Trials of the Monkey: An Accidental Memoir [NOOK Book]

Overview



"When Darwin called his second book The Descent of Man instead of The Ascent of Man he was thinking of his progeny."

So declares Darwin's great-great grandson Matthew Chapman as he leaves behind his stressful career as a Hollywood screenwriter and travels to Dayton, Tennessee where in 1925 creationist opposition to the teaching of evolution in schools was played out in a ...
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Trials of the Monkey: An Accidental Memoir

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Overview



"When Darwin called his second book The Descent of Man instead of The Ascent of Man he was thinking of his progeny."

So declares Darwin's great-great grandson Matthew Chapman as he leaves behind his stressful career as a Hollywood screenwriter and travels to Dayton, Tennessee where in 1925 creationist opposition to the teaching of evolution in schools was played out in a famous legal drama, the Scopes Trial.

The purpose of this journey is to see if opinions have changed in the seventy- five intervening years. A defiant atheist, Chapman is confronted not only by the fundamentalist beliefs that continue to banish the theory of evolution but by his own spiritual malaise as the outward journey becomes an inward quest, a tragicomic "accidental memoir".

"First there was Charles Darwin, two yards long and nobody's fool. Then there was his son, my great-grandfather, Sir Francis Darwin, an eminent botanist. Then came my grandmother Frances, a modest poet who spent a considerable amount of time in rest-homes for depression From her issued my beloved mother, Clare, who was extremely short, failed to complete medical school, and eventually became an alcoholic. Then we get down to me. I'm in the movie business."

Trials of the Monkey combines travel writing and reportage, as Chapman records his encounters in the South, with history and the accidental memoir of a man full of mid-life doubts in a genre-breaking first book that is darkly funny, provocative and poignant.

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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers
A successful screenwriter with a lucrative income and a lifestyle to match, Matthew Chapman found himself in the middle of a midlife crisis in his late 40s. The great-great-grandson of the famed scientist Charles Darwin, Chapman decided to reclaim his integrity by writing a book. The subject matter of the book "was not an arbitrary choice" -- it was to commemorate the 75th anniversary of the Scopes "Monkey" trial, "the trial of a schoolteacher accused of teaching evolution in defiance of Tennessee law."

Chapman contracts with his publisher to travel from his home in New York to the Bible Belt of Dayton, Tennessee, the celebrated small town where the trial took place, and to observe the town's annual theatrical event: the reenactment of the trial itself. But what the author failed to take into account when he set out on this journey was that "I was on the verge of my own crisis, spiritual and otherwise." While compiling his research on the trial, Chapman reflects back on his life, and "another book, a book within a book, began to form, an accidental memoir." As Chapman's humorous narrative details the "philosophical skirmish between religion and reason," he comes to the realization that "I had fallen off the rails. Perhaps this other book would help me climb back on." And indeed, it does. (Fall 2001 Selection)

Tony Gould
Hugely entertaining…While Chapman can be as funny and revealing as either [Bill Bryson or Paul Theroux] in the travel sections of his book, the autobiographical element plumbs greater depths.
Spectator
Patrick Skene Catling
A clever, provocative and very entertaining hotchpotch of confession and redneck theology, a genre all his own.
Irish Times
Spalding Gray
In his insightful, confessional and intimately human voice, Chapman reads like he's right there talking to you.
From The Critics
Matthew Chapman, a forty-seven-year-old New York screenwriter and great-great-grandson of Charles Darwin, goes to Dayton, Tennessee, to see what has changed in the seventy-five years since the Scopes Monkey Trial, in which William Jennings Bryan and Clarence Darrow debated Darwinism. Chapman meets a Harvard-trained creation scientist at Bryan College and a deputy sheriff, along with a few randomly selected townies—and concludes that not much has affected the Christian beliefs of rural Americans. What changes is Chapman's attitude. Expecting to poke fun at stereotypical rednecks, he ends up liking most of the people and making fun of himself. By incorporating trial transcripts and descriptions in his travel narrative, he creates a very amusing and informative piece of double-barreled reportage. Chapman closes the book by describing his shift from rabid atheist to humane agnostic, not an ending for a Hollywood opus but one just right for this sharp-eyed and entertaining work.
—Tom LeClair

Publishers Weekly
A screenwriter and the great-great grandson of Charles Darwin, Chapman heads to Dayton, Tenn., the site of the Scopes Monkey Trial in 1925. As a longstanding atheist, he intends to write a sardonic cultural update of Southern Fundamentalist Christianity. But to his surprise, and the reader's delight, the book takes on a power of its own. This first-time author has written an honest, ironic autobiography that traces the development of a boyish wise guy into a complex man of letters. In an account that stands in favorable comparison to the best examples of eccentric English autobiography, such as the work of Robert Graves and Anthony Burgess, Chapman weaves the story of his life of advantage and distinguished intellectual pedigree in England, New York City and Hollywood with a travelogue into an unknown realm, misperceived to be inhabited by hillbillies. The incongruous encounters and anecdotes, moving between past and present, meld into an insightful study of a man trying to make sense of it all. Stories from the author's rebellious youth, unconventional family constellation and contemporary life are juxtaposed with images of caustic trends in modern society and Southern idiosyncrasies. The result is an absorbing and finely honed journal of courageous, often amusing self-awareness which moves from a posture of extreme skepticism regarding the possibility of the divine to a more open-minded, appreciative stance regarding the possible sacred meaning(s) of life. (Sept.) Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
This first book by a successful screenwriter is an odd but fascinating mix of history, science, religion, travel, and memoir, combining Chapman's heritage as the great-great grandson of Charles Darwin, his interest in the Scopes "monkey" trial, and his "accidental" autobiography. Amazingly, he succeeds in the effort to convey the creation of a writer (himself) and his family as well as the world of creationism. The book alternates between autobiographical chapters and chapters covering trips Chapman made to Dayton, TN, site of the Scopes trial, prior to and following its annual reenactment. The people he encounters in Tennessee provide rich material for Chapman's examination of evolution and how the trial affected the original participants and, via fundamentalism, continues to influence people's lives. Despite a few sloppy geographical errors (Roanoke is in Virginia, not West Virginia), the writing is excellent, the story poignant, and the message complex. Recommended for larger collections in public and academic libraries. Michael D. Cramer, Raleigh, NC Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Chapman, a Britisher now living in the US, earns big bucks authoring screenplays. Now, as a great-great grandson of Charles Darwin, it's appropriate that he use his writerly skills to report on current doings in Dayton, Tennessee, scene of the Scopes trial three-quarters of a century ago. One might expect, on first looking into Chapman's homage, that his text would be concerned chiefly with the notorious courtroom battle between the dark forces of evolution theory and the effulgent powers of creationist fundamentalism. The drama of the case and the Bryan-Darrow duel are depicted adequately, to be sure, but that's been done before. Here, though, the trial is merely the hook upon which Chapman hangs his own coming-of-age yarn in a book that's largely about the evolution of particular Darwinian progeny. It's the story of Chapman's parents-his cool, clever father and his alcoholic, promiscuous mother-and it's also his own story. As any proper nostalgic Englishman must, Chapman describes his schooldays, complete with canings and nasty masters. He includes his vicissitudes as bibulous voyeur and eczema sufferer, as well as his chronic horniness. The result is solipsism run rampant and immoderately readable, particularly when the self-absorbed author takes us through the wilds of East Tennessee with his entertaining tale of an atheist among the Bible-thumpers. He sasses the hicks as if invested with the extravagant arrogance of H.L. Mencken (who was, of course, the premier reporter of the trial); for the bulk of his story, he just can't suppress his supercilious sneer. And yet there is, ultimately, an unexpected respect for the rednecks, who treat him with puzzled respect and native courtesy."If I went down an atheist," he finally writes, "I came back an agnostic"-like Charles Darwin. Caustic social history and, undiminished by a sentimental finale, a flamboyant autobiography by a trenchant talent. Author tour; radio satellite tour
From the Publisher
"Funny, irreverent, profound, moving, instructive, and entertaining. How I wish that I had written this book."—Peter Coyote, author of Sleeping Where I Fall: A Chronicle

"This book is not just a sneer at freak-show America. Chapman is too aware of his own foibles and failures to curl his lip . . . Hilarious . . . uncomfortable . . . it's also life-affirming, even if life as lived by Chapman is often damnably itchy." —Nigel Richardson, The Daily Telegraph

“Hugely entertaining...While Chapman can be as funny and revealing as either [Bill Bryson or Paul Theroux] in the travel sections of his book, the autobiographical element plumbs greater depths.”—Tony Gould, The Spectator

“A clever, provocative and very entertaining hotchpotch of confession and redneck theology, a genre all his own.”—Patrick Skene Catling, The Irish Times

"...an absorbing and finely honed journal of courageous, often amusing self-awareness..." —Publishers Weekly

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781429971843
  • Publisher: Picador
  • Publication date: 4/1/2007
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 352
  • Sales rank: 326,443
  • File size: 570 KB

Meet the Author



Matthew Chapman was born in Cambridge, England and is the great-great grandson of Charles Darwin. He has written and directed five films, and lived for many years in Los Angeles. A Hollywood screenwriter he now lives in Manhattan. Trials of the Monkey is his first book.
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Read an Excerpt


  CHAPTER ONEThe EndIt’s a Sunday in June and I’m at the Greyhound Bus Station in New York, waiting to get on a bus. You buy the ticket but it does not guarantee a seat. For that you have to take an escalator down into the vast, clinical basement and stand in line at the appropriate gate. Two African-American women are ahead of me. One of them says, ‘I wouldn’t do that wit’ my own flesh and blood’ The other replies, ‘She did that, she did that, she did that wit’ me.’The gate opens and we all shuffle forward, deposit our bags in a cavity beneath the bus, and climb in. The seats are tall and narrow, the windows don’t open, but the air is cool. The engine gurgles in a dull, self-satisfied way and the vehicle jolts forward and climbs a ramp into daylight. As the bus heads toward the Holland Tunnel, I look out the window and see a middle-aged man in a well-pressed beige suit, white shirt and tie, piss copiously through a chain-link fence, shake himself, and walk back toward a clean Honda with a brisk stride and a smile of accomplishment.There are twenty-two passengers on the bus. Fifteen are African-American, four are white, two are Sudanese, and one is Hispanic. In front of me sits one of the African-Americans. It’s eighty-five degrees and humid. He wears a wool hat with the hood of a sweatsuit top pulled over it. His eyes are hidden behind menacing shades and a thick beard conceals what’s left. A wire goes in under the hood and I can hear the music from his headphones three seats back. This is not someone who wants to intersect with reality too much, perhaps even less with his own thoughts.We enter the Holland Tunnel and a couple of minutes later are spat out of Manhattan into New Jersey. For the next five hours we grind down the Eastern Seaboard toward Washington, D.C., through a suburban and industrial landscape so featureless it’s forgotten as it enters the eye.I’m heading south to Dayton, Tennessee, the small town where in 1925 a schoolteacher, John Scopes, was prosecuted for teaching Darwin’s theory of evolution. The first trial ever to be broadcast live—by radio—not only to America but also to Europe and Australia, it was given the title ‘The Trial of the Century,’ and for my money it remains so. A philosophical skirmish between religion and reason, between the most famous fundamentalist of his day, William Jennings Bryan, and the most famous humanist, Clarence Darrow, it was played out in an atmosphere of hucksterism and commerce uniquely and hilariously American.Inherit the Wind, a play by Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee, was a fictionalised account of the trial which then became a movie starring Spencer Tracy, Fredric March, and Gene Kelly. Not a bad piece of work, it cannot compare with reality, which is far funnier and more poignant.Seventy-five years after the trial I’m going to see what has changed in the town, if anything. I want to find out if they still believe the world was made in six days and is only 6,000 years old. It seems incredible that they might, but word has it they do. Every year the town stages what they call a ‘re-enactment’ of the trial. As the trial lasted for several days, and as the outcome was not favourable to the fundamentalists who still dominate the region, I’m intrigued to see what gets lost in the editing. I’m going down now, a month in advance of the show, to do some research, and will then return for the play in July. My idea, although it’s not fully formed yet, is to spin the whole book out from the play. Revisionist religious history as theatre.In my bag, I have two books, one a guidebook called The Old South, the other a biography of Darwin. I pull out the guidebook and find an essay by Tim Jacobson about the origins of the region. He says that while the North was colonised for ideological reasons, the South was always about business. Sir Walter Raleigh first tried to settle Virginia in 1584, but the settlers couldn’t take the loneliness and hardship and came home to England without having turned a profit. In 1587, Raleigh sent out another 150 who made camp on Roanoke Island, now in North Carolina. Three years later he sent a crew out to check on them. All they found was a tree with the word ‘Croatan’ carved on it, that being the name of the local Indian tribe.In 1606, 120 men were dispatched by the London Company, also for commercial reasons. Sixteen died on the voyage. The rest sailed up the James River and settled. Within six months, all but thirty-eight of them were dead from malaria. In 1609, some women were sent out to breed with the survivors. Talk about Natural Selection.Here on the bus I’m pondering a different but related matter: Survival of the Fattest. A black woman weighing at least 250 pounds sits across the aisle from me. She is dressed in a large, colourful dress and, were it not for her obesity, she’d be beautiful. Her face is so large it almost engulfs her humorous eyes, and her chest and stomach have merged to become a monumental, rippling hillside. She feeds constantly on potato chips and Teddy Grahams. The hand she’s not eating with holds a book. It’s held high so she can read it over her cheeks. The door to the Greyhound shitter is very narrow. Even I have to turn sideways to pass through. So far she has made no attempt to enter. If she does, I’m convinced it will end in failure or worse and I’m getting curious. Next to her is an amiable, uncomplaining child. Everyone is amiable. You leave New York—or maybe any big city—and suddenly the neurosis level drops.Much to my disappointment, the woman doesn’t hit the WC until D.C., when she scrambles off the bus, child dangling from her arm, and plunges into the crowd, the eyes above her cheeks seeking the symbol of the skirted woman.I have to change buses and I’ve got some time to kill, so I get my bag out from under the bus and walk outside to the parking lot behind the bus station.A white Southern woman in tight white jeans and a tank top is trying to compact ten boxes and suitcases into six or less. It’s a comedy about futility, and it has drawn a good crowd. She and her African-American boyfriend are relocating to Virginia, where she was born. They were going to get a train from New Jersey, where they met, but he—she casts an admonishing look at the man, who, in stark contrast to her, is extremely handsome and muscular—woke up late and so they had to change their plans. On the train you can take as much luggage as you want. On the bus, there’s a limit and they’re well over it. She must be around thirty, he a few years younger, and it’s one of those pairings which is endearing if only because it seems so improbable.She keeps saying, ‘My Lord!’ and ‘I swear!’ as she wrenches and pushes and tugs. Now she straightens up and brings her hands to the sides of her head. ‘Oh, my Lord,’ she exclaims before leaning in again with all the heft of her upper body.He stands back, shaking his head pessimistically. ‘It’s going to be an odyssey,’ he declares, as if commenting on someone else’s life.‘It’s going to be shitty, that’s what it’s gonna be,’ she responds.I could take one of their bags—I only have one of my own—and I should offer to do so, but I don’t. I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it’s because I’ve been locked in a room writing for ten years. Or maybe it’s because I’ve always felt myself to be exactly what the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service describes me as: a Resident Alien. I am here but I am not here and I like it that way.By paying an extra few dollars, they manage to get what has now become eight dense, misshapen bags onto the bus and we’re all headed for Roanoke, Virginia. It’s a new gang on a new bus with a new driver. Every time you get a new driver he gives you the rules. Each driver has his own style. This one welcomes us aboard and then lists every single stop along the way to Roanoke. Finally, he concludes with:‘These are the rules: no smoking, no drinking, no sex in your seats, no sex in the bathroom, and no boomboxes. If you have a Walkman don’t have it so loud it disturbs anyone. With that in mind, just lean back, close your eyes and dream about tomorrow. Or yesterday …’I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything for any length of time. I pick up the other book, Charles Darwin: A New Biography, by John Bowlby, and start to read it. The big question in the early pages is whether Darwin, an invalid for most of his life, was the victim of some tropical disease or was in fact a hypochondriac. His list of maladies is awe inspiring. One of them is eczema. As a child, I too had eczema. The eczema and the eczematous forefather have made me who I am.People generally believe they are part of an evolutionary process, either physical, spiritual or both. At an absolute minimum they note with smug satisfaction how much taller and smarter and richer they are than their forefathers. This suggests that life is, if not meaningful, at least progressive. Your average Joe goes beyond this, of course, and convinces himself that not only does life have meaning, but so too does death: God awaits him on the other side to reward him with eternal life for pushing the species along. But how could any of these assumptions work for me? In early childhood I was told how Darwin’s theory of evolution had demolished the biblical story of creation, God slapping it together in six days, Adam’s rib, and all that. And if the very first chapter of the good book was nonsensical and untrue, why would the rest be any more credible or useful? My parents made an attempt to raise me Christian but ultimately lacked the conviction to boost me over the numerous improbabilities. I went through one highly religious phase, but, wonderful as it was, it didn’t last. As for simple, earthly evolution, here too I got the short end of the stick. What was the likelihood of my evolving beyond Grandpa? Even physically, I turned out to be a lesser man. Born in 1809, he grew to be six feet tall. Born in 1950, I barely made five-ten. I not only got the short end of the stick, I was the short end.When Darwin called his second book The Descent of Man instead of The Ascent of Man he was thinking of his progeny. One only has to study the chronology to see the truth of this.First there was Charles Darwin, two yards long and nobody’s fool. Then there was his son, my great-grandfather, Sir Francis Darwin, an eminent botanist. Then came my grandmother Frances, a modest poet who spent a considerable amount of time in rest-homes for depression. From her issued my beloved mother, Clare, who was extremely short, failed to complete medical school, and eventually became an alcoholic.Then we get down to me. I’m in the movie business.At prep school in Cambridge, where I was brought up, I could not figure out what rung I was supposed to occupy on the social ladder. It was hard to believe I was beneath the brutish offspring of titled pig farmers and Tory MPs, but they clearly thought so. When I asked my father for help in the matter, he informed me I was ‘a member of the intellectual aristocracy.’ He said it with a laugh but he was right, and like most aristocracies it is in decline. I went to a Darwin reunion a few years back and it seemed to me that the whole family tree was hopping with regression, every smile verging on the imbecilic, every suit stuffed with the same sorry cargo of morphological deterioration.By some genetic fluke, I retained enough of Darwin’s powers of observation to be able to see clearly which way I was heading. My boyhood hero was Zozo the monkey, and when I was taken to the zoo at the age of six and saw live monkeys picking and scratching exactly as I did, and trying to have sex in public, I was convinced: evolution was a yo-yo and in my case the yo-yo had just about reached the end of the string. All I had to do was push it down another inch or two and it would rise again. If Charles was the top, I would be the bottom. If he was the beginning, I would be the end.Simple academic mediocrity would not suffice. I had to do worse than that. I had to fight education with everything I had. As stubborn and diligent as Charles was in collecting facts, so I would be in holding them at bay. If this was my defence against the crushing weight of family history, and if the strategy ultimately failed, you certainly couldn’t fault me for its execution on the ground: I emerged from school with an outstanding lack of knowledge.I only took two significant exams and failed both. The first was the eleven-plus, which should have been called the eleven-plus/ minus because if you passed it—at the age of eleven—you entered grammar school and had a shot at university, while if you failed you were subtracted from opportunity and condemned (unless you had money) to the purgatory of secondary modern, and life on the production line. The second exam was an O level. Most kids passed five to ten of these. I failed my solitary one and my parents and the system conceded defeat.Thirty years later, here I am on a Greyhound bus, a screenwriter. I used to direct but now I get paid so much to write I can no longer afford to. I write for the studios in Los Angeles. They pay, I deliver, they own. Nothing I create belongs to me. The scripts I write rarely become films and a screenplay, however well written, is only a blueprint. I’m an architect whose only buildings lie in the past, each made by uncomprehending builders. Worse still, the scripts which have been made are not my best, and the rest, the unmade ones, the ones I love, have now accrued so much interest that I cannot afford to buy them back. This year I sold an idea for a million and a half dollars. It won’t get made and before you know it I’ll need two million to get it back.And of course I won’t get it back and it will be consigned to the great necropolis of dead scripts, a massive tomb under a mountain in Utah where the air is dry and cool. A friend of mine was sent down into this awful legacy of failure to root around and see if anything was worth bringing back to light. He found a script by F. Scott Fitzgerald and for a while, the studio was looking for someone to rewrite the great man; but I’ve heard no more about it and presume it’s gone back into the darkness.In my struggle for survival I have dragged my simian arse as far from its origins as I could—from the lawns of Cambridge to the Mercedes-littered lots of Hollywood, then to New York’s Upper East Side—and all I’ve achieved, ‘spiritually,’ is that: survival. I have a life which requires me to earn at least half a million dollars a year. I am always either in debt or on the verge of it. I have no money saved. I could be wiped out by a few months of studio indifference. I feel drained. What is the purpose of all this?If I believed in God, I could comfort myself with the thought that once in heaven the bills would at least stop coming. Instead the only relief in sight is complete extinction. Circumstances change and in response, I simply become more anxious. It’s as if my whole character has become vestigial to this constant fear. Somewhere in my mind there still swaggers the fine young, atheistic monkey waving his insolent hard-on at the world, but suddenly it’s no longer amusing or effective and soon it will become embarrassing. I am not afraid of death, I’m afraid of a moment when, immobilised by something fatal, and unable to distract myself with work or sex or illusions of progress, I reflect on my life and see a rich and fascinating landscape, and me off to one side of it, a rat inside a wheel of darkness.It’s time to become wise and happy. But how? I am an adolescent lobbed into middle age without the necessary equipment. Sitting in the bus, cut loose from obligation and decency, I start to wander inward. When I look out the bus window now, what I see are scenes from my childhood, and I find myself compelled to write them down. Another book, an unasked for book, takes shape in my mind, The Monkey and His Education.

There’s a sudden random swath of wildflowers on the meridian. It passes by like a brush stroke and jolts me back to the external journey. The country has become more hilly with tree-covered mountains in the distance. The highway is less crowded.To my left a Hispanic woman sniffs constantly, every fourth or fifth breath. It’s really incredible. If the seats reclined, she could lie back and the fluid would drain down her throat, but they don’t. You get a two-inch tilt that’s barely noticeable and she doesn’t have a tissue.A sign on a mountainside says ‘Endless Caves’ but nothing can compete with the endless sniffing. Many hours have passed and many more are yet to come. Since the book I was reading on Darwin brought on a crisis of memory and self-loathing, I decide to go back to my book on the South.Tobacco, it tells me, introduced to the whites by the Indians (some small revenge, I suppose, for the theft of their land), soon became the major crop in the South. Tobacco was labour intensive. The first people to work in the fields were indentured servants from England who worked off their passage and were then set free, at which point they became expensive to hire.Enter the slave. You could lease an Englishman for a year or two, but a black man you could buy for a lifetime. The outlay was higher but once purchased you could literally work him to death. I remember when a movie of mine was being shot in Atlanta, arriving late to my hotel and being ushered to my room by a young, gay African-American man. When I asked him where I could buy cigarettes, he told me it was too late and offered me one of his. I thanked him effusively. ‘No, no,’ he said, waving my gratitude aside with a complicit smile, ‘I too am a slave to nicotine.’ How ironic, I now think, seeing a larger meaning, that African-Americans who continue to smoke in America are in fact continuing a 400-year tradition of slavery to the deceptively beautiful plant.The bus stops and about half the occupants leap out to smoke. It’s quite comic this. Sometimes the bus stops for only thirty seconds. The true addict gets out none the less, lights up, sucks feverishly on his cigarette, then re-enters the bus, coughing. This, however, is a longer stop. I haven’t smoked in a long while, but suddenly, I have the urge to have just one. I go to the mixed-race couple and bum a cigarette. We sit in the sun, our backs to a dilapidated convenience store. She is a Certified Nursing Assistant and he’s in the building trade, bricklaying, concrete. I ask him how he feels about moving to the South.‘Well,’ he says, ‘as a man of colour …’He takes a drag on his cigarette, looks off into the distance, exhales, and lets the smoke drift off with the rest of his sentence.TRIALS OF THE MONKEY. Copyright © 2000, 2001 by Matthew Chapman. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Picador USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.


