Masks operate everywhere in the theatre, albeit most of of the time not literally. Character can be conceived in terms of mask, costume can be used as a mask, the space can be talked about as a mask, even the text is a kind of mask. Mask, in this sense, is the “not self,” the modality, that an actor pushes energy and intention through. Masks often literally limit sight, matched by a metaphorical shaping of a point of view—opening up proclivities and attitudes and closing down others. The red nose was described by Jacques Lecoq as the “neutral mask of comedy,” which I take to mean that it is the mask of the “pre-performative” state of comedy—the readiness, the attention, the focus, the naivete, the state of play—that must exist before we even begin talking about character or given circumstances. Does that mean that the nose is an enabler? An expander of possibilities? Well, yes and no. In regular neutral mask work, there are many wrong choices. That is part of the point of the work—to help the student build a “clean slate” from which to build character or a dynamic, as well as learn better one's relationship with his/her body, break bad habits, etc.. The neutral mask also has generic limitations—as we learned at Lecoq, sometimes getting our fragile little artist egos bruised in the process, not all themes/situations are appropriate for the neutral mask. Most obviously, a situation where language becomes a necessity would be one. One might even argue that the neutral mask doesn't belong in ANY theatrical context, that really it is a pedagogical tool, and as such it belongs not to the realm of the theatrical but to the realm of the pre-theatrical. My fellow Lecoq alum, Kirjian, a very funny man in his own right, has gone as far as to say (and I have sometimes been swayed by his argument) the same thing about the red nose: that it is best used as a pedagogical tool, not in a performance context, but you can argue that point with him. My point is that the nose allows one to go certain places that would otherwise not be possible. But the nose demands respect in return. You have to play by its rules, otherwise the content of your work comes out ill-formed, amorphous. (This is not to say that you can't break rules, but you have to follow rules first in order to break them--sort of a yin-yang thing.)
Sometimes the performer uses the nose to mine herself for material. This is often the case in director Sue Morrison's collaborations. The states invoked in the highly personal training are used to turn an introspective process inside out, as it were, into a performative act. In a sense this kind of work is shamanistic—the nose is used to express an inner self that taps into a collective unconscious that resonates both personally and to the group. (I don't know if I'm speaking in terms acceptable to Sue, so please don't take this as an accurate representation of her process—I am merely speaking of my impressions.) This kind of work is also potentially very daunting because it is so highly personal. If the audience doesn't like the show, the contents of which are made up of your life, it may feel pretty close to the audience not liking your life (something you may already be up in the air about yourself.) I like the idea of this work very much as it has the possibility for metaphysical greatness. Rather than seeing a numero treated, like the great Georgie Carl and his microphone, the numero in this kind of work is someone's life.
This approach carries significant risks, however. There is sometimes a confusion of the part of the performer about the difference between expressing something that is “in the true” and expressing the “Truth” of oneself. A red nose is a mask. It may be more interesting than the social masks we wear at work, or at cocktail parties, but the things that come out of it are no more or less “in the true” than any other mask, for the question of being “in the true” is one of context, of convention. Now arguably, the things expressed by the clown are closer to one's personal “Truth” than the ones at the cocktail party, but I make such a claim not without suspicion. However, it certainly feels more like “Truth.” When one mines so deeply into oneself for material (and this is not an argument against such work) the result not only feels like “Truth,” but hard-worn “Truth.” It feels so valuable, so “pre-social,” so “Artaudian.” My suspicion lies here: sometimes I wonder if this privileged status we are tempted to give this work obfuscates the issue that the red nose is still fundamentally a mask, and while it may be a portal to a part of our being, it is not a portal to all of it. It is not all of what we are, however un-Romantic that sounds. Yes, Clown is more than personage. It may even be more than a persona. But it is not the whole “Truth” of a person, for part of the “Truth” of that person is the one who wears the social mask at the cocktail party. Or, if the Clown is so broad as to be conceived of as a person, it has to be, somewhere, a person who is partially “not you.”
Erin Bouvvy's new show, "Moving Target," is tremendously ambitious. It is personal, it is expressive. We see a clown in thritysomething crisis asking, “is this it?” The setting begins in a refreshingly aggressive fashion, in a hospital-like environment, with Bouvvy emerging somewhat monstrously from behind a makeshift gurney to a particularly grotesque number by My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult, circa 1989. (Gold star for effective use of MLTKK successfully in a clown show.) She is sick. Will someone take care of her? Where's the doctor? She takes pills throughout the show, littering the stage with empty orange bottles. (It might've been nice to see this device extended so that the show would've ended with thousands of discarded bottles covering the floor.) Or is she sick at all? Is this the latest (last?) refuge for a person trying to sort herself out? A cry for help? And if so, to whom? Herself?
