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.
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