enfermedades físicas, forzado a enfrentar una realidad que es todo menos etérea.
El clímax del monólogo del Novio con la muñeca inflable es el corazón de la obra. Es una exposición cruda de la soledad moderna y la búsqueda de gratificación en lo inerte, lo controlable, lo prefabricado. La muñeca no solo es un objeto sexual; es un receptáculo de fantasías y frustraciones, una proyección de la incapacidad de conectar con lo "real" y lo "peligroso" (como la Novia). La descripción detallada del Almirante comiendo Barbies refuerza esta idea de un deseo que consume y deforma, transformando el cuerpo humano en un envase para la producción industrial.
La obra es una crítica feroz, aunque indirecta, a la sociedad de consumo y la hipersexualización donde todo se vuelve un producto, un objeto a ser poseído, incluso los seres supuestamente celestiales. La muerte del Ángel y su posterior ascenso a un espacio "sin rastro" donde busca la "apoteosis" lejos del "plástico y las insaciables pasiones" es una conclusión que ofrece tanto un escape nihilista como una última, desesperada búsqueda de trascendencia genuina. Es un grito silencioso que revela que, en un mundo tan saturado de lo vulgar y lo artificial, incluso un ángel debe morir para encontrar la paz.
La obra nos fuerza a preguntar: ¿Qué significa ser puro o trascendente cuando la realidad está tan saturada de lo material, lo enfermo y lo perverso? ¿Es la evasión la única forma de salvación?
En resumen, "Un Ángel" no es una obra para ser entendida, sino para ser sentida. Es una pesadilla lírica que expone la fragilidad de la santidad frente a la ineludible gravedad de la carne y el consumo.