Bouvvy engages in a stream-of-consciousness struggle for answers and clarity. Trying strategies, expressing despair, enacting daydreams, and then cruelly turning against herself and dashing those dreams. Her cruelty to herself becomes hard to watch at times, in a good way, as we nearly descend into the realm of the Bouffon, but with Bouvvy's clown being a shit to herself, rather than the audience.
The content of the show is Bouvvy's clown riffing on the memory-relics of her life: a job, a failed relationship, a sense of mortality, the burden of daydreaming after daydreaming has been recognized for what it is. Bouvvy finally makes an uneasy truce with herself, and her show has one of the best endings I've seen at the festival yet, involving animated a stuffed pet cat.
All of the pieces are in place for this show to be a moving, transformative experience. They are not quite well-enough glued together. And this brings me back to the demands of the nose. They were not adequately met for me on the night I attended. This was expressed in a little apprehension, a little lack of focus and precision and stillness. The highs were not high enough and the lows weren't open enough. The animal clarity that is necessary for the work was lacking in some parts. As I said earlier, the risk in this type of show is great. Because the work is so personal, and identifiably so, if it is not played through the nose (no pun intended), it seems more like therapy. And this can make the project seem selfish; after all, in therapy the expresser pays the listener, and not vice-verse.
Erin Bouvvy is not selfish, however. She is a very talented and brave performer at the beginning of a new and potentially brilliant show. You should see it when you get the chance because it will do nothing but improve.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Under the Skiff--10/10
Every piece of theatre involves manipulation. Sometimes these are literally physical manipulations of the audience, like in De la Guarda. Sometimes they are manipulations of audience participants and audience—an interesting case, as many times the audience participant is actually a secret co-conspirator of the actor, complying (usually) with instructions whispered under the actor's breath. Sometimes the manipulation happens before the show begins. I remember a clown show I worked in, where we received a very favorable review, but the review just didn't quite have the perfect quote. It did, however, say, “This is clowning unplugged.” The company hotly discussed whether or not we could use the quote on posters in the following fashion: “This is clowning...”! We decided against. These are the manipulations that first come to mind. But the theatre experience itself is also a manipulation: of time, of space, of bodies, emotional states (both the actors' and the audience's) and of expectations. Ultimately, the audience wants to be manipulated. But, paradoxically, they also want to feel safe and they don't want to feel stupid, which can happen if the performer(s) manipulate too quickly or inconsiderately, or without building a base from which to deviate. This is not to say that a performance should start particularly slowly, it just means that thrills and surprises are best received from friends and not from total strangers.
“Under the Skiff” provided another variation on the theme of manipulation by virtue of a certain delicate vulnerability. I was delightfully duped a number of times by a concave quality in both of the performers that misled me to think that they were unsure of where they were going. Nobody likes a clown (or date, for that matter) who apologetically asks for too much. This was not the case in this duo show, but both Maia Bieler and Jenny Sargent exhibited such sensitivity and patience in the generating of their themes that I almost started to worry. Was the gentleness a symptom of timidity on the performers' parts? And then BAM! the theme would coalesce into a brilliant piece with great emotional depth and sublime transformations They did this to me more than once. It takes a lot of integrity to stay in that vulnerable void for so long, especially when you know what you have in store for the audience.
The topicality of the show was very interesting. It was set in an immigration office. As I said in a previous entry, topicality does not necessarily get one any closer to “meaningfulness,” but it doesn't deter one from it either, much opposed to popular belief. Oftentimes, especially for those of us who tend to wax metaphysically on our art, topicality is eschewed as sell-out, as if addressing prominent cultural or social issues was somehow antithetical to “true” artistic expression. It is true that “issue plays” are often bad. But it is equally true that theatre in general is often bad. The last gasp of of so-called “purity”: the idiosyncratic expression of the self, justified because it's “for real” is no guarantee that you get anything more present, genuine, or profound than a 30-second political TV spot. (And sometimes the TV spot is better because at least it's over in 30 seconds!) However, it is also true that sometimes an artist chooses to address a certain topical issue because s/he feels very strongly about it. It may be an issue of such importance to the artist that s/he cannot afford to conceive of the issue in anything but black and white terms. And therein lies the problem. Art is much more interesting (to me, anyway) when it asks questions rather than answers them. This might explain why those who still find the reading of plays an enjoyable pastime still read some of Brecht's plays, but many fewer have ever done so with the scripts of the San Francisco Mime Troupe. (Not that that fine company does bad work, it's just a question of priorities—are you trying to mobilize or you trying to stimulate some kind of dialectical process?)
The treatment and the topicality work very well in “Under the Skiff” Masterfully so. The double-image of the vulnerability of the immigrant in the foreign INS office and the clown in the theatre opens a huge space for contemplation. The situation allows for naïve, beautifully crafted flights of fancy to reverberate in thick, dulcet tones, and it allows for some modes of expression that I don't normally see in a clown show.
