Next season at the Public Theater

The Public Theater on Lafayette Street.

The Public Theater on Lafayette Street.

Ah, youth. In 1978, at the green age of 16, I first visited the Public Theater on Lafayette Street on a short weekend trip from my home of Hazleton, PA, for a day of theatregoing that could easily bruise the sensibilities of a callow youth. In the afternoon, I enjoyed Robert Woodruff’s staging of Sam Shepard’s Curse of the Starving Class; after a dinner break, I returned for Thomas Babe’s A Prayer for My Daughter (a play ripe for revival here in New York; it had a London revival in 2008).

Those were the glory years for Joe Papp’s New York Shakespeare Festival; A Chorus Line was providing a fresh infusion of cash into the Public’s coffers, and it was a rare night on which any of the Public’s (five stages? six?) performance spaces were dark. I returned several times over the next twenty years or so, but I never found the same electricity as I did that March day in 1978. Papp died in 1991, and by then the Chorus Line cash cow wasn’t delivering quite as much milk. During the tenures of JoAnne Akalaitis and George C. Wolfe as subsequent artistic directors, the Public fell into something of an aesthetic and business funk — then, indeed, there were many days and weeks during which all of the Public’s stages were dark.

As a tyro playwright, even in those days, I duly submitted my plays — dreadful imitations of Brecht and Pinter — to the Public’s literary office, which still accepted over-the-transom manuscripts, and after no more than a month always received rejection letters (though sometimes with an encouraging handwritten note asking to see my next play, a sheer godsend for a teenager smitten with the theatre). The Public liked playwrights back then. Legend has it that when Joseph Papp discovered that Wallace Shawn had to work in a copy shop just to make ends meet, he offered Shawn the same amount of salary just to permit Shawn to spend his days writing plays instead. These days, this would constitute a revolutionary commitment to the “emerging playwright”; in those days, it was just good sense and a favor from an artistic director to an artist. (And it paid off, as you’ll see below; on one of my subsequent visits to the Public, I saw Shawn perform The Fever.)

Over the past few years, the Public, under Oskar Eustis‘ artistic direction, has been generating a little more of that electricity — and yesterday’s announcement of the Public’s 2013-2014 season exemplifies the energy. The Public will be co-producing the US premiere of Shawn’s Grasses of a Thousand Colors in the fall (and a revival of his best play to date, The Designated Mourner, this summer); also this fall, the Public is bringing in the Foundry Theatre’s new production of Good Person of Szechwan, directed by Lear deBessonet and starring Taylor Mac, which first opened at La MaMa earlier this year. There’s also Arguendo, a new performance from Elevator Repair Service; four “Apple family” plays by Richard Nelson in rotating repertory; new plays from Suzan-Lori Parks and the Civilians; a new production of Antony and Cleopatra; and 29(!) monologues from Mike Daisey.

It is, even by the standards of the grotesque hype and Facebook blubbering that accompanies these season announcements, a tempting menu, even for a confirmed skeptic like myself — and maybe one that will bring Ron Rosenbaum down to Lafayette Street again. More information here.

Celan and Beckett

Paul Celan and Samuel Beckett.

Paul Celan and Samuel Beckett.

According to John Felstiner, Theodor Adorno considered Paul Celan “the only authentic postwar writer to stand with Samuel Beckett.” [1] (Adorno, Beckett, Celan: there’s the beginning of an alphabestiary to contend with.) Along with Adorno’s high regard, Beckett and Celan also shared Paris as their home for most of their adult lives, but surprisingly their paths never crossed. In the 2004 essay “Paul Celan Meets Samuel Beckett,” Felstiner describes the writers’ shared concerns, which become even more obvious as the years go by:

Living alone in March 1970 (with never-healing wounds) on Avenue Émile Zola just across from Pont Mirabeau, apart from his wife Gisèle and son Eric, this “true-stammered mouth,” survivor of “the thousand darknesses of deathbringing speech,” has recently returned from a fortnight in Israel, his first visit, elated and drawn to move there but fearful of yet again losing his German mother tongue, his beloved mother’s tongue seized as if overnight by her murderers. Franz Wurm, a poet-friend in Paris, invites him one afternoon to come along and meet Beckett, but Celan says No — to go unannounced at the last minute isn’t right. That evening, given greetings from Beckett, he says: That’s probably the only man here I could have had an understanding with.

