Theatre Red

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