Saturday 27 September 2014

The Art of Dying


I have been trying to write a review of Nick Payne’s ‘The Art of Dying’ since I saw it at the Royal Court on 4th July 2014.

I have struggled for so long because this was a piece of theatre that appeals so directly to most individuals’ experience of the world.  It speaks candidly of life and death with the pedestrian gait of Nick Payne simply sitting on a chair and speaking with us, occasionally taking a sip of water and passing the glass from one side of his chair to the other.  The simplicity caught me off guard, and it was my turn to feel as if my heart had been speared into and my soul given flight.  And I didn’t see it coming – the text builds in such a way that you do not realise you are at the top of the mountain until you see that there is nowhere else to climb.  Only a gorgeous view, and a new perspective on what you have just experienced.

For a comprehensive, cohesive, succinct breakdown of the piece, I recommend Lyn Gardner’s review for the Guardian.  Because I just can’t/won’t do it, as three months of wrestling with my thoughts has demonstrated.  I do not wish to deconstruct the piece and discuss Nick Payne’s performance, his approach to structure, nor the sweet moment when an audience member sneezed and he paused to say “bless you”.  No, what I want to talk about is the starkly mortal feelings and images that have haunted me since seeing this piece.  

To give some premise, Nick tells us three stories, separate from each other but intertwined in narrative.  One is about the death of his own father, another is about the scientist Richard Feynman dealing with the death of his wife, and another about a woman called Maggie with a degenerative disease who wishes to have control over her own death.  What the piece explores, in each case, is the evidently warped relationship we have with death, particularly for those surrounding or treating the dying.  When somebody is dying through illness, we use euphemisms such as ‘poorly’, which Nick smartly compares to describing a kitten with a cold.  We, and healthcare professionals, lie to each other about the extent of an illness, wishing not to upset anyone and to operate within as positive an outlook on a patient’s fate as possible. 

Nick tells us that while his father was in hospital, it wasn’t until he actively interrogated the specialist that he discovered the real extent of the illness, and the relative redundancy of hope.   This leads us to question, which is more painful?  Ripping off a plaster in one quick motion, or eking the fibres across you skin gradually, excruciatingly, until at last it is relieved?

***

On BBC Two earlier this year, Louis Theroux did a documentary called Life and Death as part of a series called LA Stories.  This episode centred around West Hollywood’s Cedars-Sinai Medical Centre where vast sums of money are pumped into treatments for seemingly terminal conditions.  I remember the story of a man dying of cancer who was willing to keep undergoing treatment in the hope that he would survive, while the consultant knew full well that his chances were barely worth mentioning.  And yet they did mention them, instilled hope in the patient and his fiancĂ©e (whom he married, from his hospital bed) and the documentary followed his story to the eventual conclusion that his time was limited.  We watched as the truth dawned, and the light faded from his eyes.

***

We protect each other from the unspeakable.  But how useful is this censorship?  Nick offers that if we were to think about treating the illness rather than the patient, we might actually get somewhere with developing treatments.  And yet too often, too sadly, the best we can do is “morphine, and make him as comfortable as possible.”  

***

“morphine, and make him as comfortable as possible.” 

***

“...morphine, and make him as comfortable as possible.”  

***

Being made comfortable: this is The Art of Dying.  It is my own nihilistic sentiment, but I suddenly struggled to see the need for blankets, pillows, flowers, morphine, treatments, nurses, doctors, bedpans, bed baths, et.al when all we are doing is biding time until the heartbeats stop.  Nick asks, “If we’re not helping them to die, what are we helping them to do?”  He tells us about his Granddad who was not afraid of death; he was afraid of being kept alive and living without his wife of 62 years.  

This leads us to the controversial topic of euthanasia, and the story of Maggie.  Her sister assisted with her death and, provoking backlash, proceeded to deal with legal matters and medical research initiatives to do with the incident and her sister’s illness.  She spent time in phone calls, emails, meetings, sourcing information, filling her mind with things that were completely at odds with taking time to treasure the life of her sister.  Nick finishes the piece by telling us that sure, she could do all of this, she could fight a corner and contribute to science and society.  She could do the noble thing, and commit her life to history.

Or she could go out into the garden and pick conkers with her daughter, and miss her sister.

***


As autumn comes around, and the summer dies away, and the memories of school, college and university are but whispers ever receding towards silence, I always feel a little melancholy.  I love autumn, I love to watch the leaves turn to brown.  Most of all, I love that this is something I share with my mum – whenever I look at the trees and marvel at their ever-changing hue, I think of her.  Now, also, I think of the day her and my dad came to visit me at my new flat, and we took a walk through the gardens at Chiswick House.  For one glorious moment a gust of wind blew a host of leaves out of a tree and I watched as my parents walked beneath them.  I came to them and caught a leaf as it fell from a branch, and still have that leaf in my jacket pocket.