A few highlights:
There is an extended bit of business involving taking a number and waiting for it to be called. Bieler's clown enters, accustoming herself to the unwelcoming office. She discovers the ticket dispenser. She takes a ticket. Satisfied for a moment, she realizes that if one is good, multiple tickets are probably better, and soon she has exhausted the machine. Sargent's clown then enters. After she realizes there's a ticket machine, she then realizes there aren't any left. We see Bieler counting her multiple tickets, calling out the numbers. The treatment and escalation of the scene from there presents a wonderful numero between the two clowns. I wont spoil the ingenious way Sargent wins this in this numero, as you can see for yourself on Sunday at 530pm, but it is great. The give and take between the actors and the relaxed space they provide between each other allows the sequence to echo every public-anonymous experience we've had where we wait as strangers: the DMV, the doctor's office, the stalled subway, the courtroom, the government office.
There is a brilliant sequence involving “citizenship tests” which starts gently and escalates into play, and then turns into a nightmarish interrogation. This transformative moment was especially striking, as it then transformed again into an almost documentary theatre-type of piece, as Sargent's clown recounts her experience coming to the country. The sequence also has a marvelous ending, which I wont spoil.
A recurring object theme involved work with newspaper boats. It is poetic, silly, playful, full of perspective shifts, and comes to bind the show together into a sort of emotional metonymy that includes us all. The use of this boat theme might be my only point of criticism. I felt that more could have been done with the boat theme. (For example, the audience comes to understand that the setting of the show is not a landed INS office, but, rather an INS detention center on a boat.) But, perhaps that kind of an extension carries a risk. If any unifying theme gets too strong or literal, the seduction and play of the piece might well quickly evaporate.
This show is HIGHLY recommended.
“Under the Skiff” provided another variation on the theme of manipulation by virtue of a certain delicate vulnerability. I was delightfully duped a number of times by a concave quality in both of the performers that misled me to think that they were unsure of where they were going. Nobody likes a clown (or date, for that matter) who apologetically asks for too much. This was not the case in this duo show, but both Maia Bieler and Jenny Sargent exhibited such sensitivity and patience in the generating of their themes that I almost started to worry. Was the gentleness a symptom of timidity on the performers' parts? And then BAM! the theme would coalesce into a brilliant piece with great emotional depth and sublime transformations They did this to me more than once. It takes a lot of integrity to stay in that vulnerable void for so long, especially when you know what you have in store for the audience.
The topicality of the show was very interesting. It was set in an immigration office. As I said in a previous entry, topicality does not necessarily get one any closer to “meaningfulness,” but it doesn't deter one from it either, much opposed to popular belief. Oftentimes, especially for those of us who tend to wax metaphysically on our art, topicality is eschewed as sell-out, as if addressing prominent cultural or social issues was somehow antithetical to “true” artistic expression. It is true that “issue plays” are often bad. But it is equally true that theatre in general is often bad. The last gasp of of so-called “purity”: the idiosyncratic expression of the self, justified because it's “for real” is no guarantee that you get anything more present, genuine, or profound than a 30-second political TV spot. (And sometimes the TV spot is better because at least it's over in 30 seconds!) However, it is also true that sometimes an artist chooses to address a certain topical issue because s/he feels very strongly about it. It may be an issue of such importance to the artist that s/he cannot afford to conceive of the issue in anything but black and white terms. And therein lies the problem. Art is much more interesting (to me, anyway) when it asks questions rather than answers them. This might explain why those who still find the reading of plays an enjoyable pastime still read some of Brecht's plays, but many fewer have ever done so with the scripts of the San Francisco Mime Troupe. (Not that that fine company does bad work, it's just a question of priorities—are you trying to mobilize or you trying to stimulate some kind of dialectical process?)
The treatment and the topicality work very well in “Under the Skiff” Masterfully so. The double-image of the vulnerability of the immigrant in the foreign INS office and the clown in the theatre opens a huge space for contemplation. The situation allows for naïve, beautifully crafted flights of fancy to reverberate in thick, dulcet tones, and it allows for some modes of expression that I don't normally see in a clown show.
A few highlights:
There is an extended bit of business involving taking a number and waiting for it to be called. Bieler's clown enters, accustoming herself to the unwelcoming office. She discovers the ticket dispenser. She takes a ticket. Satisfied for a moment, she realizes that if one is good, multiple tickets are probably better, and soon she has exhausted the machine. Sargent's clown then enters. After she realizes there's a ticket machine, she then realizes there aren't any left. We see Bieler counting her multiple tickets, calling out the numbers. The treatment and escalation of the scene from there presents a wonderful numero between the two clowns. I wont spoil the ingenious way Sargent wins this in this numero, as you can see for yourself on Sunday at 530pm, but it is great. The give and take between the actors and the relaxed space they provide between each other allows the sequence to echo every public-anonymous experience we've had where we wait as strangers: the DMV, the doctor's office, the stalled subway, the courtroom, the government office.
