Un Mage en Été

Written by: Olivier Cadiot
Director: Ludovic Lagarde
Performed by: Laurent Poitrenau

In his blanched linen trousers and waistcoat over starched white shirt, Robinson, the titular magus played by Laurent Poitrenau, is gently iridescent against the pitch black of the Pompidou Centre stage as the lights go down on the audience. Throughout the hundred-minute monologue he retains this ethereal glow, part effect in Sébastien Michaud’s eloquent lighting design, part function of Poitrenau’s mesmeric performance, as he guides us through the brimming images of a sprawling subconscious.

Starting with a depiction of a woman standing in a river, water up to her waist, on a hot summer’s day, Robinson leads us down a stream of consciousness from a Roman villa of antiquity to musings on Nietzsche playing golf. He moves almost compulsively from one detail to the next, one topic to another, but each new idea follows as inevitably as the swelling river from the opening must keep on flowing to the sea. Poitrenau embodies this fluidity with ease and, while not explicitly miming every impression or scene, inhabits them completely with his body. Like the woman from the beginning who changes the swirling patterns in the water around her with the slightest movement, so Poitrenau alters the narrative with a subtle change in stance, its repercussions rippling throughout the following section of the monologue.

But while Poitrenau’s physical exploration of the piece is enough to keep the audience in thrall, it is his vocal performance, and the amplification and distortion effects which accompany it, which really go to the core of Cadiot’s text. The delivery combines clarity of meaning, sense of discovery and impeccable diction so flawlessly as to suggest that the voice is a distinct entity. And by taking Robinson’s voice and projecting it around the auditorium through speakers so that it circles us, disappears, reappears behind us and finally returns to its onstage narrator, director Ludovic Lagarde frees it from its physical body and consequently, from spatial and temporal constraints. The ideas, pictures and words thus tumble into one another of their own accord: the piece becomes a meditation about the nature and limits of imagination, memory and creativity – how these forces are not bound by the conscious self, but rather govern it in ways it cannot understand. Indeed, at one point, overwhelmed by the visions and sensations which possess him, Robinson denies he is a magus at all in order to escape the sensation overload which his ramblings have brought upon him. Frightened by the potency of the world he imagines, and possibly recognizing the hubris of thinking he could control it, he admits he is merely a physical being, made up of molecules and atoms and quarks. But no sooner has he finished this confession than he is gripped again by his inventions.

Thus, Cadiot’s text is essentially reflexive – though it appears to be describing a vast external reality, it is a study of a creative mind at work and, by extension, the act of writing. And while it probes into areas such as the boundaries between memory and imagination, what it could mean to be original, and what it is about certain thoughts or pictures that transports us to another place, it never provides any straightforward answers. One thing, however, is certain: whether or not they are truly magi, this fresh, intelligent and poetic collaboration between Cadiot, Lagarde and Poitrenau has more than a hint of magic about it.

Eurydice @ The Young Vic

On the back of the playtext for Sarah Ruhl’s Eurydice, published by Methuen Drama and available for purchase at the Young Vic, an extract from a New York Times review reads: “the most moving exploration of the theme of loss that the American theater has produced”. As Andrew Haydon notes, unless the quote has been opportunistically truncated in order to omit a phrase which qualifies that statement, or the NYT is wildly overstating its case, something doesn’t quite add up. The problem is with “moving”: the performance I saw was pretty much the opposite – more of a “detached meditation on loss”.

The full quote is in fact: “Oh, yeah, and it may just be the most moving exploration of the theme of loss that the American theater has produced since the events of Sept. 11, 2001, although Ms. Ruhl began work on the play before that terrible day.” Given that the review appeared on 3 October 2006, the reviewer, Charles Isherwood, is essentially saying that this is “the most moving etc.” of the past few years (as opposed to ever, which the line from the playtext seems to imply). It is easy to see why the 9/11 reference has been cut (even though the sense of the sentence is altered without it); I’m a little at a loss as to why it was there in the first place (even within the context of the article). Maybe Isherwood is simply using an American equivalent of “in Britain since WWII” or “in Germany since the fall of the Berlin Wall”, but the implication seems to be that the events of that day have had some influence on American theatre, in particular the way it approaches the theme of loss. Perhaps I am reading too much into it.

