"Directing Shadows:" Artaud's Dreams

I re-read Artaud last week. I'm always inspired by his vision for what theatre could be. Here are a few snippets, along with images of his own artwork:


"For the theatre as for culture, it remains a question of naming and directing shadows: and the theater, not confined to a fixed language and form, not only destroys false shadows but prepares the way for a new generation of shadows around which assembles the true spectacle of life." (The Theatre and its Double, p 12)






"We must believe in a sense of life renewed by the theater, a sense of life in which man fearlessly makes himself master of what does not yet exist, and brings it into being."(The Theatre and its Double, p 13)








"We can now say that all true freedom is dark, and infallibly associated with sexual freedom which is also dark, although we do not precisely know why...The theatre releases conflicts, disengages powers, liberates possibilities, and if these possibilities and these powers are dark, it is the fault not of the theater, but of life." (The Theatre and its Double, p 31)






"The true purpose of the theatre is to create Myths, to express life in its immense, universal aspect, and from that life to extract images in which we find pleasure in discovering ourselves... May it free us, in a Myth in which we have sacrificed our little human individuality...with powers rediscovered in the Past" (The Theatre and its Double, p 116)

"Closer than a brother": The Brothers Size

The epigraph for Tarell Alvin McCraney's powerful play The Brothers Size is a quote from proverbs: "A man that hath friends must show himself friendly: and there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother" (18:12). Closer even than blood is the relationship between a man and God, the proverb seems to say. Yet a queer reading looms right below the surface, and in fact, some translate the subject of the second clause as "lover" or "beloved," rather than friend: "there is a lover who keeps nearer than a brother." Is the beloved closer than the blood brother? When situations get sticky, when your neck is on the line, who knows you better? Who will be there when you cry out in the dark? And ultimately, who will be willing to sacrifice their happiness for your own?

These questions roil just beneath the surface of McCraney's play like the queerness inside the proverb. The Brothers Size tells the story of three men, two bound by blood brothership and two bound by an intimate fraternity borne in prison. The hinge of both of these relationships is Oshoosi Size, named after the Yoruba deity associated with justice, the hunt, and imprisonment. Oshoosi has recently been released from prison and has moved in with his big brother Ogun, who runs a garage. His best friend Elegba, who he met in prison, is happy to see him released from jail and the two re-connect on the outside, only to run into trouble with the law again.

The nature of their intimacy while behind bars is an open question - it was a love that lived in the darkness, and we see it reflected in Oshoosi's dreamscapes and hear it in between the lines of their sparse conversations: "We was like brothers" says Elegba, "Brothers in need." Indeed, the love between Oshoosi and Elegba is palpable (as is Oshoosi's fear of what that love could mean) but the words "gay" "homosexual" or "queer" never cross the lips of any character in this play.

In interviews, McCraney quotes Essex Hemphill, the African-American poet and activist, who said “Two black men loving one another is a revolutionary act." McCraney points out that "He didn’t say ‘two black gay men’, he just said ‘two black men’. It’s something we don’t see. I wanted to put it on stage – these men, in all forms of colour, trying to figure out how to love themselves and each other.”

Both Elegba and Ogun love the childlike, open-hearted Oshoosi. Both try to give him the freedom he craves - literally, both give him cars, that 20th century symbol of "ultimate freedom." But sometimes our ability to give generously to the person we love is limited by the experience of love itself. Sometimes our desire to keep him close overpowers our desire to set him free. Though Elegba's tortured devotion to Oshoosi is strong, it almost lands them both back in the prison they just left.

Near the end of the play, the sometimes-hard big brother Ogun stands on the porch of his house. Speaking his stage directions (as they frequently do in this play) he says "Ogun Size / stands alone in the night / staring." In the fantastic production I saw at the Magic Theatre, this was followed by an intense, attenuated moment of stillness and silence. One of those silences that releases into the audience waves of shifting experience: confusion, then worry that something has gone wrong, then curious attention, then tentative acceptance. Ogun's presence in this long moment was penetrating but impenetrable. It was as though he was simultaneously looking back into the dense, shared past of brotherhood and forward into the delicate tendrils of possible futures that could lie ahead. After this long pause Ogun decides to push his brother forward into the unknown.

