Your week of podcast listening:
Iconic lesbian feminist performance company Split Britches’ Peggy Shaw and Lois Weaver talk with Jen Harvie about the forty years they’ve worked with – and loved – each other. They discuss how they met, how they’ve sustained collaboration and communication, and how changes in cultural attitudes to sexuality and gender affect Retro(per)spective, the joyous cocktail of greatest-hits scenes from past work they are touring. They consider the importance of performing with love and care, and when to shout and when to whisper. splitbritches.wordpress.com/
Still, at 85, a force in British theatre, Thelma Holt began producing international seasons in the 1980s. Ebullient as ever, this year she is again bringing Yukio Ninagawa’s “cherry-blossom”production of Macbeth to the Barbican, to celebrate its thirtieth anniversary. Here she tells Heather Neill about her career, as a RADA-trained actress, then as a producer at the Round House and afterwards for Peter Hall’s National Theatre and for her own company, showcasing such famous productions as the Georgian Richard III, Matthew Warchus’s Much Ado about Nothing, The Doll’s House with Janet McTeer and the Redgraves’ Three Sisters. Interview recorded on 5 September 2017 at the Noel Coward Theatre.
In this episode Dan goes in search of right-wing theatre and tries to trace out a little history of how and why the theatre might have a liberal bias. He then talk about conservatism in the theatre with Kate Maltby. Finally, Dan interviews Paul Miller, artistic director of the Orange Tree, looking back at his time so far and previewing the new season.
- 00.00.00 Introduction
- 00.01.15 Right-wing theatre: introduction
- 00.18.45 Right-wing theatre: discussion with Kate Maltby
- 00.49.44 Interview with Paul Miller
- 01.24.09 End
Chris talks to movement director Imogen Knight, who’s about to direct ‘Nuclear War’ by Simon Stephens at the Royal Court.
We’ve all failed at something, but rarely on stage in front of hundreds of people. The National Theatre Podcast asks their favourite guests to share their hilarious stories of on-stage mishaps and malfunctions, and professional embarrassment in its most public form. All to answer the simple question – how do we deal with failure? And why are we are so obsessed with it?
JMK 2016 Award winner and The Mountaintop director Roy Alexander Weise joined Off Book to talk about how he went from wanting to be a celebrity chef to becoming a celebrated director of Katori Hall’s Olivier award-winner. Roy also discusses how he cut his teeth at Oval House, Rose Bruford and the Royal Court as well as the timeliness of sharing The Mountaintop with audiences in 2016.
Introduction by Simon Stephens:
“The career of Rachel De-lahay might be described as the platonic form of a young Royal Court playwright’s career in the 21st century. She joined the Court’s Unheard Voices Programme in 2010, an initiative led by the theatre’s long-term Artistic Associate; the massively under-rated and massively important Ola Animashawun, committed, like much of his work, to representing voices too rarely represented on the Court’s stage. Out of that group came her first play The Westbridge; an energised, explosive, exploration of the complexities and contradictions of racial identity in Britain’s urban spaces. It premiered not at the Court but in Peckham at the Bussey Building as part of the Court’s initiative to take work out of the confines of the rarefied spaces of Sloane Square. It was remounted in the Theatre Upstairs and won that years Writers’ Guild Award for Best Theatre Play and that year’s Alfred Fagon Award. Her second play Routes in 2013, a beautifully poised and charged study of the mess of identity in Britain’s immigrant community and the drive that brings people to this country, won her the 2013 Charles Wintour Award for Most Promising Playwright. In 2014 she returned to her home city of Birmingham with her play Circles, a tender exploration of love and self-hatred from the perspective of the city’s Number 11 bus – until recently the longest urban bus journey in Europe. She’s written for radio and television, has developed work for film and was one of the writers on the 2015 internet drama The Last Hours of Laura K.
She is a writer widely celebrated for her ear for urban idiom. But it is, I think, her inherent capacity to find humanity and vulnerability in those characters, often demonised by the urban experience, that her talent becomes extraordinary. That, and her structural boldness. The energy of her plays for me, lies as much in their structures as in the fizz and crackle of her idiom.”
Extracts from Rakugo: Popular Narrative Art of The Grotesque by Sasaki Miyoko and Morioka Heinz
“Although many stories have been adapted from written sources. rakugo can be considered a genuine form of oral art because its principal route of transmission down to us has been through the lips of the performers. To this day there are no written manuals or librettos containing the full text of a performance or of the way a story has to be presented. There is mainly oral transmission from master to pupil. Written notes to help in memorization or tape recordings are frowned upon. Through long years of personal association with his teacher, listening to his performance from backstage, and living as an apprentice in his home, the student devotes his attention to mastering the stories.”
“The sense of reality is maintained throughout the story, and shared by performer and audience alike. Drawing freely on his personal experience, the performer styles his own individual pre- amble or “pillow” (makura t) for his story, selecting among con- temporary events, the weather, or work, whatever topics he feels his audience might be interested in. When he enters into the story itself, then his hero, in a curious and sudden shift of time dimen- sion, leaps out of the setting of an old tale right into the present moment and confronts the audience. Here, if the storyteller clumsily tries to evoke laughter in an obvious way, the effect will amount to nothing more than crowd-pleasing titillation, and his story may fall flat. But the expert performer can bridge the time gap smoothly and without a hitch, drawing the audience along with him into the world of classical rakugo.”
