On physical theatre
This week I’m in pre-publicity for the Australian launch of the new novel Sphinx and back in London.
I’ve seen three theatrical productions in seven days – the first ‘Death and the King’s Horseman’ was written by Nigerian playwright Wole Soyinka in the 1950’s.Set in 1943 it is a statement about the impact of British colonialism in Africa. This production at the National theatre has revamped some of the original text and pushed racial and class issues in a dramatic (and incredibly effective manner) by putting the black cast members into ‘white face’ to play the English characters – thus throwing up a multitude of issues – the predominantly white audience’s preconceptions about black actors, the way the local Nigerian characters view their colonial masters and emphasising the theme of ritual which runs right through the play.
It is the story of a local tribal leader who is also the horseman of the king who has died a month before. Tradition dictates that the king’s horseman must commit suicide and join the spirit of the King and his horse and dog, as they make their mythical way up to heaven. If this does not happen the King’s spirit will not be put to rest.
Stylistically the production works in two languages – one is the poetic language (almost Shakespearian) of the local Africans – the market women and their queen, the buffoonery of the colonial police (local ‘christianised’ Africans). Their intense dancing and celebration is a stark contrast to the rigid costume ball that is being put on by the colonial English the very same night. When the head of the colony (along with his wife) decides to wear for the costume ball two costumes that are confiscated religious costumes from a local death cult and signify Death, he is completely indifferent to how disrespectful this might appear to his superstitious black staff and the local populace. This gives the audience an instant understanding of the massive gulf between the two cultures. The arrogance of this colonial overlord is further emphasised when he prevents the Horseman from committing ritual suicide thus condemning the tribal chief to social rejection and a living death. The Englishman has also unwittingly set off an even more tragic set of circumstances.
The second production I saw was Stephen Berkoff’s production of the screenplay; On the Waterfront at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket. I have been a fan of Berkoff’s for years, having followed his work since seeing East (great play about English skinheads) at the Half-Moon theatre in the 1970s. He is famous for his holistic approach and physicality of interpretation of text and this production was no exception. Although surprisingly it was quite literal in its story telling and anyone who knows the movie would recognise it immediately. The strengths of the production (as in Death and the King’s horseman) were the inherent theatricality and image making – literally making images out of actors, gestures, even emotions – a pushing of reality. This linked both productions and was a reminder why I go to theatre at all. Berkoff’s emphasis on testosterone and the advert masculinity of both the dockworkers and the thugs, as well as a great Irishness, to the characters worked brilliantly.
The third production I saw was Le Clique (at the Hippodrome – a fantastically atmospheric venue that was dark for a year or so) in Leicester Square. A loose ensemble of cabaret acts bordering on burlesque this show reflects a growing trend in Europe for sexy escapist circus. Sitting there surrounding by the city boys and girls (some still dressed for the office) on a late Friday night show, no doubt shaking off recession blues it was an infinitely more forgiving audience than a straight theatre audience- and reminded me of how the old music halls with their upbeat Larrikin sensibility must have been like. Interestingly there seems to be a growing need for comic circus and physical theatre that pushes both the audience’s imagination and sense of trepidation. The other notable aspect was the age difference between the audiences – with a noticeably younger audience at Le Clique, but I am heartened by a swing towards live performance (this is also reflected in the live music scene) generally. I suspect entertainment is ultimately a collective experience.
Happy Anzac day all Australian readers!
Familiar myths
A number of weeks ago there was a great article in New Scientist (28/3/09 – Helen Phillips) which was basically an analysis of déjà vu from a neurological perspective – the anatomical basis for such phenomenon and how the emotions attached shapes our perception of déjà vu. It talked about how epileptics often experience déjà vu–like auras before a seizure, how there is a permanent déjà vu state that can affect people with dementia and how - through observing the before and after effects of removing parts of the brain - there is strong evidence that the regions of the brain associated with déjà vu were most likely the Amygdala (deals with the emotional responses of such sensations) the Hippocampus (area connected to recollection – particularly autobiographical memory) and the Parahippocampus (possibly feelings of familiarity). The article also talked about how researchers had managed to trigger déjà vu through hypnosis and that they have deduced that the processes of familiarity and recall are not associated and germinate in separate circuits of the brain hence the sensation that something that you haven’t experienced can feel and appear familiar. Another neuroscientist (Stefan Kohler) talked about the importance of the emotion around the experience of déjà vu (this is where the Amygdala comes in) He speculates ‘that without the appropriate emotional arousal, perhaps the brain cannot recognise a person or place we have encountered before s truly familiar’ inversely inappropriate emotional arousal may make us believe something is familiar when actually it is not.
