on making theater
The Master Builder, adapted by the Building Stage from Ibsen. Produced in the spring of 2008. Created and performed by David Amaral, Daiva Bhandari, Blake Montgomery, and Meghan Raham. All photos by Michael Brosilow.
This predicament has been an issues since the beginning of theater. Our earliest recorded plays had depictions of gods in them. The deus ex machine—god in a machine—was an integral part of Greek plays. The portrayal of gods in theater and opera has been a hallmark of the theatrical experience since then.
We are fascinated in mythology, both our own and from other cultures. Wagner called mythology the “understanding of all experience.” In myth, we find stories that are distant and yet we feel connected to. They are the stories of humans through time. They are our tradition in the theater especially, and since much of mythology concerns gods, this necessary portrayal of gods on stage continues to be an issue in our work.
Nowadays, the modern theater director is at some point or another going to face this problem. I’ve seen it solved numerous times in numerous ways and must say I’ve seldom felt fulfilled by the result. The gods either become too distant from the human experience, which makes our audience relationship with them distant and remote, or they are too human and their power is not apparent.
As I’ve contemplated this I have only a starting point, and that is not to say that I’m at all proposing a certain interpretation of gods to whatever director is out there, but I believe strongly that there are two rules to staging gods:
1. That the gods should be very much like humans.
2. That the gods should be different than humans.
Simple, yes? No. Harder than one would think. What makes them human? What makes them different than humans? Those are the aspects that each director must face.
Of course our Ring Cycle has gods, gods based from Norse mythology: Wotan, Fricka, Freia, Froh, and Donner. Currently we are working on this in our rehearsals. What makes our gods the same as humans? What makes them different? We’ll see the outcome of that in February when we finally land.
These robot-inspired sculptures have appeared in the lobby during the run of the Strange Tree Group’s “Hey! Mr. Spaceman!”
I’m not very good at talking about how I make theater. I realized this at our most recent Lab event. For this Lab, I took a Billy Collins poem about seeing a “Wonder of the World,” and made a scene about a girl trying to bring her doll to life. During the discussion, I was asked, “When did it turn into a piece about a doll?” I had no idea how to answer this.
Even now, with the benefit of time and editing, I’m still not sure I could sufficiently explain how I tend to create for theater. What are my tools, or my developed skills? I don’t think I’m the only theater-maker who might have a tough time with this, especially if we were trying to explain our creation methods to a non-theater person.
Why do we have a hard time talking about how we create? I find this an interesting and important topic of inquiry.
It got me thinking of a RadioLab podcast. (We at the Building Stage love to use RadioLab as a jumping off point…) Now, it isn’t one of the brilliantly produced, hour long episodes the boys at WNYC are famous for. Instead, it’s Robert Krulwich’s commencemnt speech at Cal Tech. In it, he tries to convince the future scientists to take the time and effort to explain their work to non-scientists. Doing so, he says, will protect science, and promote free thinking. (Have a listen, it’s a marvelous speech.)
Now, I would like to make a similar assertion about how we talk about making theater. I assert that Theater desperately needs artists who are able to coherently explain how we create, and why our creations are important.
It seems to me there is a reluctance to really explain our creation process. Are we afraid of giving away secrets? Or that our creation tactics are too nuanced or intuitive to be able to explain? Maybe we suspect even we don’t know how we do what we do. Maybe, we don’t think audiences would be interested. I bet they will be.
So much of our effort at the Building Stage is devoted not only to the product we create, but to the process of creating. It’s one of our core values! “Made, not written.” I think making the effort to clearly explain our methods for making theater will prove really beneficial, especially in two ways:
SO, I’m going to be working on this! I think it’s a worthy venture, and I hope others might join in on it. These thoughts also seem to be at the heart of our Lab series, and I’m looking forward to using that as a venue to further investigate this topic.
If you have thoughts on this, as either an artist or patron, I’d love to hear them. Join the discussion. Help us shape the way we talk about how we make theater!
Even those who don’t love Wagner’s operas cannot deny his importance in the history of music, opera, and theater. I like Wagner’s operas, but there’s little music from them which I ever listen to it when I’m not experiencing one of his operas live. Wagner’s works are unique in that the music and drama are bound in such inextricable ways, that you need the music to appreciate the drama, and consequently, you need the drama to fully appreciate the music.
The music of the Ring Cycle, though over 16 hours long and composed using themes which repeat, contains little repeating text. The result is incredibly expressive, realistic portrayals of emotion and descriptions of fantastic characters and events. [Unlike some of his contemporaries, who still composed strophic songs which would be become popular tunes the public would consume almost like modern audiences consume chart-topping pop singles, Wagner's music is difficult to extract from his operas. The sheer technical demands of Wagner's vocal music also made it inaccessible to the public: while someone could easily pick up some ditties by an Italian opera buffa composer and learn the music, they wouldn't be able to perform Wagner's challenging music.]
