Most of what I take away from a performance manifests itself in actions and reactions that occur before I even enter the space in which a production is held. There's quiet reflection. Anticipation. Recollection. Identification. Assimilation. In preparation for what's to come, my senses are heightened. I'm acutely aware of myself. My. Self. All of this happens before the rise of the curtain (if there is one). Maybe my mind is still back at home, stuck on something stupid I said to my mother. Maybe I think about the last time I saw a version of this show. Maybe the train is delayed. Maybe I have to use the restroom. Maybe person in the seated beside me smells. Maybe I know the lead actor from that other show he was in five years ago. All these things conjure and stir emotional and physical responses, responses that range from ambivalence to empathy to ire.
Only in hindsight do I realize these highly experiential "moments before" are not at all unusual, nor are they exclusive to theatre alone. This phenomenon happens whenever and wherever body politics are at play... which is generally all the time. For instance, consider any event that involves a large, collective audience. A football game. Half the amusement a spectator derives from the game overall actually starts in the stadium parking lot. It's the chugging of beers and the painting of faces. It's the cheerful banter associated with tailgating.
Likewise, every year before the Kentucky Derby I'll throw money down on a horse with a name I like (identification), paying little attention to its chances of winning. I'll also wager my bets on the horse least likely to win (association). The outcome of the race is so much more meaningful when you have personally invested in its finish. As suspense builds, your heart beats faster. When the unlikely horse crosses the finish line ahead of the rest, it feels like the triumph was meant for you and no one else.
You are an implicit member of every spectacle you see by sheer virtue of the fact that you are in some way engaging with what's going on. Let's say you're at school waiting for to some droll lecturer to come to the podium and talk about a really obscure topic. You decide before he enters that you are already bored. Or, maybe you decide that after he starts talking. Either way, you've made a conscious decision to "dislike," and in so doing, have implicated yourself. You've responded. When it comes to theatre, there's no escaping the magic of a response.
Several of my classes have placed an emphasis on understanding the varied and complex forms of semiotic relationships in theatre. These relationships are largely governed by issues of spatiality. The space we're in is hugely important to establishing the vital connection[s] between spectator and artist, spectator and place, and so on. All of this is happening in a particular moment in time and it cannot ever be reproduced. This is the here and now. There's a very real kinetic energy flowing between two distinct channels: you (spectator) and actor (theatre-maker).
Given all this, one might ask: is there any circumstance in which this framework can be challenged? Better yet, an instance in which one's responsibility as a spectator is not only revoked, but inverted?
Last night I boarded a crowded tram bound for Saggart in Dublin's North City. Alighting at Smithfield, I followed a mass of people to the only logical place one travels to in Smithfield: Dublin's Lighthouse Cinema. Smithfield is quite an unusual place. I've been there three times now. Each time is more somber than the last. It's a bleak, ashen locale. Several locals have described it as the "up and coming" neighborhood that never was. Too few yuppies bought into the newly constructed high rises. As a result, there's a shadowy wasteland effect blanketing the whole area. Quiet playgrounds, empty restaurants, vacant buildings prevail. Last night was especially solemn. I fought against a misty rain and I had a runny nose with an empty stomach.
All these observations and preconceived notions guided me towards the cinema in preparation for King Lear, which was to be broadcast live from London's West End. I was going to see theatre...at the movies.
On that note, it felt markedly weird to order a snack. In fact, I leaned in close and expressed my concerns to the bartender. I mean, could I really chew popcorn like a camel as Gloucester gets his eyes gouged out? The bartender simply laughed.
"Why would it be weird to order popcorn? You're at the movies! You can't see a movie without popcorn."
I'd forgotten that my ticket was, essentially, for a movie. I was not in London's West End, where the theatrical performance was about to begin. I was indeed seeing it in real time, but not as it was intended.
I took my seat (N17, back and center, plush and comfy, blue armrests with a quintessential movie theatre cupholders) and stared at the huge screen in front of me. I was looking right at the audience in London as they too, took their seats in an ornate, gilded proscenium-style theatre with a glistening chandelier. I looked away, feeling like an uninvited voyeur. Did these people know I was watching them?
