I've seen a lot of theatre in the last couple months, despite the lack of blog entries. Many shows of many kinds, all with something to recommend them. But tonight, I saw a show that has made it onto my Top Ten.
On the drive home, I thought aloud about whether this show deserved Top Ten status. I had a philosophical debate with myself about the merits and pitfalls of even having a top ten list. It's sort of like a musical group's "best of" album: what makes a "best" song or production? If I continue going to theatre, how do I determine which shows stay on the list and which are replaced? Do they have an expiration date? Is it all at the mercy of my capricious memory?
Despite the obvious difficulties, I will keep my list and I have bumped a show in favour of tonight's offering: Fat Pig by Neil LaBute, presented by Mitch and Murray Equity Co-op at Performance Works in Vancouver. And here's why.
First of all, I love the script. It's engaging, timely, and provocative. Like most great art, it takes a specific issue and uncovers its universal signficance. And perhaps most important, it is both outrageously funny and painfully human.
Thankfully, this production does it justice. Well cast, expertly directed, beautifully staged, it leaves little to be desired. I have never seen Lawrence Haegert in anything before but I will definitely watch for him in the future. His performance as Tom was remarkable. His commitment and transparency were complete, yet contained; always natural, never reaching. It is intriguing that he studied at Sir Wilfred Grenfell College in Newfoundland, also the training ground for the amazing cast of Tempting Providence and the gifted Stephen Drover (with whom Haegert founded Pound of Flesh Theatre). I must plan a visit to The Rock to see what thespian magic is in the water and to sit at the feet of the masters.
The other actors are also very fine. As Carter, Aaron Craven finds just the right balance of charm and sleaze, surprising us with revelations of insight that ultimately earn our sympathy. Jennifer Mawhinney is fantastic as Jeannie, complementing her flawless body with a flawlessly realized and touchingly vulnerable portrait of the unlikely "other woman". And as Helen, Kathryn Kirkpatrick delivers self-deprecating comments as one who knows their protective power, flirting with Tom and with us until we fall for her. Hard.
Set and costume designer Naomi Sider, and lighting designer Itai Erdal, have created a world that is spare and attractive, the crisp, clean lines an effective counterpoint to the voluptuous excess of the subject.
As a director, I am particularly critical of my own discipline. But Michael Scolar Jr. has created a terrific production in every respect. In addition to drawing lovely performances from his actors, the staging is inventive without being self-conscious, the pacing is spot on, and the comedy and pathos are in perfect balance.
I would have loved to direct this play. I would love to take credit for this production. I would love to see this show again.
For all these reasons, Fat Pig makes my first Top Ten entry of 2009.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
East Dance Shake Town
I saw four shows last week. Four very different shows.
The first was East of Berlin, by Ottawa playwright Hannah Moscovitch. In many ways it’s my favourite kind of theatre; funny, important, intimate. This Tarragon Theatre production (presented by the Cultch as part of the Chutzpah! festival of Jewish performing arts) is solid. As the central character, Rudi, Brendan Gall is endearing and quirky, masterfully delivering Moscovitch’s unfinished thoughts. Some of his physical tics flirt with excess but on the whole, he is an able storyteller, nimbly navigating the depth and humour of the writing. Paul Dunn as Rudi’s teenage friend Hermann is less successful. Given the same pattern of incomplete sentences, Dunn runs out of steam ahead of the script, making it too easy for us to see the words on the page. As Rudi’s love interest Sarah, Diana Donnelly is remarkable, giving one of those completely realized performances that make it hard to see the actor beneath the character. Her emotional commitment to the material seems absolute and effortless, complexly layered and unselfconsciously transparent.
The script is strong in many ways, rendering human portraits and an intriguing story, and the directing and design enhance the experience. But as is too often the case, the play’s ending was less than satisfying. Completely engaged throughout, I felt shortchanged by the final minutes, which provided easy answers to complicated questions. Nonetheless, it was the most compelling of this week’s shows and I am glad to have seen it.
ProArteDanze is another Toronto import, also part of the Chutzpah! festival. They are accomplished dancers and the program was varied and fun. One piece in particular, a new duet choreographed by Kevin O’Day and created for Robert Glumbek and Emily Molnar, was delightful. Athletic, elegant, and fun, it carried us forward, involving us in the world of the dance so completely that we were sorry to see it end. Glumbek’s solo was also evocative and involving. He understands the necessity for dancers to connect to the context of the work, to make the emotional physical. Not all the dancers were equally successful in this regard and the “soundscape” of the opening piece aggravated this problem. Where music might have supplied some of the emotional score the dancers neglected, the techno-industrial sounds accompanying the piece distanced us even farther.