There is a brilliant sequence involving “citizenship tests” which starts gently and escalates into play, and then turns into a nightmarish interrogation. This transformative moment was especially striking, as it then transformed again into an almost documentary theatre-type of piece, as Sargent's clown recounts her experience coming to the country. The sequence also has a marvelous ending, which I wont spoil.
A recurring object theme involved work with newspaper boats. It is poetic, silly, playful, full of perspective shifts, and comes to bind the show together into a sort of emotional metonymy that includes us all. The use of this boat theme might be my only point of criticism. I felt that more could have been done with the boat theme. (For example, the audience comes to understand that the setting of the show is not a landed INS office, but, rather an INS detention center on a boat.) But, perhaps that kind of an extension carries a risk. If any unifying theme gets too strong or literal, the seduction and play of the piece might well quickly evaporate.
This show is HIGHLY recommended.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Dill & Digger--10/7
One of the challenges of performing in a festival context is the quick turnover required. Sets must be portable and be able to set up/tear down twenty minutes, preferably ten. Often this challenge goes unanswered, as the set of a festival show fails to transform the space and rather looks like a capitulation to time and budget constraints. The show ends up looking like a “guest” in the space, and not a terribly welcome one. This is not to say that using the black stage and curtains of the Brick and just a few spare props is a faux pas, but even this can seem wonky if the space isn’t utilized by the performer(s) well, or if the few props that are placed on stage seem to be thrown on, rather than elements of the clown’s world.
The sparse set of Dill & Digger had me worried: a chair on the side of the stage, an overturned washtub center stage. The unceremonious entrance of a suspendered fisherman-looking gentleman did not grab me either, as he nodded sheepishly to the audience. And then I see that he is actually the one-man orchestra! He sets up shop on the side of the stage, turning the washtub into a bass, accompanying the “trumpet” he plays using only his lips, and keeping time with a bit of plastic taped to one of his fishing boots. A bit of “bait and switch” on the show’s part, and a nice one at that. The music begins a transformation of the space nicely, preparing us for Dill & Digger’s entrance. And boy did they raise the transformative bar! But more on that in a moment.
First of all I should say that from the very earliest moment we see Dill & Digger, they charm the audience. This is not because they are “cute” (in fact there is little that could be said to be “cute” about the goose-steeping, bee-hived, purple-booted, harsh-voiced Dill—she is cute like Clytemnestra in the Orestia—although her internal state of naivete is very charming), but rather because every action, every interaction is driven by their very well-defined relationship and is handled with breath and ease. They complement each other in a follower/leader relationship that is of the kind of closeness one can only have with a sibling, a lover, or a fellow clown. This is not to say that the relationship is always stable—we do see moments where the follower/leader role is inverted, which are delightful, as I was left wondering sometimes who was actually in charge, who was more powerful? This is not to say either that their relationship was primarily antagonistic. It wasn’t, although it did get very entertainingly antagonistic in parts.
I will not recount all of the events of the show (that would be just rubbing it in at this point, if you didn’t see it yet, since this excellent show has already returned to Norway), but I do just want to mention a few details of the opening. Dill & Digger enter to music as a team. They scout the space out. Finding it appropriate, they leave for a sec’, and return with a roll of Astroturf and a makeshift tree. All of a sudden the stage has been transformed into a picnic spot in the country. Satisfied with the setup, they leave once more, only to return a moment later, playing as if they’d just found this wonderful spot in the country by chance and celebrating at their own fortuitousness. The beautiful thing about this moment is the tension it creates between play and belief. Are they playing? Or are they actually on a picnic? This is simple make-believe that they get so caught up in, they catch me up in it. I know the grass is Astroturf. I just saw them roll it out. Logic and senses tell me this is a game, and yet the emotional commitment to their make-believe invited me to make-believe, too, in a delightful game where things both are and are-not at one and the same time.
There are some great physical bits, including one where the duo riffs on the difficulty of getting a picnic cloth spread correctly on the ground as a team. It is handled with precision and a nice sense of structure, from a comic writing perspective. Most importantly the actions of the bit are fueled by the characters and their relationship, and not the other way around, which is as it should be: the physical bit should be a means to bring out the personality of the clown, rather than having the clown bend him/herself to the bit. (We are talking about treatment here, of course. In the writing process, one might put a gag in because it feels right, or it might be cool, or whatever, but then it’s up to the performer to make the gag organic to the character and the situation.)
