Theatre Red

I regularly tell people I don’t want a career in theatre.

I am regularly misunderstood.

It is assumed I’m not serious.

But I’m deadly serious about what the art form can achieve.

I want more than a career.

I’m not suggesting the absurdity that there’s something wrong with being paid for creating art. I’m not peddling the conservative myth that somehow it’s more noble to starve.

And I fully appreciate that being paid for creating art over an extended period of time (which I guess is how you might define a career) could prove to be exactly how some great art is made.

(But there was a poster doing the rounds of facebook recently suggesting something like this: ‘Art work is work and should be paid.’ It struck me more as a mischievous slogan rather than a serious attempt to engage with an issue of economic justice. Of course, if you paint a picture and it sells you should get money for it. But why should you get money just because you paint a picture?*)

When I say I’m not looking for a career in theatre, what I’m saying is simply that the most important thing is not that I get paid.**

And when people speak as though it is, I think it is they who aren’t serious.

Veronica Kaye

* Yes, I’ve answered a slogan with a slogan. More on this later.

** And what is the most important thing? That we give the audience a twofold gift: Joy, and the ability to pass it on. Much, much more on this later.

(An article you’d read – if it was in the Sydney Morning Herald.)

Recently, an acquaintance asked me if it was true that the theatre world was filled with pretentious wankers and self-indulgent children.

‘Of course not,’ I answered, ‘You’re forgetting the stuck up snobs.’

Jokes aside, if you were to come across an example of snobbery or unfriendliness in the world of theatre, the understandable reaction (apart from surprise) would be to ask for its cause.

If snobbery does exist in theatre, it would be for the same reason it exists anywhere – a lack of confidence.

And, let’s face it, in the theatre world, there’s plenty of reason to lack confidence. There’s limited opportunities and loads of competition. Evaluation of our work is arbitrary and therefore unpredictable. And the majority of the population doesn’t even notice what we’re doing.

But why does a lack of confidence so easily lead to snobbery and a general unfriendliness?

In the simplest terms, we choose to fake it until we make it.  If we don’t feel superior, one solution is to act as though we do. Feelings follow behaviour. It’s a remarkably powerful psychological tool. And, in this case, a tragic one. If I choose to deal with the challenge of others by dismissing them, I’m committing a crime against humanity, and I’m the primary victim.

Choose the best view

Snobbery creates the shallowest of theatre. (And that’s probably the least of it.)

So what’s the solution?

Be more confident.

Is that ridiculous advice?

I don’t think so.

If I can decide to act as though I’m better than others, I can just as easily decide to act as though I consider myself their equal.

And then watch the theatre I make.

Theatre that speaks to my audience.

Veronica Kaye

I like to tell people Sydney has a vibrant theatre scene.

Perhaps it’s true.

I say it because I’m working on the principle that if you want a child to be good you don’t constantly tell her she’s bad.

But what, exactly, would make a vibrant theatre scene?

A large number of productions?

A large number of ‘quality’ productions?

A large percentage of original works?

A large number of productions from outside the canon? (Perhaps some Japanese Noh theatre? Or some seventeenth century Spanish tragedy? Or even a production of Shakespeare’s King John?)

Here’s my suggestion for an essential component of a vibrant theatre scene – the existence of boutique theatre.

Ok, I’m coining a term here. What I mean by boutique theatre is independent theatre that does not see itself as a stepping stone to somewhere else.

I have no objection to small co-op actors’ companies putting on a Neil LaBute play in order to show off their wares. But if every indie production was this I think it would be a shame.

Similarly, if you write, direct and produce your original play at somewhere like TAP Gallery and only a handful of people come, it’s quite natural to want one of those handful to be either Andrew Upton or Ralph Myers. Andrew or Ralph or both will then be waiting in the little bohemian bar after the show and they will plead with you to allow them to include your work in their 2014 season. Who wouldn’t want that? However, and I have this on reliable authority, occasionally that doesn’t happen.

Boutique theatre appreciates that every play is not for everyone. It is satisfied with whatever audience it receives.  It does not constantly aspire. It does not say to the audience who do attend you are just part of my career strategy.

I appreciate that some people might find this attitude anathema.

If your small piece of theatre touches one soul, surely it would be better if it it touched more?

A vibrant theatre scene would be one where the answer to that question is allowed to be “No”.

Veronica Kaye

The bias in theatre is that characters do not have ideas.

Characters are presented as beings who have desires, but not thoughts. Or, if they do have thoughts, these thoughts are merely rationalisations of desires.  Discussion involving ideas  are mined for their subtext.

This approach might be useful for actors, but it hides the power of ideas.

This is not some sort of mad call for the presentation of intellectuals on stage. Far from it. My contention, radical though it may seem, is that everyone’s head is full of ideas.

After hunger and thirst, ideas are the primary human experience.

Ideas determine how we see the world and how we act upon it.

So why do characters on stage so rarely discuss ideas?

There’s an obvious answer. (And it’s not that it makes for dull theatre.)