But hadn’t there already been an understanding, hadn’t they been meeting all along, those years in Paris — the older man a more-or-less voluntary Irish exile to France and French, the younger man, orphaned, homelandless, reaching Paris but cleaving to German: Beckett chipping away at silence with “this dust of words,” Celan with his “gasping words,” with the “prayer-sharp knives / of my / silence”? During the 1953 opening run of En attendant Godot, where Didi and Gogo go on “blathering about nothing in particular,” Celan composed “The Vintagers,” in which “bent toward blindness and lamed,” a “latemouth” thirsts for wine, a “crookstick speaks into / the silence of answers.” …

April 16 [1970]: He tells his 14-year-old son Eric he can’t after all take him the next day, as planned, to a performance of Godot. Two tickets are later found in his wallet.

May 1 [1970]: Seven miles downstream a fisherman comes on Celan’s body caught in a filter of the river. Beckett’s longtime German translator, Elmar Tophoven, succeeds Celan as Reader in German at the École Normale Supérieure.

Celan me dépasse, Samuel Beckett will later confide to a friend, “Celan leaves me behind.” But can that be so? Beckett, whom everywhere you go in our mind you meet on his way back? Beckett’s trilogy opens with a mother’s death and ends with The Unnamable‘s last words: “in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.”

Interestingly there appears to be no mention of Paul Celan in James Knowlson’s magisterial biography of Beckett; his name does not appear in the index. For me, as I write and think about another kind of theatre minima, Beckett and Celan remain enduring exemplars for the writer, and the writing, of their and my own time.

The full text of Felstiner’s essay can be found here.

Footnotes
  1. John Felstiner, Paul Celan: Poet, Survivor, Jew. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995, p. 107. []

Upcoming in London: Screaming in Advance

screaming_barker
On Friday 3 May and Saturday 4 May at London’s Print Room, members of Howard Barker’s Wrestling School will present readings of four new plays by the dramatist — Concentration, In the Depths of Dead Love, Dying in the Street, and Distance — “linked by themes of self-definition, the meaning of nakedness, the collective death-wish, and grief for loss” and capped by a conversation with Barker and members of the company conducted by critic Mark Brown. More at the Print Room’s Web page for the event here.

From the archives: New Expressionism

As I continue to write Erlkönig I’ll be republishing several entries to keep the fire here going.


Originally posted on 18 October 2010.

In Schopenhauer’s conception of knowledge and the world, mankind is phenomenon par excellence, the object through which subjectivity can be known and the will as thing-in-itself recognized, if not described or describable in the symbol-system of language available to the individual. The will itself, because it is not describable, can’t be characterized as tragic, but this locution is available to describe the phenomenal world in relation to that will. Only that which can be directly experienced by the individual can be said to exist: it is far preferable to the abstract concept as a valid recognition, as a valid object of knowledge. Just as color cannot be described to the blind, or music to the deaf (for the vibrations under foot and hand at the concert hall are not in essence dissimilar to the vibrations of the subway or the earth), one who does not experience an extreme or a quality cannot recognize it as something known. The individual body through which the will can be recognized, and the words with which it can be explored, become the instrument of exploration and experience.

This places particular weight on the theatre and drama as aesthetic means of this exploration of the phenomenon; it is a quality of the art which most theatre practitioners (dramatists, directors, producers and critics alike) and audiences today are loathe to admit. It makes of the art a far more urgent discipline than they’re comfortable with, in that it renders the entertainment, amusement and business that attaches to the form irrelevant, especially in the forms of mimetic social realism or ironic post-modernist distance that attach to its practice even today. Obviously, in this conception, theatre and drama are the truly experiential arts, for the mediation is through the body, not the page or canvas, and it is the body that is the primary vehicle for experience. Apart from music, tragic drama is at the apex of the aesthetic imagination as conceived by Schopenhauer.

