Of course the problem with taking this sort of thing seriously is that you're not supposed to: this was at heart something like an ELO jukebox musical, for heaven's sake, playing across the street from Bat Out of Hell: The Musical at the ENO. Yet if I had to think of a paradigm for class immobility, it would be something like this performance. That's not in any sense to knock the quality of acting, script, production, musicianship, or anything else: this was a talented cast and production, the result of a lot of time and craft.
And in a sense that's my problem with this, an account of a rollicking day in the life of a number of sexually omnivorous but by all accounts future-deprived Scottish schoolgirls. These certainly are not characters in need of a lecture of mindfulness: their moment is everything. One seems to be dying of cancer, while the others seem fated to what happens to the unpensioned classes under late capitalism. Even the most conventionally middle-class character, the lone fated university-goer, seems (not to give anything away) fated for at the very least turbulence on the way there. I worry that I'll wind up sounding like David Brooks, or Matthew Arnold or somewhere: less fornicating, gels, and more books, and you too can ascend the declining heights of middle-class stability!
It's just that everything that brought everyone to the moment of performance, cast and crew, is precisely the sort of thing none of the characters in this play are allowed: study, focus, and time to develop. These are all characters who would likely have had difficulty attending a West End show, and no chance at all of performing in one. Or, at the least, this is what the play seems to suggest: even those characters with future plans, of one sort of another, see those fall apart over the course of the events described.
It also feels supremely odd--at this moment in British culture's frankly leery focus on guarding the sexuality of pre-adults--to watch a play about middle teenagers constantly having sex, to the frequent peril of their future lives. If you go to the theatre enough in London you'll see the world sort of array itself before you to perform: Argentines, Cubans, and now it seems precariat Scots, all affirming how often they get laid. This feels unsatisfactory somehow as the narrative of a shared global future. Moreover it feels like bad politics: we affirm the orgasms we share with the characters onstage--indeed, maybe we even envy them--but then go back to our more stable lives.
This performance felt faintly allegorical for society as it now exists. The theater-affording classes watch this sort of thing, and get to really enjoy it--and, indeed, this was an enjoyable performance. (You could buy sugary drinks in the lobby, to go with the on-stage sambucas.) The classes depicted, meanwhile, get the moment of performance, but no future; and the training necessary to get a performer to the West End level keeps any too-intrusive elements of actual post-working class life from getting into the mix.
There's a particular sort of rickety British theatre of the 1960s that tried to show alternatives, or at least a space of critique, of these sorts of things: Arnold Wesker's Roots does a lot of working in my thinking, as does Shelagh Delaney. And these plays are full of ham-handed moments of class transcendence or the failure thereof. But the very slickness of this play made me honestly nostalgic for that sort of thing: for the gesture, hewn out of a 1950s entertainment industry every bit as hostile to class critique as this one, towards lamenting and acknowledging structural problems. There are astonishing moments in this--it is a very fine production, and you should definitely go see it if you like this sort of thing. But a week on I feel queasy about this in a way I hadn't anticipated.
Monday, June 12, 2017
Thursday, June 8, 2017
Deposit (Hampstead Theatre, 3 June)
If Brecht teaches us anything, it's to feel sympathy for actors as people. And oh, the poor creatures on the Hampstead basement stage, made to do representative rhythmic gymnastics through this terrible, terrible play. If Aldi sold Shaw scripts, like by the pound, they'd read like this.
"Generation Rent, innit?" Like imagine a play based around that being written on a napkin, and you more-or-less have the idea here. In a move that would please a particular sort of Russian Formalist, this is the kind of play where no-one has a personality beyond their representative function to the plot, which is to say: two couples onstage, saving for--wait for it--the deposit on a mortgage. Between this and having my work visa renewed at My Country, I did feel very relevant this past week--and I watched both nearly in the fetal position. However, whatever force this might have had was blunted by the script. I suppose--if I were inclined to be charitable--I would say that some of these liabilities were the point: that the housing situation so compromises people to the point where they no longer have interests or recognizable humanity. And yet: humanity does rather poke through. Someone likes waffles; another, Pokemon Go. Of such things is recognizable humanity made. No-one is actually as dreary as the characters in this play are. And woe betide the problem playwright whose jokes fall flat--whose moments of levity clunk like horseshoes, amidst the general discussion of Fucked, How We Are. There are the elements of a truly epic Grand Guignol script here--certainly, at least half of the characters were in desperate need of a disembowelling. But this was too close to a Shelter press release given a barely fictional gloss.