The gift he gives Oshoosi at the play's end is the gift of flight. Leaving the elder brother Size alone again on the porch facing the stillness and solitude of his own life. Elegba was at Oshoosi's side when he cried out in the darkened prison; he was the "friend that sticketh closer than a brother." But Ogun makes the choice to unstick in order to set his brother free.

Deterritorializing Directing

When I first began directing, I spent a lot of time looking for the right way to do it. I directed my first full length show before ever taking a directing class, so my sheer bewilderment about the job description wasn't that surprising. For a long time I thought that somewhere, somehow, there was a right way to do this strange task that I'd suddenly fallen in love with. If only someone could tell me how!

I've been feeling the pain of Platonism a lot lately. About 2500 years ago, Plato spread a nasty rumor that ideal, perfect forms existed somewhere out there and that we should live our lives in their pursuit. In his vision, every material thing is ghosted by an ideal version of that thing. In the Platonic model, failure is basically guaranteed, because shorn of the responsibility of actual existence, the imaginary, ideal thing is always superior. The material manifestation of it, striving towards but never reaching the ideal, is always inferior.

If I were the "ideal" director, I would come to every rehearsal with a perfect vision of the scene and have an impeccable structure for getting us to that result. I would know exactly how to communicate with my actors and designers. I would rarely be lost or despairing, but even if I was, I'd have the ideal method for dealing with that anxiety.

Oh Plato. What have you wrought?

Deleuze and Guattari's vision of the world is perhaps more useful for the theatre director. For D&G, "Forms and subjects, organs and functions are 'strata' or relationships between strata" (1KP, 297). Our interpretation of the world builds up in layers like the layers of rock you can see in a cliff wall. These interpretations harden into stratified systems that seem so real they can trap us inside them. We believe in these systems, and suddenly the maps that we've drawn to help us understand the utter un-mapability of the world become more real than the territory they attempt to contain.

Directing is a messy art form. Each time I do it, I go in with a plan: a certain relationship between forms and subjects that I hope might produce the play I want to see. And each time I find myself re-inventing the wheel. Deleuze and Guattari describe deterritorialization as the process that breaks up stratification. It's a movement in an unexpected direction that disregards existing strata. Deterritorializing forces scratch out and re-write the map, not based on a destructive urge, but out of desire and necessity. They make new forms and new modes as they move in a new way through the old territory.

"Flows of deterritorialization go from the central layer to the periphery, then from the new center to the new periphery, falling back to the old center and launching forth to the new" (1KP, 60).

Everytime I direct, my core notion of what it is to be a director - what it means to make art collaboratively yet in pursuit of a specific vision - changes. This constant flux is the pleasure and the challenge of this work.

So Plato - I hope you're listening! I'm releasing the notion of the ideal directoral technique! If you're looking for me, you'll find me bumbling about in the rehearsal room half-lost, half-inspired, trying to hold on to the reins of these Deleuzian forces of deterritorialization.

"Be Friends!" Or, love and collaboration

Beckett's radio play Words and Music concerns the collaboration between the titular characters, who work together to satisfy the musical desires of their lord. Commissioned by the BBC in 1962, it was a collaboration between Beckett and his cousin, the composer John Beckett. The project was apparently somewhat fraught, and after the original recording, John withdrew his score.

My girlfriend, who also happens to be one of my closest artistic collaborators, spent eight hours today remixing excerpts from Holst's "The Planets" into 33 distinct sound cues for our version of Words and Music. Sometimes I count the number of hours she spends designing and wonder why the director gets top billing. At 10pm, we tech'd through the cues. Despite the late hour and our limited vocabulary discussing symphonic music, we fell into a productive and pleasurable rhythm: "I think it should cut off after the 'dum dum dum!'" "The first 'dum dum dum' or the second one?" "Well, definitely before that xylophone comes in," "Yeah, there's no xylophone in Beckett."