Already, boundaries had been set. A great sense of distance was felt both literally and figuratively between me and the screen. The audience in London did not have popcorn. They weren't watching Ian McKellen at the movies. They wouldn't dare bring popcorn. The theatre probably didn't even sell popcorn!
(Also, aside from Titanic, have you ever been to the movies for just under four hours straight? It really is a marathon. I can't express how strange it was to look at my ticket and see a running time of three hours and forty minutes).
Textually, King Lear is probably in my Shakespeare top 5. No matter what, though, I will always make a concerted effort to see any major staging of a Shakespearean play. Last night, I didn't expect anything new or revelatory. I felt it would be typical West End fodder. Somewhat paradoxically, though, I bought my ticket mostly because Ian McKellen was reprising his role as the titular character in the Duke of York Theatre (London). The last time McKellen did Lear was last year, I believe. The last time I personally saw him as Lear was in Trevor Nunn's 2008 film. I'm not a big fan of the movie. Sir Ian himself was even quoted to have said he wanted to give the character "another try." Well, approaching 80, it's now or never.
My observations after a frustrating four hours of not being able to truly be part of the audience?
Perhaps it is that he's advanced in age, but this time around, McKellen's effortless Lear is seemingly mimetic. The downward spiral is intoxicating. Breathtaking. He never disappoints.
...BUT.
...and there is always a caveat. Always a "but," especially if you're watching Ian McKellen in real time from inside a movie theatre on different shores. Here are a few things that problematized the experience for me:
- Literal magnification.
It's a bizarre form of dehumanization. It might as well have been a Marvel superhero blockbuster. As mentioned earlier, this only magnifies (literally!) the distance you feel. The alienation. No one claps at the end of this. You just get up and go. You leave your popcorn on the floor. No standing ovation for a stellar performance. You simply leave. - We do not have the luxury of choosing what we see. We have no agency.
When we're at the theatre, multiple actions can occur simultaneously and we choose where our eyes wander. In this case, I was offered a singular POV, close-up shots determined by a man operating a camera. This was limiting and frustrating. I didn't want to look at Cordelia's dead face as Lear carried her out, moaning. I wanted to see his eyes. And I couldn't. - Brexit as a frame for a modern retelling.
Without giving too much away, I'll say this: as is often the case with adaptations of Shakespeare, this version of King Lear uses a topical issue to contemporize/modernize a 17th century text. First of all, frameworks like this always overplay their hand and run the risk of derailing the whole show. Second, performances that use topical issues to promote the notion that Shakespeare is still relevant are almost always a double-edged sword. Personally, I think this has the opposite effect of what's intended, and serves to distance us from hearing beautiful language as it was meant to be heard. For me, Shakespeare is done best when it is stripped to its core. The whole Brexit milieu borders on ruinous, as it happens at the expense of some of Shakespeare's most nuanced lines, spoken by some of his finest characters. - "Cutting Edge" choices are now just standard conventions.
4A) In this production, Kent is a woman. This has a promising edge, but ultimately lends itself to little theatrical discourse.
4B) Cordelia is beautiful, and she is black. I appreciate efforts to be progressive-- casting seemingly disregards race and women of color are literally taking the stage. However, yet again, this notion is challenged and problematized, as Regan and Goneril are very, very white. This isn't the first time I've seen a woman of color play Cordelia against two white women. This has become an industry standard for Lear-- it's as if the only way to visually represent Cordelia's virtue and luminosity in stark contrast to the evil of her sisters is by the color of her skin. (Note: by no means is this a statement against actors of color. It's quite the opposite. I simply find a curious dichotomy in the way color is treated here. It does not matter, but it matters). Similarly, per usual Cordelia's frame is slight and waifelike. She is the most visually stunning of the three sisters. Again, the identify of a very specific female body is actually being objectified. - There's a lot of screaming and yelling. Fuck, man, I hate that.
It's as if that in order for mimesis to truly occur, the actors need to scream their way into manufacturing authenticity. It's grating after a while.