When I saw this, of a Saturday evening, I was the youngest person in the audience. The man directly in front of me seemed to be a property developer, recommending that his friends invest in property. On the way out, I heard some of the fiftysomethings say "Thank god we don't need to buy again." As an immersive theatrical effect, this was somehow more impressive than anything I've yet experienced: the fourth wall, right down! But as an index of typical London depressingness, this was typically depressing. Still, if we're all fucked, let's have some better plays.
"Generation Rent, innit?" Like imagine a play based around that being written on a napkin, and you more-or-less have the idea here. In a move that would please a particular sort of Russian Formalist, this is the kind of play where no-one has a personality beyond their representative function to the plot, which is to say: two couples onstage, saving for--wait for it--the deposit on a mortgage. Between this and having my work visa renewed at My Country, I did feel very relevant this past week--and I watched both nearly in the fetal position. However, whatever force this might have had was blunted by the script. I suppose--if I were inclined to be charitable--I would say that some of these liabilities were the point: that the housing situation so compromises people to the point where they no longer have interests or recognizable humanity. And yet: humanity does rather poke through. Someone likes waffles; another, Pokemon Go. Of such things is recognizable humanity made. No-one is actually as dreary as the characters in this play are. And woe betide the problem playwright whose jokes fall flat--whose moments of levity clunk like horseshoes, amidst the general discussion of Fucked, How We Are. There are the elements of a truly epic Grand Guignol script here--certainly, at least half of the characters were in desperate need of a disembowelling. But this was too close to a Shelter press release given a barely fictional gloss.
When I saw this, of a Saturday evening, I was the youngest person in the audience. The man directly in front of me seemed to be a property developer, recommending that his friends invest in property. On the way out, I heard some of the fiftysomethings say "Thank god we don't need to buy again." As an immersive theatrical effect, this was somehow more impressive than anything I've yet experienced: the fourth wall, right down! But as an index of typical London depressingness, this was typically depressing. Still, if we're all fucked, let's have some better plays.
The White Devil (Sam Wanamaker, 13 March)
In Vienna, you'll be accosted by these sort of fake classical music troupes--aimed at tourists, clearly not really for the locals--who put on shows aimed at people who just want to see some Beethoven in an old church. The Wannamaker needs to do better than that, y'know?
Every time I see something here Wanamaker, I see what seem to be theatregoers about where I was when I first went. Let's say you're North American; let's say in high school you hear about these Elizabethan outdoor theaters. Maybe your English teacher mentions that they've recreated one, and you're excited. Then you also hear about the Elizabethan indoor theaters--the latey-Shakespeare, Tempest-y ones. You thrill with the fact that you're one of the few people on earth (as you imagine it) who know what Blackfriars is. Or was. And then you go to the Globe--and it's just like your teacher said! Life experience crossed off! And then, you find out about this newer, indoor theater, and you're even more excited! And you go, and it's amazing: candles! Uncomfortable seats! A discovery area! Achievement unlocked.
But then let's say you live in London, or you're here for a while. And then you go a second time, and, it's still exciting--I mean you HAD to go, never mind the ticket prices--and, you know, it's pretty good. You definitely don't try to talk yourself into it because of how much it cost. It's authentic, right? And then you go again. And this time you really notice: parts of this are kind of dull. Like the acting's not very good, and the production is kind of uninspired. Everyone seems to either rant or simper according to type. You've seen more interesting productions of, like, everything. Is it possible that candlelit theatre really isn't as exciting as your little high school heart believed?
Reader, know that it breaks my heart to say this, but: the Wanamaker is a tourist attraction. Every time I go, I see people having what I assume is the first-time experience, and they think it's amazing, or seem to. They look on bright-eyed; they clap and clap.
This was mostly fine, and occasionally dull. Of this and the we-bought-a-truckload-of-D&G-some-time-ago-and-also-music RSC White Devil of last summer, I'd probably go with the RSC--but that production got big and weird and drift-y. This in contrast was smaller, intimate--and mostly ranted. I appreciate the limitations of this singularly limited (and I think for actors, limiting) space--but I wanted a better production. The actors here occasionally fell into the mode of generic, Peanuts adult-y Renaissance speech: I'm not sure I thought they knew what they were saying. This was totally run-of-the-mill Jacobean theater in an expensive box.
Every time I see something here Wanamaker, I see what seem to be theatregoers about where I was when I first went. Let's say you're North American; let's say in high school you hear about these Elizabethan outdoor theaters. Maybe your English teacher mentions that they've recreated one, and you're excited. Then you also hear about the Elizabethan indoor theaters--the latey-Shakespeare, Tempest-y ones. You thrill with the fact that you're one of the few people on earth (as you imagine it) who know what Blackfriars is. Or was. And then you go to the Globe--and it's just like your teacher said! Life experience crossed off! And then, you find out about this newer, indoor theater, and you're even more excited! And you go, and it's amazing: candles! Uncomfortable seats! A discovery area! Achievement unlocked.
But then let's say you live in London, or you're here for a while. And then you go a second time, and, it's still exciting--I mean you HAD to go, never mind the ticket prices--and, you know, it's pretty good. You definitely don't try to talk yourself into it because of how much it cost. It's authentic, right? And then you go again. And this time you really notice: parts of this are kind of dull. Like the acting's not very good, and the production is kind of uninspired. Everyone seems to either rant or simper according to type. You've seen more interesting productions of, like, everything. Is it possible that candlelit theatre really isn't as exciting as your little high school heart believed?
Reader, know that it breaks my heart to say this, but: the Wanamaker is a tourist attraction. Every time I go, I see people having what I assume is the first-time experience, and they think it's amazing, or seem to. They look on bright-eyed; they clap and clap.
This was mostly fine, and occasionally dull. Of this and the we-bought-a-truckload-of-D&G-some-time-ago-and-also-music RSC White Devil of last summer, I'd probably go with the RSC--but that production got big and weird and drift-y. This in contrast was smaller, intimate--and mostly ranted. I appreciate the limitations of this singularly limited (and I think for actors, limiting) space--but I wanted a better production. The actors here occasionally fell into the mode of generic, Peanuts adult-y Renaissance speech: I'm not sure I thought they knew what they were saying. This was totally run-of-the-mill Jacobean theater in an expensive box.
An Octoroon (Orange Tree, 26 May)
If I see better theatre this year, I'll be a very happy bear indeed--but I'm not hopeful. Since I've moved to the UK, the Orange Tree has been one of my most consistently happy surprises. I'm near-evangelical about it: this is a proper theatre company, with maybe the most intelligent and interesting selection of plays I've seen presented by one venue in London. To date I've particularly associated them with good minor Shaw and older stuff from the Royal Court--both of which, might I say, are vital to the theatrical conversation in London.
This, however, was a theatrical coup. Branden Jacobs-Jenkins' play is--if I may--hugely significant: as an attempt to resurrect the nineteenth-century drama, and in a sense to say that we're all still living in the midst of its heady combination of spectacle and heavy stereotyping. I feel the full weight of the thirty-odd hits this blog gets when I praise actors--it seems silly to do this, like I'm Michael Billington or something. But Ken Nwosu's lead performance, from the (great, won't give it away) first line onwards, was one of the small marvels of the year for me.
Dion Boucicault's The Octoroon (1859) was one of the most popular plays throughout the nineteenth-century world, famous for its slave auctions and exploding boats. Horrifyingly for us today, it is also full of what the melodrama found amusing: blackface, redface, and heavy sentimentality. What can we do with scripts like this? Years ago, I saw the Wooster Group Emperor Jones--which, like this production, dealt with an older script made problematic by changes in how we represent race on stage. And that production--although not without its complexities--struck me as slightly gutless: as an attempt to distance itself from anything not fully bien-pensant, frittering any resonances in the script away into abstract stylization. This did something far more complicated, leaving in enough of Boucicault to let the sentimental drama work in its own terms, without abstracting stylization. I felt like patting myself on the back: these old plays really have something to them! And then one stage effect--which I would not dream of giving away--reminded us what else the nineteenth century found spectacular, and indeed what else still works on us. I felt sickened in the best and most thoughtful possible way.
But, stage effects aside, this was a full-on production--well-thought-out, down to the tiniest details--of a great chamber play, down to the cast pausing to completely disassemble the floor for the famous slave auction scene. After this and Low Level Panic, I've started to admire the Orange Tree for its use of plumbing: for water, heavy sets, and other thoughtful fixtures onstage. They do what great sets do: make the play resonate out between the theatrical space and our world. All praise to the actors for what must have been a formidable job of rehearsal jumping around this set, nearly tripping over the elaborate fixtures and terrifyingly-close audience members alike. I felt terrifyingly complicit in this, in the best possible way--I left wondering what of the things I enjoy will wind up seemingly ghastly in 150 years, hoping that they would make out as well for future spectators as the tap-dancing rabbit did in this production.
This isn't to say that any of this was overwhelmingly heavy--this play is, among other things, a fucking blast, from beginning to end. But no part of that spectacle comes easily. Weeks later I remain unsettled by this. See it.
This, however, was a theatrical coup. Branden Jacobs-Jenkins' play is--if I may--hugely significant: as an attempt to resurrect the nineteenth-century drama, and in a sense to say that we're all still living in the midst of its heady combination of spectacle and heavy stereotyping. I feel the full weight of the thirty-odd hits this blog gets when I praise actors--it seems silly to do this, like I'm Michael Billington or something. But Ken Nwosu's lead performance, from the (great, won't give it away) first line onwards, was one of the small marvels of the year for me.
Dion Boucicault's The Octoroon (1859) was one of the most popular plays throughout the nineteenth-century world, famous for its slave auctions and exploding boats. Horrifyingly for us today, it is also full of what the melodrama found amusing: blackface, redface, and heavy sentimentality. What can we do with scripts like this? Years ago, I saw the Wooster Group Emperor Jones--which, like this production, dealt with an older script made problematic by changes in how we represent race on stage. And that production--although not without its complexities--struck me as slightly gutless: as an attempt to distance itself from anything not fully bien-pensant, frittering any resonances in the script away into abstract stylization. This did something far more complicated, leaving in enough of Boucicault to let the sentimental drama work in its own terms, without abstracting stylization. I felt like patting myself on the back: these old plays really have something to them! And then one stage effect--which I would not dream of giving away--reminded us what else the nineteenth century found spectacular, and indeed what else still works on us. I felt sickened in the best and most thoughtful possible way.
But, stage effects aside, this was a full-on production--well-thought-out, down to the tiniest details--of a great chamber play, down to the cast pausing to completely disassemble the floor for the famous slave auction scene. After this and Low Level Panic, I've started to admire the Orange Tree for its use of plumbing: for water, heavy sets, and other thoughtful fixtures onstage. They do what great sets do: make the play resonate out between the theatrical space and our world. All praise to the actors for what must have been a formidable job of rehearsal jumping around this set, nearly tripping over the elaborate fixtures and terrifyingly-close audience members alike. I felt terrifyingly complicit in this, in the best possible way--I left wondering what of the things I enjoy will wind up seemingly ghastly in 150 years, hoping that they would make out as well for future spectators as the tap-dancing rabbit did in this production.
This isn't to say that any of this was overwhelmingly heavy--this play is, among other things, a fucking blast, from beginning to end. But no part of that spectacle comes easily. Weeks later I remain unsettled by this. See it.
My Country: A Work in Progress (NT/Warwick Arts Centre, 25 May)
So my work visa was away being renewed while I watched this, which is not something I would particularly recommend. And I guess I have to hand it to the NT: this is the sort of thing they should be doing, even if I thought it was kind of a failure. The form of the thing would have been recognizable to the Victorians, if not to the Phoenicians: personified representatives of the regions of Britain assemble to talk about Brexit, their reasons for and against it, and--most of the time--their grumbles about life. The poetry bits were rubbish--"the sacrament of listening" remains with me, even as other bits of language have drifted away. But the grumbles: the most powerful of these came early, when a voice from somewhere northern describes the inequity of schooling in their district. This has nothing to do with Brexit but, I think, everything to do with it: these seem to have been the chickens that came home to roost, in the general vague protest that the election engendered.
With that said, as a foreigner (subset: the good type, employer-sponsored visa), I spent the whole thing feeling confused and anxious and--increasingly--furious that no-one from my sub-subset of recent economic migrants was included. The points of similitude, between the regions: shitty food. Heavy drink. Terrible pop music from the 1970s. An Austerity of the mind, it seemed to me. I'm not entirely sure if this is a complaint or not--I don't know if the voices of those fresh off the vehicle of conveyance, as indeed I am, should have a say in things. But I left this chamber of horrors feeling like I did after Brexit: that the cosmopolitan place I thought I had landed in turned out to be parochial AF, as I believe the kids say.
Do echo chambers like what this play depicts even exist anymore, I wonder? This play's voices came from a closed loop, talking to itself; but does anyone, in this international age, spend much of their time in such a loop? I did not feel a part of these conversations, their occasional git-on-git gooniness. But that's the point, right? Genuine props to the NT for making me feel so rootless and heartsick.
With that said, as a foreigner (subset: the good type, employer-sponsored visa), I spent the whole thing feeling confused and anxious and--increasingly--furious that no-one from my sub-subset of recent economic migrants was included. The points of similitude, between the regions: shitty food. Heavy drink. Terrible pop music from the 1970s. An Austerity of the mind, it seemed to me. I'm not entirely sure if this is a complaint or not--I don't know if the voices of those fresh off the vehicle of conveyance, as indeed I am, should have a say in things. But I left this chamber of horrors feeling like I did after Brexit: that the cosmopolitan place I thought I had landed in turned out to be parochial AF, as I believe the kids say.
Do echo chambers like what this play depicts even exist anymore, I wonder? This play's voices came from a closed loop, talking to itself; but does anyone, in this international age, spend much of their time in such a loop? I did not feel a part of these conversations, their occasional git-on-git gooniness. But that's the point, right? Genuine props to the NT for making me feel so rootless and heartsick.
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