When I started this blog in March 2013, I picked as its tagline “because pedagogy is a public practice.” This choice was an homage to my time at the University of Texas at Austin’s “performance as public practice” research stream. (That was back in 2005, but PPP is still going strong in the Department of Theatre and Dance.) It was at UT that I discovered, for real, just what a public good theatre could be; sure, I’d been studying art through a social lens for some time, but in Austin, working with acclaimed feminist and queer theorist Jill Dolan, and watching performance workers – from Lois Weaver, Peggy Shaw, and Deb Margolin to the Rude Mechs and even my own colleagues – making stuff that impacted directly on the well-being of often-marginalised communities around us, suddenly the logic of it really hit home for me. It shaped the teacher I would become, in every way.
When bad stuff happens in or to the public spheres in which I live and work, I turn to theatre and performance for solace. For grace. And for help: theatre is, as Brazilian director Augusto Boal famously said, after all a rehearsal for the revolution. Not a violent one, but one based in shared dialogue, discovery, enchantment, and exploration. These are the things – the inherently democratic things – that happen at the (public) theatre.
Last Wednesday night I went to see a show, and when I woke up the next morning I realised that I had seen no less than three pieces of theatre since the election of Donald Trump to the US presidency. This was entirely an accident: it’s that time of term on university campuses when the stuff students have been working on since September goes up on public view. But it was also, of course, no accident at all.
Sometimes in the wake of high term, when the work is lying around in messy piles and the nights are dark and cold and my HEAD.ALWAYS.HURTS, I say no thanks to the theatre and stay home to brood. But this November, brooding seems a big mistake. I’d rather be in public, in that “special” public space where we share an urge to understand our world, to see it better together.
Anyone on earth with a social media account knows where my scare quotes around the word “special” above come from: The Donald reacted with a typical, historical, epic fail to Brandon Victor Dixon’s address from the stage (and toward VP-elect Mike Pence) at the end of the Broadway smash-hit Hamilton one night last week.
Here’s the clip of Dixon speaking after the curtain call:
In reaction, Trump tweeted:
Our wonderful future V.P. Mike Pence was harassed last night at the theater by the cast of Hamilton, cameras blazing.This should not happen!
The Theater must always be a safe and special place.The cast of Hamilton was very rude last night to a very good man, Mike Pence. Apologize!
As gazillions of theatre scholars, critics, and lay commentators have since noted, Dixon was doing nothing “harassing”, but was rather respecting both Pence and the audience enough to use the stage for the purpose for which it was designed: the provision of public discussion, in the public’s very best interest. (My favourite of the many commentaries I’ve seen so far is here, by J. Kelly Nestruck of the Globe and Mail.)
So: in honour of Dixon and the cast’s bravery (for it is brave indeed to take on a powerful man with no knowledge of the past, and no boundaries in the present), and in homage to the incredible potential of the theatre in times of public crisis, I offer below three brief reviews of the three shows I saw in the wake of Trump’s election.
And, in the spirit of efficacious arts reviewing – reviewing as a public practice, let’s say – in each case I highlight not who or what was “good” or “better” or “bad” on stage, but rather how each contributed to the public discourse, at this urgent time.
Stop #1: The Daisy Theatre
Ronnie Burkett is one of the most talented puppeteers on earth; Torontonians are proud to claim him, but he’s actually an Alberta boy. He designs and makes all of his puppets (with help, of course – there are dozens in each show), but he operates them alone on stage, creating brimming worlds of animated wooden bodies with dozens of diverse stories to tell. Burkett is openly gay, and his puppets are the queerest around. They are those whose human avatars we’d prefer to ignore, out on the street. At the puppet show, though, we can never turn away.
The Daisy Theatre is an old-time variety show, which I saw at London’s McManus Studio on November 9. Like the best cabaret, it mixes raunchy set pieces with hilarious, pointed, topical improvisation – and so it was the night after the election, when Ronnie inserted plenty of political banter, including a marvellous exchange between the carnies “Franz” and “Schnitzel”.