For me, love and collaboration go hand in hand. Finding someone I click with creatively is like finding a new lover. When I feel that spark lit, I start fantasizing about when we can next work together and on what source text. Like with a romantic relationship, you can't fake a good collaboration. Trust and communication can be built over time, but it all starts with a recognition and a pull, the thrill of similarity glimpsed across difference.

Words says to Music at the top of the play: "How much longer cooped up here in the dark? With you!" But by the middle of the piece they are singing together, breathing meaning into sound, improvising a new path through the dark space between them.

Speaking of Shakespeare...

I'm looking forward to seeing Julie Taymor's film version of The Tempest when it hits theaters in December.

(Here's the trailer in case you missed it)

It isn't getting great reviews so far at the festivals, but Shakespeare is notoriously difficult to translate to film, and I respect Taymor for being brave enough to try.

Her film version of Titus was fantastic, and while Across the Universe had some issues, I still admire the strange theatricality of her cinematic vision. And really, how can you NOT be excited about Helen Mirren as Prospero?

Shakespeare, finally.

I became a director during my undergrad years at Harvard, where you can't actually major in theatre but nevertheless approximately 25 shows are put up every semester, most student-directed and student-produced.

This results in a lot of well-meaning, over-educated, under-trained wanna-be directors flailing about beautifully and boldly, taking on absurdly challenging (and sometimes misguided) projects right out of the gate. I know, I was one of them. And I loved it.

Undergrad directors often have limited access to new scripts as well as a fascination with the classics they're studying in their literature classes. This means a lot of productions of Hamlet, Streetcar, and Oedipus directed by 19-year-olds who have never blocked a scene before.

After sitting through one too many evenings of what Joanna Settle calls "punitive Shakespeare" directed by cocky undergrads (whose virtuosic textual grasp of the verse and deep connection with the struggle of the character didn't actually result in something enjoyable to watch), I made a vow.

I decided that I wouldn't direct Shakespeare until I was 30. Surely by age 30 (that then-distant shore!) I would have gained both the directing skills and the psychological maturity to take on the Bard.

Thirty is now fast approaching, and along with it, my first time directing Shakespeare. It's just a scene for class (from All's Well that Ends Well), but I'm happy to be finally breaking my ten-year ban. Perhaps a full production will follow.

Chekhov, however, has to wait til I'm 40.

Beckett & Nietzsche

As a director, the moment a play is hovering in my consciousness, it becomes the filter for the whole world. All the input flowing towards me is somehow in dialogue with the text (or textlessness) of the project I'm working on. Slightly paranoia-inducing at times, it can feel like everything in the world is speaking directly to me.

I suppose since I'm working on Beckett, it shouldn't come as a surprise that Nietzsche seems to be telling me how to direct the play. Nietzsche did, after all, announce the death of God and Beckett put his characters in endless limbo waiting for his return. They are both poets of the void. Bards of the ceaseless cycle. Cynics whose philosophies of emptiness seem at odds with their heartsick love for humanity.

Beckett's short play "Words and Music," which I'm directing next week, concerns the two titular characters (otherwise known as Joe and Bob) who struggle with each other as they strive to create music and words that will please their lord and master, Croak. Reading Nietzsche's The Birth of Tragedy, I stumble across his notions of the "Apollonian" and the "Dionysian." Suddenly the duality embodied in the figures of Beckett's play seem to dance together on Nietzsche's page.

The Apollonian creative drive is the quest for image, form, and the meaning that coalesces around clear lines and boundaries. It concerns the individual and his or her comprehensible vision of self. It's aligned with the arts of sculpture and epic poetry and the aesthetics of distance and clarity.

The Dionysian drive is the aesthetic urge towards excess, creative destruction, and the loss of ego that comes with drinking, fucking, and joining voices together in song. It is the formlessness to Apollo's form, always threatening to unravel.