I also love the sunlight at this time of year.  It takes on a whole new, misty, golden hue, as if streaming through a haze of the memories of summer and the promise of cold winter nights.  On the bus to work yesterday, at around 4pm, I watched as a woman bent her face into the sunlight, closed her eyes, and basked in the warmth.  She smiled, and I have never seen someone so openly delight in their own connection to this burning star that keeps our planet alive, in the middle of this crazy, bustling city.  This was until she realised she was standing in a man’s way, and the moment was broken.

That’s the thing with autumn.  As beautiful as it is, it signals the ends of things.  Soon enough the trees will be bare, and the bright, shiny conker shells I used to pick up on my way home - only a matter of weeks ago – are already harder and harder to find.

The best we can do is to gradually add more layers of clothing, to watch as the evenings grow darker, to focus our energies on Hallowe’en, Thanksgiving, Bonfire night, Christmas and to make ourselves “as comfortable as possible.”

Because there is no cure for the coming seasons.  But there is our delight in each one of them – snow, daffodils, barbecues and conkers – and watching my parents walk beneath a sheet of falling leaves.
But - thankfully - the trees will blossom anew, and just as surely, again their leaves will fall.  Indeed, just as surely as our own mortality hurtles alongside us.  And this is why The Art of Dying struck me so sorely.  It wasn’t saying anything that any one of us hasn’t thought about since day one on the planet.  What is life itself, if not a daily bid to be as comfortable as possible towards the inevitable end?

I will calm down eventually, and softly forget all of this.  But I stood in front of the mirror yesterday and a song came on the radio that I had listened to solidly throughout May, June and July.  I remembered who I was then, and I remembered imagining my life now.  I looked out of the window and saw how surely things happen in such a short space of time.  I saw my responsibility to my own life – fragile, delicate, dying.

Since the Art of Dying, the image of a mother picking conkers with her daughter and craning her face towards the autumn sunlight while she longs for her sister has been plastered to the front of my brain.  And if I ever forget it, I will have forgotten what is truly important in my life.

***

Another catalyst to my thoughts was this essay by Lena Dunham, an edited extract from her forthcoming book ‘Not That Kind of Girl’.


“Finally, one day, I couldn't stand it any more: I walked into the kitchen, laid my head on the table, and asked my father, "How are we supposed to live every day if we know we're going to die?" He looked at me, clearly pained by the dawning of my genetically predestined morbidity. He had been the same way as a kid. A day never went by when he didn't think about his eventual demise. He sighed, leaned back in his chair, unable to conjure a comforting answer. "You just do."

Tuesday 9 September 2014

Monotone Theatre Criticism



There was a very, very interesting conversation on Twitter yesterday in response to Andrew Haydon's blogpost ('On Criticism: Killing Cattle') interrogating the locality of theatre critics in the UK.  His article asked whether the critics' geographical background influences their reading of the piece, to the extent that a reviewer sent out to the regions from London may not be best placed to understand the work fully and in context.  A fair question: are city-heads likely to appreciate work in quieter, rural towns and village halls, when they do not necessarily sympathise with the piece's targeted demographic?  Or, conversely, should theatre be expected to appeal to the majority?  To use the Salisbury Playhouse as an example, they know precisely who their audience is and their work appeals to them accordingly.  As a more mature, largely upper-middle class demographic, I think it's safe to assume that the likes of Anne Washburn's 'Mr Burns' would cause something of a stir.  So, no - we can't and shouldn't expect to appeal to everyone, but the critic's job is to be open to that.

But this extends the interrogation to encompass a wider question, and indeed, within the discussion, Vinay Patel had asked whether this awareness of ecology also goes for class and cultural background.  A potent question, and one that really got me thinking.  When we read a review, do we ever actually consider who the critic is?  Reading a review in a national newspaper, as it stands at present, we probably expect the writer to hold at least an undergraduate degree (usually in English or Theatre Studies), to have come from a middle class background and likely to reside in London.  Reading a blog, however, is more open to interpretation, and reading Twitter responses, more diverse yet again.  Of course, in an ideal world, the newspaper's body of contributors would reflect the diversity of Twitter (i.e: less Oxbridge), but that is a fight we must continue to fight.

And yet, there is another layer entirely, which made me feel sick to my stomach.  If we understand a critique of a piece of theatre to be a means by which we continue that work's conversation, surely the critic-base should reflect the same diversity that the work embraces.  As in, if we employ a range of artists from different social and geographical backgrounds to say something about our society, the continuation of that conversation should follow suit.  Otherwise, what was the point in starting to speak in the first place?  What I'm trying to say is, and let me jump straight to the point: why are our theatre critics predominantly white/British/middle class? If we are trying to move into a more diverse, dynamic panorama shot of British theatre (something that appears to have fallen sorely by the wayside, as a quick glance at this coming season indicates), why is theatre criticism not following suit?

I hope they won't mind me using them as examples, but why are there not more examples of the likes of Yasmin Alibhai-Brown reviewing for The Independent, or Sanjoy Roy reviewing for the Guardian?  Without more diversity, the danger is that work is thereby viewed through a lens that is not the best informed, that is approached with the wrong preconceptions - consciously or unconsciously - and does not communicate the full breadth of what the artist was trying to say.

If there is any hope of finding an answer, we need to question what the point of theatre criticism is.  If it is to give an accurate, insightful, evocative account of a piece of theatre, of course this relies on a certain degree of intellectual and writerly know-how, experience of theatre and of course, an appreciation of it.  In this vein, Broadway Baby stipulate that its reviewers hold experience in theatre in a capacity other than reviewing, such as acting, dancing or directing.  Which is fair enough.  But as far as I'm concerned, that's all you need.  I can only suggest that the lack of diversity in our critics lies within a far deeper issue, because surely the writers are out there.  Our universities are - largely - brimming with talent and diversity.  So where is it all going wrong?

I would love to know your thoughts and responses, and to know if anyone can direct me towards more comprehensive coverage of the issue.

Friday 5 September 2014

Review - How To Disappear Completely - The Chop Theatre - Battersea Arts Centre

Itai Erdal prefaces this story by telling us that he is a great storyteller, and that he has never been shy about sharing his opinions.  He is immediately treading on dangerous ground, because suddenly an entire audience has just imagined the greatest storyteller they know, and is expecting Itai to match up to that ideal.  Likewise, before he has even begun the story, he has announced that he is going to express his view on the world and if anyone doesn't like it, he doesn't care, he is simply going to keep talking. "I really love to talk."  Well then, I guess we're going to have to listen.



Itai is a theatre lighting designer and this story starts from the moment he got a call to say his mum had cancer and had nine months to live.  He flew home to Israel to be with his family, and filmed the journey of his mother's illness until the end.  As well as personal accounts told with mood-appropriate stage lighting, he shows us a selection of these films to take us through the journey, translating his mother, sister, or best friend's dialogue over the top.  For one interview, he appropriates his sister's body language in the film and stands before her, mirroring her.  In theory, this should be indicative of siblings who have suffered the same loss and come from the same place - a bittersweet notion.  But instead, it jars, because what was the point of filming her, if he won't let her speak?  He tells us that when they were younger, he was always louder, more competitive and more confident than she was.  Again, this device is probably a neat portrayal of the dynamic of their relationship, but for anyone who has been the younger sibling only identifies with Itai's sister and an image of him talking over her at the dinner table is not a favourable one.  We seem to have got off on the wrong foot and of course, this isn't even the point of the story.

So, what is the point? Gratefully, it is clear straight away that Itai is using the stage lighting to say something profound about the ephemeral nature of life.  Between stories about his mother, he takes us through a series of lighting queues showing the effect and mood of various plots.  His favourite is the PAR can light and as he stands beneath it, reducing the light from 100 to 0%, it is as if we are watching a life fade with a nuanced nod to the piece's title.  Furthermore, his observation that "it gets warmer as it gets darker" is a neat preamble to his personal justification for euthanasia - for helping to relieve his mother of her pain.  After the final footage of his mother, he pulls the plug on a light at the front of the stage with the simplicity of a technician working on a get-out.  It is, arguably, the most honest moment of the whole piece, and we discern exactly what he means by this action.

Sadly, the honesty doesn't last long.  Within the earlier stage lighting demonstration, Itai had shown us a square of spotlight which, as he said himself, gives the impression that an actor is about to say something profoundly moving.  We all laughed, recognising the aesthetic.  After Itai pulls the plug, he steps into this square of light as if he were that actor.  But as this is a true story, suddenly the effect of the spotlight is confused - are we supposed to laugh as we did before?  Loaded with the symbolism of the plug, this moment jarred.  Any potential for recognising raw emotion was shrouded in the façade of technical theatre. Call me cold-hearted, but my emotional investment was tarnished by the previous insincerity. 