All of this led me to wonder about the incidents of déjà vu in my own life. Certainly I have noticed that extreme exhaustion (particularly jet lag) and sometimes that strange lucidity a hangover (especially the morning after) induces has triggered strong feelings of déjà vu. As has certain conversations – I’ll be in the middle of some intense discussion in a social context to be suddenly overwhelmed (even stopped in mid-sentence) by the sensation I have had the same conversation in the same context in the same settings with minutiae - i.e.: the way the light is hitting the face of the person I’m talking to – taking on an vivid and sudden gravidas and familiarity.
The romantic in me would like to imagine this is evidence of past lives, or a life well dreamt (before), but in truth the rationalist in me wins the debate by arguing it is probably a physiological jumping of the circuits and perhaps, more interestingly an evolutionary need to process and find familiar new situations and, even, new debates.
After all most living creatures seek safety and security ergo surely the desire to apply previous experience to vaguely similar circumstances, as a way of understanding must be innate.
I then began to think about American mythologist Joseph Campbell and his book ‘The Hero with a thousand Faces’ and the theory of reducing all the global myths down to a small number of basic storylines (the vampire, the thwarted couple, the hero with tasks to complete, etc) regardless of cultural differences. Could this be the drive for the familiar in us as a species? Fiction engenders emotional reaction in us because the best of it has echoes of the familiar. We want to recognise and empathise and yet be taken out of the ordinary. In this way there is a déjà vu to the experience of reading.
All those ‘good’ people
I’ve spent this last week in Sydney; for those who don’t know the city, it is one of the most beautiful contemporary cities in the world, blessed with an extraordinary naturally stunning location – the harbour. Dipping in and out of a culture regularly really gives you an objective perspective. Here, it remains, despite the seepage of the global recession spreading across the nation like a slow secret stain, a profoundly optimistic nation. In fact, one of the national newspapers had a survey in which they claimed optimism had never been higher and that the recession and the trauma of the bushfires had actually brought people together and reignited community spirit and values. Australia has always had the tradition of the ‘battler’ – the frontier man – and the psychology of facing adversity is set in the nation’s D.N.A. Having said that it is a lot easier to feel optimistic when the weather is beautiful practically every day and there’s a strange divide between the rural and the urban (with most of the nation’s population crowded into the Eastern coast cities) so in the privileged suburbs of Sydney it is easy to feel removed from the impact of the huge drought that has devastated the nation’s farming and river ways (except for the rising cost of fruit and noticeable deterioration of quality).
Culturally there appears to be less and less coverage in the national papers of local artists, writers and filmmakers with a rising noticeable ‘Americanisation’ of culture amongst the younger people. I guess it’s an evitable by-product of globalisation and the tyranny of distance falling away through immediate Internet access. However in the past one of the great advantages (and there are great disadvantages also) of this tyranny of distance was the eccentric and peculiarly Australian expressions of culture that was born out of originality as opposed to imported cultural values. I’m thinking of Nick Cave and some of the quirky films of the 70’s, 80’s and early 90’s etc.
The notable exception to the rule is the current and on-going blossoming of indigenous cultural expression – particularly on stage and screen. The current film tip that’s sweeping through the Australian gossip circles is that indigenous film maker Warwick Thornton’s movie ‘Samson and Delilah’ is tipped to be the next big Aussie movie – which would be fantastic and a great counterbalance to Luhrmann’s illusionary ‘Australia’.