While he's clearly a Dionysian spirit, Nietzsche does not privilege one drive over the other, but rather describes the task of the artist as the attempt to get the two into a productive relationship with each other.

This is the story of Beckett's play as well. Words/Bob speaks to Croak, and fails, Music/Joe plays for Croak, and it fails. "Together!" he intones. "Together!" They begin to link their forms, putting words and music together in unison and in canon. They lead each other and follow, weaving the twin beauties of words and music together until their creation is actually too successful, and Croak shuffles off, unable to bear it.

Nietzsche described the successful intertwining of the Apollonian and the Dionysian as “the supreme goal of tragedy, and indeed all art.” Tragedy is both hard to do and hard to bear. Beckett doesn't always provide the cathartic emotional release that makes the pain feel, for a moment, worthwhile. Sometimes after the music ends, all that's left is the sound of feet shuffling off into the darkness.

Akin to Death: Mary Stuart

I recently saw a fantastic production of Friedrich Schiller's Mary Stuart at Shotgun Players in Berkeley. Adapted and directed by Mark Jackson, the language was clear and direct without losing the dense, poetic force of the 19th century original. It was blessed with a slick contemporary design and actors to die for, and so expertly paced that the two hours traffic never lost its urgency.

This play chronicles the last few days in the life of Mary Queen of Scots before she's put to death by her cousin, Queen Elizabeth. The confrontation between two immensely powerful queens in a deeply patriarchal world is fascinating, and the one scene in which they share the stage is the keystone of any production of this play. Lucky to even get an audience with Elizabeth in the first place, the imprisoned Mary's passionate nature gets the better of her. Instead of begging for mercy, she calls her cousin the Queen a bastard and reiterates her claim for the English throne saying, in Jackson's powerful translation: "I am your king!"

Ooops. Not the way to avoid a beheading.

From that moment on, while our sympathies lie with Mary and we hope for her rescue, we know she's doomed. Death, like the presence of the actress who never leaves stage, looms.

Playwright Jean Genet, in his letters to his director Robert Blin, says, "If we maintain that life and the stage are opposites, it is because we strongly suspect that the stage is a site closely akin to death, a place where all liberties are possible."

Schiller's play is about bondage and freedom. The chains that bind us sometimes take the form of politics, sometimes of patriarchal systems, sometimes of the will of the public, and sometimes they're just the outcome of the tangled mess we've made of our life. Death is sometimes a gateway to freedom, to a place where "all liberties are possible."

In Schiller's version, Mary is given her last rites in secret from her Lord Chamberlain, who has been ordained as a priest, before she mounts the scaffold. In Jackson's production however, all of Mary's attendants have been cut, leaving her desperately alone in Elizabeth's world. The last rites scene is done solo: this passionate, beautiful force that is about to be extinguished plays her own father confessor.

The hope for absolution - the dream of utter grace - lies somewhere at the border of death. At this boundary between the freedom offered by the void and the meaning that only exists in the land of life's living interpreters, forgiveness is possible.

I'm not a Catholic, so no personal mystic associations arise for me as I watch the actress playing Mary take the imaginary host into her mouth. But I feel the dream of transubstantiation as I'm held spellbound by her performance. In the mouth of the stage, the host of the actress's body becomes Mary Stuart, becomes Christ, resonates with every person facing the imminent truth of their own death, overcome with longing to return to communion with the dark quiet everything that grows closer and closer with each breath.

Genet called for a theatre that was "so strong and dense that it will, by its implications and ramifications, illuminate the world of the dead." He called on his artistic collaborators to "break down whatever separates us from the dead." I believe he'd be proud of how this beautiful production reaches a quivering hand out across that boundary.

First Impressions

As mature, compassionate, considerate adults, we're encouraged not to put too much faith in our first impressions. Judging a book by its cover is bad form.

But I find in directing theatre that paying attention to my first impressions is essential. Most actors know that their audition begins the second they walk in the door. Playwrights know that the professionalism of their title page --even their font!-- will reflect on their script.