There is also some great work with objects by these two. Like their give & take as partners, the handling of the objects is simple, precise, easy, with appropriate moments of breath that allow actions and attitudes to visually and temporally crystallize. There is some really great stuff done with a teddy bear, which one moment is animated to dance by Digger and shortly later is cut to pieces by the two for lunch. So genius in its simplicity! Remember above how I said this show plays so well with make-believe? Here we see the two unable to open their can of food. They begin to starve. Dill figures out that the bear tastes good. She is caught by Digger eating her (Digger’s) bear. But in taking the bear back, Digger discovers that the bear tastes good, too. So she cuts off a big piece of the bear (the head, actually) and serves it to Dill. She puts the rest of the bear on her plate. We watch them carve into the bear and lift empty forks to their mouths, savoring every bite. And when they are full, Digger carefully collects the pieces of the bear and they go back into her dress, safely guarded. They are both eating the bear and not eating the bear. The bear is at once a stuffed bear and a living bear and a dead bear, and all these states seem to flicker in and out as I watch. There is something enchanting and sublime about this level of childlike naïveté.
Their sense of ease, play, and time allows for some very poignant resonating moments. There is a great bit done as the two sit down to start the picnic and they begin to clean the plates before eating. Dill takes a swig of water, spits it onto the plate and then polishes the plate with a rag. Seeing this, Digger follows suit, but in the spitting process manages to get a good part of her water on Dill without noticing. Dill thinks this has been done on purpose. She now takes another swig and spits it on Digger. Digger has no idea why she’s been spit on and so she swigs her own, larger mouthful and spits on Dill. The bit escalates. But, because of their sense of ease and simplicity in its escalation, the whole thing had a chance to resonate nicely in my head: “Holy sh*t! My parents do that! Holy sh*t, I do that! Holy sh*t, I did that yesterday! Holy sh*t, I’m like my parents!” (Not the most profound revelation, I’ll agree, but maybe I’ll have to wade through my own self-discovery clichés before I get to the real stuff. In any case, it was a moment I’ll remember for a long time.)
This show had a nice arc, compositionally speaking, going from the very first sleepy entrance of the musician to the fight between Dill & Digger that causes them to split apart, and their joyous reconciliation afterwards. It very effectively used the simple story of a picnic as a way to explore these characters in cooperation, conflict, misunderstanding, celebration, jealousy, and joy. And as we come to know these characters more and more through the course of the show, we come to recognize ourselves more and more in those characters. Bravo.
The sparse set of Dill & Digger had me worried: a chair on the side of the stage, an overturned washtub center stage. The unceremonious entrance of a suspendered fisherman-looking gentleman did not grab me either, as he nodded sheepishly to the audience. And then I see that he is actually the one-man orchestra! He sets up shop on the side of the stage, turning the washtub into a bass, accompanying the “trumpet” he plays using only his lips, and keeping time with a bit of plastic taped to one of his fishing boots. A bit of “bait and switch” on the show’s part, and a nice one at that. The music begins a transformation of the space nicely, preparing us for Dill & Digger’s entrance. And boy did they raise the transformative bar! But more on that in a moment.
First of all I should say that from the very earliest moment we see Dill & Digger, they charm the audience. This is not because they are “cute” (in fact there is little that could be said to be “cute” about the goose-steeping, bee-hived, purple-booted, harsh-voiced Dill—she is cute like Clytemnestra in the Orestia—although her internal state of naivete is very charming), but rather because every action, every interaction is driven by their very well-defined relationship and is handled with breath and ease. They complement each other in a follower/leader relationship that is of the kind of closeness one can only have with a sibling, a lover, or a fellow clown. This is not to say that the relationship is always stable—we do see moments where the follower/leader role is inverted, which are delightful, as I was left wondering sometimes who was actually in charge, who was more powerful? This is not to say either that their relationship was primarily antagonistic. It wasn’t, although it did get very entertainingly antagonistic in parts.
I will not recount all of the events of the show (that would be just rubbing it in at this point, if you didn’t see it yet, since this excellent show has already returned to Norway), but I do just want to mention a few details of the opening. Dill & Digger enter to music as a team. They scout the space out. Finding it appropriate, they leave for a sec’, and return with a roll of Astroturf and a makeshift tree. All of a sudden the stage has been transformed into a picnic spot in the country. Satisfied with the setup, they leave once more, only to return a moment later, playing as if they’d just found this wonderful spot in the country by chance and celebrating at their own fortuitousness. The beautiful thing about this moment is the tension it creates between play and belief. Are they playing? Or are they actually on a picnic? This is simple make-believe that they get so caught up in, they catch me up in it. I know the grass is Astroturf. I just saw them roll it out. Logic and senses tell me this is a game, and yet the emotional commitment to their make-believe invited me to make-believe, too, in a delightful game where things both are and are-not at one and the same time.
