"Some people know everything, but that's all they know." -- Walter Matthau
Before our sabbatical, this column reflected on theatre in the wake of 9/11. As many months continue to separate the world from that day and those events, we now know what we didn't know. We have warning messages (that went untranslated). We have warning signs about the perps. And our world is almost back to normal. We have the "red carpet" premieres of movies again. We have serious people discussing Martha Stewart's business acumen on television. And America's national security is securely back in the hands of the same people who didn't talk to each other then.
Despite the implied sarcasm and cynicism about where we are, it seems assured that even if someone had all of the available information in front of their eyes -- no one could have prevented the thousands of deaths of last September. We humans have a difficult time with what we don't know. We're pretty good in manipulating what we know. But those things that we don't know are a puzzle.
How does this apply to theater?
We know the theater we know. Sometimes we become so accustomed to that theater -- we can't seem to imagine theater outside of that form or structure or style. It becomes difficult to imagine how or why we should do theatre differently.
Several years ago some colleagues acted in a production of The Visit. At the first cast meeting the director announced she wanted the actors to use an "Expressionist" acting style. Evidently she had no real idea of how that could happen. The actors went about building characters and scenes in the Americanized, Stanislavsky-esque fashion to which they'd become accustomed.
Another time, another director, from Poland, imposed as a condition of work that he be allowed a rehearsal period of at least 10 weeks. The company's actors were incredulous when they found out. What would an actor do in 10 weeks of rehearsal? Wouldn't that get boring?
Several years ago I had several students who'd seen a performance art piece called "On Narcissism, the Harmfulness of Tobacco, and Robinson Crusoe on Mars." The piece began with a lecture about the narcissism found in contemporary performance art. The lecturer was using himself as the topic of his lecture. The over-all irony of the self-critical stance of the author/actor was balanced by a slew of jokes, puns, and simple gags. The students, not accustomed to this type or style of discourse were adrift. They asked, "What was I supposed to think?"
Recently I completed a translation/adaptation of Gogol's Revisor (Inspector General) for a proposed production of the play. To complete the work, research included looking as much as possible at Gogol's variants of the text, Meyerhold's famous production of the play, the Yale reproduction of the work, and some work-shopping of some scenes under the tutelage of Arkady Katz of the Vakhtangov Theatre. One of the common comments of most readers of the completed script was, "I didn't quite get all of it."
This comment took me aback. Gogol's story about a town who mistakes a drifter for a visiting inspector from the government is largely a one-joke plot. The plot has been successfully adapted several times from projects ranging
from Inspecting Carol to the film Waiting for Guffman. Moreover, once the essential plot is recognized, the main trick of the performers is to keep the audience enthralled with the ever-expanding elaboration of the one
joke. How could someone not get it?
Part of the reason Gogol seems to confuse actors, directors, and audiences because he creates a different kind of theatre than that to which we're accustomed. There is no real hero in
the piece. Some have solved this problem by making the play into a traditional farce. This solution doesn't quite work, though. Neither the Mayor nor the young drifter (Khlestakov) fit the mold of a farce
hero. Though both can be seen as down-trodden in the mold of characters from Italian farce, they both have a . . . . mean quality far beyond that of the usual farcical character.
Another curious feature of the play is Gogol's use of words describing/deriving from the devine to the infernal. For most of the play Gogol is content to have people invoke the Creator with use of "Bog" and ”Bozhe” (as in bozhe moi or "My God"). As soon as Khlestakov the drifter leaves the stage, characters swear using "chort” and derivatives (signaling "damnation," "hell," "devil," etc.).
But the play is too funny to be a tragedy.
A play without a clear-cut hero or villain without a clear-cut tone of funny or sad left readers puzzled. What would this play be like? Is it satire? Is it something else?
In some ways the theatre inches forward. Some exterior traits become acceptable. Meyerhold and Brecht shocked audiences by exposing lighting instruments. Directors gave up using the act curtain for the now nearly ubiquitous blackout. Stanislavsky and others wanted to impress audiences with the seriousness of theatre and turned out the lights in the audience. Now seeing a play or movie with the lights on in the house seems ludicrous.
But our basic conceptions of the event of theatre, of the movie, of the tv show remains largely the same. We will move the theatre forward when we finally can imagine a new way of thinking about the essential elements of thing itself.
©2002 Nathan Thomas
click here for other Commentary by Nathan Thomas
Nathan Thomas has earned his
living as a touring actor, Artistic Director, director
stage manager, designer, composer, and pianist
He has a Ph.D. in Theatre and is a member of
the theatre faculty of Centenary College
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