A lot about this piece should work beautifully, but unfortunately, so much of it is to the contrary.  It is saying something interesting about death, euthanasia and the temporal effect of stage lighting, and thereby questions the value we place on an individual life.  But on a stage voluntarily surrounded by alienation and falsehood - a place for actors, deceptive lighting techniques and the distancing effect of a screen - it is difficult to sympathise, even while Itai wipes the tears from his eyes.  The line between reality and fiction is clearly drawn for us and then blurred, to a disorientating degree, leaving a numb disconnection.  Furthermore, in terms of the controversial address of euthanasia, for a man to justify his actions and be understood, we need to trust him implicitly, which is difficult to achieve alongside the aspect of theatre that lies the most.  

Tuesday 2 September 2014

An Unpopular Opinion



Okay, now we really have an issue.

(Before I begin, I must give this disclaimer: I think that Benedict Cumberbatch and Andrew Scott are incredibly talented actors, and the energy they bring to both stage and screen is sensational.  Also, I adore the National Theatre...however that adoration is somewhat compromised, now.)

I had just about come to terms with the constant influx of celebrity into London theatre, and rationalised that it’s all just part of the glitz and glamour of the West End.  If a known face who also happens to be a great talent encourages new audiences into theatre, then great.  Go ahead.  But, when it was announced that Benedict Cumberbatch would be playing Hamlet at the Barbican, I metaphorically slammed my fist on the table and said “No.  That’s enough.   We do not need another Hamlet, and we certainly don’t need another heartthrob actor in the role.”  We do not need an audience gushing over the actor on stage, meanwhile paying zero attention to Lyndsey Turner’s interpretation of this severely over-producedplay.  The real event will be the screaming hordes of fans kicking around the stage door after the show desperate for a selfie and an autograph.  Anything to do with the actual production?  Forget it.

My gripe is not with Benedict Cumberbatch having a fan base, because he absolutely deserves one due to his talent as an actor and for the effort he devotes to his work.  A fan base pouring into the Barbican auditorium just to be a little bit closer to that beautiful face, however, is not a productive approach to audience development.  It is vein, it is not founded in celebrating the talents of the production team and I cannot believe it is of sincere benefit to Cumberbatch’s career.  Those audience statistics may as well be thrown straight out of the window.  

And yet, I had also managed to come to terms with this.  The amount of money generated through ticket sales that will go back into the Barbican pocket is quite a nice thing, and means they can continue to produce otherwise exciting work and indulge in their education and outreach programmes. I understand: it is a guaranteed relief, like pantomime is to a regional theatre, or the effect of having lots of young children with big families in an amateur production.  It is an economically smart move, even if it is perpetuating the issue of an industry full of incredibly talented actors who are sorely out of work.  That is another issue for another day, like the never-ending proliferation of productions of Shakespeare which we can only hope will dwindle with time.

But that’s just it.  I expected these issues to shuffle quietly into the corner and become just another part of theatreland, like paying £6 for a programme and the inevitable 20 minute queue for the ladies’ toilet.  But then the National announced this, and I just about flipped.

   http://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/support-us/individual-memberships/young-patron-membership/win-the-chance-for-you-and-a-friend-to

For a donation of £20, you can be entered into a prize draw for you and a friend to win afternoon tea with Benedict Cumberbatch and Andrew Scott.  I mean, of course I wouldn’t say no.  Of course not.  I would fawn and faint and remember that afternoon fondly for the rest of my life.  But also, I can't help but feel that it is worsening an 'us and them' mentality in theatre's audiences.  Taking money from one half of the demographic and passing it over to the other makes perfect sense, in a Robin Hood sort of way.  But it seems to be built on a premise that is mutually patronising, as if the Sherlock TV junkies/afternoon tea-drinkers are worlds apart from the fledgling artists.  Potentially, this can be the declaration of a brick wall between the commercial theatre goers and the fringe/pub venue audience, maintaining the barriers between them, both financially and artistically.

Fine.  Whatever.  Yes, please do create events and schemes that bring financial aid to supporting young directors, actors and designers.  And if the National can also find a way to bring the Travelex tickets back down from £15 to £12, I can just about get on board.  But the answer to supporting our National Theatre while it creates work that questions the society we live in, and encourages artists to bring new catalysts to those questions, is not in aggravating the very issue that causes hindrance to that support. 

Or is it?  I’m beginning to wonder whether I have got it completely wrong.  Is this what audiences really want?  Evidently so, if this is what theatre is having to resort to for sourcing audiences and funds.

In answer to my own question, I refer to a passage from Ray Bradbury’s Farenheit451:

“So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and magicians, your dare-devils, jet cars, motor cycle helicopters, your sex and heroin, more of everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is hollow, sting me with the theremin, loudly. I'll think I'm responding to the play, when it's only a tactile reaction to vibration. But I don't care. I just like solid entertainment.”