Even though the NYT’s endorsement has been somewhat exaggerated, whoever cut and pasted the extract should probably be let off the hook: overall, the review from which the quote is taken sings the play’s praises, with particular emphasis on how deeply affecting it is. This is in stark contrast to Sheibani’s production, which is zen-like in its refusal to engage the audience emotionally. Being held at arm’s length in this manner is at times deeply frustrating: what with all Eurydice goes through, I felt like my heart should really go out to her, while remaining largely indifferent to her fate. At other moments though, it is pleasing to be given the space to contemplate the puckish poetry in Ruhl’s writing, but always at a remove: we are never allowed to forget ourselves in the fluid imagery which pervades the text.

With the play staged in the round on a square black metallic grille, large, square neon frames suspended above it and fountains which spout up in a square formation at the centre of the stage, the set achieves a striking formal elegance. So much so, in fact, that it doesn’t need the play – it could practically be taken on its own terms as an exhibition piece. More problematically, although the play finds some functional use for the design (one of the suspended square frames is lowered to evoke an elevator descending into the underworld and the running water conjures the Lethe), there is little in the way the stage is set to support the “moving exploration of the theme of loss” which Isherwood witnessed.

The actors too, appear to be working against inciting anything more than an intellectual involvement on the spectator’s part. The delivery is so even throughout that any peaks and troughs in the script are glossed over; there is nothing at stake, nothing to lose. Nevertheless, Geff Francis gives a strong performance as and archetypal kindly father, and Rhys Rusbatch plays the infantile Lord of the Underworld with eccentric panache (“EURYDICE: You’re little CHILD: I grow downward. Like a turnip”). Ony Uhiara and Osi Okerafor capture all the naïve optimism of young love but, disappointingly, display none of its passion. In themselves, the charactarisations are believable enough, but they never strive to build to anything or dare to fall from any great height. There is also a chorus of stones: when its members succeed it is as individuals rather than as part of a coherent whole – again, ensemble work in English productions proves underwhelming.

There is so much about the production which conspires to keep the audience at a distance that it is hard not to conclude that this is just what Sheibani intended. However, leaving us to ponder the meaning of Ruhl’s original yet sometimes coquettish use of language rather than submerging us in it significantly reduces its impact - it is a play which demands that audiences see it feelingly.

If that's all there is @ the BAC

If that’s all there is, like Cheek by Jowl’s Macbeth, examines marriage through the prism of a couple's fractured psyches: their fantasies, insecurities and neuroses. But where the Declan Donellan’s Scottish tragedy is dark, regimented and threatening, the latest piece by in vogue company, Inspector Sands, is colourful, anarchic and liable to leave you with a very pleasant warm fuzzy feeling. Not to say that ITATI is saccharine or insubstantial, quite the opposite: from the alternative wedding cake made entirely of cheese, which Daniel, the groom (Ben Lewis), describes at length during his gloriously vapid wedding speech, to the onions which Frances, the bride (Lucinka Eisler), smears over her face while watching tele-novellas, the piece is flavoured with an array of tragi-comic images.

Scenes are held together more by association than narrative, but the play is loosely structured around the weeks leading up to Daniel and Frances’ wedding day. Disconcerted by his future spouse’s erratic behaviour, Daniel consults a psychologist (Giulia Innocenti) to find out what is wrong with her. Instead, he ends up revealing his own compulsive nature, as he hands over reams of pie charts and statistics describing her behaviour and past. Simultaneously, we follow Frances’ day to day at work as she tells the hapless intern (also Giulia Innocenti) to photocopy the same document individually 200 times, or steals another woman’s wedding gift on her lunch break.

Ben Lewis pushes Daniel’s dullard persona to the point of pathology; like the graphs by which he seems to live his life, his personality might have been formatted using Windows 95. At the same time, there is something inescapably familiar about the character: “nice but dull” is, by all accounts, the middle-class English male’s refuge of choice from emotional openness and availability. Straight as a poplar and almost quivering under the strain of her own anxieties, Lucinka Eisler’s is an equally fascinating creation: her yearning for melodrama stretches so far as dreaming her husband has been shot at the wedding reception. The third performance is as studied as the other two, but complements them perfectly: Giulia Innocenti knits the scenes together, switching between wise-fool psychologist and shuffling intern as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Together, the three company members present an abundance of invention in perfectly-timed comic sequences, yet their style retains a helter-skelter, homemade aesthetic.

I’ve heard Inspector Sands’ work described as “physical theatre”, but the term, apart from always sounding vacuous to me (is there such a thing as “unphysical theatre”?), sells the company short when it comes to the script. The dialogue lacks for neither pace nor wit, and a couple of the speeches build rivetingly high definition pictures (eat your heart out, Sky); and while the piece delights in non-literal escapades, the “movement-based” mantel is lightly worn.

The company are currently working on a new commission for the 2010 Edinburgh International Festival, which will be one to look out for this summer, but in the mean time we’ll have to make do with mental snapshots of a marriage made in heaven between three very talented performers.

Cheek by Jowl's Macbeth @ The Barbican

Cheek by Jowl’s production of Macbeth focuses on the eponymous Lord and Lady almost to the exclusion of other characters. Indeed, most of the thanes (Ross, Lennox, Angus etc.) are indistinguishable, simply belonging to the same ensemble / chorus of young men who create the world surrounding the main characters. The design, too, is bare, with the set consisting of oversized wooden crates lining each side of the stage, evocative, at various points, of the castle and Birnam Wood, or simply generating an overbearing claustrophobia by virtue of their height and presence. Props are entirely absent (except in the Porter’s scene), meaning letters, daggers, food and deaths being mimed (often rather enthusiastically – there is some danger of straying into Marcel Marceau territory).

Thus, the production becomes, to a large extent, a dissection of the Macbeths themselves – their fantasies, their nightmares, their marriage – and Will Keene and Anastasia Hille offer forensically detailed portraits of the murtherous couple. As Lady Macbeth, Hille is unusually touching – central to her performance is the love she bears her husband and the devastating effect of his gradual distancing from her as he retreats ever further inside his own mind. While never straightforwardly charismatic, Keene lends Macbeth an intensity which makes him a natural leader of men, particularly in a military context, but also fuels his descent into madness. The same manic energy which, coupled with his ambition, elevates him to the rank of King, reduces him to a quivering wreck in the presence of supernatural apparitions.

David Collings offers a contemplative take on Duncan and Kelly Hotten gives us a vivid porter – all flaming red hair, mini-skirt and Glaswegian brogue – but it is as an ensemble piece that the production is most distinctive. There are two main forces at play, dramatically speaking: the Macbeths and the ensemble. When the latter has purpose and unity, the production is at its best. The witches and apparitions are particularly compelling: silhouettes of the entire cast can be made out through a fog behind Macbeth (and Banquo, in the first witches' scene); the lines are spoken by the two female cast members and echoed in whispers by a host of male voices; Macbeth (and Banquo) speak their lines straight out, placing their necromantic tormentors somewhere in the audience. The effect is (pun intended) bewitching, and impressive in the way it thrusts imaginative engagement upon the audience as a requisite to appreciating the piece. Combined with the Spartan aesthetic, it also puts the audience in the same position as Macbeth in trying to separate truth from illusion: since nothing is physically present on stage, apart from the actors, there is no immediate way of telling what is real and what is not.

However, the ensemble is not always such a potent force, which is where the production fails to deliver on its promise. All through Act V, the male chorus (or “thanes” as they are collectively referred to in the programme) stand around on stage doing not very much. As a fluid, abstract unit, they might have been able to pull it off, but they have too particular an appearance: with their meticulously gelled hair, black combats and boots, and designer belt buckles they suggest something between boy band members and über fashion-conscious Hitler Youth. Indeed, throughout the first few scenes I imagined this look was going to be used as part an exploration of fascism, but the production never delivers an overtly political interpretation. The result is that the chorus provides a distraction as much as it provides the texture of the universe which the Macbeths inhabit.

Part of the problem must be that ensembles are something of a lost art in the UK. A couple of months ago, visiting Munich, I shocked a German friend of mine when I admitted I could only think of one semi-permanent acting ensemble in England which is attached to a theatre – the RSC. “They don’t even have an ensemble at the National Theatre?” he asked. “Not even at the National.” Off the top of his head, he was able to name four permanent ensembles in Munich alone. I know that Cheek by Jowl is just as much as an international company as it is a British one, with many of their productions starting off in France and then touring the entire world, but they still change casts for every production and rehearse for just six weeks – a very British way of working. True, the cast continue to receive direction throughout the run (a large number of British directors give notes until the very last performance), but this is hardly a substitute for building up a body of work, as a company, over a number of months or years.

The underworked ensemble is, for me, where Cheek by Jowl’s Macbeth stops short of becoming an unstoppable force; it remains an intelligent, well-acted production, but without the sinew to completely bowl an audience over.

4.48 Psychosis - TR Warszawa @ The Barbican

Why put on 4.48 Psychosis? The question is genuine. Why Sarah Kane wrote the piece is easier to understand: she was a playwright, and it was what she had to offer at the time of writing. But why show 80 minutes of mental suffering as a performance? What does the theatre-maker think an audience can take away from such a performance, apart from the voyeuristic thrill of seeing someone mentally disintegrating?

Any appeal to beauty, truth, art etc. as a rationale for producing the piece immediately strays into dangerous territory. The mental state about which Kane is writing is none of these things: it is not significant or meaningful, and attempts to find an aesthetic in it risk glamorizing it. There is nothing special or unique about the condition which is being described. In fact, it is repetitive, self-indulgent and uninteresting (beyond a professional medical point of view). These qualities can be seen echoed in the writing itself, in which phrases are endlessly repeated, cliché is rife (“I am a complete failure as a person”, “I cannot write”), and attempts at poetry are often vacuous and unimaginative (“black snow is falling”, “behold the light of despair”). Even when the language and play of words is complex and poetical, the fact that it is describing something so hollow makes it feel empty. Perhaps this is just what should be taken away from 4.48 Psychosis - that the protagonist’s attempts to overcome her mental anguish through elevating it to poetry or intellectualising it are a failure.

Yet, there is more to Kane’s play than remorseless suffering: at times, the piece manages to gain perspective and comment, often wryly, upon the protagonist’s situation. In these moments, we gain the sense of a person, rather than just a condition – a person who realizes the absurdity of what she is going through, but is unable to do anything about it.

When TR Warszawa’s production picks up upon these moments, and starts to explore the identity of the main character (which they take to be based on Sarah Kane) it has most raison d’être. In one section the woman rolls around on the floor with her lover, giggling, stroking, cuddling, groping and finally rejecting her. In another she reveals she dreamt she “went to the doctor’s and she gave me eight minutes to live. I’d been sitting in the fucking waiting room half an hour.” We are given a glimpse of someone.

However, throughout the production, ever more focus and energy is devoted to dramatizing the protagonist’s mental state. The simile of feeling like an eighty year old is given a physical manifestation in the naked figure of an old woman lingering in the background; the scenes are woven together by a thrumming, amelodic and alien-sounding soundscape; the piece climaxes in the protagonist half-naked and covered in blood beating manically against the back wall, as if in an attempt to get out. There is no doubt that the company delivers intense and powerful performances and that the production holds the audience in its grip, but ultimately, there is little content, merely extremes of suffering elevated to beauty. In spite (and because) of being intensely theatrical, it is therefore difficult to see how this is theatre, in the sense of it having a reason to be shown to an audience.