The answer is this: on stage there already is someone presenting a vision of Life, and that person is the writer. They don’t want competition from from their creations. Characters with ideas bear the same relationship to the writer as the monster does to Dr Frankenstein.

To ensure a writer’s vision of Life goes unchallenged she pretends there are no ideas.

Only an amateur makes the mistake of creating a straw man with ideas opposing their own, because even though such straw men are easily knocked down, the possibility there could be alternative ideas has been aired.

I’m fond of misquoting Shelley: “Playwrights are the unacknowledged legislators of the world”.

Why unacknowledged? Because playwrights present their ideas, their visions of life, surreptitiously.

Philosophers fight fair. That’s what makes them philosophers. In a fight, a philosopher attempts to punch you in the head.

A playwright punches you below the belt.

And so they are banned from the ring.

But the pugilistic tendencies remain, and will be indulged, in scrappy street fights and bar brawls – and in that most unlikely intellectual arena, the theatre.

And, as everyone knows, outside the protection of the ring, there is only one rule:

Never throw the first punch, unless you can be guaranteed it’ll be the last.

And, for a playwright, that punch is the complete play.

Veronica Kaye

A lot of working actors make the same mistake: they want to act.

As a result, they miss the subtle joys of self sabotage.

Here’s some advice to help you miss out on that role again, and so justify that satisfying feeling that the world really is against you:

Be the expert. Everyone loves a know it all. Directors, and especially writers, love to be corrected. Choose the seemingly most unimportant aspect of the play and air your knowledge of that particular field. Choose a minuscule detail of the text and declare it to be wildly inaccurate. Discuss the play’s literary failings. This will guarantee that the writer remembers you. If the writer is not present, don’t bother being a literary expert. Focus your considerable energies on telling the director how the play should be directed.

Be critical. Of anything. Of everything. Creative people just adore working with no sayers. Criticise directors you’ve worked with previously. Criticise other actors. Criticise the type of curtains in the audition room if you have to. Just make sure you leave the director with the sense that you’re a person of true discernment.

Don’t listen Directors are very busy people. If you don’t listen in the audition this sends a clear message that the director won’t have to waste time speaking to you in the rehearsal room.

Do your homework (and then some) If, say, the audition consists of a reading from the play make sure you’re familiar with it. Learn it. Mechanically. Once again the director will be relieved to know she won’t have to waste valuable time with you later.

Channel those nerves It’s natural to be nervous. It’s not natural to be friendly to people you’ve never met, so channel those nerves into an awkward coldness.

Talk, a lot After all, they are looking for a performer. Why waste time working the scene? They’ll be plenty of time for that during the run of the show.

Ask questions  Of course, you’ll have a lot of legitimate questions, ones you have the right to know the answers to. Ask them, but don’t lose the opportunity to turn the tables on the director. If the audition process has made you feel uncomfortable,  take the opportunity to make the director feel uncomfortable. Remember, this is your chance to reverse the power relations. Sure, the director might appear to respond with annoyance, but deep down she’ll really appreciate being treated as an equal.

Respect the text Show how much you value the text by putting it into your own words. The writer will thank you. Your spontaneous improvements will no doubt solve problems she slaved over for months.

And most crucially, Take it personally. A lot of nonsense is talked about how directors want to best serve the play. Don’t be fooled. Casting decisions are not about art. They’re all about you.

Remember, it’s ALL about you.

And, later, when you successfully don’t get the role, make sure you treat yourself. Go to the production and decide the performances were awful. There are few ways of getting more out of an artistic experience than finding fault with other artists.

Veronica Kaye

Friend: Veronica, you really should write drama.

Me: Why? So people can fool themselves I’ve got nothing to say?

Friend: No, you stupid grump. Because you listen to people. It’s rare.

The incident my friend was referring to – the one in which I’d allegedly listened – involved a mutual acquaintance commenting on a production we’d seen. “I couldn’t find anything to fault about that,” she said.

Friend: I don’t even remember her saying that.

Me: She did! It made me sick!

Friend: You didn’t like the show?

Me: I did! But not because it didn’t do anything wrong! (then in mock childish voice, you know, that sort of infantile whine that’s an unanswerable indictment of anything it’s directed at) “ I couldn’t find anything to fault about that.”

Friend: (pause) You know, Veronica, about that drink…. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. I better head.

The problem with the pursuit of excellence is not that you’ll never catch it. The problem is you miss so much else.

Doing something with out fault is a secondary virtue. The crucial issue is what you’re trying to do, not how well you do it.

Surely, it’s better to fail at something worthwhile than succeed at something worthless.

Do you really want to be remembered for producing the play that most effectively keeps the world small and cold?

Veronica Kaye

Early in my education I came across a notion that deeply disturbed me.

A drama teacher told me, “It’s not what they say, but how they say it.”

As someone approaching theatre with what I can only describe as a ravenous spiritual hunger, I refused to see it reduced to a series of well executed tricks.

I didn’t want the ultimate accolade to be that a piece of theatre said well (efficiently? effectively?) what we all already knew.

There were (are) so many things I didn’t know. I didn’t want an art form that was so complacent. I didn’t want to be served stones when I needed bread.

