In Essential Self-Defense , disgruntled misfit Yul Carroll takes a job as an attack dummy in a women's self-defense class and finds himself mysteriously drawn to Sadie, the repressed bookworm mercilessly honing her skills on him. Meanwhile, all's not well on the unassuming Midwestern streets of with local children vanishing at an alarming rate, our hero, his lady friend, and a motley assortment of poets, butchers, and punk librarians prepare to battle the darkness on the edge of town.
Adam Rapp says that when he was working on his chilling, compulsively readable young adult novel 33 SNOWFISH, he was haunted by several questions. Among them: "When we have nowhere to go, who do we turn to? Why are we sometimes drawn to those who are deeply troubled? How far do we have to run before we find new possibilities?"
At once harrowing and hypnotic, 33 SNOWFISH--which was nominated as a Best Book for Young Adults by the American Library Association--follows three troubled young people on the run in a stolen car with a kidnapped baby in tow. With the language of the street and lyrical prose, Adam Rapp hurtles the reader into the world of lost children, a world that is not for the faint of heart. His narration captures the voices of two damaged souls (a third speaks only through drawings) to tell a story of alienation, deprivation, and ultimately, the saving power of compassion. "For those readers who are ready to be challenged by a serious work of shockingly realistic fiction," notes SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL, "it invites both an emotional and intellectual response, and begs to be discussed."
Adam Rapp’s first novel, MISSING THE PIANO, was named a Best Book for Young Adults as well as a Best Book for Reluctant Readers by the American Library Association. His subsequent titles include THE BUFFALO TREE, THE COPPER ELEPHANT, and LITTLE CHICAGO, which was chosen as a New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age. The author’s raw, stream-of-consciousness writing style has earned him critical acclaim. "Rapp’s prose is powerful, graphic and haunting," says SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL. [He] writes in an earthy but adept language," says KIRKUS REVIEWS. "Takes a mesmerizing hold on the reader," adds HORN BOOK MAGAZINE.
In addition to being a novelist, Adam Rapp is also an accomplished and award-winning playwright. His plays--including NOCTURNE, ANIMALS AND PLANTS, BLACKBIRD, and STONE COLD DEAD SERIOUS--have been produced by the American Repertory Theatre in Cambridge, Massachusetts, the New York Theatre Workshop, and the Bush Theatre in London, among other venues.
Born and raised in Chicago, the novelist and playwright now lives in New York City.
It's not as good as I remember it being, but there's still some things to like.
I went through a "provocative" phase at the end of high school, beginning of college, drawn to the most extreme and controversial books, plays, any works of art. I felt jaded ac society's apparent consumption of art without investing in it. My friends and I would submit to the high school literary magazine, and nobody seemed interested. I wanted to write things that grabbed people's attention, made them think. And so I voraciously read anything that pushed buttons.
Only later did I realize that no one was interested in what I was putting out, and I was just projecting that rejection onto literature as a whole. But in recognizing that little tidbit of egotism, I also realized that provocation has its place, but that provocation for the sake of provocation usually doesn't last.
Which brings me to Adam Rapp. I think Adam Rapp is a fine writer: a damn good one, even. Known primarily for his short-listed play Red Light Winter, Rapp has written numerous theatrical works, a handful of young adult novels, and a graphic novel or two. His is not the most extreme work out there, but it is provocative and chock full of "big" ideas. Rapp clearly has something to say, and he's got the chops to succinctly and clearly make his point. That writing is not always consistent, however, and at times what's meant as a subtle theme becomes increasingly didactic. Clever ideas interfere with good storytelling, and the whole affair becomes just . . . so-so.
In short, when it works, it really works. And Essential Self-Defense, for the most part, does work.
It's a love story, basically, centered on a paranoid children's book publisher (Sadie) and the human dummy at her self-defense class (Yul). After knocking out his tooth, Sadie calls Yul to make sure he's okay, invites him out to dinner, and the ball continues to roll. But there is more to Yul than meets the eye: frequently railing against the government, he lives by himself in a bunker, spending his spare time pumping hard-boiled eggs full of mysterious chemicals. When children start to go missing from the local junior high, is it any wonder why he'd be a suspect?
Essential Self-Defense, as elaborated on in the introduction, is a play about paranoia: in particular, how a whole society responds to a tragic event, whether it be 9/11 (Rapp's example) or the serial kidnapping of children. Society needs a villain, and who we choose to blame says a lot about who we are as a people, a town, a nation and so on.
And that element of Essential Self-Defense IS intriguing, but too quickly does that theme get bogged down in the "preciousness" of its characters. Yul and Sadie meet for drinks at a karaoke bar, also attended by the town butcher and his stereotypical displays of hyper-masculinity. The joint is operated by a punk rock librarian (always quick to drop the F-bomb) and her Russian poet husband, whose non-sequiters are interpreted as "deep".
There are connections between these characters, but they don't feel fleshed out. There are multiple facets to their personalities, but those personalities, every single time, are dominated by exactly one character trait. It gets exhausting. AND. To emphasize the uniqueness of these characters even further, the karaoke bar hosts a "make up your own song" night, with each character professing their deep-rooted psychological quirks over drum and guitar.