There are some great physical bits, including one where the duo riffs on the difficulty of getting a picnic cloth spread correctly on the ground as a team. It is handled with precision and a nice sense of structure, from a comic writing perspective. Most importantly the actions of the bit are fueled by the characters and their relationship, and not the other way around, which is as it should be: the physical bit should be a means to bring out the personality of the clown, rather than having the clown bend him/herself to the bit. (We are talking about treatment here, of course. In the writing process, one might put a gag in because it feels right, or it might be cool, or whatever, but then it’s up to the performer to make the gag organic to the character and the situation.)
There is also some great work with objects by these two. Like their give & take as partners, the handling of the objects is simple, precise, easy, with appropriate moments of breath that allow actions and attitudes to visually and temporally crystallize. There is some really great stuff done with a teddy bear, which one moment is animated to dance by Digger and shortly later is cut to pieces by the two for lunch. So genius in its simplicity! Remember above how I said this show plays so well with make-believe? Here we see the two unable to open their can of food. They begin to starve. Dill figures out that the bear tastes good. She is caught by Digger eating her (Digger’s) bear. But in taking the bear back, Digger discovers that the bear tastes good, too. So she cuts off a big piece of the bear (the head, actually) and serves it to Dill. She puts the rest of the bear on her plate. We watch them carve into the bear and lift empty forks to their mouths, savoring every bite. And when they are full, Digger carefully collects the pieces of the bear and they go back into her dress, safely guarded. They are both eating the bear and not eating the bear. The bear is at once a stuffed bear and a living bear and a dead bear, and all these states seem to flicker in and out as I watch. There is something enchanting and sublime about this level of childlike naïveté.
Their sense of ease, play, and time allows for some very poignant resonating moments. There is a great bit done as the two sit down to start the picnic and they begin to clean the plates before eating. Dill takes a swig of water, spits it onto the plate and then polishes the plate with a rag. Seeing this, Digger follows suit, but in the spitting process manages to get a good part of her water on Dill without noticing. Dill thinks this has been done on purpose. She now takes another swig and spits it on Digger. Digger has no idea why she’s been spit on and so she swigs her own, larger mouthful and spits on Dill. The bit escalates. But, because of their sense of ease and simplicity in its escalation, the whole thing had a chance to resonate nicely in my head: “Holy sh*t! My parents do that! Holy sh*t, I do that! Holy sh*t, I did that yesterday! Holy sh*t, I’m like my parents!” (Not the most profound revelation, I’ll agree, but maybe I’ll have to wade through my own self-discovery clichés before I get to the real stuff. In any case, it was a moment I’ll remember for a long time.)
This show had a nice arc, compositionally speaking, going from the very first sleepy entrance of the musician to the fight between Dill & Digger that causes them to split apart, and their joyous reconciliation afterwards. It very effectively used the simple story of a picnic as a way to explore these characters in cooperation, conflict, misunderstanding, celebration, jealousy, and joy. And as we come to know these characters more and more through the course of the show, we come to recognize ourselves more and more in those characters. Bravo.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
"Bubkus"--10/7
It is difficult to describe a clown show to someone who's never seen one before. In some ways it's like trying to describe other performance-based theatrical forms to the uninitiated. How do you describe with language, in meaningful terms, the experience of watching a Noh play, or a Commedia Dell 'Arte scenario, or a Kathakali dance drama? Clown may be even more difficult in that it carries with it some negative cultural baggage when speaking to an American auditor: you say “clown” and immediately the images conjured up are the prevalent “clown signs”: the party clown playing with props in the cleared-out corner, cartoon clowns (although Krusty is better than most), birthday clowns, hamburger clowns, murderer clowns, and people who dress like murderer clowns as a gimmick to sell records or other schlock of any innumerable varieties.
“What happens?” people sometimes ask about this show you're trying to describe ecstatically. And as you try to recount the events that take place, you sometimes realize halfway through, that what you've described sounds juvenile, uninteresting, and not even you want to see the show you've just described. It's hard talk about what happens, in other words, because so much of it is in the treatment, not the events. The sublime is difficult to enfence with words.
A more savvy interlocutor may ask, “what does it mean?” I used to bristle at this question and retort somewhat sarcastically, “what do the Water Lilies mean? What does King Lear mean? What does Endgame mean?” I have since come around to the notion that what one is really often asking in that question is, “was it meaningful to you? And if so, what was it that was meaningful?” This is a legitimate question and takes the burden off of me to try to encapsulate into two or three logical sentences the emotional, intellectual, aesthetic, and spiritual responses to a show that should hopefully stay with me long after the show and mean different things to me as I make my way through life.
“Meaningfulness,” however, is not the same thing as “meaning.” "Meaningfulness" is not reached through peppered identifiable references or topicality, although those things could be meaningfully played with/upon. Rather, the question of “meaningfulness” has to do with relations: between moments, between actors, between actors and audience. “Meaningfulness” is the space that opens up between two or more elements and resonates, inviting other ideas and experiences in the viewer's (and the clown's) head to join in the party, even if that participation is small or silent. “Meaningfulness” is the space between visible parts where something invisible that cannot be fully named becomes clear.
“Bubkus,” performed by Jesse Buck answers the first above question quite adequately. A clown wakes from his slumber to find an audience in his sparsely decorated room. He uses a series of quotidian props—a sheet, a pillowcase, a toothbrush, a bottle of water, a milk crate—to imaginatively play out a series of scenarios, sometimes thematically, sometimes aesthetically linked. The games start simply: waking up, brushing teeth, playing “waiter” with audience using the bottle of water and the pillowcase. These games get more elaborate as the show moves on, with the last half of the show devoted to an elaborate story involving a hero guarding a sleeping companion made from a pillowcase against a nefarious-looking villain and his minions, in which the clown plays all of the parts using a sort of montage technique vaguely reminiscent of some of scenes from Dario Fo's Mistero Buffo.
This description does not do justice to Mr. Buck's performance, which contains many surprises and well-executed gags. He also has written some witty comic structures, in which physical challenges are encountered, overcome, forgotten about, and then encountered again in a different context and with raised stakes. He has some nice moments of physical and writing prowess, transforming himself into many different characters and objects, and hitting the button well on many of his gags. He does some very funny bits and occasionally made me say to myself, “that was a nice surprise!”
This is what happens. A series of feats, essentially. While the question of “what happens,” is answered, and answered entertainingly in many parts, the question of “meaningfulness” is more problematic. I am not posing the question, as some might, “who gives a sh*t about a guy playing make-believe in his room?” The theme could be quite meaningful. The question here, rather, is one of arc and execution. The operative personality trait of Mr. Buck's clown is a person who continually says, “look! See what I can do!” And he shows us some wonderful storytelling techniques and comic structures. But that is all. The performance reminded me not so much of a dramatic work (that is—a work where the story of a character is told through action) as an acrobatic event. And not a theatrical acrobatic event, but more of a sporting one, like a gymnastics display for an Olympics trial, or a martial arts demonstration.
Ultimately the events in the show do not resonate. They mean what they are and do not become “meaningful” in a larger, resonant sense. This is for a number of reasons. First is the question of breath and stillness. While executing movement and gags with precision, Buck rarely shares himself in the action. He does have “sharing moments”, but these unfortunately seem canned, scripted, occupying too much the same tension of his gags. I found myself asking, “where is his innocence? His bide [void]?” The innocence existed largely as an idea, not as a state, and by cheating me of this shift in states, I was not allowed the time or space to make his exploits meaningful. Rather we moved from one gag to the next, with little space between. This limits even his nuanced events, such as the transformation of his pillowcase into a delicate sleeping companion from becoming more than just a prop in the plot.
Related to this is a question of arc, in terms of writing. Mr. Buck's clown undergoes no change from start to finish. A clown is not an animator of a certain adventure story. Rather s/he is a ridiculous, naïve, sensitive creator of a certain adventure story. Implicit in this last statement is the fact that a clown show often is two stories. One is the story the clown is telling/enacting, and the other is the story of the clown trying to fulfill that task. (Noises Off, of the Mechanicals' production of Pyramus and Thisbe in A Midsummer Night's Dream might be examples from dramatic literature.) If we do not see internal challenge and change in the clown then we are left (in Mr. Buck's case) with a clown who wakes up in comfort, performs a strenuous workout, and then goes back to sleep in comfort. In “Bubkus,” from an emotional arc sense, we start at point “A” and end at point “A,” with gesticulating in between, but no journey.
Mr Buck works very hard for his audience, and in a good way. Physically, he is interesting and accomplished. Maybe he works too hard sometimes? With so much audible breath in a text-free show, the breath almost becomes a sort of text that comments on the difficulty of his feats. At times I was reminded of ancient Noh practitioner Zeami's advice to never play physically more than 7, even at moments when you must internally play 10. But it must be said that his show was funny and surprising, and while he could be more open as a performer, he does have a good relationship with the audience. I might like to see another show by Mr. Buck where he does less, but feels and lives more.
“What happens?” people sometimes ask about this show you're trying to describe ecstatically. And as you try to recount the events that take place, you sometimes realize halfway through, that what you've described sounds juvenile, uninteresting, and not even you want to see the show you've just described. It's hard talk about what happens, in other words, because so much of it is in the treatment, not the events. The sublime is difficult to enfence with words.
