Written and performed by Lucy Gransbury. For more about Lucy, click here.
Accompanied by Deborah Brennan. For more about Deb, click here.
Adelaide Fringe tickets and info click here.
Accompanied by Deborah Brennan. For more about Deb, click here.
Adelaide Fringe tickets and info click here.
About the show
It all started when Lucy was in her third and final year of her Bachelor of Arts (Music Theatre) degree.
In a production of Thoroughly Modern Millie, Lucy was once again type-cast as a comic relief female (she prefers it that way) and one of her minor roles was a brief cameo as Dorothy Parker. Having never heard the name before, Lucy began reading up on this Parker woman, and came across her most famous poem, 'Resumé'.
It was instant love. The wit. The melancholy. The sheer brilliance. Lucy quickly became hooked, reading every word ever written about Dorothy. Perhaps excessive research for the two-line cameo role in Thoroughly Modern Millie, but it would lead on to a creative obsession.
The following year, Bachelor degree in hand, Lucy performed her first 20-minute iteration of Dorothy Parker's Sweet Release of Death in a show of short cabaret pieces. In 2013, she wrote the full hour and performed at Adelaide Fringe at Ayers House for her first solo show, selling out enough performances to add extra shows. The next year, the show travelled to The Butterfly Club in Melbourne, and The Old Union Chapel in Angaston, Barossa Valley.
Finally, ten years after the last performance, Lucy has dusted off her Dorothy for Adelaide Fringe 2024.
In Sweet Release of Death, there are over thirty direct quotes and poems from Dorothy Parker (see further below). However, the Winnie-The- Pooh poem is an original from Lucy, based on a famous review Dorothy wrote of The House at Pooh Corner in The New Yorker magazine in 1928.
Dorothy was not allergic to peanuts.
In a production of Thoroughly Modern Millie, Lucy was once again type-cast as a comic relief female (she prefers it that way) and one of her minor roles was a brief cameo as Dorothy Parker. Having never heard the name before, Lucy began reading up on this Parker woman, and came across her most famous poem, 'Resumé'.
It was instant love. The wit. The melancholy. The sheer brilliance. Lucy quickly became hooked, reading every word ever written about Dorothy. Perhaps excessive research for the two-line cameo role in Thoroughly Modern Millie, but it would lead on to a creative obsession.
The following year, Bachelor degree in hand, Lucy performed her first 20-minute iteration of Dorothy Parker's Sweet Release of Death in a show of short cabaret pieces. In 2013, she wrote the full hour and performed at Adelaide Fringe at Ayers House for her first solo show, selling out enough performances to add extra shows. The next year, the show travelled to The Butterfly Club in Melbourne, and The Old Union Chapel in Angaston, Barossa Valley.
Finally, ten years after the last performance, Lucy has dusted off her Dorothy for Adelaide Fringe 2024.
In Sweet Release of Death, there are over thirty direct quotes and poems from Dorothy Parker (see further below). However, the Winnie-The- Pooh poem is an original from Lucy, based on a famous review Dorothy wrote of The House at Pooh Corner in The New Yorker magazine in 1928.
Dorothy was not allergic to peanuts.
About Dorothy Parker
Born in 1893, Dorothy Parker was the toast of New York for being the wittiest woman to have ever held a pen. She worked as a writer, critic and editor for various publications including Vanity Fair and Vogue, and was one of the original writers for The New Yorker. Dorothy was a founding member of The Algonquin Round Table, a famous daily gathering of the most celebrated writers, artists, critics and actors of the 1920's.
Dorothy Parker's first book of witty and cynical verse, Enough Rope, was a best-seller in 1926. Though she longed to be a novelist, it was her poems and short stories that were widely appreciated, and she lamented her work ethic did not allow anything more substantial. Her name was often in the gossip columns of the time, for her witty, off-the-cuff remarks had earned her celebrity status.
Dorothy was married to Edwin (Eddie) Parker from 1917-1928, a marriage full of alcoholism and affairs. In 1933, at age 39, she married actor Alan Campbell, eleven years her junior. Together, they became a screen-writing team (though Dorothy was by far the more celebrated of the pair) and were even nominated for an Academy Award for their original screenplay A Star Is Born (yes, that one that was remade to star Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper). Alan and Dorothy divorced in 1947, remarried in 1950, split again in 1951, and moved in together again in 1960. He died a few years later of an overdose (suspected to be intentional). In the final years of her life, Dorothy lived alone in a New York hotel, rarely seen.