It's one thing to build an eccentric world, populated by quirky characters. But to have those characters "improvise" these complex, poetic self-analyses in perfect time with "improvised" music is hard to believe. Which, in and of itself, is not necessarily a problem. I personally don't cotton to the "inconceivable" critique of creative writing. If an element of a story is outside your realm of comprehension, it is your responsibility as reader (not the author's responsibility as creator) to try and understand what is being presented to you.
But there is something to be said for elements that don't jive together, and a difference must be made between things that aren't believable to YOU specifically and things that aren't believable within the world of the story. And that's where Essential Self-Defense trips me up. The grimness of kidnapping children suggests that we're operating within a semi-realistic, albeit eccentric, world. Yet the goings-on at the karaoke bar suggests something meta-theatrical: an awareness of how we perform, like the works of Bertolt Brecht. If that's the case, then the performances at the karaoke bar seem less precious and more, for lack of a better term, expressionistic, the world of the play reflecting the mental state of its characters.
I get that impression a lot when I read Adam Rapp, but I'm not entirely convinced it's intentional. Essential Self-Defense is good, but I think it imagines itself "more" than what it actually is. To not spoil too much, the kidnapping of children plot turns out to be less than what you'd expect it to be. Which works, but I'm just not sure what purpose that serves regarding the overall narrative.
Like I said, Essential Self-Defense is enjoyable and worth a read. But for me, at least, it does not hold up as well as I would have liked.
The thing I remember most about Adam Rapp's play Essential Self-Defense is that it contains a speech about frog urine--very likely a first for American drama, though I haven't researched the matter carefully. The frog urine reference stands out for me as emblematic of the determinedly gross temperament of this piece--the one thing you can count on here is that when a new character is introduced, within minutes he or she will regale us with a disgusting and/or vulgar Jackass-style anecdote.
It's about a loner named Yul who lives in a rat-infested room in or near a sewer (I wasn't quite clear as to exactly where it's supposed to be). Yul used to make knobs for TV sets for Zenith, but he now works as a live "target" at a self-defense class, which means he wears a big silly padded yellow suit (but not, oddly, any protection for his head or face) and students pummel and attack him repeatedly.
One of the students in the class is Sadie, a young woman who has been having scary nightmares about wolves and who admits to being terrified just about all the time. After she knocks one of Yul's teeth out during class, she decides to get in touch with this complete stranger, invites him to meet her at a local karaoke bar, and then goes home with him (to the rat-infested sewer-place). Eventually, the two fall in love; Essential Self-Defense strives to be, on one level, a romantic comedy.
Yul is also a conspiracy theorist who is experimenting with turning eggs into explosive devices. He doesn't drink alcohol and mistrusts the corporate establishment. Both he and Sadie are great at karaoke, though. And Yul is strong enough to crush the hand of the town butcher, Klieg (who is described as having "the strongest right hand in the world"), thus making himself a bad enemy: Klieg starts rumors that Yul is the one who kidnapped the 15 children who have gone missing from the local junior high school, and eventually they have a sort of duel in a forest outside town.
This is a strange play with strange characters for strange readers. And I, following into that last category, was absolutely enraptured by it. This play will likely turn off a lot of casual readers but I just found it deeply fascinating. Plus, I found a monologue that's just as strange as the rest of me (coming from someone who was cast as Norman Bates for a theatre project) that I really enjoyed. Adam Rapp isn't for everyone but he is for me.
I can picture myself getting this assigned in a play class at theatre school so ew. But maybe just maybe there was something there… but maybe not I’m so cynical about plays. It was interesting with the direct tie-in to 9/11 and a funny coincidence that I read it on 9/13. I think maybe some similar conclusions could be drawn by connecting it with society right now
This play is mysterious and wacky and creepy and great. There's a punk rock librarian karaoke host in it! I should have been cast as the punk rock librarian karaoke host, but I wasn't. I have the hour and a half call back and "thank you for auditioning, but..." email to prove it. Pfft. It's still a wonderful play though. It has rats and wolf men and bizarre poetry songs and a Russian and making out and a gurgling sewage hole in the middle of the stage and giant foam suits. I'll go see it.
I haven't read a play in a long time. Especially not a modern play. I happened to pick this up at the library because of it's attractive cover then realized I had read (and was fascinated by) one of Rapp's Young Adult novels.
Overall, it is a strange play inhabited by strange characters (including a punk rock librarian). The majority of the dialog seemed intentionally pointless, but it had it's moments. Interesting nuances and quirks, but in the end a bit thin in content.
not as good as red light winter or stone cold, dead serious. didn't really go anywhere. thought the scenes where yul is beaten to a pulp in his foam suit whilst underscored by live drums--pretty cool.
I liked stories witha cliff-hanger ending, and this play satisfied this expectation and more. In all of his weirdness, Yul is such a likeable character. I'd be excited to watch this unfold in an actual play soon!
I keep re-reading this play and every time I find something new. It is intriguing in every moment and I can only hope to one day have to opportunity to work on a production of it.