In my directing seminar at Stanford I was recently asked to read a book of short plays by Beckett and pick one to direct. As any fan of Beckett knows, his plays are dense and can take a long time to fully digest. The book arrived late in the mail and class was rapidly approaching. I found myself speeding through these impossibly complex plays, searching for a foothold on what they meant, wondering how in God's name I'd choose without really understanding.

Then I flipped by one in particular. Words and phrases started jumping out at me: "love," "age," "a gleam of tooth biting on the under," "all dark no begging /no giving no words." I had no idea what it meant. And as a PhD student, I really like to know what things mean.

But class was looming and it was time to commit. I grabbed this first impression with all my strength and proclaimed my intention to direct Beckett's radio play Words and Music for my first assignment.

Sometimes it seems like the rational mind can justify anything: "No, it's good that the scenic carpenters messed up on the construction of the banister, the wobbliness symbolizes the fragility of the entire society!" First impressions, like the reflexes that help us pull our hand away from a hot stove, don't allow the time for justification. The reflex arc moves energy and information from your body straight to your spine and back (bypassing the brain entirely) in order to take quick action.

In terms of aesthetics, who can say what instant personal psychic calculus results in that reflexive flash of interest? Why did this play feel hot in my hands when the ones before and after it just confused me? All I know is that when I went home that evening and read the play thoroughly, I fell in love. It's deeper and stranger and funnier and harder than I'd have guessed upon first impression. But the challenge feels like the right challenge.

I've found that trusting this flash of interest, of desire, of excitement --however subtle-- often puts me on a path that my rational mind only partially understands. Careful consideration is important and the ability to question one's initial assumptions is certainly key to being a good human being, but I consider it part of my artistic practice to attend to that flashing fish of desire as it breaks the surface of the lake.

Parapraxis: through, beside, beyond...

The word "parapraxis" was invented by Sigmund Freud's English translators in the 1930s as a latinate (and therefore official-sounding) replacement for the German term Fehlleistung, which simply means "faulty action." More commonly known as a "Freudian Slip," common parapraxes include slips of the tongue, mistakes in writing, odd moments of forgetfulness, and misplacement of objects. These faulty actions, while accidental, are perhaps not as faulty as they seem, as they can bring to the surface wishes or attitudes previously held secret in the unconscious mind.

Looking at the word from an etymological perspective, its meaning becomes slipperier. The heart of the term invokes the Greek word "praxis," which means practice, action, or simply "doing." The other Greek word for action or deed is slightly more familiar: "drama."

The prefix "para," can mean any number of seemingly contradictory things, including "through," "beside," "beyond," and "contrary to." It is this last meaning Freud's translators had in mind when they coined the term -- as in, "Contrary to my desired action, I said my mother's name in place of my girlfriend's while we were making love."

The other interpretations of "para", however, are equally provocative. Parapraxis interpreted as "through practice" invokes the development that can take place through dedicated, regular training in a specific method: "Through practice, I have gained new insights and abilities."

"Beside practice" makes me ask what else might be needed in addition to the required training: "Beside football practice, players are encouraged to take ballet lessons to increase their agility on the field."

"Beyond practice" implies that there is an edge of action beyond which something else transpires. Thinkers might argue that beyond practice lies its contemplation, or the theory that can arise from it.

As a theatre-director, all of these meanings thrill me. I believe deeply in the power of practice. Doing something regularly and with dedication (through practice), while being open to additional, complementary modes (beside practice), and extrapolating from what you know towards the unknown realms of what you don't yet know (beyond practice) is a potent recipe for growth and change.

But no degree of dedicated practice will keep you from occasional slips!

For me, art-making depends on embracing these slips as essential and exhilarating parts of the process. While embarrassing, parapraxes open doorways to meanings you didn't know you meant. Actors are encouraged to learn to trust their actions and reactions onstage. So too directors can learn to trust both the measured steps of their well-considered choices as well as their accidental responses to the world around them.