A more savvy interlocutor may ask, “what does it mean?” I used to bristle at this question and retort somewhat sarcastically, “what do the Water Lilies mean? What does King Lear mean? What does Endgame mean?” I have since come around to the notion that what one is really often asking in that question is, “was it meaningful to you? And if so, what was it that was meaningful?” This is a legitimate question and takes the burden off of me to try to encapsulate into two or three logical sentences the emotional, intellectual, aesthetic, and spiritual responses to a show that should hopefully stay with me long after the show and mean different things to me as I make my way through life.
“Meaningfulness,” however, is not the same thing as “meaning.” "Meaningfulness" is not reached through peppered identifiable references or topicality, although those things could be meaningfully played with/upon. Rather, the question of “meaningfulness” has to do with relations: between moments, between actors, between actors and audience. “Meaningfulness” is the space that opens up between two or more elements and resonates, inviting other ideas and experiences in the viewer's (and the clown's) head to join in the party, even if that participation is small or silent. “Meaningfulness” is the space between visible parts where something invisible that cannot be fully named becomes clear.
“Bubkus,” performed by Jesse Buck answers the first above question quite adequately. A clown wakes from his slumber to find an audience in his sparsely decorated room. He uses a series of quotidian props—a sheet, a pillowcase, a toothbrush, a bottle of water, a milk crate—to imaginatively play out a series of scenarios, sometimes thematically, sometimes aesthetically linked. The games start simply: waking up, brushing teeth, playing “waiter” with audience using the bottle of water and the pillowcase. These games get more elaborate as the show moves on, with the last half of the show devoted to an elaborate story involving a hero guarding a sleeping companion made from a pillowcase against a nefarious-looking villain and his minions, in which the clown plays all of the parts using a sort of montage technique vaguely reminiscent of some of scenes from Dario Fo's Mistero Buffo.
This description does not do justice to Mr. Buck's performance, which contains many surprises and well-executed gags. He also has written some witty comic structures, in which physical challenges are encountered, overcome, forgotten about, and then encountered again in a different context and with raised stakes. He has some nice moments of physical and writing prowess, transforming himself into many different characters and objects, and hitting the button well on many of his gags. He does some very funny bits and occasionally made me say to myself, “that was a nice surprise!”
This is what happens. A series of feats, essentially. While the question of “what happens,” is answered, and answered entertainingly in many parts, the question of “meaningfulness” is more problematic. I am not posing the question, as some might, “who gives a sh*t about a guy playing make-believe in his room?” The theme could be quite meaningful. The question here, rather, is one of arc and execution. The operative personality trait of Mr. Buck's clown is a person who continually says, “look! See what I can do!” And he shows us some wonderful storytelling techniques and comic structures. But that is all. The performance reminded me not so much of a dramatic work (that is—a work where the story of a character is told through action) as an acrobatic event. And not a theatrical acrobatic event, but more of a sporting one, like a gymnastics display for an Olympics trial, or a martial arts demonstration.
Ultimately the events in the show do not resonate. They mean what they are and do not become “meaningful” in a larger, resonant sense. This is for a number of reasons. First is the question of breath and stillness. While executing movement and gags with precision, Buck rarely shares himself in the action. He does have “sharing moments”, but these unfortunately seem canned, scripted, occupying too much the same tension of his gags. I found myself asking, “where is his innocence? His bide [void]?” The innocence existed largely as an idea, not as a state, and by cheating me of this shift in states, I was not allowed the time or space to make his exploits meaningful. Rather we moved from one gag to the next, with little space between. This limits even his nuanced events, such as the transformation of his pillowcase into a delicate sleeping companion from becoming more than just a prop in the plot.
Related to this is a question of arc, in terms of writing. Mr. Buck's clown undergoes no change from start to finish. A clown is not an animator of a certain adventure story. Rather s/he is a ridiculous, naïve, sensitive creator of a certain adventure story. Implicit in this last statement is the fact that a clown show often is two stories. One is the story the clown is telling/enacting, and the other is the story of the clown trying to fulfill that task. (Noises Off, of the Mechanicals' production of Pyramus and Thisbe in A Midsummer Night's Dream might be examples from dramatic literature.) If we do not see internal challenge and change in the clown then we are left (in Mr. Buck's case) with a clown who wakes up in comfort, performs a strenuous workout, and then goes back to sleep in comfort. In “Bubkus,” from an emotional arc sense, we start at point “A” and end at point “A,” with gesticulating in between, but no journey.
Mr Buck works very hard for his audience, and in a good way. Physically, he is interesting and accomplished. Maybe he works too hard sometimes? With so much audible breath in a text-free show, the breath almost becomes a sort of text that comments on the difficulty of his feats. At times I was reminded of ancient Noh practitioner Zeami's advice to never play physically more than 7, even at moments when you must internally play 10. But it must be said that his show was funny and surprising, and while he could be more open as a performer, he does have a good relationship with the audience. I might like to see another show by Mr. Buck where he does less, but feels and lives more.
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