The Play’s (Not?) The Thing

How often do we truly consider what it is that we’re about to experience when we attend the theater?  Normally, we’re off to see a play which is a story written to reveal a glimpse into some specific example of the forces which face us as humans.  This “play” is written by a writer who understands that he/she must reveal these forces through a story, character and scene.  Audiences can rather easily enter into this imaginary world by virtue of its ability to identify with the struggle embodied by the characters and lived through onstage.

This contact, this living shared relationship, is what normally constitutes theater.  It is precious and elusive.  It challenges many to give their lives to its search.  An invisible and yet palpable connection between performer and viewer is sought demanding the highest concentration, openness, sensitivity and verbal/physical acumen.  It is an extraordinary art.

Our current project, Seneca’s Medea, explores the themes of betrayal, revenge, magic, spirituality, motherhood and isolation (amongst others).  On a certain level, we’re viewing the intricate process that a mother goes through after a devastating abandonment by her husband.  The story beautifully reveals the process that she undergoes to appease her feelings of betrayal leading her to a profoundly horrific act of retribution.  In the end, we are left with devastation and release, a stunning combination.

Being a myth however, we aren’t merely allowed to appreciate this story from the point of view of plot, character and story.  There is more here than psychology, pain and action.  In fact, what is on display is a very simple demonstration of deeper forces in collision.  The story, the “play”, is a vehicle to reveal these forces in action.

A great play does this universally.  Take “Hamlet” for instance, quite possibly the world’s greatest drama.  In this play, we have a young man visited upon by a ghost who confirms that his intuition is correct, that all is not what it seems.  He endeavors to find the truth, which leads him into unimaginable places psychologically and emotionally, causes him to murder, confront his mother, trick his uncle, and trust virtually no one.  Who cannot identify with some aspect of this search?  We all can of course.  No person, presented with a merely decent production of “Hamlet” will be left abandoned without a doorway into the drama.

These forces are universal, they are not confined within a certain social strata and aren’t cloaked with any specific culture.  This is greatness, and is what any theater artist seeks in his/her work.

If this is the case, doesn’t this then open up the possibility for other forms which reveal human forces at play?  Do we need then to be confined to using the same form for our search – this “play”, or can we invent others perhaps as suited, or more-so, to the task?

We are certainly ingrained and habituated to a structure which reigns worldwide.  We begin with a playwright who (hopefully) explores universal human forces in a play.  This script then finds its way into a producer or directors’ hands who then chooses to fulfill this written challenge in performance.  He/she finds some actors to play these roles, a vision of the piece is decided upon, and the elements combine into a whole: the performance, at which an audience witnesses the work and leaves the theater feeling moved, or not.

But.

Is this the only way?  Are there other forms that can both reach an audience and challenge them (us) to open our minds into viewing the stage, and world, differently?  Can we move away from this tyranny of words into something possibly more theatrical?

Brave contemporary theater artists have been asking this question longer than I have been alive.  An early pioneer was Edward Gordon Craig, who as a designer, moved away from pure realism into something more theatrical, emotional and direct.  The literal was challenged, and he proved it could be an illuminating direction in this art.

Another would be Samuel Beckett, who with words, stripped the theater bare into probing questions actively with an audience: “What does this mean? What does anything mean?”

Two individuals that I would like to highlight in particular are Robert Wilson and Merce Cunningham.  Wilson continually asks the question: Is our world predominantly visual or verbal?  He incorporates stunning and vivid shape, light, and montage to bring deeply mysterious themes into stark relief.  He has found that, in the theater, the visual goes further than the verbal.

Merce Cunningham, before Wilson, wondered if dance could be viewed with as much interest without a story as with.  He divorced his movement from literal story, character and plot, and explored over his long and meaningful life, pure movement: dance as a series of steps and shapes which had no overt meaning at all, leaving the process of ascribing meaning totally up to us, the audience.