Shakespeare’s Coriolanus has apparently not been performed in Vancouver for more than 100 years. That makes the current production at the Jericho Arts Centre very exciting, a feeling obviously shared by the many fine actors Jack Paterson was able to assemble for his mounting. The magnetic cast is uniformly strong. But whenever a play has not been performed much, the question must arise whether it should be. Sadly, the answer here is likely “no”. Despite creative contemporary staging and dynamic performances, the script does not offer sufficient intrigue or – dare I say it – complexity, to maintain our interest.
I finished the week with a Saturday matinee of a high school production of Our Town. Directed by TWU grad, Robyn Roukema, the show has more than 30 students from middle and high school to people Grover’s Corners. Seeing the work necessary to transform a gymnasium into a theatre and knowing how much Robyn had to do herself was inspiring. It was also a good reminder of why I don’t teach high school. I directed Our Town many years ago but had forgotten what a profound, insightful play it is. Or maybe because I’m farther along life’s path the simple truths could speak to me more clearly.
Each of these shows taught me something; about theatre, about the world, about myself. But there’s something fittingly ironic about seeing Our Town at the end of a four-show week. “Pay attention to your life,” says Wilder, “every, every minute.” I am a hurrier, a multi-tasker, a workaholic, and I am thankful for his reminder to see the beauty of this world in the light of eternity.
I think I’ll go hang out with my kids.
The first was East of Berlin, by Ottawa playwright Hannah Moscovitch. In many ways it’s my favourite kind of theatre; funny, important, intimate. This Tarragon Theatre production (presented by the Cultch as part of the Chutzpah! festival of Jewish performing arts) is solid. As the central character, Rudi, Brendan Gall is endearing and quirky, masterfully delivering Moscovitch’s unfinished thoughts. Some of his physical tics flirt with excess but on the whole, he is an able storyteller, nimbly navigating the depth and humour of the writing. Paul Dunn as Rudi’s teenage friend Hermann is less successful. Given the same pattern of incomplete sentences, Dunn runs out of steam ahead of the script, making it too easy for us to see the words on the page. As Rudi’s love interest Sarah, Diana Donnelly is remarkable, giving one of those completely realized performances that make it hard to see the actor beneath the character. Her emotional commitment to the material seems absolute and effortless, complexly layered and unselfconsciously transparent.
The script is strong in many ways, rendering human portraits and an intriguing story, and the directing and design enhance the experience. But as is too often the case, the play’s ending was less than satisfying. Completely engaged throughout, I felt shortchanged by the final minutes, which provided easy answers to complicated questions. Nonetheless, it was the most compelling of this week’s shows and I am glad to have seen it.
ProArteDanze is another Toronto import, also part of the Chutzpah! festival. They are accomplished dancers and the program was varied and fun. One piece in particular, a new duet choreographed by Kevin O’Day and created for Robert Glumbek and Emily Molnar, was delightful. Athletic, elegant, and fun, it carried us forward, involving us in the world of the dance so completely that we were sorry to see it end. Glumbek’s solo was also evocative and involving. He understands the necessity for dancers to connect to the context of the work, to make the emotional physical. Not all the dancers were equally successful in this regard and the “soundscape” of the opening piece aggravated this problem. Where music might have supplied some of the emotional score the dancers neglected, the techno-industrial sounds accompanying the piece distanced us even farther.
Shakespeare’s Coriolanus has apparently not been performed in Vancouver for more than 100 years. That makes the current production at the Jericho Arts Centre very exciting, a feeling obviously shared by the many fine actors Jack Paterson was able to assemble for his mounting. The magnetic cast is uniformly strong. But whenever a play has not been performed much, the question must arise whether it should be. Sadly, the answer here is likely “no”. Despite creative contemporary staging and dynamic performances, the script does not offer sufficient intrigue or – dare I say it – complexity, to maintain our interest.
I finished the week with a Saturday matinee of a high school production of Our Town. Directed by TWU grad, Robyn Roukema, the show has more than 30 students from middle and high school to people Grover’s Corners. Seeing the work necessary to transform a gymnasium into a theatre and knowing how much Robyn had to do herself was inspiring. It was also a good reminder of why I don’t teach high school. I directed Our Town many years ago but had forgotten what a profound, insightful play it is. Or maybe because I’m farther along life’s path the simple truths could speak to me more clearly.
Each of these shows taught me something; about theatre, about the world, about myself. But there’s something fittingly ironic about seeing Our Town at the end of a four-show week. “Pay attention to your life,” says Wilder, “every, every minute.” I am a hurrier, a multi-tasker, a workaholic, and I am thankful for his reminder to see the beauty of this world in the light of eternity.
