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Home > Tragedy
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
"All I describe is theatre even where theatre is not
the subject." The blind alleys and cul-de-sacs
down which many theatre writers wander result in a quick loss of energy:
all that spinning in place dizzies and tires one. Perhaps it is a matter
of time — all that theatregoing, writing and socializing leave
little room for reading and thought, even if we're constantly told that we
make room in our lives for what is important to us. In the past six
months, two books of essays by two very different American dramatists of
some stature — David Mamet's Theatre and Wallace Shawn's Essays — have been published to little
notice among theatre critics and reviewers, and one would have thought
their appearance would be some cause for celebration, let alone
meditation. (Would the same silence greet similar books from Tom Stoppard
and Caryl Churchill, for example?) Here are two playwrights with
substantial bodies of work holding forth, from quite distinct
perspectives, on what theatre and drama mean to culture: and not merely
the culture of the rehearsal room and the auditorium, but outside those as
well. These are not especially books of theory — Mamet describes his
own essays as "the otherwise incathectable expression of love for an
ever-widening mystery" — but of meditations on their work. I
hope to review them both here soon, but for now they demonstrate that some
American dramatists, at least, still see the need for contextualizing
their work, even if it's only for themselves, and for doing so in the
public forum of the hardcover book.
The possibilities and mysteries of imagination are limitless, the
exploration of these possibilities and mysteries perhaps the radical basis
of theatrical production itself. There is always more to write about, and
for those dramatists for whom the theatre is as much a part of their
bodies and wills as their limbs, every moment broadens the canvas, in both
their prose and their plays. The human is infinite in the theatre and the
drama, but quite finite within the allowable confines of behavior and
interest dictated by the limited social culture and the theatre
permissible there. Anything can be an "event" as Alain Badiou describes it
— a "rupture of being" in which the subject finds a new truth
— the birth of a child, a marriage, a death; that this rupture is
experienced as a catastrophe makes it the food of drama and theatre for
dramatist, performer and spectator alike. But the culture which cannot
accept these ruptures limits the autonomy of the individual imagination
that circulates within it: so most theatre, and theatre writing, remains
small and unambitious. Still, the signifying dance of language gives
expression to these events and the imagination. When one writes about the
theatre, one writes about the self in full. In passing through the
inevitability of time and place, the dramatist always finds more to write
about.
There is a sense that being bored with theatre and live performance is
being bored with
one's own body; in a culture of screens, the fascination is with the mere
two-dimensional image of the self, however false (and
however many prefer it) ...
Other "Critique of Tragedy" posts here.
Home > Tragedy
Thursday, 15 April 2010
UPDATE (17 May 2010): A few days after I posted the
below, an a propos story about an upcoming production of Sarah
Ruhl's Passion Plays appears in the Sunday 18 May New York
Times. Says Zak Berkman, artistic director of the Epic Theater
Ensemble, which is producing the plays in Brooklyn's Lafayette Avenue
Presbyterian Church: "I missed the sense of community religion gives you
growing up. Theater should feel like a secular church."
It is interesting to note that the theology of Jones' Peoples
Temple perhaps owed more to a secular, progressive, even Marxist
egalitarianism
than traditional Christianity itself. In any event, Celia McGee's full
article is here.

The final tableau:
The curtain comes down at Jonestown in 1978,
king's throne at center stage
Tragedy in America. Even one who defines himself as something
of an internal exile (aesthetically, if in nothing else) turns once in a
while to his own country: it is unavoidable, for this is where art first
and most intimately impinges on the self. In tracing the stream of tragic
consciousness through American drama, I am first faced with the dilemma
that this is a country deliberately founded, that it is early in its
evolution, unlike the millenia of civilization in Africa, Asia and Europe,
which was not ideologically deliberate. The tropes of American
self-invention, of new beginnings, of the conquering of a physical
frontier: these are unique to American experience, and such tropes suggest
a progressive, idealistic foundation: a "city on a hill," as Puritan John
Winthrop noted in 1630, alluding to Matthew 5:14. It is
based in work and faith as redemptive activities; and the suppression of
sexuality and Eros in the program of improvement remains with us to this
day.
Not that there isn't an American tragic consciousness, which first
emerged in the novels of Melville and Hawthorne, and early
twentieth-century American theatre too questioned the basis of this
foundation. In the 1920s, American tragedy was Expressionist (The
Adding Machine, 1923) as well as lyrical (Beyond the Horizon
[1918], Desire Under the Elms [1925]). In the following decade,
however, the American drama fell under the thrall of the progressive Left
and melodrama, not unlike Europe — Brecht visited the U.S. for the
first time in the mid-1930s; the establishment of the Group Theatre in
1931 not only pioneered American acting techniques but also a progressive
American drama in the work of Clifford Odets; and the Federal Theatre
Project established in 1935 was populated by artists with radical leanings
such as Orson Welles, John Houseman, Elia Kazan and Marc Blitzstein.