Schopenhauer was prophetic in more senses than one, inspiring many of the artists, writers and composers of the Expressionist school that arose in Austria and Germany beginning in the late 19th century. But there is a New Expressionism as well, and one which has its philosophical roots in the old. David Ian Rabey in his English Drama Since 1940 identifies a stream of post-war drama which he names a “New Expressionism,” which predated In-Yer-Face theatre, an off-shoot of this New Expressionism, by several decades, citing the work of David Rudkin, Heathcote Williams and other dramatists. “This involves a consciously heightened form of presentation which is unapologetic about its anti-conventional strageness, in which often ‘exterior facts are continually being transformed into interior elements and psychic events are exteriorized,’ in a passionate expression of, and search for, individual regeneration. … This form of renewal is prioritised as preliminary to epic theatre’s foregrounding of social relations to address the political collective. [Emphasis mine] … Unlike Absurdism, which may reflect a loss of faith in language, reference, action and consequence, Expressionism recreates an unconventional faith in consequence: the power of individual defiance to trigger wider seismic upheavals of power, countering ‘information’ and passivity with a demonstrative capacity for active transformation.” (Rabey 128) [1]

Rabey’s description takes in a broad swathe of post-1970 drama in his book, but it is also a useful corrective to the characterization of a dramatist like Samuel Beckett as “absurdist,” especially when it comes to Beckett’s prose and drama after 1960, when the novel How It Is and the play Play marked a division between his early work and his later; especially in the late plays Catastrophe and What Where, political and ideological considerations are secondary and founded upon a metaphysical ground. What’s more, all of this later work, especially pieces like Not I, are experiential rather than discursive, and the subjective psychic events are those which provide the necessary sensation. Because they also exhibit “a demonstrative capacity for active transformation,” they are immediately relevant to a consideration of the plays of Howard Barker, David Rudkin and Sarah Kane.

The later work of Beckett and the plays of Barker, Rudkin and Kane are beyond considerations of optimistic and pessimistic. Or, more accurately, they may be both. A capacity may exist, but it may or may not be fulfilled, and possibility may or may not become probability or ever realized: it is these that are demonstrated in the theatre; it remains to the individual spectator to fulfill or realize these capacities and possibilities in their own lives, having first recognized them through the aesthetic experience. But it is this capacity and possibility that is demonstrated in the theatre, and because it is beyond the currently fashionable Procrustean formal beds of social realism or post-modern irony, it remains marginalized, however awesome may be its power to transform both the art of theatre and the experience of those who attend it.

The “In-Yer-Face theatre” that emerged in the 1990s, and of whom Sarah Kane is a common (if inappropriate) exemplar, is described by Aleks Sierz; it is interesting to note in this context, since it too is a theatre founded in experience:

[In Yer Face theatre] is any drama that takes the audience by the scruff of the neck and shakes it until it gets the message. It is a theatre of sensation. … Questioning moral norms, it affronts the ruling ideas of what can or should be shown onstage; it also taps into more primitive feelings, smashing taboos, mentioning the forbidden, creating discomfort. Crucially, it tells us more about who we really are. Unlike the type of theatre that allows us to sit back and contemplate what we see in detachment, the best in-yer-face theatre takes us on an emotional journey, getting under our skin. In other words, it is experiential, not speculative. [Emphasis mine] (Sierz 4)

This is correct in so far as it goes, but I would insist that it is this theatrical experience itself that becomes the object of speculation; it must do so, if it is not to remain a solipsistic sensual experience which ends at the theatre door. Howard Barker’s conception of theatre as a crucible for moral speculation certainly does not obviate the practice of extreme and excessive stage activity and dramatic language. Indeed, speculation and experience revolve and feed upon each other on the New Expressionist stage. The theatre remains an arena of contemplation and speculation, even as this is generated by the experiential events that take place between performer and spectator, mediated by the symbol-system of dramatic language.

It is my hope in this series of posts to explore this conception of New Expressionism as described by Rabey and Gritzner, and trace its development back through the original Expressionist movement to its philosophical origins in Schopenhauer’s metaphysics and aesthetics. This is not to say that Beckett, Barker, Rudkin and Kane share much beyond these bare outlines. Beckett’s constricted, de-eroticized landscape is a far cry from Barker’s expansive, even excessive, re-eroticized imagination, and they are barely recognizable, perhaps, as exemplars of the same school. But it seems to me that their emphasis on the subjective experience, their deliberate intent to operate as far outside the Culture Industry as it may be possible to do, is a critique of the same metaphysical, moral and aesthetic stance in which that Industry stands as was Schopenhauer’s opposition to the ameliorist Enlightenment of his time.