This week I also saw the film of British playwright C.P. Taylor’s play ‘Good’ starring Viggo Mortensen. An apt depiction of moral complexity and one ‘good’ man’s slide into ethical compromise and finally betrayal it is compelling but somehow not satisfying. I suspect - given the current glut of three-dimensional Nazis movies - it’s because we are all now so immune to images of concentration camps (the final revelation for the protagonist – who, rather unbelievably, seems to have no idea of what the final solution entailed despite being an honorary member of the SS) that the emotional impact might be somewhat muted for a contemporary audience. The original play was first performed in 1981. That said, Mortensen is always worth seeing and his portrayal of an initially shy professor of literature (and Proust lover – who, as we know, was a Jew) and his transformation and convincing seduction into the Nazis Party is completely believable. An important reminder (especially in these current times) how evil is often incremental in execution and how the pressure to conform to social mores and constructs (no matter how extreme) is ultimately greater than enforced legislation. But what was so fantastic about the film was actually how the two central characters were so easily identifiable – I particularly enjoyed Jason Isaacs’s performance as a wry, world-weary secular Jewish psychologist swept up in an hysterical historical glitch he, himself, cannot take seriously until it’s tragically too late. I remember my great aunt telling me how she (as a young Jewish communist) had toured Germany in the 30’s playing table tennis and had stayed with German intellectuals (many of them Christian) who had considered Hitler a buffoon, and not to be taken seriously politically – many of them were either arrested or dead within the decade.
Self-doubt and Image
This week I still in Australia drumming up publicity for the up-coming release of my new novel Sphinx. There’s a curious gap between the projected image of oneself in the media and oneself – that can only become more surreal as one’s public profile grows - particularly if your prose is as eclectic in range as mine – in other words, like many people and writers, my persona tends to adapt to my environment and I have many voices. The one definitive author’s shot (shelf life about 2-3 years as personally I don’t really like been photographed that much) never seems to reflect the complexity of the individual.
I’m convinced (and have gleaned from meeting other authors) that we are not inherently public people. Indeed, it’s hard not to be suspicious of the writer that performs beautifully on the media circuit and you can bet your bottom dollar they have probably had media training. There is also the danger of one’s time being eaten up by the media circuit. I once shared a table with one extremely well-known and prize winning fiction international writer during a festival, who had been on the circuit for over two years (with the one hugely successful book) and was extremely cankerous and cynical as a result and had just been both rude and intellectually dismissive of a rapt Sydney audience– all of which had paid very good money to see him interviewed by a top Australian politician. The Aussies were not impressed. A writer has to write to stay sane and certainly to maintain a kind of emotional compass and none of us like being dragged away but the novelist’s existential exhaustion was no excuse.
In truth, the very act of writing is solitary and there have been times that I’ve noticed my social skills drop away after an intense week of writing - God knows how Proust managed book launches! It’s a catch 22 situation – good writers are good observers and one has to be out on the street and in relationship to absorb and assimilate human nature. Yet there is the seduction of the escape into one’s own fiction that (for me, at least) seems to grow with each new novel. The most exciting part is the polishing of the final edit. I guess it must be the sculptor in me (my original training was in sculpture and I worked in marble which only gets its translucency in the final polishing stages). There is something immensely satisfying in seeing how pared back prose can suddenly shine. But then I’m a writer that initially overwrites so for me it is a process of reduction. Some of my readers might disagree! Also this week I received a very disgruntled e mail via my site from a reader to which I politely replied – even actually apologised that she wasn’t getting into the book - only to receive another even more brutal and critical e mail in reply! Having a kind of Woody Allen psychology in which self-flagellation and self-doubt is the rod with which I beat myself daily - and of which, I suspect, I also use to both motivate myself and hopefully to improve my craft with each book (the book in question was three books back) – her e mails only added to the ‘excruciating self-doubt versus the daily task of writing’ balancing act we all perform. Then again, as my grandmother used to say, ‘Don’t cook if you’re frightened of getting burnt.’
On a more frivolous note I saw a fantastic film called (in English) ‘Let the Right One in’ a very sophisticated Swedish Vampire film in the same genre as Twilight – only infinitely more sophisticated both in story-telling and film-making. To all fans of that genre I thoroughly recommended it. It’s almost feminist in its bloody explicitness, but also extremely beautiful to look at and is a captivating and completely convincing blend of social realism and fantasy.
For all Australian readers:
Tx