In this particular post-election schtick, Franz attempted to explain the difference between “stage left” and “stage right”; Schnitzel got it spot on, in the end. (Ex: Schnitzel to Franz, “…is it my imagination, or, since I’ve been over here on the right… Franz… have I GOTTEN WHITER???”) That kind of stuff delivers the laughs, even in a white, conservative town like London, ON – because it’s frankly pretty hard not to laugh at puppet banter, especially when Ronnie is working his hardest to make his space of extraordinary difference (queer puppeteer; queer puppets; 16x rating…) as welcoming to all comers as possible.
And truly, for me, this is the most political thing about Ronnie Burkett: he will not compromise his content or his politics, ever, but he will aim to make the space in which he delivers that content inclusive enough to enable an experience across difference for all spectators. That’s not the same as making theatre “safe”, as Trump’s notorious tweet put it. The crucial difference: Ronnie makes his puppet theatre a safe space to do uncomfortable, challenging things. That’s as it should be.
Stop #2: Hamlet’s Bad Quarto “done good”
My department’s fall show this year was offered in honour of Shakespeare’s 400th death day (1616 – 2016). Rather than doing Hamlet the old-fashioned way (SO BORING!), director Jo Devereux chose the “bad” quarto, in which “to be or not to be” is not “the question” but “the point”, and various other bits and pieces of venerable text are mashed about in a script that’s not, well, fully baked yet. The show Jo mounted was huge: an on-stage musical quintet provided melodies written for the occasion; a pre-show invocation came complete with tumbling and drunken rabble-rowsing; and there were enough speakers in the end to yield a curtain call two full rows thick. Put all that together in a tiny black box theatre at London’s terrific downtown arts incubator, and, well… you get a cheek-by-jowl experience that’s anything but literally “safe”.
In that kind of a venue, every single actor takes a massive risk: you’re just so close to your audience that every mistake will be seen and noted. And when you’re not an experienced actor, well, the risks multiply: what if they see me mess up and know I’m no good? (I have so, SO been there.) But not one of Jo’s brave cast let that stop them, nor were they cowed by the complex poetry (even in drafty form) of the world’s most famous wordsmith. In fact, if there is one thing this performance of the “bad quarto” taught its audiences, it is that even Shakespeare isn’t so incredibly sacred – because nothing is. Even Shakespeare wrote some serious crap!
Speaking Billy Shakespeare’s “messed up” lines on a tiny stage, sometimes imperfectly, these actors reminded me of the political, public power of messing up, of learning from error, and of then moving on and through to do better next time. This is a lesson, indeed, for right now – and for those about to stand up on much bigger stages.
Stop #3: 12 Angry Men
The following week, it was time for Western University’s celebrated independent student theatre troupe to put up their fall drama. Theatre Western‘s AD Hailey Hill chose 12 Angry Men as the script back in the summer (presciently, as it turned out), and in a gladiatorial arena-style space, with banks of seats on all four sides, the resulting production unfolded in perfectly-choreographed black and white (though it was blind-cast to include persons of multiple genders and colours), directed expertly by students Danny Avila and Jack Phoenix.
The play begins in certainty and rage: a young man is on trial for murdering his father in an inner city Chicago ghetto, and all but one of the jurors (white, male) around the table are sure he’s guilty. But then doubts begin to rise; the lone holdout is invited to speak about his (in this case, her) “reasonable doubt”, and gradually, by talking reasonably and calmly about the facts before them, the group around the table comes to the conclusion that there simply is not enough evidence, barring prejudice, to convict.
Sitting in one of the four front rows with my colleague MJ, I was at turns stunned, moved to laughter, gut-wrenched, and so proud of our students for pulling off one of the hardest tricks in performance.
They took a script by a white guy, half a century old, about white men’s pain, and they used its own words, its bare narrative, to tease out its much broader and more diverse nuances. Then they put it up in front of a raw audience, just ten days post-election, and let the text speak, subtly but with extraordinary resonance, to the moment we are in right now.
How can we get past glib certainty and back to conversation? From prejudice back to the power of fact, of hardscrabble information carefully and fairly parsed? From yelling at each other across a breach to speaking with generosity of spirit across a table?
These are open questions. They are the kinds of questions implied in Brandon Victor Dixon’s words to Mike Pence from the stage last week. They are the kinds of questions the theatre, democracy’s most powerful public space, always, always asks.
They are not, however, safe questions. They are anything but safe.