I think I’ll go hang out with my kids.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
So You Think You Can GAGA
I arrived in a fairly fragile state. Difficulties with family and friends, lack of sleep, work anxiety, hormones... who knows. But encountering protesters outside the theatre was almost more than I could handle. I waited in the will call line while they chanted slogans like “freedom for Palestine” and “dead children can’t dance”, uncertain whether my political leanings were being compromised by attending Israel’s Batsheva Dance. But I have a problem with the idea of boycotting cultural events to make political statements. My cynical self doesn’t believe the right people will get the right message. I moved into the theatre to get away from the racket.
Inside, I was surrounded by an unmistakably dancey crowd. Different from a theatre crowd, these patrons were somehow both sharp and flowing, with long necks, bright eyes, and extra limbs. The house opened very late and the sensory overload intensified as I read my program in the crowded lobby. When I took my seat, I felt overwhelmed, as my neighbour reminded me sadly of both a relative and a friend. Her earnest enjoyment of the lone dancer’s improvised comic curtain raiser brought tears to my eyes. And as I pulled myself together, I was enveloped by an unusual scent I could only identify as vanilla mothballs.
The opening number was electrifying. An androgynous half-circle of dancers crouched on chairs, leapt to their feet, threw off their hats, chanted in a strange language. The movement travelled from one edge to the other, like a sophisticated, mesmerizing version of “the wave”. Each dancer echoed the actions of the one before, with rapid fire precision and passionate commitment. When the movement reached the final dancer at the end of each sequence, he flew forward onto the floor as if he'd been shot, the only one still fully clothed and therefore clearly different. Memories of the protesters filtered my judgement.
Nothing after the first number quite lived up. There were other lovely pieces, like the male duet near the end of the show, but much of the work seemed self-consciously provocative. An extended segment of solo show-and-tell had a playground bravado that was alternately intriguing and irritating, its creativity marred by a need to surprise in a way that was both unsurprising and juvenile.
Batsheva is famous for inventing a style of dance known as GAGA, a sort of experts’ improvisation which requires more uninhibited spontaneity than refined technique. While several of the evening’s pieces had elements of GAGA, the method was most evident when each member of the company brought someone from the audience to the stage to dance as the spirit moved them. With so many dancers in the audience this exercise was less embarrassing than it could have been but the result seemed equal parts dance event and social experiment.
As a daily regimen of movement training, GAGA has much to teach dancers and actors about listening to their bodies. But in a world where everyone thinks they can dance, the professionals distinguish themselves by meticulous choreography and synchronicity of gesture. And for my $70 ticket I expect more than an evening spent watching people follow their impulses.
I’ll never know how much my state of mind coloured my perception of the performance. I do know that I was excited to see the show, eager to be entertained, expecting to be enthralled. And it was an enjoyable performance, one that improved my mood and enriched my understanding of contemporary dance. Maybe I got my money’s worth after all.
Inside, I was surrounded by an unmistakably dancey crowd. Different from a theatre crowd, these patrons were somehow both sharp and flowing, with long necks, bright eyes, and extra limbs. The house opened very late and the sensory overload intensified as I read my program in the crowded lobby. When I took my seat, I felt overwhelmed, as my neighbour reminded me sadly of both a relative and a friend. Her earnest enjoyment of the lone dancer’s improvised comic curtain raiser brought tears to my eyes. And as I pulled myself together, I was enveloped by an unusual scent I could only identify as vanilla mothballs.
The opening number was electrifying. An androgynous half-circle of dancers crouched on chairs, leapt to their feet, threw off their hats, chanted in a strange language. The movement travelled from one edge to the other, like a sophisticated, mesmerizing version of “the wave”. Each dancer echoed the actions of the one before, with rapid fire precision and passionate commitment. When the movement reached the final dancer at the end of each sequence, he flew forward onto the floor as if he'd been shot, the only one still fully clothed and therefore clearly different. Memories of the protesters filtered my judgement.
Nothing after the first number quite lived up. There were other lovely pieces, like the male duet near the end of the show, but much of the work seemed self-consciously provocative. An extended segment of solo show-and-tell had a playground bravado that was alternately intriguing and irritating, its creativity marred by a need to surprise in a way that was both unsurprising and juvenile.
Batsheva is famous for inventing a style of dance known as GAGA, a sort of experts’ improvisation which requires more uninhibited spontaneity than refined technique. While several of the evening’s pieces had elements of GAGA, the method was most evident when each member of the company brought someone from the audience to the stage to dance as the spirit moved them. With so many dancers in the audience this exercise was less embarrassing than it could have been but the result seemed equal parts dance event and social experiment.