Despite having attempted suicide at least four times in her life (including drinking a bottle of shoe polish), Dorothy lived to be 73, and died of a heart attack in 1967.
For an in-depth read about Dorothy's fortunes and misfortunes, read this piece in The New Yorker, the magazine she was associated with her entire career.
Dorothy Parker's first book of witty and cynical verse, Enough Rope, was a best-seller in 1926. Though she longed to be a novelist, it was her poems and short stories that were widely appreciated, and she lamented her work ethic did not allow anything more substantial. Her name was often in the gossip columns of the time, for her witty, off-the-cuff remarks had earned her celebrity status.
Dorothy was married to Edwin (Eddie) Parker from 1917-1928, a marriage full of alcoholism and affairs. In 1933, at age 39, she married actor Alan Campbell, eleven years her junior. Together, they became a screen-writing team (though Dorothy was by far the more celebrated of the pair) and were even nominated for an Academy Award for their original screenplay A Star Is Born (yes, that one that was remade to star Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper). Alan and Dorothy divorced in 1947, remarried in 1950, split again in 1951, and moved in together again in 1960. He died a few years later of an overdose (suspected to be intentional). In the final years of her life, Dorothy lived alone in a New York hotel, rarely seen.
Despite having attempted suicide at least four times in her life (including drinking a bottle of shoe polish), Dorothy lived to be 73, and died of a heart attack in 1967.
For an in-depth read about Dorothy's fortunes and misfortunes, read this piece in The New Yorker, the magazine she was associated with her entire career.
Poems used in the show
Résumé
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
The Flaw in Paganism
Drink and dance and laugh and lie,
Love, the reeling midnight through,
For tomorrow we shall die!
(But, alas, we never do.)
Coda
There's little in taking or giving,
There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top,
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop,
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest's for a clam in a shell,
So I'm thinking of throwing the battle-
Would you kindly direct me to hell?
Comment
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.
Frustration
If I had a shiny gun,
I could have a world of fun
Speeding bullets through the brains
Of the folk who give me pains;
Or had I some poison gas,
I could make the moments pass
Bumping off a number of
People whom I do not love.
But I have no lethal weapon-
Thus does Fate our pleasure step on!
So they still are quick and well
Who should be, by rights, in hell.
Women: A Hate Song
I hate Women.
They get on my Nerves.
There are the Domestic ones.
They are the worst.
Every moment is packed with Happiness.
They breathe deeply
And walk with large strides, eternally hurrying home
To see about dinner.
They are the kind
Who say, with a tender smile, "Money's not everything."
They are always confronting me with dresses,
Saying, "I made this myself."
They read Woman's pages and try out the recipes.
Oh, how I hate that kind of women.
Then there are the human Sensitive Plants
The Bundles of Nerves.
They are different from everybody else; they even tell you so.
Someone is always stepping on their feelings.
Everything hurts them—deeply.
Their eyes are forever filling with tears.
They always want to talk to me about the Real Things,
The things that Matter.
Yes, they know they could write.
Conventions stifle them.
They are always longing to get away—Away from It All!
—I wish to Heaven they would.
Then there are the Well-Informed ones.
They are pests.
They know everything on earth
And will tell you about it gladly.
They feel it their mission to correct wrong impressions
They know Dates and Middle names.
They absolutely ooze Current Events.
Oh, how they bore me.
There are the ones who simply cannot Fathom
Why all the men are mad about them.
They say they've tried and tried.
They tell you about someone's husband;
What he said
And how he looked when he said it.
And then they sigh and ask,
"My dear, what is there about me?"
—Don't you hate them?
There are the unfailingly Cheerful ones.
They are usually unmarried.
They are always busy making little Gifts
And planning little surprises.
They tell me to be, like them, always looking on the Bright Side.
They ask me what they would do without their sense of humor?
I sometimes yearn to kill them.
Any jury would acquit me.
I hate women.
They get on my Nerves.
Except from a letter written by Dorothy Parker to American publisher Seward Collins, from the Presbyterian Hospital.