“The rakugo performer must organize his story in a new way each time, but if he is to remain within the confines of classical tradition, he is forced to observe certain definite rules. Throughout several centuries of rakugo the main plots of the stories and the heroes’ names have not changed. In the organization and minute descriptive details of episodes, with each performance, each year, and each generation, a great variety of different nuances and changes have appeared. No story can ever be performed twice in exactly the same way.”
“Changes in scene of a story are described by onomatopoetic words and sounds; for example, the ringing of a temple-bell, bon-bon; the clatter of wooden clogs, karan-koron; the sound of the wind, pyiu u u u; rolling of stones, gara-gara; or noise in the background, di-di, go-go. Onomatopoetic insertions can extend over a period of more than one minute, when they describe such movements as slow walking, tata tata…, tsun tsun …; running, sai-sai koro-sai, e-sa-sa, sowa- sowa, chowa-chowa; walking with heavy baggage on one’s shoulders, wasshoi-wasshoi…, or the sounds of work and play, kachi-kachi, pachi-pachi, pochi-pochi, poka-poka, potsu-potsu, sara-sara; or heavy exertion, hora-yo, sora-yo,yosshoi.”
“The rakugo performer is not supposed to change his position once he takes a seat on the stage. But merely by the movement of the upper half of his body he represents all kinds of actions. Walking from one place to another is expressed by one of the most amusing gesture formulas of rakugo: the performer withdraws his hands into the wide sleeves of his kimono, his knees, hips, and shoulders sway rhythmically, and he talks to himself in a murmuring voice, as if lost in thought. The audience knows that a person is on his way to an- other place; they also know that he will suddenly be startled out of his thoughts by an unexpected event, and they anxiously wait for that moment.”
“The focal point of the rakugo story is the world of everyday. Many of its cast of characters strut about dressed in sundry garb and historical costumes, but they are part of the storyteller’s world and the world of his audience. From there the rakugo performer takes the models which he fits into various stereotypes according to class and profession: the feudal lord, the military man, the priest, the scholar, the retired head of the house, the working-class man, the farmer. At times the principal characters are complete outsiders that do not fit into ordinary societal roles: the cheapskate, the thief, the liar, or the prostitute. Sometimes it is just the simpleton, the lazy- bones, the miser, the boozer, and the conniver that pass across the imaginary rakugo stage. There are, of course, no detailed portrayals of people as individuals. This is the major difference between rakugo and pure literature. While there are instances where a character is provided with a definite personality, there are practically no examples of that personality changing as the story develops.”
Here is a selection of soundtrack music that I hope will be a good stimulant for your week.
Eugenio Barba introducing Kathakali
On the southern coast of India, the three-hundred-year-old Kathakali ritual theatre still flourishes, a mixture of dance and pantomime, religious inspiration and mythological tradition.
The plays describe extraordinary events involving gods, demons, and legendary characters. They all have one common characteristic: good and the gods always triumph over evil and the demons. The actor acts out the struggle between good and evil exclusively through the motions of his body, and the subjects of the plays are as well known to the audience as the myths of the Greek trilogies were to the Athenians.
Through his gestures and his mimicry, the Kathakali actor recreates the atmosphere and the action of the drama while describing to the audience the action’s locale. His technique is much closer to the Chinese opera than to the European mime or ballet, which tells a story through a direct or “exoteric” technique. In the Oriental ballet, on the contrary, a cipher is used. Each gesture, each little motion is an ideogram which writes out the story and can be understood only if its conventional meaning is known. The spectator must learn the language, or rather the alphabet of the language, to understand-what the actor is saying. This alphabet of signs is complex. There are nine motions of the head, eleven ways of casting a glance, six motions of the eyebrows, four positions of the neck. The sixty-four motions of the limbs cover the movements of the feet, toes, heels, ankles, waist, hips-in short, all the flexible parts of the body. The gestures of the hands and fingers have a narrative function and they are organized in a system of fixed figures called mudras (“signs” in Sanskrit). Those mudras are the alphabet of the acting “language.”
The face expresses the emotions of the actor. If he is terror-struck, he raises one eyebrow, then the other, opens his eyes wide, moves his eyeballs lathis nostrils flare out, his cheeks tremble and his head revolves in jerky motions. To express paroxysmal rage, his eyebrows quiver, his lower eyelids rise on his eyes, his gaze becomes fixed and penetrating, his nostrils and lips tremble, his jaws are clamped tight, and he stops breathing to bring about a change in his physiognomy. There are sets of facial motions to express not only feelings and emotions, but traits of character of a more permanent nature, such as generosity, pride, curiosity, anxiety in the face of death, etc. However, the actor does not rely exclusively on prearranged mechanical gestures to express emotions. He cannot reach his audience unless his own imagination and motions come into play. The old masters of the Kathakali have a rule which says:
“Where the hands go to represent an action, there must go the eyes; where the eyes go, there must go the mind, and the action pictured by the hands must beget a specific feeling which must be reflected on the actor’s face.”
From this rule we can see that the face is the emotional counterpart of the story told, not by somebody else, but by the actor’s own hands. In short, there is a double structure: the actor must resort simultaneously to two different sets of technique to express the two complementary aspects of a story, the narrative and the emotional. His hands “tell” the former, while his face expresses the latter.
Tadg O’Keefe introducing Kathakali
Kathakali Facial Expressions
The future of Kathakali?
The BBC’s Megha Mohan went to a now-closed traditional Kathakali school, one that gave birth to its own style, the Kalluvazhi Chitta: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/world-asia-india-35473499/a-rare-performance-of-india-s-kathakali-dance