Over time, I came to realise that large numbers of audience members see theme as just another technique. Just as a recurring motif, say the animal imagery in Macbeth, creates an attractive textual coherence, so apparently does theme. The fact that both Macbeth and his wife suffer for their crimes is not the meaning of the piece, but rather just a pleasing aesthetic tidiness.

Appreciating the view

As I have grown older this view of theatre shocks me less. I’ve come to accept that people will attempt to inoculate themselves from art. In terms of theatre, most people do this by not going. Those of us  forced to go – because of career, or the pursuit of career – adopt other methods.

Most of us don’t want to be changed. We don’t want to be challenged.

And, considering the lives of unparalleled privilege that most of us enjoy, that’s perfectly understandable.

Veronica Kaye

In the Gospel according to Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice, Judas wails:

“Jesus!!!

You’ve started to believe the things they say of you,

You really do believe this talk of God is true.

And all the good you’ve done will soon be swept away,

You’ve begun to matter more than the things you say!!!”

which pretty well sums up many a modern attitude to Christianity.

It’s the ethical teachings of Jesus that are the important part, not the ontology. And these ethical teachings can be distilled down to we should be nice to each other – and we hardly need Christianity to tell us that.

I find the dismissal of the ontological fascinating, not because I believe Jesus of Nazareth was the incarnation of the divine, but because of what it suggests about our culture.

And I want to explore what it suggests about our theatre culture, in particular.

I don’t write theatre reviews, but rather what I call responses. I bang on about what the plays say – at least, what they say to me. I’m interested in their ethics, so to speak.

But what about their ontology, so to speak, their attitude to being?

We give this little thought, just as we give little thought to the claims made about Jesus.  In fact, like the claims about Jesus, we’re not even sure what we’re being asked to accept.

The ontological claim made about Jesus is that he was both human and divine.

What is the ontological claim made about theatre?

That it represents some aspect of reality. What we see on stage is meant, on some level, to reflect an aspect of human existence.

This might seem obvious. After all, it’s why we can admire a juggler, but despite her obvious skill, won’t consider her work to be theatre.

So, by making theatre, we’re saying something about the nature of existence.

A piece of theatre says existence is like this.

Or it’s like that.

Today, I don’t want to quibble about the this or that.

I just want to point out that theatre is always saying existence is like something.

And what’s the word that keeps repeating in this formula?

Existence is like….

What enormous weight is being carried by that one little word – like.

My Easter mystery.

Veronica Kaye

Recently I  inadvertently called Martin McDonagh Mark McDonagh.

It was a silly mistake and one I shouldn’t have made. I was appreciative of being corrected.

What interested me was that because of this dumb mistake  I was accused of “not knowing my stuff”.

At this point, I’m supposed to list my qualifications. The 4 years I spent at NIDA. The Masters degree I have from RADA. The Phd I’m working on at Julliard.

Then I’m supposed to mention all the well known people I’ve worked with and the ground breaking critically acclaimed projects I’ve done.

But I won’t do any of this.

I have absolutely NO experience.

And I have absolutely NO qualifications to write about theatre.

NONE WHATSOEVER.

Except what I share with the rest of the human race.

Veronica Kaye

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that whenever a playwright writes a good play, she will be vigorously pursued by prestigious theatre companies.

“My dear Mr Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Prestigious Theatre Company has a new artistic director?”

Mr Bennet replied he had not.

“Apparently,” returned she, “he is very interested in new Australian work.”

Mr Bennet remained silent. His wife took this as invitation to continue.

“Interested in new Australian work! What a fine thing for our girls!”

“How so? How can it affect them?”

“Mr Bennet, how can you be so tiresome? You know they are all playwrights. This new artistic director will no doubt want to produce their plays.”

Mr Bennet returned to his book.

“Now I’m the first to admit,” continued Mrs Bennet, “I find Lizzy’s plays a little confusing. Other people find them amusing, but to my mind, she never seems to be saying what she really means.”

“It’s referred to as irony,” Mr Bennet stated flatly.

“I know that!” replied Mrs Bennett.

“Of course you do, dear” said Mr Bennet, even more flatly.

Satisfied, Mrs Bennet continued. “And Mary’s plays are so wordy, and I can’t quite understand them, but they’re very clever, I’m sure. And Lydia’s plays are skittish, the work of an immature artist, but they were good enough for Short and Sweet. And Jane, quiet unassuming Jane; she’s always done the right thing. Who wouldn’t want to produce her plays?”

– from the manuscript of the (unpublished) Jane Austen novel Approval and Validation 

Sometimes you just gotta to do it yourself .

You can write a damn good play and it still mightn’t get produced.

Maybe it’s political. And I don’t mean who owes who, or who’s competing with who, or even who’s sleeping with who. I mean political.

Every play is an attempt to convince the audience to see the world in a particular way. Every play is an attempt to affect the world. Your plays will be put on by people who share your vision of the world. And, if there already are a whole lot of people who share your vision, you probably wouldn’t have bothered writing the play in the first place.

So be prepared to do it yourself. And be proud of it.

Veronica Kaye