"...I could tell you about the cunning little tot of four who ran up and down the corridor all day long; and I think, from the way he sounded, he had his little horse-shoes on—some well-wisher had given him a bunch of keys to play with, and he jingled them as he ran, and just as he came to my door, the manly little fellow would drop them and when I got so I knew just when to expect the crash, he’d fool me and run by two or even three times without letting them go. Well, they took him up and operated on his shoulder, and they don’t think he will ever be able to use his right arm again. So that will stop that god damn nonsense.
And then there is the nurse who tells me she is afraid she is an incorrigible flirt, but somehow she just can’t help it. She also pronounces “picturesque” picture-skew, and “unique” un-i-kew, and it is amazing how often she manages to introduce these words into her conversation, leading the laughter herself. Also, when she leaves the room, she says “see you anon.” I have not shot her yet. Maybe Monday..."
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
The Flaw in Paganism
Drink and dance and laugh and lie,
Love, the reeling midnight through,
For tomorrow we shall die!
(But, alas, we never do.)
Coda
There's little in taking or giving,
There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top,
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop,
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest's for a clam in a shell,
So I'm thinking of throwing the battle-
Would you kindly direct me to hell?
Comment
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.
Frustration
If I had a shiny gun,
I could have a world of fun
Speeding bullets through the brains
Of the folk who give me pains;
Or had I some poison gas,
I could make the moments pass
Bumping off a number of
People whom I do not love.
But I have no lethal weapon-
Thus does Fate our pleasure step on!
So they still are quick and well
Who should be, by rights, in hell.
Women: A Hate Song
I hate Women.
They get on my Nerves.
There are the Domestic ones.
They are the worst.
Every moment is packed with Happiness.
They breathe deeply
And walk with large strides, eternally hurrying home
To see about dinner.
They are the kind
Who say, with a tender smile, "Money's not everything."
They are always confronting me with dresses,
Saying, "I made this myself."
They read Woman's pages and try out the recipes.
Oh, how I hate that kind of women.
Then there are the human Sensitive Plants
The Bundles of Nerves.
They are different from everybody else; they even tell you so.
Someone is always stepping on their feelings.
Everything hurts them—deeply.
Their eyes are forever filling with tears.
They always want to talk to me about the Real Things,
The things that Matter.
Yes, they know they could write.
Conventions stifle them.
They are always longing to get away—Away from It All!
—I wish to Heaven they would.
Then there are the Well-Informed ones.
They are pests.
They know everything on earth
And will tell you about it gladly.
They feel it their mission to correct wrong impressions
They know Dates and Middle names.
They absolutely ooze Current Events.
Oh, how they bore me.
There are the ones who simply cannot Fathom
Why all the men are mad about them.
They say they've tried and tried.
They tell you about someone's husband;
What he said
And how he looked when he said it.
And then they sigh and ask,
"My dear, what is there about me?"
—Don't you hate them?
There are the unfailingly Cheerful ones.
They are usually unmarried.
They are always busy making little Gifts
And planning little surprises.
They tell me to be, like them, always looking on the Bright Side.
They ask me what they would do without their sense of humor?
I sometimes yearn to kill them.
Any jury would acquit me.
I hate women.
They get on my Nerves.
Except from a letter written by Dorothy Parker to American publisher Seward Collins, from the Presbyterian Hospital.
"...I could tell you about the cunning little tot of four who ran up and down the corridor all day long; and I think, from the way he sounded, he had his little horse-shoes on—some well-wisher had given him a bunch of keys to play with, and he jingled them as he ran, and just as he came to my door, the manly little fellow would drop them and when I got so I knew just when to expect the crash, he’d fool me and run by two or even three times without letting them go. Well, they took him up and operated on his shoulder, and they don’t think he will ever be able to use his right arm again. So that will stop that god damn nonsense.
And then there is the nurse who tells me she is afraid she is an incorrigible flirt, but somehow she just can’t help it. She also pronounces “picturesque” picture-skew, and “unique” un-i-kew, and it is amazing how often she manages to introduce these words into her conversation, leading the laughter herself. Also, when she leaves the room, she says “see you anon.” I have not shot her yet. Maybe Monday..."