All four dramatists begin with dislocation: dislocations of narrative and character. These dislocations are similar, if not identical, to the freeing of dissonance — that is, the thing-in-itself allowed liberty to express itself phenomenally — that defines the work of Arnold Schoenberg, that twentieth-century composer who provided the underscore to the Expressionist movements of the first quarter of the twentieth century.

Footnotes
  1. Rabey’s discussion is the basis of Karoline Gritzner’s 2008 essay “(Post)Modern Subjectivity and the New Expressionism: Howard Barker, Sarah Kane, and Forced Entertainment,” which is crucial to the start of any discussion of this dramatic and theatrical mode. It was published in Contemporary Theatre Review: 18:3. []

Other places: Beckett’s TV work, a “new” Churchill play, Brecht’s Galileo in Stratford-upon-Avon

Jack McGowran in a BBC production of Samuel Beckett's Eh Joe.

Jack McGowran in a BBC production of Samuel Beckett’s Eh Joe.

From Rhys Tranter of A Piece of Monologue comes a pointer to this essay by Jonathan Bignell about Samuel Beckett‘s television plays. As might be expected, Bignell writes, these were not exactly ratings blockbusters:

The BBC Audience Research Report on Eh Joe shows that 3% of the viewers in the BBC’s audience sample watched the play, and the Reaction Index for the programme (a measure of appreciation) was the low figure of 49. Several viewers liked the use of monologue over silent images, and one viewer wrote “obviously television could be the medium for this sort of thing, and it is a good experiment.”  But many viewers thought the play was very depressing.  A third of the sample said it was dull and dreary, with no visual appeal. …

In Britain there has always been a tension between television’s Public Service responsibility to raise the cultural standards of audiences, and the requirement to entertain. Broadcasts of Beckett’s television work show that the BBC could ignore negative audience responses and small numbers of viewers and present “the best” of arts culture as defined by BBC personnel and an informed reviewing culture in the press. The casting of high-profile theatre actors in Beckett’s television work, and the images of art-works by Bacon and Giacometti in Shades, for example, link Beckett’s plays to a valued European (and not just British) arts culture.

New Caryl Churchill plays only come every few years, so it’s a bit of a surprise to find yet another Churchill world premiere just after last year’s Love and Information at the Royal Court. Ah — a world premiere, yes, but the world premiere of a play written some forty years ago. Her 1972 The Hospital at the Time of the Revolution begins performances at London’s Finborough Theatre on 31 March. Set in Algeria in 1956, the play is described thusly:

A civil servant presents his psychologically disturbed daughter to the hospital for assessment and insists on her admittance. An inspector demands treatment for his helpless violence against his own wife and child. Three in-patient revolutionaries are delusional and paranoid. These products of a broken society are beginning to show symptoms, how should they be treated? The Hospital at the Time of the Revolution is a forensic insight into the adjustment of morality for the sake of conscience.

Bertolt Brecht is busting out all over. We’ve got the disastrously received Clive (an adaptation of Baal) and the rather more highly-regarded Good Person of Szechwan here in New York; now Mark Ravenhill’s adaptation A Life of Galileo is at the RSC in Stratford-upon-Avon. (Galileo was born on this day, 15 February, in 1564; don’t forget to send a card.) Michael Billington lauded the show in the Guardian this past Wednesday:

A reactionary pope dies, only to be succeeded by a seeming liberal who soon reverts to institutional conservatism. You could hardly have a more topical play than this. But the real pleasure of Roxana Silbert’s modern-dress RSC revival and Mark Ravenhill’s slimmed-down translation lies in the absolute clarity with which they put Brecht’s masterpiece before us. …  [The] real joy lies in seeing Brecht’s timeless debate about scientific morality rendered with such pellucid swiftness.

Brecht appears to be back, even if he never really left us. And thanks to Mr. Billington or whoever decides these things for the link to my own essay on Life of Galileo from his review.

Below, the trailer for the current RSC production of Life of Galileo for your viewing pleasure: