UC San Diego

My first instinct to write a horror play came from a superficial impulse. I wanted to capture the electricity of a roomful of strangers sweating, screaming, and giggling all together in a genre largely overlooked and underestimated by live theatre. I knew I wanted to write something that acknowledged tropes and homages from film yet fully took advantage of the magic of theatre. Unlike film, which moves from action to action to action, Hells Canyon lives in the inbetween moments. It lives in the dread leading up to a screaming outburst; It lives in the silent consequences.

Hells Canyon takes place in a single location, a rental cabin hidden atop a hill overlooking Snake River, where thirty four Chinese men were once brutally murdered and tossed aside in the name of gold. The play follows the story of Ariel, a seven months pregnant Chinese American woman, arriving to the cabin with a group of friends. Within a small cast of five, we have a series of complicated relationships: a surrogate mother and intended parents, brother and sister, ex-partners, and an indie rock band on the verge of implosion. The tension in these relationships are found in what is left unsaid.

Silence exists in the play on many levels. First, there is the musicality in the script itself. I had to discard my usual methods, structures, and software, so I could instead write in multiple columns, carefully placing each stage direction and piece of dialogue to create the perfect amount of chaotic action and dialogue that would immediately overhwhelm Ariel and in turn, the audience. In rehearsals, we collaboratively found the balance of story-telling and chaos-building so we could ultimately build moments of rest that were even more complex than ones filled with emotional dialogue.

The history behind the play also lives in silence. The victims of the Hells Canyon Massacre remain anonymous, yet we know the names of the murderers. We cannot say the victims’ names or remember them in the same way. It is only by Ariel giving voice to these lost souls that anyone can find peace, and that means she needs to find voice for herself. Over the course of the play, Ariel is consistently ignored and talked over by those around her. Ariel represents the silent rage that many BIPOC people feel and carry in their bodies; her rage is further fueled by the inherited trauma of the Chinese men murdered in Hells Canyon.

Screams contrast the silences of the play. Twins are brought into the world, one silent and one screaming. Screams interrupt potential moments of relaxation. Ariel gives voice to the screams of those long gone. Finally and most crucially, there are the joyful and fearful screams of an audience enjoying a horror play, which act as an outlet. When we have a vocal reaction, we are sharing an impulse and emotion with the rest of the room. By building in moments for vocal release, the audience is given an opportunity to connect and be in community with each other, something that we have been lacking in our pandemic-induced isolation over the last two years.