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First Chapter

Chapter One

The End

It's a Sunday in June and I'm at the Greyhound Bus Station in New York, waiting to get on a bus. You buy the ticket but it does not guarantee a seat. For that you have to take an escalator down into the vast, clinical basement and stand in line at the appropriate gate. Two African-American women are ahead of me. One of them says, "I wouldn't do that wit' my own flesh and blood." The other replies, "She did that, she did that, she did that wit' me."

The gate opens and we all shuffle forward, deposit our bags in a cavity beneath the bus, and climb in. The seats are tall and narrow, the windows don't open, but the air is cool. The engine gurgles in a dull, self-satisfied way and the vehicle jolts forward and climbs a ramp into daylight. As the bus heads toward the Holland Tunnel, I look out the window and see a middle-aged man in a well-pressed beige suit, white shirt and tie, piss copiously through a chain-link fence, shake himself, and walk back toward a clean Honda with a brisk stride and a smile of accomplishment.

There are twenty-two passengers on the bus. Fifteen are African-American, four are white, two are Sudanese, and one is Hispanic. In front of me sits one of the African-Americans. It's eighty-five degrees and humid. He wears a wool hat with the hood of a sweat suit top pulled over it. His eyes are hidden behind menacing shades and a thick beard conceals what's left. A wire goes in under the hood and I can hear the music from his headphones three seats back. This is not someone who wants to intersect with reality too much, perhaps even less with his own thoughts.

We enter the Holland Tunnel and a couple of minutes later are spat out of Manhattan into New Jersey. For the next five hours we grind down the Eastern Seaboard toward Washington, D.C., through a suburban and industrial landscape so featureless it's forgotten as it enters the eye.

I'm heading south to Dayton, Tennessee, the small town where in 1925 a schoolteacher, John Scopes, was prosecuted for teaching Darwin's theory of evolution. The first trial ever to be broadcast live -- by radio -- not only to America but also to Europe and Australia, it was given the title "The Trial of the Century," and for my money it remains so. A philosophical skirmish between religion and reason, between the most famous fundamentalist of his day, William Jennings Bryan, and the most famous humanist, Clarence Darrow, it was played out in an atmosphere of hucksterism and commerce uniquely and hilariously American.

Inherit the Wind, a play by Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee, was a fictionalised account of the trial which then became a movie starring Spencer Tracy, Fredric March, and Gene Kelly. Not a bad piece of work, it cannot compare with reality, which is far funnier and more poignant.

Seventy-five years after the trial I'm going to see what has changed in the town, if anything. I want to find out if they still believe the world was made in six days and is only 6,000 years old. It seems incredible that they might, but word has it they do. Every year the town stages what they call a "re-enactment" of the trial. As the trial lasted for several days, and as the outcome was not favourable to the fundamentalists who still dominate the region, I'm intrigued to see what gets lost in the editing. I'm going down now, a month in advance of the show, to do some research, and will then return for the play in July. My idea, although it's not fully formed yet, is to spin the whole book out from the play. Revisionist religious history as theatre.

In my bag, I have two books, one a guidebook called The Old South, the other a biography of Darwin. I pull out the guidebook and find an essay by Tim Jacobson about the origins of the region. He says that while the North was colonised for ideological reasons, the South was always about business. Sir Walter Raleigh first tried to settle Virginia in 1584, but the settlers couldn't take the loneliness and hardship and came home to England without having turned a profit. In 1587, Raleigh sent out another 150 who made camp on Roanoke Island, now in North Carolina. Three years later he sent a crew out to check on them. All they found was a tree with the word `Croatan' carved on it, that being the name of the local Indian tribe.

In 1606, 120 men were dispatched by the London Company, also for commercial reasons. Sixteen died on the voyage. The rest sailed up the James River and settled. Within six months, all but thirty-eight of them were dead from malaria. In 1609, some women were sent out to breed with the survivors. Talk about Natural Selection.

Here on the bus I'm pondering a different but related matter:

Survival of the Fattest. A black woman weighing at least 250 pounds sits across the aisle from me. She is dressed in a large, colourful dress and, were it not for her obesity, she'd be beautiful. Her face is so large it almost engulfs her humorous eyes, and her chest and stomach have merged to become a monumental, rippling hillside. She feeds constantly on potato chips and Teddy Grahams. The hand she's not eating with holds a book. It's held high so she can read it over her cheeks. The door to the Greyhound shitter is very narrow. Even I have to turn sideways to pass through. So far she has made no attempt to enter. If she does, I'm convinced it will end in failure or worse and I'm getting curious. Next to her is an amiable, uncomplaining child. Everyone is amiable. You leave New York -- or maybe any big city -- and suddenly the neurosis level drops.

Much to my disappointment, the woman doesn't hit the WC until D.C., when she scrambles off the bus, child dangling from her arm, and plunges into the crowd, the eyes above her cheeks seeking the symbol of the skirted woman.

I have to change buses and I've got sometime to kill, so I get my bag out from under the bus and walk outside to the parking lot behind the bus station.

A white Southern woman in tight white jeans and a tank top is trying to compact ten boxes and suitcases into six or less. It's a comedy about futility, and it has drawn a good crowd. She and her African-American boyfriend are relocating to Virginia, where she was born. They were going to get a train from New Jersey, where they met, but he -- she casts an admonishing look at the man, who, in stark contrast to her, is extremely handsome and muscular -- woke up late and so they had to change their plans. On the train you can take as much luggage as you want. On the bus, there's a limit and they're well over it. She must be around thirty, he a few years younger, and it's one of those pairings which is endearing if only because it seems so improbable.

She keeps saying, "My Lord!" and "I swear!" as she wrenches and pushes and tugs. Now she straightens up and brings her hands to the sides of her head. "Oh, my Lord," she exclaims before leaning in again with all the heft of her upper body.

He stands back, shaking his head pessimistically. "It's going to be an odyssey," he declares, as if commenting on someone else's life.

`It's going to be shitty, that's what it's gonna be,' she responds.

I could take one of their bags -- I only have one of my own -- and I should offer to do so, but I don't. I'm not quite sure why. Maybe it's because I've been locked in a room writing for ten years. Or maybe it's because I've always felt myself to be exactly what the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service describes me as: a Resident Alien. I am here but I am not here and I like it that way.

By paying an extra few dollars, they manage to get what has now become eight dense, misshapen bags onto the bus and we're all headed for Roanoke, Virginia. It's a new gang on a new bus with a new driver. Every time you get a new driver he gives you the rules. Each driver has his own style. This one welcomes us aboard and then lists every single stop along the way to Roanoke. Finally, he concludes with:

"These are the rules: no smoking, no drinking, no sex in your seats, no sex in the bathroom, and no boom boxes. If you have a Walkman don't have it so loud it disturbs anyone. With that in mind, just lean back, close your eyes and dream about tomorrow. Or yesterday..."

I'm finding it hard to concentrate on anything for any length of time. I pick up the other book, Charles Darwin: A New Biography, by John Bowlby, and start to read it. The big question in the early pages is whether Darwin, an invalid for most of his life, was the victim of some tropical disease or was in fact a hypochondriac. His list of maladies is awe-inspiring. One of them is eczema. As a child, I too had eczema. The eczema and the eczematous forefather have made me who I am.

People generally believe they are part of an evolutionary process, either physical, spiritual or both. At an absolute minimum they note with smug satisfaction how much taller and smarter and richer they are than their forefathers. This suggests that life is, if not meaningful, at least progressive. Your average Joe goes beyond this, of course, and convinces himself that not only does life have meaning, but so too does death: God awaits him on the other side to reward him with eternal life for pushing the species along. But how could any of these assumptions work for me? In early childhood I was told how Darwin's theory of evolution had demolished the biblical story of creation, God slapping it together in six days, Adam's rib, and all that. And if the very first chapter of the good book was nonsensical and untrue, why would the rest be anymore credible or useful? My parents made an attempt to raise me Christian but ultimately lacked the conviction to boost me over the numerous improbabilities. I went through one highly religious phase, but, wonderful as it was, it didn't last. As for simple, earthly evolution, here too I got the short end of the stick. What was the likelihood of my evolving beyond Grandpa? Even physically, I turned out to be a lesser man. Born in 1809, he grew to be six feet tall. Born in 1950, I barely made five-ten. I not only got the short end of the stick, I was the short end.

When Darwin called his second book The Descent of Man instead of The Ascent of Man he was thinking of his progeny. One only has to study the chronology to see the truth of this.

First there was Charles Darwin, two yards long and nobody's fool. Then there was his son, my great-grandfather, Sir Francis Darwin, an eminent botanist. Then came my grandmother Frances, a modest poet who spent a considerable amount of time in rest-homes for depression. From her issued my beloved mother, Clare, who was extremely short, failed to complete medical school, and eventually became an alcoholic.

Then we get down to me. I'm in the movie business.

At prep school in Cambridge, where I was brought up, I could not figure out what rung I was supposed to occupy on the social ladder. It was hard to believe I was beneath the brutish offspring of titled pig farmers and Tory MPs, but they clearly thought so. When I asked my father for help in the matter, he informed me I was "a member of the intellectual aristocracy." He said it with a laugh but he was right, and like most aristocracies it is in decline. I went to a Darwin reunion a few years back and it seemed to me that the whole family tree was hopping with regression, every smile verging on the imbecilic, every suit stuffed with the same sorry cargo of morphological deterioration.

By some genetic fluke, I retained enough of Darwin's powers of observation to be able to see clearly which way I was heading. My boyhood hero was Zozo the monkey, and when I was taken to the zoo at the age of six and saw live monkeys picking and scratching exactly as I did, and trying to have sex in public, I was convinced: evolution was a yo-yo and in my case the yo-yo had just about reached the end of the string. All I had to do was push it down another inch or two and it would rise again. If Charles was the top, I would be the bottom. If he was the beginning, I would be the end.

Simple academic mediocrity would not suffice. I had to do worse than that. I had to fight education with everything I had. As stubborn and diligent as Charles was in collecting facts, so I would be in holding them at bay. If this was my defence against the crushing weight of family history, and if the strategy ultimately failed, you certainly couldn't fault me for its execution on the ground: I emerged from school with an outstanding lack of knowledge.

I only took two significant exams and failed both. The first was the eleven-plus, which should have been called the eleven-plus/minus because if you passed it -- at the age of eleven -- you entered grammar school and had a shot at university, while if you failed you were subtracted from opportunity and condemned (unless you had money) to the purgatory of secondary modern, and life on the production line. The second exam was an O level. Most kids passed five to ten of these. I failed my solitary one and my parents and the system conceded defeat.

Thirty years later, here I am on a Greyhound bus, a screenwriter. I used to direct but now I get paid so much to write I can no longer afford to. I write for the studios in Los Angeles. They pay, I deliver, they own. Nothing I create belongs to me. The scripts I write rarely become films and a screenplay, however well written, is only a blueprint. I'm an architect whose only buildings lie in the past, each made by uncomprehending builders. Worse still, the scripts which have been made are not my best, and the rest, the unmade ones, the ones I love, have now accrued so much interest that I cannot afford to buy them back. This year I sold an idea for a million and a half dollars. It won't get made and before you know it I'll need two million to get it back.

And of course I won't get it back and it will be consigned to the great necropolis of dead scripts, a massive tomb under a mountain in Utah where the air is dry and cool. A friend of mine was sent down into this awful legacy of failure to root around and see if anything was worth bringing back to light. He found a script by F. Scott Fitzgerald and for a while, the studio was looking for someone to rewrite the great man; but I've heard no more about it and presume it's gone back into the darkness.

In my struggle for survival I have dragged my simian arse as far from its origins as I could -- from the lawns of Cambridge to the Mercedes-littered lots of Hollywood, then to New York's Upper East Side -- and all I've achieved, "spiritually," is that: survival. I have a life which requires me to earn at least half a million dollars a year. I am always either in debt or on the verge of it. I have no money saved. I could be wiped out by a few months of studio indifference. I feel drained. What is the purpose of all this?

If I believed in God, I could comfort myself with the thought that once in heaven the bills would at least stop coming. Instead the only relief in sight is complete extinction. Circumstances change and in response, I simply become more anxious. It's as if my whole character has become vestigial to this constant fear. Somewhere in my mind there still swaggers the fine young, atheistic monkey waving his insolent hard-on at the world, but suddenly it's no longer amusing or effective and soon it will become embarrassing. I am not afraid of death, I'm afraid of a moment when, immobilised by something fatal, and unable to distract myself with work or sex or illusions of progress, I reflect on my life and see a rich and fascinating landscape, and me off to one side of it, a rat inside a wheel of darkness.

It's time to become wise and happy. But how? I am an adolescent lobbed into middle age without the necessary equipment. Sitting in the bus, cut loose from obligation and decency, I start to wander inward. When I look out the bus window now, what I see are scenes from my childhood, and I find myself compelled to write them down. Another book, an unasked for book, takes shape in my mind, The Monkey and His Education.

There's a sudden random swath of wildflowers on the meridian. It passes by like a brush stroke and jolts me back to the external journey. The country has become more hilly with tree-covered mountains in the distance. The highway is less crowded.

To my left a Hispanic woman sniffs constantly, every fourth or fifth breath. It's really incredible. If the seats reclined, she could lie back and the fluid would drain down her throat, but they don't. You get a two-inch tilt that's barely noticeable and she doesn't have a tissue.

A sign on a mountainside says "Endless Caves" but nothing can compete with the endless sniffing. Many hours have passed and many more are yet to come. Since the book I was reading on Darwin brought on a crisis of memory and self-loathing, I decide to go back to my book on the South.

Tobacco, it tells me, introduced to the whites by the Indians (some small revenge, I suppose, for the theft of their land), soon became the major crop in the South. Tobacco was labour intensive. The first people to work in the fields were indentured servants from England who worked off their passage and were then set free, at which point they became expensive to hire.

Enter the slave. You could lease an Englishman for a year or two, but a black man you could buy for a lifetime. The outlay was higher but once purchased you could literally work him to death. I remember when a movie of mine was being shot in Atlanta, arriving late to my hotel and being ushered to my room by a young, gay African-American man. When I asked him where I could buy cigarettes, he told me it was too late and offered me one of his. I thanked him effusively. "No, no," he said, waving my gratitude aside with a complicit smile, "I too am a slave to nicotine." How ironic, I now think, seeing a larger meaning, that African-Americans who continue to smoke in America are in fact continuing a 400-year tradition of slavery to the deceptively beautiful plant.

The bus stops and about half the occupants leap out to smoke. It's quite comic this. Sometimes the bus stops for only thirty seconds. The true addict gets out none the less, lights up, sucks feverishly on his cigarette, then re-enters the bus, coughing. This, however, is a longer stop. I haven't smoked in a long while, but suddenly, I have the urge to have just one. I go to the mixed- race couple and bum a cigarette. We sit in the sun, our backs to a dilapidated convenience store. She is a Certified Nursing Assistant and he's in the building trade, bricklaying, concrete. I ask him how he feels about moving to the South.

"Well," he says, "as a man of colour..."

He takes a drag on his cigarette, looks off into the distance, exhales, and lets the smoke drift off with the rest of his sentence.

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Interviews & Essays

Exclusive Author Essay
Trials of the Monkey: An Accidental Memoir is my first book, or should I say books? When I left New York on a Greyhound bus to visit the town in Tennessee where the Scopes Monkey Trial took place, my intention was to see if it had evolved since it put John Scopes on trial for teaching evolution in 1925. The joke was that I am the great-great-grandson of Charles Darwin. Out of this "Voyage of the Greyhound" would come the second book, the story of the trial, which was both funny and in its own way tragic too. However, as the bus descended into the South, so I found myself descending into memories of my past. At a certain point, I decided I should try to weave in this third strand, this accidental memoir, the story of a delinquent youth growing up under the distant but still present shadow of Darwin.

But there was something else. It soon became apparent that I was having one of those hilarious (if not fatal) psychological and philosophical convulsions that often occur between one phase of life and another. I was a screenwriter, as I still am, and had written script after script, each one overlapping the other, for about ten years. I had made a great deal of money, but I was exhausted and profoundly dissatisfied. And so a fourth theme demanded inclusion: an account of a ludicrously overheated middle age. After the first trip, I returned to New York to complete a script and then went down to Tennessee again. By this time I was in even worse shape. This led to the comic (in retrospect) catastrophe in the middle of the book.

A month or so later, I was able to escape New York and Hollywood for two weeks and found myself in a large old hotel overlooking Lake Geneva. This is where I designed the shape of the book, which took about two weeks. Writing so many scripts, particularly thrillers, ingrained in me the basic principles of suspense. Without being conscious of it, I think I saw each theme as a character in a mystery. Each character seeks to understand his or her connection to the others and, by doing so, find the answer to a question. By cutting back and forth between them, you create an escalating curiosity, and through the eventual satisfaction of this curiosity provide an illusion of a small degree of order.

Although some of the book is sad, I also wanted it to be funny. Humor is vastly underrated as a means of survival. I am convinced the English beat the Germans in the Second World War because they had a better sense of humor and that I'm here today because I have a sense of humor. Humor not only relieves tension but is also a form of reason, a way of comprehending and enduring existence by recognizing its endearing absurdity.

The actual writing of the book took about a year. Because of its structure, you will enjoy it most if you read the first two or three short chapters at a single sitting so the various themes are established. (Matthew Chapman)

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Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 15, 2013

    Wow

    This is so weird my teacher would never teach us adout this

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 15, 2006

    Funny but Flawed

    Chapman's book is well-written, funny but deeply, deeply flawed. He is often too 'cutesie' by a mile, his whining about making $500,000 per year but being nearly broke just doesn't cut it, his memoir portions are often repetitive, the stories of his adolescent sexuality are far too graphic and totally irrelevant to the story and finally his incessant liberal political polemics are annoying as hell.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 15, 2006

    LOVE, MATTHEW CHAPMAN, AND OTHER MORE IMPORTANT MATTERS

    LOVE, MATTHEW CHAPMAN, AND OTHER MORE IMPORTANT MATTERS You understand me so well, I could almost strangle you on account of that violation, if I didn¿t happen to be such an aficionado of pure knowledge. You know exactly when, where, and how to massage my feet and cause me to coo, kind of like back when I still had the sole, private, intimate access to my mother¿s nipples. Year after year, you forge on (dear), seeming to stumble upon some additional recess where another nebulous, strange need, wanting to ¿walk with light¿ resides. It is all about love and Darwin and about the strongest, tangible asset we¿re likely to have in our flippant financial portfolio to pass on to our three little girls. We are proud to say, they will all be able to look any future point in time right between its eyes and gun down doubt with the essential factor: the only thing Darwin - gentle iconoclast that he was ¿ happened to just be a little too shy to include in his various theories. Yet, it was the quintessential quality the man himself possessed which his descendants can take to the bank. Anytime, anywhere. Because of ¿ or despite of - our vast knowledge, love always has a way of succeeding. Lauren Gross (Never read the book, but am conversant with the theory, and follow the current media.)

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 4, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 25, 2011

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