As a daily regimen of movement training, GAGA has much to teach dancers and actors about listening to their bodies. But in a world where everyone thinks they can dance, the professionals distinguish themselves by meticulous choreography and synchronicity of gesture. And for my $70 ticket I expect more than an evening spent watching people follow their impulses.
I’ll never know how much my state of mind coloured my perception of the performance. I do know that I was excited to see the show, eager to be entertained, expecting to be enthralled. And it was an enjoyable performance, one that improved my mood and enriched my understanding of contemporary dance. Maybe I got my money’s worth after all.
Monday, February 23, 2009
That's PuShing It
I am beginning to think that I simply cannot call myself a blogger. Or say I have a blog. The infrequency of my entries is too humiliating. But I will venture in again, after a long absence, to record my thoughts on shows I saw a few weeks ago.
February is PuSh Festival time in Vancouver, an annual extravaganza of performance for which the sole unifying element is the effort to be unusual. Maybe that’s not quite accurate but it often feels that “conventional” and “traditional” must be the dirtiest of dirty words to the Festival’s producers.
Not that I’m complaining. The opportunity to see a wide variety of theatrical productions, performed by companies and individuals from near and far, makes this my favourite festival. Two of my Top Ten of All Time were brought to town by Norman Armour and PuSh and I am eternally grateful. But sometimes my love of PuSh is met in almost equal measure by hate. (A couple of my never-to-be-published Bottom Ten have also been PuSh productions.) I think that’s evidence that PuSh is producing exactly the sort of provocative work that makes theatre worth doing. And seeing.
This year, I saw four PuSh shows: Ronnie Burkett’s Billy Twinkle: Requiem for a Golden Boy; Nanay: A Testimonial Play from Urban Crawl and Neworld Theatre;Theatre Replacement’s production of That Night Follows Day, and Marie Brassard’s The Invisible.
I had never seen Ronnie Burkett; never quite been able to cough up the price of a ticket, despite the rave reviews that precede and follow him wherever he goes. Billy Twinkle requires agile, transformational acting for Burkett to play all of the characters who live in his remarkable marionettes, and his abilities were stretched by the effort. But the charming show is ultimately a tale of forgiveness and redemption, surprisingly brought about by a conservative evangelical whose ridiculous puppet show is one of the funniest scenes in the play. Burkett manages to invest her simple faith with a level of self-awareness and genuine love that cannot be mocked as easily as her Jesus-puppet Sunday school rap. Somewhere in Burkett’s past, he’s been to Sunday school and he knows that “believing in tomorrow” is a good thing.
Nanay is more treatise than theatre, an earnest attempt to make us care about the plight of those caught in the bureaucratic web of Canada’s Live-in Caregiver Program (LCP). In cooperation with the Philippine Women Centre, the story is told entirely in the words of those who have been affected by the LCP – employers, caregivers and children left behind. Their testimonies are stirring and the presentation is informative. But in the end, it is entirely one-sided and so politically correct that it hurts. The direction underlines this flaw in the script-making, rendering the Canadian employers insensitive, neurotic alcoholics, completely oblivious to the value of money, childcare, or compassion. The imbalance made me suspicious of the truth of the one side we did see, so it accomplished the opposite of its good intentions.
The actors in That Night Follows Day are children between the ages of eight and 14 delivering a script that promised to be “smart and bittersweet”, a chronicle of the ways in which adults shape the lives of children. Presented with simple, reader’s theatre directness, the words often lack rootedness and the show relies on the charm of the children to deliver its impact. Thankfully, the casting for the Vancouver production is brilliant; the kids are a virtual mosaic of variation in size, shape, colour, style, and attitude. With that much fascinating diversity, I could have watched them speak anything – or nothing at all – for a very long time.
Whenever a show has a single writer, director, and performer, a red flag pops up directly in my line of vision. But every rule has its exception and PuSh is all about breaking the rules so I chose to ignore the internal warning I saw when reading the website description of The Invisible. After all, Brassard is a frequent collaborator with another solo performer, the incomparable Robert LePage. This misleading fact proved doubly ironic. Not only was LePage’s innovative vision entirely absent, the evening seemed designed as an argument for the necessity of collaboration. Brassard was in desperate need of another voice – an editor, director, friend, who would help her to focus and clarify her work. There were some beautiful moments but they were too fleeting – or conversely, too repetitive – to redeem a disappointing performance.
Nothing I saw at PuSh this year made it onto my top ten but every show generated plenty of food for thought and conversation. That means the Festival itself retains its position as the best part of February in Vancouver.
