Do We Go To The Theatre To Cry?

It occurred to me recently that when I go to the theatre, I am much more likely to give a show a five star review if it if it makes me cry. I will admit immediately: I am a weeper; and therefore this is no mean feat. Still it raises the question: why have I come to expect a good show should move me to tears?

Myself being no fair judge alone, I asked my friends the same question and received basically two responses: either they are absolutely, most definitely, not criers. Or, yes they do expect, or at least relish the power of theatre to move.

An observant point was made about theatre itself as an art medium being to some, more moving than film, due to the intimacy of the space. I recall myself, crying onstage during a devised performance, and marvelling later at how apparently this was all the catalyst needed for the audience simultaneously to also burst into tears.

On reflection however, this was what I would call an extremely sentimental piece: something written in order to make an audience cry. The immortal themes of tragedy it seems, will inevitably make audiences cry: death, illness, loss etc. We’re identifying with human feelings which we all share, so no wonder several theatregoers I spoke to mentioned the cathartic nature of theatre. As with all art, we connect with it on a personal level, recalling our own feelings in relation to the characters in a revelatory communal experience. Yet on another level, it is something selfish a critic should perhaps consider. Simply because I connect with a play personally, I may give it five stars whereas another critic who doesn’t is just as liable to give it only one star.

I recall the most recent shows which have made me cry: Lovesong, and Matilda; two immensely different pieces of theatre. I would probably consider you heartless if you didn’t shed a tear at Lovesong. Its focus upon the unspoken being communicated physically primed it to be an exemplary tearjerker. As the audience fill in the silences with their own meanings, within the context of the piece, the suffering of the characters becomes unbearable to watch as if we are watching ourselves. At the other end of the spectrum, a musical. Matilda is probably the most delightful musical in London at the moment and so all it takes is a little girl’s story to turn what was a beaming smile upside down. Significantly, I have noticed with musicals that I can cry even if it’s an awful story, as personally music most definitely elevates the keenness of my emotional response. Of course a plot interspersed with song and dance is not only engaging on several levels, but simply easier to watch; so it is no wonder we may cry more often at the musicals. This begs the question, if we assume musicals are the more popular viewing choice over a play, is this because the sum of its elements are more likely to leave us in tears? By proof of the sheer popularity of musicals, has it become an expectation to pay for tears on top of tickets to feel we’ve received value for money?

Whether we like crying at the theatre or not, after writing this I no longer believe it is necessary in order for a show to deserve five stars. For example Jerusalem, a play which people camped overnight to see and travelled to Broadway and back, was in no way sentimental. But masterfully written to balance both the comedic and tragic in pure characters; a play which seemed so hard-hittingly real that it was experienced more than it was simply watched.

We might conclude that the most important dimension to emotional engagement is the appreciation of theatre as a form of escapism. One could argue that theatre requires greater suspension of disbelief than film, being more limited in its conventions; but if it is a well written and performed piece which absorbs the audience, then being a tear jerker should be neither here nor there to appreciate it.

Lovesong ****

Lovesong is the physical theatre company, Frantic Assembly’s latest venture in collaboration with writer Abi Morgan. Of course, an established playwright in her own right, but more notable for her work in film and tv, this has notably influenced the unique style of Lovesong.

Lovesong tells the story of one couple at the beginning and end of their lives together. This pure form is perhaps what makes it such a tearjerker, it takes just five minutes to fall in love with these lovers, which is important as you’ll be in tears within ten, floods by the end. The ushers even offer boxes of tissues after the show, due to popular demand, I was told. The formula is played with cleverly; the crossover between times is achieved seamlessly so that the characters seem like time travellers in this haunting exploration of memory. Of course, at the centre of this is Frantic Assembly’s gorgeous choreography. Everyday objects become triggers for this action; the actors emerge out of wardrobes or fridges sharing the same look of longing they hold for their lover with their younger counterpart.

The movement possess an entrancing fluidity. Refrains are used, the physical familiarity of lovers couldn’t be more apparent than in this choreography. I admit I shouldn’t have been surprised by the elder actors’ physical prowess, yet I feel they deserve an especial mention – perhaps they aren’t as sharp as the younger couple, but this ensemble wouldn’t leave the same impression without their rekindled energy working together with the younger couple’s. It lends a love which has grown old with the characters, a sense of eternal youth.

A production like this is dependent upon the marriage of movement and writing. But, Morgan achieves something altogether very different with silence. The silence is established from the beginning as being as vocal as any words which two people that know each other inside out could share. As a result, I feel the audience response is injected with something of them; we each hear something different in the silence.

It is an achievement to compel an audience to focus upon the little things like this, a quality I would relate more to film or television. Seemingly aware of this, the play opens with a projection of the title, almost like a title sequence. The play itself stands alone so well, I question the necessity of this device. The flight of the starling flock is a sweet metaphor, present throughout all the years they’ve lived there, and will remain after they’ve gone, almost like a child reminding us of their enduring sadness to have not had one. Yet I find it somewhat patronising that they feel the audience requires this visualisation aid, when we have sensibility enough to imagine the memories being recalled.

Otherwise, the production values work effortlessly with the play to create something which can only be described as beautiful. Their ‘lovesong’ is never heard in the absorbing soundtrack, remaining a private thing to them. Hensel’s design, a stage carpeted and coloured with leaves, could be used to greater effect, but focuses and binds their memories immortally to their garden. Graham and Hogget had a wonderfully lucid vision directing and choreographing this play which has been achieved with the craft of an artist, the brush strokes lingering in your mind’s eyes, long after you’ve dried your eyes.

Sweeney Todd trailer!

Be very excited about this one! Coming to the West End March 2012, at the Adelphi Theatre.

Richard II *****

I dearly hope the Donmar continues to sparkle without Grandage, since this is his last show with them as the artistic director – and does he go out in a pomp of glory. I have given a standing ovation only three times in my life, and this was my fourth. Grandage achieves that which exquisite in theatre, he not only engages audience empathy (in a Shakespeare history of all things that could be distant subjects to the audience) but stimulates them too. I cannot bear when the audience is patronised as could too easily have been done to explain this lesser performed play of Shakespeare’s work, but he lets the script stand alone, and refreshingly, avoids updating it.

Upcoming star Eddie Redmayne, I expected might be too young for this role, but I could not have been more wrong. Redmayne bestows a grandiose King with humanity and sings the poetry of Shakespeare. But this success could only be really achieved in the Donmar, where you’re close enough to see the vulnerability in his eyes. I have never been much of a fan of the histories, as they’re a world so far apart from us – more like watching a film through the transparent box of the television. Yet the purity of Redmayne’s characterisation is entrancing. Similarly, his antithesis Henry Bolingbroke (Andrew Buchan) is no storybook villain, his acting so subtle it has a meditative quality bubbling under the surface. Together they bring a tired formula to life: a subject seeks revenge on a flawed king; which was not only essential to my sensibility, but simply understanding of a complex play I hadn’t read before.

Pulling off a performance all its own, the combination of Cork’s sound and Kent’s design is tremendously atmospheric and yet minimalist. You walk into a space more like a church than a theatre, coated in ageing gold; symbols of depleting power and tradition – the metaphors concealed by Grandage are endlessly fascinating. This production transports the audience not only in the production, but into the hearts and minds of the characters. Richard II is a play about the flawed nature of humanity, in a historical, courtly setting, which is flawlessly executed.