Because the music is so tightly woven to the drama, it’s also difficult to appreciate Wagner’s music unless you are experiencing it live as part a total theatrical experience. Poping the Ring Cycle on your iPod or listening to a Saturday Met broadcast can never compare to the brilliant effect his music has on its listeners live in the opera house. Wagner’s mastery of composing dramatic music made his operas case studies for film composers during the dawn of film, and well into the 21st century.
I always hesitate to make broad statements about trends in music history, or worse yet, to “rank” composers in order to quality or importance. However, as I am working on a production of Monteverdi opera written in 1641, I cannot help but notice similarities between Monteverdi and Wagner. The ways in which they express texts through music is quite similar, though obviously in different styles. At least in Monteverdi’s late dramas, he avoids arias with repeating text in favor of extremely naturalistic recitative. The result, of course, is much like the effect Wagner’s music has; the music is so tied to the drama, that it must be heard live as part of a performance, rather than as a recording, or solo piece to be performed.
[Sure, an aria by say, Mozart, is enhanced by experiencing it in the context of a fully staged performance, but it is more easily "extracted" from the opera and enjoyed as an individual "number" than most of the music in operas by Wagner and Monteverdi.]
Because the Monteverdi piece I am currently exploring is an English adaptation, I am struck by how immediately audiences can connect with the music, and consequently the drama. The same holds true for the Building Stage’s English language adaptation of the Ring Cycle. Joanie and Blake have done a remarkable job staying true to the intentions of Wagner’s drama and his music through their exciting, English language adaptation. By stripping away layers which would ordinarily distance certain audiences from the wonderful stories Wagner tells, they have made the Ring Cycle a penetrating and inspiring theatrical work.
Lab 3 proved another interesting experiment. Four inventive, curious proposal pieces were shown, followed by a discussion between participants and viewers.
With three labs under our experimental belts, I’m continually energized by how varied the responses are to each individual challenge. From one Billy Collins poem, we were shown 1:Decrouxian mime, 2: a Tim Burton-esque scene of a girl bringing her doll to life, 3: a love scene between man and cardboard tube, and 4: a duet of wading through a mess of possessions and garbage. Oh, and not one word was spoken.
The challenge was a tough one. It boiled down to something like “without words, turn a rather vague poem about seeing a wonder of the world into a theatrical scene.” What proved rather trying for the creators was that the poem never designated a specific mood. It didn’t say “you are happy as you see this,” or “you feel nervous as you wait…” The poem is a bit ambiguous; shrouded in fog. HOWEVER, I think the most successful scenes fought against this ambiguity. They took the mushy lump of clay, made some decisions, and formed their creations with structure and dynamics. For example, Blake created a piece with seven sections (one for each stanza of the poem,) and titled each section after the first line of the stanza. I think this structure drew the audience in, and helped us connect to a precise, yet abstract piece of movement theater.
Also exciting is that Labs are now starting to build upon themselves. The theme for Lab #2 was “Surprise,” and this time, we were totally prepared and eager to discuss what we found surprising in each scene. The methods of achieving surprise were as diverse as scenes themselves: running into the audience, long held eye contact with audience members, “blood” red yarn being pulled from the neck of a stabbed ‘doll,’ or the sudden, genuine love for a piece of trash, expressed in a kiss.
So, we take what we have learned, this time and the times before, and we continue to experiment and explore. Which, of course, is how it should be. With each attempt, success or failure, we learn. We get some new tools. We refine old ones. We end up a little better equiped to take on the next challenge. And with each challenge, we continue to better understand the entire Lab project, itself an ongoing experiment.
Lucy, one of the Rhinemaidens in our adaptation of the Ring Cycle, sent this link to some images for the Rhinegold. (Interestingly, Sean Williams the photographer behind the images shot the production photos for the first show at the Building Stage, Hamlet.)
Here are Lucy’s comments and the link:
Here’s the link to Sean Williams’ website, click on the “light miners” tab for the photos I mentioned last week. I think the orbs of light are an interesting take on the Rhinegold as energy and light, not necessarily as a tangible hunk of gold
Use these seemingly unrelated elements to explore the logic, motion, and dynamics of dreams.
Part 1
It is about forty minutes since I first looked at the poem. Really looked. What have I done in that time? Read and worked through the poem in my head.
RESPONSES AT THIS POINT
There is a boat, a journey. There is a “wonder.” For me this feels archeological, historic, I am connecting (though not very clearly yet) with a literal one of the wonders of the world. But the poem seems to focus more on the viewer’s experience than the thing itself. The whole poem seems a little vague to me, the details are not sharp. At least, not the details I am looking/expecting to find.
I am struck by the use of “you” as the person going through the experience. Partially this makes the poem more distant for me. The narrative voice does not own the experience, it is guiding the reader through it. But instead of details about the thing (which seems to be called “it”) which we are free to respond to, the author gives us details on how we see it, how we feel about seeing it.