February is PuSh Festival time in Vancouver, an annual extravaganza of performance for which the sole unifying element is the effort to be unusual. Maybe that’s not quite accurate but it often feels that “conventional” and “traditional” must be the dirtiest of dirty words to the Festival’s producers.
Not that I’m complaining. The opportunity to see a wide variety of theatrical productions, performed by companies and individuals from near and far, makes this my favourite festival. Two of my Top Ten of All Time were brought to town by Norman Armour and PuSh and I am eternally grateful. But sometimes my love of PuSh is met in almost equal measure by hate. (A couple of my never-to-be-published Bottom Ten have also been PuSh productions.) I think that’s evidence that PuSh is producing exactly the sort of provocative work that makes theatre worth doing. And seeing.
This year, I saw four PuSh shows: Ronnie Burkett’s Billy Twinkle: Requiem for a Golden Boy; Nanay: A Testimonial Play from Urban Crawl and Neworld Theatre;Theatre Replacement’s production of That Night Follows Day, and Marie Brassard’s The Invisible.
I had never seen Ronnie Burkett; never quite been able to cough up the price of a ticket, despite the rave reviews that precede and follow him wherever he goes. Billy Twinkle requires agile, transformational acting for Burkett to play all of the characters who live in his remarkable marionettes, and his abilities were stretched by the effort. But the charming show is ultimately a tale of forgiveness and redemption, surprisingly brought about by a conservative evangelical whose ridiculous puppet show is one of the funniest scenes in the play. Burkett manages to invest her simple faith with a level of self-awareness and genuine love that cannot be mocked as easily as her Jesus-puppet Sunday school rap. Somewhere in Burkett’s past, he’s been to Sunday school and he knows that “believing in tomorrow” is a good thing.
Nanay is more treatise than theatre, an earnest attempt to make us care about the plight of those caught in the bureaucratic web of Canada’s Live-in Caregiver Program (LCP). In cooperation with the Philippine Women Centre, the story is told entirely in the words of those who have been affected by the LCP – employers, caregivers and children left behind. Their testimonies are stirring and the presentation is informative. But in the end, it is entirely one-sided and so politically correct that it hurts. The direction underlines this flaw in the script-making, rendering the Canadian employers insensitive, neurotic alcoholics, completely oblivious to the value of money, childcare, or compassion. The imbalance made me suspicious of the truth of the one side we did see, so it accomplished the opposite of its good intentions.
The actors in That Night Follows Day are children between the ages of eight and 14 delivering a script that promised to be “smart and bittersweet”, a chronicle of the ways in which adults shape the lives of children. Presented with simple, reader’s theatre directness, the words often lack rootedness and the show relies on the charm of the children to deliver its impact. Thankfully, the casting for the Vancouver production is brilliant; the kids are a virtual mosaic of variation in size, shape, colour, style, and attitude. With that much fascinating diversity, I could have watched them speak anything – or nothing at all – for a very long time.
Whenever a show has a single writer, director, and performer, a red flag pops up directly in my line of vision. But every rule has its exception and PuSh is all about breaking the rules so I chose to ignore the internal warning I saw when reading the website description of The Invisible. After all, Brassard is a frequent collaborator with another solo performer, the incomparable Robert LePage. This misleading fact proved doubly ironic. Not only was LePage’s innovative vision entirely absent, the evening seemed designed as an argument for the necessity of collaboration. Brassard was in desperate need of another voice – an editor, director, friend, who would help her to focus and clarify her work. There were some beautiful moments but they were too fleeting – or conversely, too repetitive – to redeem a disappointing performance.
Nothing I saw at PuSh this year made it onto my top ten but every show generated plenty of food for thought and conversation. That means the Festival itself retains its position as the best part of February in Vancouver.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Any friend of yours...
My brother sent me an email yesterday. He said his movie club had gone to see some live theatre. Festen, now playing in Toronto, was originally a film that he and his buddies had really liked so they were curious to see the stage adaptation.
I don’t know if the presence in the cast of television stars like Eric Peterson and Nicholas Campbell made it easier to convince his friends to go, or indeed, whether they required any convincing at all. But Sean has seen a lot of the shows I’ve directed over the years and has come around to a thoughtful respect for theatre. The production made a positive impression and afterwards he said, “I confirm your claims about the entertainment value of live theatre. It was a huge bang for the buck, especially for downtown Toronto.”
I smiled as I read his email and felt strangely heartened afterwards. It was as if I had asked him to look up a good friend, they had met and he had liked her a lot, if not quite as much as I do. And more, he understood why I love her, why I keep trying to introduce her to others that I love.
