Leaf by Niggle @ Tron

So the Satanist and the Jesuit have been saying that they want to

hang out more, and it's a cold yet sunny Saturday afternoon, and what better place for me to play gooseberry on this match-made-in-Glasgow than the Tron bar. The Satanist is rocking a new look, going for the leather guy this week, while the Jesuit opts for man-at-Hugo Boss, black jacket and thin lapels.

"You know, we do share a cosmology rooted in Jung," the Jesuit was whispering when the bell announced that Leaf by Niggle was about to start.

The pair of them file in behind a crocodile of pre-teens, out on a jolly. I wonder which of them would be most likely to corrupt their minds...

The Jesuit keeps up his whispering throughout the performance, until I worry that he is going to get us the bum's rush. The Tron might not have forgiven me for the whole headline about the artistic director's genitalia scandal. Afterwards, he claims he was providing footnotes. 

Leaf is a Tolkein story, but not one of his epic Orcs versus Elves numbers. The charming narrator - the show is like being cuddled and bathed by a fatherly but still handsome man - explains that Tolkein didn't like Leaf to be interpreted as an allegory. The Jesuit isn't having that. The Satanist has some problems with the theology (it is pretty obvious that 'The Second Voice' is Jesus and Niggle's journey is into the afterlife) but enjoys the bucolic atmosphere of the telling. Pretty soon, the original fucking odd couple are back in the bar, swapping opinions about how much they liked the Englishness of the tale. It's all trains and gardens and repressed emotion, only it gets a bit obvious when a shepherd turns up to guide Niggle into the great beyond.

"I don't suppose there was enough grandeur in it," snarks the Jesuit. "I guess you're not happy unless someone is getting roasted in the fire, or falling out of the sky shining like shook foil."

"Honestly, that's more your speed. It's a bit pedestrian though, especially from an author who is best known for writing the template for the world's longest film trilogy."

"It was meant to be for kids - at least this performance was. And don't tell me you didn't enjoy the meandering narrative and the actor's asides about how he got all the props when he tidied out his mum's attic. I loved the way he wrote himself into the plot -"

"Aye, very Brechtian. Let's get the critic over so he can tell us about the monologue as an epic medium. And no, I don't mean epic as in big, I mean epic as in not tragic."

Deciding to leave that can of worms unopened, The Jesuit and the Satanist turned conversation towards that topless bloke who plays a big African drum while singing along to popular songs in the High Street.

"He's dreamy," sighed the Satanist.

"Rather like Leaf by Niggle." The Jesuit pounced. "Okay. It's an allegory about the value of all human life, even the ones that don't get way into making an entire mythology. And it's very Christian, but don't expect me to hate on it for that. Here it is: it is refreshing to hear a spiritual story these days that isn't either liberals having to apologise for the antics of their more right wing fellows, or a fundamentalist raving about sodomite fag-houses. It's not just for kids, and the tale is told by a safe pair of hands. Plus, he has this really cool little bicycle."

Dickin' About (sigh)

Philip  K Dick's brilliance lies in his ability to weave a detailed narrative from a profound concept. There are plenty of his short stories that are the science fiction equivalent of jokes - the final twist a mere cheeky punch-line. However, when he hits his stride, as in Captive Market, he is not only predicting possible futures - a classic trope that readily degenerated into many authors becoming painfully meta about their creativity - but providing a stark analysis of complex spiritual and political issues.

Captive Market has a crack at the mentality driving capitalism. A simple plot - old lady finds a way to reach the future, and uses it for  economic gain - is deftly expanded into a meditation on how the mentality of monopolies gambles with the species' future well-being. Aside from  the temporal fun (the old lady is both past and present, the sad remnants of humanity both her future and their own present), Dick reveals the economic transactions through deft characterisations and a nuanced allegory.

The old lady clearly represented the narrow minded dictates of capitalism: her only interest is in profit. Her ability to move into the future is reduced to a chance to have a captive market. The future, meanwhile, is in bad shape: it has plenty of paper money, and an equal amount of radioactive ash. Industry has collapsed, and the only hope is to escape the  polluted atmosphere. The old lady's weekly visits provide them with the necessary supplies: since the paper money is worthless in the future, they can afford the past's shameless price gouging.

Between the typical scenes of the apocalyptic future, Dick takes the literal worthlessness of paper money and makes a sly comment on inflation. Even without a thermonuclear war, the value of currency devalues over time. It's just another version of inflation. 

The old lady isn't just parasitic: she is trading on the back of the future's paucity of resources and hope: her customers are pinned down, and her skill is using the threat of extinction to maintain her profits. The idea that all capitalism is a gamble against the future is never far away. Then, in the final scene,  her ability to control the possible paths of time insists that the capitalist present is defining a bitter future. While the story is pessimistic on a personal level, its allegory is rougher.

Dick was never explicitly anti-capitalist, but he does suggest that trade is based on an unequal relationship, and lacks moral responsibility: the survivors of the end of the world can dwindle away, so long as she gets her cash. And even in the title, Dick is recognising a brutal truth: that for the shopkeeper, the best customer is powerless and desperate - and wealthy.