‘A tale of two cities, and a story of two shows’
Something that has been flashing around in my skull for a couple of weeks refusing to fit neatly into a review format, but will now be expunged into a feature that will encompass two. I sit here, gazing into one larger screen, with a smaller one clamped to my side for quick distractions and hopeful little cheeps. I pick this up to video call my fiancé, or send a recording of our dog doing something inane but at the time deeply important to my bestie-each time the quality almost cinematically sharp. They are here with me, or I am there with them, or something in between.
It’s not a hot take that our lives are becoming increasingly self-consuming; as teenagers curate their lives online and off, the line continues to blur. We stream, interact and reshape our own and others’ images across a variety of platforms and screens. Theatre-sometimes an agile beast, sometimes a lumberer-is catching up. Ivo van Hove’s All About Eve and Opening Night are examples of multimedia used to great effect. However, is the reliance on technology within a production always a good thing?
Neatly, I have two very recent examples for you dear reader, from none other than the hushed halls of the Barbican. Their winter season kicks off with two well-respected experimental theatre companies and creators. Firstly, we had Caroline Guiela Nguyen (creator of Les Hommes Approximatifs and artistic director of the Théâtre National de Strasbourg) and her encompassing work Lacrima. The tale is an unfurling one, concerned with the ripples a royal wedding dress can have on those making it, from Mumbai to Paris and London. In a blend of French, French Sign, Tamil and English (thankfully with subtitles), we follow the fashion house responsible for the dress, the delicate beadwork of the Indian craftsmen, and three female lacemakers.
Marion (a magnetic Maud Le Grevellec) has her life upended, partly by the pressure of the assignment, and partly due to a growingly desperate relationship with her husband Julien (Dan Artus), with whom she also works. Vasanth Selvam, as the owner of the Indian embroidery workshop, and ageing craftsman Abdul (Charles Vinoth Irudhayaraj), struggle with the conflicting western rules of ethics and the realities of fading eyesight. The main lacemaker, played by Dinah Bellity, must confront a familial genetic secret that threatens to overturn her peaceful life dedicated to the intricate craft. Superbly acted, the almost three hours fly by, and despite the odd choice of a small pause where we are asked not to leave the auditorium, the evening is hand-crafted perfection.
But why? One main reason is the cinematic eye throughout, thanks to Guiela Nguyen’s expert direction and Jérémie Scheidler’s video work. A life lived on screen is shown so seamlessly, so slickly, with montages of close-up hands embroidering pearls or cutting fabric. Le Grevellec spars with the head designer (Selvam, rather heavy-handedly multi-rolling) and the unnamed princess herself over Zoom, which in turn puts pressure on the Indian designers. Bellity interacts with her Australian family, dealing with her granddaughter’s health crisis only via video call. The opening and closing scenes-crescendos of emotion-are filmed as Le Grevellec calls her therapist (played with deft restraint by Natasha Cashman). The scene is simultaneously acted live on stage, showing us the differences between two- and three-dimensional perspectives. The quality is sharp and allows for intimacy and confession. Alice Duchange’s simple but effective atelier set, and Mathilde Chamoux and Jérémie Papin’s subtle shifts in lighting tone fling us between continents. An international experience exploring the augmented reality of our globally technologically interwoven world.
Just a week later, another prestigious show tries to grapple with the concept of authenticity. Łukasz Twarkowski and Dailes Theatre (Latvia) explore one of the art world’s biggest scandals: the 2004 fake Mark Rothko painting bought for £8.2 million. Also a UK premiere this too claims to blend theatre, film and this time clubbing, in an evening of philosophically led art. Visually, Rohtko is unmatched. In comparison to Lacrima’s subtle and restrained aesthetic, this is neon and cocaine. Fabien Lédé has created a full-sized Chinese restaurant that spins around on wheels, complete with sliding kitchens and rooms that separate like some sort of trippy Studio Ghibli castle. Two stage-spanning screens are raised and lowered from the ceiling to translate the shifting Latvian, English, Chinese, and Polish, as we’re given a sporadic exploration of the art world, history and philosophy.
There are, however, many issues with this monumental shudder of a show. Anka Herbut’s script is long-winded and repetitive, with many self-referential moments. The actors auditioning for the roles, then meeting older actors playing Rothko and his wife Mell, are sandwiched between endlessly looping discussions of art and its worth. During the almost three-hour runtime, we lose the plot several times. The tendency towards undeniable style and impenetrable substance confuses and delights in unequal measure.
The biggest issue is the attempt at technological integration. Throughout, crew in Chinese-branded puffer jackets live-film the goings-on in the restaurant-from arguments between Rothko and his wife to further arguments between the seller and the buyers of the fake painting decades later. But the bulky equipment and cluttered space mean the sight-lines are crowded with performers and cameramen. The cuts lag, the sound drops out at points, as do the subtitles. You never know where to look and always feel like you’re missing something. Weave in the overly weighty text and it’s a recipe for audience fatigue. Long sequences of awkward movement to unexplained thumping techno do little to help and feel like padding between the spoken sections. Very much like the modern world, this sensory overload blinds us to a story of great interest that is sadly neglected-how Pei-Shen Qian, a Chinese maths teacher, tricked the art world. Instead, it breaks down into good-looking actors having cameras slowly circle them as they make ethereal but unground pronouncements on the validity of art. The play succeeds at times due to its vivid colour palette and sheer randomness, but despite, not because of, the multimedia element.
A tale of two cities, and a story of two shows. Both try to grapple with our increasingly recorded lives; both expose the utter glut of technology poured into our minds by the world we have created. Live streaming has long been the territory of the brave experimental theatre-makers, but this is no longer the case. What remains to be seen is whether a show can embrace this multimedia landscape without being overwhelmed by it. In a world of second- or even third-screen viewing, the devil, as ever, is in the details.
Although both were fleeting, check what plane-traversing theatre the Barbican will treat us too next, click here!