It’s a good metaphor, one I had not considered before. I now realize that I am quite the matchmaker. Last week, a student engaged me in a facebook chat from his first visit to New York and I persuaded him to see August: Osage County (rather than Young Frankenstein, sigh). Although I haven’t seen the Tracy Letts masterpiece myself, I keep hearing it’s one of those life-changing experiences we all covet. So I get a small vicarious thrill when I can recommend others take the opportunity that I don’t have “Visit my friend when you’re in her town, won’t you? You’ll like her, I promise. And please give her my love.”
I have often said that I am like a missionary, evangelizing the great masses of those who have not heard the Good News of the power of theatre. Of course, for me it’s a double mission as I believe that power comes from God’s delight in truth, creativity, and story.
So when I have a part in growing a new convert, or can deepen someone’s relationship with theatre, or even plant a seed of curiosity about it, I feel encouraged. And I believe God is pleased, too.
At the end of his email, my brother told me he resolved to start seeing theatre with his wife this year. Now that’s a New Year’s resolution I can get excited about.
I don’t know if the presence in the cast of television stars like Eric Peterson and Nicholas Campbell made it easier to convince his friends to go, or indeed, whether they required any convincing at all. But Sean has seen a lot of the shows I’ve directed over the years and has come around to a thoughtful respect for theatre. The production made a positive impression and afterwards he said, “I confirm your claims about the entertainment value of live theatre. It was a huge bang for the buck, especially for downtown Toronto.”
I smiled as I read his email and felt strangely heartened afterwards. It was as if I had asked him to look up a good friend, they had met and he had liked her a lot, if not quite as much as I do. And more, he understood why I love her, why I keep trying to introduce her to others that I love.
It’s a good metaphor, one I had not considered before. I now realize that I am quite the matchmaker. Last week, a student engaged me in a facebook chat from his first visit to New York and I persuaded him to see August: Osage County (rather than Young Frankenstein, sigh). Although I haven’t seen the Tracy Letts masterpiece myself, I keep hearing it’s one of those life-changing experiences we all covet. So I get a small vicarious thrill when I can recommend others take the opportunity that I don’t have “Visit my friend when you’re in her town, won’t you? You’ll like her, I promise. And please give her my love.”
I have often said that I am like a missionary, evangelizing the great masses of those who have not heard the Good News of the power of theatre. Of course, for me it’s a double mission as I believe that power comes from God’s delight in truth, creativity, and story.
So when I have a part in growing a new convert, or can deepen someone’s relationship with theatre, or even plant a seed of curiosity about it, I feel encouraged. And I believe God is pleased, too.
At the end of his email, my brother told me he resolved to start seeing theatre with his wife this year. Now that’s a New Year’s resolution I can get excited about.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
What is an artist, anyway?
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the definition of “artist”. Often in Christian circles, people talk about artists as creators and quickly draw a parallel to The Creator, underlining the essentially sacred nature of what artists do.
I’ve always really liked that idea (undoubtedly due, at least in part, to that all-too-human desire to be like God). But as a director, I question whether I can call myself a creator. And if I can’t, can I call myself an artist?
Recently, Theatre at TWU presented a piece called Mythification. Under the direction and guidance of Kris Knutsen, students used the inspiration of the first chapter of Genesis and the form of Greek tragedy to write and perform a work that personified the beginning of the world. A creation about the creation.
My Dean at TWU, David Squires, is a musician and composer, and he responded to Mythification with unrestrained enthusiasm. In a thank you letter to the cast, he wrote:
But I am not sure I can claim to speak that language. The art I make is not created ex nihilo. The plays I direct are written already, whether classics with many performances or new works with few. The theatre, designers, cast, and crew are new; but are we creators?
My friend Lucia makes a distinction between “artists” and “craftspeople” or “artisans”. The artists create out of nothing and the artisans hone the work of others. She claims that the relationship is more of a marriage than a hierarchy – the artists need the craftspeople to see the vision to the end, to collaborate so that the artwork reaches something nearer beauty and perfection.
(It’s no surprise that she is a playwright – the only artist in this scenario.)
Like Dean David, Lucia believes to create means to bring something into existence that was not there before. But in the case of theatre, the definition is tricky. If Lucia writes a play and I put together a creative team and mount a production, did it exist before the performance?
The art the playwright creates is the words only, on the page solely; art, certainly, but written art, as is a poem or a novel. The art of theatre is something else altogether. Whereas music cannot be “read” until it is played or sung, the art of theatre and the art of drama are two separate, intimately related disciplines.
And when we speak of theatre, we must remember that it is, at its core, collaborative. Theatre is a living art and it lives in performance. And the performance of a play – whether the first or the fortieth – has been brought to life by the collaborators. It did not exist before and it will not exist again.
I remember reading an interview with Raymond Chandler once in which he was asked whether he was concerned about what filmmakers were going to do to his novel. His response was (more or less): “They aren’t going to do anything to my novel. It’s sitting right over there.”
That is a fitting parallel for the theatre. While Lucia the playwright is unquestionably a creator and artist, Lucia is also an artist and creator when she dons her actor-hat to embody a play written by someone else. While a piece of music can be "faithfully rendered", each production of a play must be different from those before because of the many interpretive collaborators, the demands of the physical space, and the lack of indisputable guidelines for presentation. Music can be recorded and preserved, while live theatre is impossible to capture, different each performance, non-existent once a production closes. Those who make theatre - the actors, director, and designers - are artists and creators. Without their vision and implementation, the words would remain on the page, artful but lifeless.
While I'm pleased that I've managed to formulate an argument to convince myself, if no one else, it seems fitting to end all this philosophizing with a warning from Mr. Chandler.
The more you reason, the less you create.
I’ve always really liked that idea (undoubtedly due, at least in part, to that all-too-human desire to be like God). But as a director, I question whether I can call myself a creator. And if I can’t, can I call myself an artist?
Recently, Theatre at TWU presented a piece called Mythification. Under the direction and guidance of Kris Knutsen, students used the inspiration of the first chapter of Genesis and the form of Greek tragedy to write and perform a work that personified the beginning of the world. A creation about the creation.
My Dean at TWU, David Squires, is a musician and composer, and he responded to Mythification with unrestrained enthusiasm. In a thank you letter to the cast, he wrote:
I am an artist, and I believe that the human impulse towards creating something new is a strong measure of God-likeness. In the imago dei he made us, and we return the blessing, if you will, by making something which hasn’t existed before. And the moment it appears on the scene it is a wonder...suddenly there where nothing had been!
I am an artist, and I believe that the world is a better place because I am made thus, and because I am surrounded by so many others who also speak this uncommonly God-like language.
But I am not sure I can claim to speak that language. The art I make is not created ex nihilo. The plays I direct are written already, whether classics with many performances or new works with few. The theatre, designers, cast, and crew are new; but are we creators?
My friend Lucia makes a distinction between “artists” and “craftspeople” or “artisans”. The artists create out of nothing and the artisans hone the work of others. She claims that the relationship is more of a marriage than a hierarchy – the artists need the craftspeople to see the vision to the end, to collaborate so that the artwork reaches something nearer beauty and perfection.
(It’s no surprise that she is a playwright – the only artist in this scenario.)
Like Dean David, Lucia believes to create means to bring something into existence that was not there before. But in the case of theatre, the definition is tricky. If Lucia writes a play and I put together a creative team and mount a production, did it exist before the performance?
The art the playwright creates is the words only, on the page solely; art, certainly, but written art, as is a poem or a novel. The art of theatre is something else altogether. Whereas music cannot be “read” until it is played or sung, the art of theatre and the art of drama are two separate, intimately related disciplines.
And when we speak of theatre, we must remember that it is, at its core, collaborative. Theatre is a living art and it lives in performance. And the performance of a play – whether the first or the fortieth – has been brought to life by the collaborators. It did not exist before and it will not exist again.
I remember reading an interview with Raymond Chandler once in which he was asked whether he was concerned about what filmmakers were going to do to his novel. His response was (more or less): “They aren’t going to do anything to my novel. It’s sitting right over there.”
That is a fitting parallel for the theatre. While Lucia the playwright is unquestionably a creator and artist, Lucia is also an artist and creator when she dons her actor-hat to embody a play written by someone else. While a piece of music can be "faithfully rendered", each production of a play must be different from those before because of the many interpretive collaborators, the demands of the physical space, and the lack of indisputable guidelines for presentation. Music can be recorded and preserved, while live theatre is impossible to capture, different each performance, non-existent once a production closes. Those who make theatre - the actors, director, and designers - are artists and creators. Without their vision and implementation, the words would remain on the page, artful but lifeless.
While I'm pleased that I've managed to formulate an argument to convince myself, if no one else, it seems fitting to end all this philosophizing with a warning from Mr. Chandler.
The more you reason, the less you create.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Of Rules and Revelations
I love dance. Years ago, while watching Edouard Lock's remarkable Amelia, I had an epiphany of sorts. White-knuckled from clutching the arms of my seat to resist the urge to jump up on stage, I realized that if I had been blessed with a different body type I might have been a dancer.