I noted the post-war emergence of a stream of American tragic
drama here, but further along in the postwar era the stream
thins to a trickle. But it is there if you look for it: in Edward Albee's
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Tiny Alice and A
Delicate Balance; in Shepard's Buried Child and a few other
plays; even David Mamet's Edmond and Glengarry Glen
Ross. If not tragedies by Aristotle's definition (which is not the
only one), they are informed by an intent to look darkly into the American
abyss between American ideal and American reality, providing neither
redemption nor hope. It is interesting that
American formal experimentation with the form of drama is more evident in
these tragic plays than in the comic, which while influenced by absurdism
remained firmly domestic (such as the plays of Christopher Durang).
My thoughts are drawn to Jonestown. Like America, it was founded as a community
in exile, dedicated to social justice and in flight from perceived
religious persecution; it too aimed for a progressive, politically
ameliorist community; it too used sex as a means of control and submission
than free experiential exploration (despite a puritan sexual ethos).
Although the community itself was largely composed of black and poor men,
women and children, it was almost entirely administered by
upper-middle-class,
well-meaning, college-educated and white men and women (not
unlike our current government, and indeed the staffs and practitioners of
American institutional theatre today). Both in the U.S. and in its African
outpost, citizens of Jim Jones' church regularly gave theatrical
performances for themselves — quite apart from formal worship
services, though they partook of theatricality as well — but these
were hardly tragedies: they were
musicals, joyous, seeking to bind the community in a collective gesture of
self-congratulation. The tragic metaphysics of such a community
emerged not on its stage, but from around and beneath it: until the end,
when from that
same stage the king delivered his final soliloquy as the platform filled with the
dead.
This is the stuff of an American tragic consciousness as profound as
that of Europe's. Within the American ideal, it is unacceptable: and
rather than explored, it is ignored, though its traces linger in our
language. The phrase "drinking the Kool-Aid" entered the language as a
result, but its meaning changed somewhat over the years, indeed diluted:
it has come to signify a firm belief, or a faith in what might possibly be
a delusion. But the Flavor-Aid that was drunk at Jonestown was not
laced with hallucinogens or opiates; it was laced with potassium cyanide,
and its product was not collusion, belief or social amelioration, but
death. Perhaps this is some thread of a possible American tragedy: and in
its identity with the community conformity of the men and women of The
Adding Machine, perhaps a clue to a tragic theatre of catastrophe for
American shores.
Other "Critique of Tragedy" posts here.
Home > Tragedy
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
If I had known about the Frankfurt School in time, I would
have been saved a great deal of work. I would not have said a certain
amount of nonsense and would not have taken so many false trails trying
not to get lost, when the Frankfurt School had already cleared the
way.
Michel Foucault, 1983
Quoted in Rolf Wiggershaus
The Frankfurt School: Its History,
Theories and Political
Significance (p 4)
The idea that an acknowledged metaphysics underlying a drama
necessarily leads to a thesis play, an intellectualized representation of
experience, is easily dismissed: the Greek tragedians worked during the
era of the pre-Socratic philosophers, and though they share a
deep-rooted commonality of perspective, the dramas they produced have
endured not because of their intellectual but because of their broadly
human content. This philosophy was the ground in which the aesthetic work
took root and flourished. As the quote above suggests, the work of
Critical Theory, that of Adorno, Horkheimer and so many others, seems to
have been the most significant of the twentieth century, presaging both
the postmodernists and the structuralists: certainly its nearly
century-old status as a central body of thought for
twentieth-century experience must be reckoned with. It demands a
claim on our attention. The project of a revival of tragedy in its
philosophical light is a life-long project. But for that reason it is
essential, and we should be cheered by the prospects it offers for
knowledge through our lives, and not downcast by the impossibility of the
project's completion.
Between the political materialism of Marx (and its optimism for
progressive improvement of the race) and the psychological darkness of
Freud (and its pessimism for the ability of the human individual to
finally adjust to the tragedy of experience), and therefore between their
forebears Hegel and Schopenhauer: this is a dynamic in which the dramatic
work operates not as the statement of a problem but as the exploration of
bodied consciousness, both a historic construct and a metaphysical
condition. It should come as no surprise that aesthetics is central to the
project of Critical Theory, as it was to Schopenhauer's metaphysics: each
informs the other, and any reconciliation between the two appears
impossible. But again, this is not a problem, but a condition, perhaps the
condition of the race, and it is informed too by the bloody history of the
twentieth century, perhaps the bloodiest of histories. As the Greeks knew,
it was the dramatic stage upon which the philosophical dynamic plays
itself out, the speaking human body the fleshed dynamic: but offering in
the end not a dead conclusion, but an organic experience; the start of a
new road into the unknown, into the dark, and possibility.
It is difficult not to acknowledge the difficulty of the task, and the
responsibility of the dramatist and performer towards not only history
(the history of the form as well as the history of the race) but also
the autonomous self within it ... it is dangerous, thankless work ...
but why else write or stage a play at all ...
Other "Critique of Tragedy" posts here.
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