TECHNICAL DETAILS:
There are 7 stanzas. Each is made up of three lines. Except the final stanza which is 4 lines long.
ORGANIZING THOUGHTS:
Okay, I have to translate this poem into a theater piece. No words. Five minutes. Great. (Is five minutes the “right” duration for this poem? Or will I have to push beyond merely “translating” to make up five minutes of performance?)
I have chosen to create and perform solo. I have some thoughts about a Decroux/Margolis-Brown inspired piece. This is stuff I studied for two years in Minneapolis right after finishing the Dell’Arte school. Learn about Decroux on wikipedia or explore the Margolis-Brown website. I enjoy playing with these techniques from time to time but have no real idea how to integrate into the rest of my work. But who knows what form this creation might take in the end, it could become a clown piece for all I know now.
PLAN OF ATTACK?
If I were to take each stanza (perhaps breaking each into a 30-45 second piece?) then each one could be titled by its first line:
I. It is just coming into view.
II. As we continue to maintain this heading
III. At this point, you can see a great deal of it.
IV. of almost archeological seriousness.
V. Now you are able to see the whole thing, in moonlight!
VI. It looks different than it does in photographs
VII. It is enough to make you reach for the locket
And then there is the “extra” line in the fourth stanza: “over the cold streaming surface of these waters.”
That is the big finish? Hmm.
FINAL THOUGHTS
I am thinking that I will play “it” and the audience will be “you” and what about the narrator? I suppose, wordless, we don’t need an intermediary between “it” and “you” other than space and time. So, whatever I am playing, perhaps my goal is to create for the audience the experience of the poem? I have some vague images in my mind what this could be but nothing really specific. Yet. I do have a working subtitle for my piece: A Duet Between It and You.
PART 2
We’re now two hours from presentation time. I’ve been working this morning but have a lot to do if this is going to come together. I have created a soundtrack, begun to craft moments of surprise (building off of the last Lab challenge), and have a pretty clear idea given this duet between “it” and “you” how the piece moves. My focus has been on the relationship between me onstage and the audience (since I am trying to put the audience in the place of “you” in the poem). But something major is missing and it’s now time to fill in the gaps.
The thing lacking is what I am doing. I know how it wants to relate spatially to the audience. But what is my action. I’m still thinking in terms of a movement piece, decroux-inspired poetry but what are the gestures, what is the language, what is the action? This needs to be filled in. This is the part of the poem that is vague to me. The poet describes the relationship, but keeps back the details. So perhaps it’s not surprising that these details are what I’m missing.
I have two hours to create them. Which is plenty of time. But a little nerve-wracking nonetheless.
Part 3
I’m writing this final part of my lab creation log after the fact. What happened to the structure I had imagined when I finally got to the final phase of on-the-feet creation? Well, parts of it worked. The opening and closing of the piece made sense. The first section of entering, revealing, creating mystery came together. The second section, where the mountain seems to step aside, felt a bit rough but the gesture of the moment worked. The plan for surprising the audience with “the enormity” of the wonder involved breaking the fourth wall and taking the movement directly into the audience as well as a drastic change of energy and rhythm. The end and exit of the piece was a simple rowing away gesture with an invitation to follow. But between the breaking of the fourth wall and the exit at the end…I felt like I didn’t have a clear gestural vocabulary to work with.
Time was ticking down and there was something missing from the language of the piece. What was needed? It started to dawn on me that it was as the “wonder” grew closer to the audience, I needed to fill in the details. The out of focus quality of the poem was becoming a problem. I needed to choose a specific “wonder” to place into my structure. Something that had emotional resonance for me and from which I could create some new details, movement, and images. Something had to be chosen which could pull the piece out of generality.
The images that started to resonate with me were sexual in nature. I have to admit, I have no idea where this came from. Maybe it was the “moonlight” referred to in the poem, the idea that “it looked different than it appeared in photographs.” Perhaps it was the music I had chosen for the moonlight section. But the idea of nudity, the actions of unbuttoning, of teasing and flirting started to enter into the movement vocabulary I had chosen. For me this was the final part of the script I had been missing. Semi-abstract, part-personal, part-imaginative…the structure of the piece finally existed.
Part 4 (Notes on performance)
The last thing I want to address from the experience of Lab#3 is my internal perspective on the performance. The piece was quite abstract in terms of what the audience received. Along the way, I was very aware of how moments were playing, especially when things felt too precious. As a result, more than was initially my intention, I threw in a few clown/comic moments here and there. How much I leaned into those moments was based on what I felt from the room: was there laughter? Had it hits its peak, could I push it longer, when did the next moment need to begin? It was the first solo piece I had performed in a while and it was a lot of fun to be able to adjust the script based on my experience of the performance. I found it quite exciting to be seeking in real time a balance between an abstract movement piece, more concrete imagery, and a less formal clown mentality. Although it is really very terrifying to create and perform solo, I think I need to push myself to do more of it in these Labs.