Tonight, I had the pleasure of viewing a new work by Amber Funk Barton's company The Response. Risk is a piece that "is an observation of how young people act...", an idea that could have spawned something as painful as an exploration of post-adolescent angst or a movement-only rendition of The OC. Thankfully, due to the skill of the choreographer and dancers, coupled with a healthy sense of humour, Risk is a thoroughly entertaining, often inspiring, and sometimes moving work of art.
A month ago I saw another dance piece that did not elicit such praise. In fact, viewing the solo work WhaT,? choreographed by Jennifer Mascall and performed by Ron Stewart, compelled me to come up with a new rule: no more talking dancers. I should probably have known by the pretentious way in which the title is spelled that the work was going to be tiresome. But my primary complaint had to do with the fact that the show's story was narrated by Stewart. There are two problems with this. First, he is not an actor and a monologue of any length that is performed for an audience requires acting skill. Second, speaking takes up a lot of the breath needed to dance effectively so the choreography could not match his skill.
Tonight's show proved the wisdom of my rule; the "story" in Risk was clear and engaging without words. Part of the reason we go to dance is because dancers speak a language most of us do not. Why compromise that ability in order to use the same communication tool we can all access?
(In response to the outcry of dancers who insist they have the right to speak, let me offer this: my prejudice works both ways. Although it is flirting with sacrilege to confess it, during the wildly successful show The Overcoat I found myself wondering how much better that wordless, movement-based piece could have been with dancers instead of actors. Some can do both, I know. Most cannot.)
But for those theatre artists who can't dance, there's nothing quite so inspiring as a great contemporary dance work. The ways in which the performers move teach us about the body's physical potential as well as its capacity to carry meaning. It's a great antidote to Western acting theories' emphasis on psychological realism. Truthful acting requires complete commitment, mentally, emotionally, physically. Observing talented dancers apply the same standards to their work reveals the common goals of both arts and encourages us to learn from each other. And it helps us to remember the importance of the actor's body.
In the introduction to her fabulous book The Body Speaks, Lorna Marshall states:
Theatre artists must understand this better than any others because ours is the most incarnational of the arts. If we are to portray human stories we must understand the human body.
So if you love theatre, go see a dance performance.
Tonight, I had the pleasure of viewing a new work by Amber Funk Barton's company The Response. Risk is a piece that "is an observation of how young people act...", an idea that could have spawned something as painful as an exploration of post-adolescent angst or a movement-only rendition of The OC. Thankfully, due to the skill of the choreographer and dancers, coupled with a healthy sense of humour, Risk is a thoroughly entertaining, often inspiring, and sometimes moving work of art.
A month ago I saw another dance piece that did not elicit such praise. In fact, viewing the solo work WhaT,? choreographed by Jennifer Mascall and performed by Ron Stewart, compelled me to come up with a new rule: no more talking dancers. I should probably have known by the pretentious way in which the title is spelled that the work was going to be tiresome. But my primary complaint had to do with the fact that the show's story was narrated by Stewart. There are two problems with this. First, he is not an actor and a monologue of any length that is performed for an audience requires acting skill. Second, speaking takes up a lot of the breath needed to dance effectively so the choreography could not match his skill.
Tonight's show proved the wisdom of my rule; the "story" in Risk was clear and engaging without words. Part of the reason we go to dance is because dancers speak a language most of us do not. Why compromise that ability in order to use the same communication tool we can all access?
(In response to the outcry of dancers who insist they have the right to speak, let me offer this: my prejudice works both ways. Although it is flirting with sacrilege to confess it, during the wildly successful show The Overcoat I found myself wondering how much better that wordless, movement-based piece could have been with dancers instead of actors. Some can do both, I know. Most cannot.)
But for those theatre artists who can't dance, there's nothing quite so inspiring as a great contemporary dance work. The ways in which the performers move teach us about the body's physical potential as well as its capacity to carry meaning. It's a great antidote to Western acting theories' emphasis on psychological realism. Truthful acting requires complete commitment, mentally, emotionally, physically. Observing talented dancers apply the same standards to their work reveals the common goals of both arts and encourages us to learn from each other. And it helps us to remember the importance of the actor's body.
In the introduction to her fabulous book The Body Speaks, Lorna Marshall states:
The body is the direct point of connection between our inner self and the outer world, not merely a transportation or communication device...In a sense, it is the sole mediator of human experience. It is our body that climbs the mountain, whispers in another's ear, trembles with excitement, notices the light change, grips the bag, tenses with fear, laughs with delight. It is our body that actually lives our life.
Theatre artists must understand this better than any others because ours is the most incarnational of the arts. If we are to portray human stories we must understand the human body.
So if you love theatre, go see a dance performance.
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