By virtue of this, Merce was allowed to also let musicians and designers the pure freedom to work as they wished.  They were collaborators, yes, but in a more purely magical way.  On the opening night, they would (for the first time) blend their disparate elements and see what they had.  The result was awesomely dynamic and always surprising.  One could never “know” what to expect.

Is theater to be more like this?  Totally unexpected, magical, surprising and challenging?  Is it a more visual form or verbal?  Is the next direction of theater towards more story and character, or possibly, to something we don’t quite know?

With any art-form, it is critical that the artist consider the time in which he/she is working.  I witness around me a more and more visual world emerging.  Ours is a landscape dominated by images, windows and multiplicity.  I argue that no art-form can be considered truly contemporary unless it embraces these aspects.

Thus, the end of the tyranny of the play.

Antonin Artaud saw this long ago (outlined in his stunning and radical “The Theater and It’s Double”).  It is quite feasible that he evoked these themes long before the world was ready for it.  His personality bleeds through those pages, his sacrifice and emotion palpable in every word.  Possibly this power frightened many, and caused others to toss him away as “too radical” or “crazy”.  Looking back, was he nothing short of a visionary?

My question with Seneca’s Medea comes from my background and interest in artists such as those outlined in this article.  Many years ago, I began to wonder, if there was a way of working in the theater which could depart from the conventional “play” structure into something more visual, contemporary and universal.

One limitation that the play is forever bound by is language.  If you don’t speak the language of the presented world, you are essentially omitted from the experience.  One could make the argument that the experience is still worthwhile and meaningful, but the subtlety and directness of the story is clearly lost in this relationship.  Is there a way to relate to audiences in ways that aren’t limited by language?

One universal aspect which interests me is: relationship.  Many years ago, I began to wonder if a direction of work was open to me that explored theater, relationship and the visual.  I created my movement theater work Ashokh as a beginning to exploring this vital question.

I observe in Merce’s work an extraordinary gift of shape.  Suddenly, from seemingly nowhere, there emerges a montage of shape that is undeniably “theatrical”.  It exists, it stuns, it touches the sublime, and then it vanishes.  This is a purely visual phenomenon, one that touches me in a way that is inexplicable.  It doesn’t reach me as a “Southern American”, nor as a “Voter”, nor as a “Man”, but rather it reaches me in a way that is purely human.  Anyone alive could witness that moment, see this shape emerge, complete and vanish, and feel that “something just happened”.  It might not make sense on a literal level, but on a more primal and essential level, something is moved.

Could this phenomenon be brought to the theater?  Could it exist in and amongst actors or is it reserved for dancers only?  And, could it co-exist with another activity?

What I am exploring in Seneca’s Medea is the question of relationship; the relationship between two separate acts of theater that exist in the same place and time.  One created with the classic structure in mind, adhering to the playwright’s vision and intent.  The other, a more open exploration of the visual.  This suddenly allows us to explore purely visual forms as well as specific activities, which by their very nature, inspire story, character and plot.  Confused?  Go to a playground and observe a young boy build a fort out of sticks or the group of girls deeply involved in the imaginary world of dolls, voice and character.  Isn’t it completely natural, in the face of this, to wonder “what next?”.

Between these 2 separate pieces, is there a relationship?  What is the nature of this relationship?  CAN these 2 works co-exist, or does the presence of one destroy the other?  Is it possible that the presence of one can illuminate the other?  And, perhaps most importantly, can a third element appear between the 2 that is universal and purely accessible by any and all?

This search for a universal language in the theater, initiated by Artaud (seen as physical, in the body) continued by Peter Brook (Orghast, Conference of the Birds), Robert Wilson and Merce Cunningham, is it a true path or just a fancy idea?  Can something universal be discovered and reproduced, if only for a brief moment?

Ultimately, that is the question.  “The thing” brought in the title of this document is this and only this: a pure experience of theater, a moment where the sublime meets the senses and an inner movement happens.  This movement is one of discovery, of openness, of something purely human.

It is the only “thing” that matters.