Hello my lovely readers
Today’s entry is a combination of (as promised) my thoughts
on Part Two of Angels in America and
more general musings on the power of storytelling through theatre – hence the
title of the post. This combined approach has two reasons behind it. Firstly,
and most prosaically, I’ve realised that there is very little I could
meaningfully say about the specific elements of the production that struck me
without spoiling it. Secondly, I have been to several other shows recently
which have had a similarly profound impact (albeit for different, though
related, reasons), and I think it’s important to give them some space here too.
After all, this blog is supposed to have a dual focus – placing my physicality
alongside my PhD thesis – and it has been a while since I wrote anything for it
about theatre.
I have mentioned, several times over the last few months’
worth of posts, that I have been struggling to find my words in response to
recent events in my life – most significantly, the loss of three more people I
held very dear. That has continued to be the case; so much so that I have to
pace myself through sentences, never mind paragraphs, whilst writing out
lengthier blog entries and have often resorted to posting pictures or videos
instead. I suppose that has been positive for my academic writing, because it
forces me to be concise and sparing. On a personal level, though, it has been
hard not to have the linguistic outlets of creative writing I rely on so much
to keep me stable. As CS Lewis writes in his 1961 essay A Grief Observed, ‘[b]y writing it all down (all? – no: one thought
in a hundred) I believe I get a little outside it.’ But I can’t write
creatively in verse or prose, because of the emotional and physical pain this
inspires, which makes getting ‘outside it’ a challenge. All my usual routes
seem blocked off.
In an attempt to mitigate the absence of my own words, I have
sought solace in other people’s – often aurally rather than visually, since
even reading is proving difficult at times. Consequently, theatre’s triumvirate
of audio-visual liveness renders it the most accessible art form for me at the
moment (which can only be a bonus for my research!). The substance of this post, then, revolves
around the four shows in which I’ve most recently found succour, sometimes knowingly,
often completely unexpectedly, but always exactly when needed.
I’ll write about Perestroika
(Angels Part Two) as a conclusion,
because it was the original inspiration for this post, and captures the tone on
which I’d like to end. I’ll start with the Globe’s current production of Twelfth Night, which I saw with friends
in mid-July. Much has already been said about the style, so I won’t add to that
commentary, except to say that I found it really interesting and bold; it
seemed imbued with a sense of Shakespeare’s own innovative spirit. Instead I
want to mention the manner in which it dealt with, and brought out, the more
sombre undertones of the comedy. By foregrounding the fact that the confusion
and disguises are based on grief (something I hadn’t fully appreciated before,
despite absolutely loving the play and both studying it extensively and
watching it in many different forms) it gave a poignancy and depth to all the
characters and their interactions, even the ones supposedly mere comic relief.
It also emphasised the importance of communication, which is
a helpful link to my second show. The
Shape of the Pain is a one-woman piece based around the experience of
chronic pain. I saw it in preview before Edinburgh and, quite simply, I found
it revelatory. Not only did it seamlessly integrate captioning and
audio-description to ensure accessibility (and thereby prove that such
inclusion is both possible and artistically enhancing) it provided me with an
expanded vocabulary to describe my perceptions of my own pain. Here I refer to
the physical sensations surrounding my spasms rather than the emotional
discomfort of grief, but the two are so entwined that relief for one helps the
other in turn. I was particularly struck, and reassured, by the sections on the
sense of dissociation that arises from extreme pain – because it showed me I’m
not the only one who is left not just speechless but unable to form coherent
thoughts when I’m sore. I know that in the abstract, of course, but it was
comforting to have it confirmed. It was also a prime example of how theatre can
be both aesthetically, artistically brilliant and accessible, educational and
representative; if you’re in Edinburgh this month, I’d highly recommend trying
to catch it.
Continuing the theme of artistic and aesthetic innovation
coupled with accessible, educational representation, but returning to mental
anguish, we arrive at my third show. The
Rose and the Bulbul was an outdoor promenade performance, directed by my
friend Sita, which paired British and Hindu folklore through theatre, song and
dance. It was performed by a diverse cast (hurrah, though I wish that weren’t
still novel enough in 2017 to
delight me so much!) and told of the friendship between a rose and a
nightingale. Over the course of the story, which we followed through the
gardens of Lauderdale House (the last of the London tour locations), the two
characters supported each other in dealing with traumatic elements of their
pasts. The most notable of these was again grief, and the script evoked it so
accurately and sensitively that I had to wipe stray tears away as covertly as
possible given the intimate, outdoor nature of the performance space; yet more
unexpected (but hugely appreciated) succour.
Where there was exploration of the impact of bereavement,
though, there was equal emphasis on hope, encapsulated by the use of the
quotation from Rumi beginning ‘Sorrow prepares you for joy...’ This is a
characteristic it shares with my fourth show, which allows me at last to segue
into thoughts on Perestroika. Far
from being unexpected relief, since I had both read it and read and watched Millennium Approaches (Angels Part One), I was counting on it.
This was probably evident from my entry on the 12th April, for Vicky, before going to the theatre.
Nevertheless, the reality of witnessing it on stage was
vastly different – superior! – to the expectation, and aspects I had barely
registered when reading it curled up in my room in halls hit me like a blow to
the solar plexus when heard live. For instance, at Prior’s vocalising of his
horror that people younger than him are dying when he’s not even thirty, I had
to stifle an involuntary, audible gasp of recognition. To read it on a blurry
page as your eyes swim with tears is one thing; to hear (and read it captioned)
as a live, bold, unashamed truth is another.
Of course I wouldn’t want to overstate the parallels of life
with AIDS and the experience of other disabilities – but, as a friend’s partner
said, the show is really about minority communities coming together in
solidarity and support to struggle through and survive. Just as physical and
mental anguish are very often inseparable, so too are struggle and survival
inextricably intertwined. Angels, and
Perestroika in particular, constantly
emphasises this connection. Never shying away from the (frequently gory and
gruesome) reality of disease, discrimination and death, nor from the toll that
such experiences take on everyone involved, it still manages to show that such
situations can inspire determination within the depths of despair.
This reminder was as meaningful to me as I imagine it must
have been to the original audiences in 1991. Dealing with bereavement over the
last fifteen years has taught me how lucky I am to have loved people to whom it
has been so excruciatingly hard to say goodbye – and for whom I must live every
day as boldly as I can. I’m so glad I’ve had theatre to help me remember that,
with other people’s words whispering wisdom into the silence that has seemed to
surround me for such a lot of the spring and summer.
On that note, I’m signing off for some stretches, because I
have a walk in all their honour to prepare for – and I want to do their
memories the justice they deserve. If you’ve managed to stick with me until the
end of this lengthy ramble, I offer you sincere love and gratitude, and the
promise that next week’s won’t be half as long.
Jx
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