For the entire run of Mr Burns at the
Almeida Theatre, I have avoided reading any reviews, and scrolled past any
references to it on Twitter. There has
been a tremendous fuss about it, and I didn’t want to come out of the play
spouting hyperbole because my perception had been warped by others’
deconstruction. Instead, I came into it
cold, without even having re-watched The Simpsons episode that the play
references, and endeavoured to have my own pure experience of it.
It is the day after Mr Burns, and I still
haven’t read a single review.
So this is what I think.
 |
| Mr Burns at the Almeida Theatre - Manuel Harlan |
Mr Burns, written by Anne Washburn and
directed by Robert Icke, feels like a celebration of this generation. It is introduced to us by a group of people
sat around a camp fire, remembering the precise details of The Simpsons episode
'Cape Feare'. It is a type of conversation
that we all recognise - not necessarily about the Simpsons or that episode -
and this is enough to invite us to join the circle. But it is the first interval where people have turned to each other, said “I don’t like it” and walked out. So what goes wrong? All I know for sure is that my view of the
stage was considerably less obstructed for act two.
The beauty of the first act is that
information about the whys and wherefores of the campfire and the wasteland
aesthetic are drip fed through this highly naturalistic scene, asking us to hold
on to find out. I would guess that an audience
member’s decision to leave depends on whether they are holding on in rapture,
or in boredom. Perhaps the dialogue is naturalistic
almost to a fault, maintaining all of the dithering quirks of normal human
interaction, so progress is slow.
Although we are enticed into the group, it is not as active
participants, but more as sleepy onlookers, gazing into the fire.
The drama arises when the group hear a
noise from somewhere beyond the auditorium and turn, suddenly fearful, and stare
out at us. The feeling is that they have
noticed us listening. They decide it is
nothing. But a noise stirs them again,
and a traveller walks carefully towards the stage, held at gun point. He, like us, has been listening to the
conversation, and can help to finish the recollection of The Simpsons’ episode. He also helps us to piece together what has
happened to these people, and we learn that a nuclear explosion has wiped out masses
of the US population with radiation poisoning.
It is devastating, but the characters return to remembering The Simpsons’ episode, and
it feels okay again. This is the
introduction to the play’s relationship with Matt Groening’s cartoon, because
it provides a mutual territory that maintains a sense of their past lives and then, crucially,
a sense of identity.
It is in this sense that the play builds
into a celebration of pop culture in general.
The second act, a restaging of TV series’, adverts and music videos, is
a lamentation for the things that are evocative of the time before the nuclear
explosion. For example, there is a
lengthy discussion about the probability that there is no Diet Coke left, apart
from a couple of limited sources, such as a man who is trading one can for two
batteries. But, just as the threat of
radiation poisoning will not dissipate, neither will the stories from their
collective memories.
Shockingly, lines
from the Simpsons episodes are actually worthy of currency now, and staging the
episodes is something of a competitive business. This throws our culture as we experience it
right now into a whole new perspective.
Because when we do Homer’s “Doh!” or Nelson’s laugh, it is not just about
remembering the humour of it. It is
about clinging onto a crucial part of who we are that is more precious than a
throwaway retort. So, when Gibson has a
mental breakdown because he can’t remember the decision to cut a scene from
their repertoire, thereby cutting one of his lines, the melodrama that unfolds
is due not only to the fear that he has radiation poisoning, but also that he
has lost a part of his identity.
The staging of these episodes, then, that
we presume are performed all over the country, are intrinsic to keeping that
identity alive. Having been lead into
this dystopian world, it is heart-warming to see this group’s production at the end of act two. Ann Yee’s choreography and
Robert Icke’s direction brought together a piece that had all the awkwardness
of a community hall production of a musical, coupled with a checklist medley of
musical hits that we recognise and love.
We laugh and clap and delight in the music of Eminem, Daft Punk, and
most aptly Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic’. We expect
this act to go out with a bang. What we
do not expect is that bang to be a gun shot, fired by a couple of Grim Reaper
characters who approach the stage through the auditorium.
Presumably they intend to steal the book of
Simpson’s lines and cultural references that this group have held like a
biblical text. This indicates a whole new level of worth to
us. People are willing to kill each
other for these stories, these memories, these portions of identity. What then, do we expect from act three?
Unfortunately, act three is where I felt
that the tether was loosened a little. The
commitment to the Simpsons reaches tribal levels of commitment, with fantastic
costumes, gold paint to resemble the yellow skin and a gold crown for Bart
Simpson’s hair, which is satisfying to see.
But we have suddenly diverted from the story of the survivors of
radiation poisoning. Admittedly, it is
75 years in the future so we do not expect to see the same characters or way of
life, but while I spent my time waiting for the old characters to appear I
struggled to relax into this new story.
And even once I had settled in, I was handicapped by the fact I hadn’t
re-watched the 'Cape Feare' episode, because I couldn’t tell what was a statement
in the play and what was a reference to the episode.
Nonetheless, what is admirable is the extent to
which the simple act of storytelling develops across the three acts. It prompts questions not only surrounding the
reliability of memory, but also between fiction and reality, between 2D and 3D. The impression is
that over time, the memory of the characters themselves has been condensed and
blended with other popular icons, so that Bart becomes a Harry Potter-style
antihero, and Mr Burns/Sideshow Bob is an absurd blend of figures similar to The Joker, Marilyn
Manson and Frank N. Furter from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. In the act of the Simpsons characters becoming
three-dimensional, the memory of them becomes morphed with other memories and
thereby, creates a solid, fully formed fictional character who exists in the
real world. Quite neatly, it is a
declaration of the extent to which pop culture influences our everyday lives.
So despite any difficulty following the
narrative of the third act, it is no less engaging to watch the interaction
between these new, oddly recognisable characters. The performances are fantastic, and
it’s just so aesthetically marvellous: Tom Scutt’s set design builds in wonder
until the climactic, fairy lit ending. Last night's final performance received a well-deserved standing ovation.
Of course, there are many questions we
should ask the piece before we place it on any grand pedestal. Would we care as much if it wasn’t The
Simpsons? Is the fuss around it largely
fuelled by all the previous fuss? (Although, I am one example to testify that this
is not the case) Without such a
fantastic production, would the text falter?
Is the piece actually doing anything new?
But this feels as immoral a process as picking
holes in The Simpsons itself. Of course
there are flaws. But what I am excited
by is the fact I came out of the theatre feeling like I had been to a really
great party that I didn’t want to end.
This is positive theatre. It is
not saying anything damning and derogatory about our culture and society, it is
celebrating it, and in this respect offers the same escapism as these TV shows
do. And I love that it has sparked such
an online and print frenzy of reviews and conversations that allow the story to
be retold.
Other responses:
Tim Bano
synonymsforchurlish
Michael Billington
Catherine Love
A Younger Theatre
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