Then What Happens? E-Book

Mike Alfreds

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 730

Beschreibung

A practical investigation into story-theatre and the art of telling stories through theatre, by the renowned director who founded Shared Experience Theatre Company. In Then What Happens?, Mike Alfreds makes the case for putting story and storytelling back at the heart of theatre. He explores the whole process of adapting for the stage, and investigates the particular techniques - many of them highly sophisticated - that actors require when performing 'story-theatre'. The book includes over two hundred exercises, improvisations and workshops dealing with the practical aspects of story-theatre, such as building an ensemble, creating a physical vocabulary, and transforming written narrative into drama. It draws on examples ranging from traditional legends and folklore, through the works of Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and Evelyn Waugh, to contemporary fiction. Alfreds shows how each story demands its own particular set of dramatic choices, opening up endless possibilities for performance. Then What Happens? - like the author's tremendously successful first book, Different Every Night - will be invaluable to directors and actors, to dramatists working in the field of adaptation, to those devising and working from improvisation, and to any theatregoer who has been moved by the power of an unfolding story to ask: 'Then what happens?' 'All theatre directors know that good narrative is the secret of good theatre, but few have as distinctive, rigorous and exceptional a method of exploring that secret as does Mike Alfreds. His system of working, and his thoughts on the making of theatre in our time, are as crucial and illuminating as those of Stanislavsky and Peter Brook have been to generations of theatre enthusiasts and practitioners.' Michael Coveney 'both fascinating and instructive for the general reader as well as practitioners... will prove invaluable to directors, actors and even designers and choreographers... a must have' - British Theatre Guide 'Alfreds' substantial book provides a fascinating insight into [his approach], which has been adopted by many other directors and companies since the 1970s. ... This is an ideal read for anyone who is keen to put storytelling at the heart of performance' - Drama Resource 'Comprehensive, rigorous and practical... a heavyweight book from a heavyweight author' - Theatre in Wales 'Practical and thorough... a very useful book for playwrights and directors' - The Stage

Leseprobe

THEN WHAT HAPPENS?

Storytelling and Adapting for the Theatre

Mike Alfreds

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A FEW NOTES AND A BRIEF GLOSSARY

PART ONE:

THOUGHTSHOPS FOR STORYTELLING

SECTION 1 THIS STORY OF MINE

TO BEGIN AT THE BEGINNING…

ONCE UPON A TIME…

A Thousand and One Nights

The Book of Esther

Sharing the Experience

Some Storytellers

Roberto

Emlyn Williams

Bruce Myers

Ruth Draper

THE NEXT THING WAS…

Arabian Nights

Bleak House

TO BE CONTINUED…

From A Handful of Dust to The Tin Ring

SECTION 2 WHAT STORYTELLING DOES

STORYTELLING V. PLAYACTING

NARRATIVE FLEXIBILITY

THE DUALITY OF THEATRE

AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION

AUDIENCE AUTONOMY

SECTION 3 THE EMPTY SPACE

THE EMPTY SPACE REVISITED

THE TEMPTATION OF TECHNOLOGY

THE TYRANNY OF TECHNOLOGY

MASSAGE OR WORKOUT

LESS IS MORE

HOW EMPTY IS AN EMPTY SPACE?

SECTION 4 ACTORS AS STORYTELLERS

THE CHILD IS PARENT TO THE STORYTELLER

THE MOST HUMAN ART

ACTORS ARE DYING OUT

THE MULTIFACETED STORYTELLER

The Storyteller’s Many Roles

The Storyteller’s Many Relationships

Storyteller to Audience

Storyteller to Story

Storyteller to Character

Storyteller as Narrator to Characters

Storyteller as Character to Narrator

Storyteller to Space

Storyteller to Design

Storyteller to Storyteller

The Storyteller’s Many Functions

Storyteller as Athlete

Storyteller as Narrator

Storyteller as Set Designer

Storyteller as Costume Designer

Storyteller as Lighting Designer

Storyteller as Musician

Storyteller as Sound Designer

Storyteller as Stage Hand and Stage Manager

Storyteller as Host and MC

Storyteller as Critic and Commentator

Storyteller as Athlete…

ACTORS IN CHARGE

SECTION 5 FROM NARRATIVE TO NARRATION

APPROACHING A TEXT

DEFINITIONS

Story/Plot/Narrative

Theme/Topic

World

THOUGHTS ABOUT PLOT

Plot Logic: Seven Questions

Imagery and Symbols

NARRATIVE VIEWPOINTS

First Person

Third Person

And Second-Person Narrative?

A NOTE ON NON-ATTRIBUTED STORIES

SECTION 6 FROM NARRATOR TO NARRATEE

ATTITUDES TO AUDIENCE

What is the Purpose of a Story?

Who is a Story For?

What is the Relationship Between Storytellers and Audience?

THREE BASIC FORMS OF NARRATION

Third-Person Narration from Outside the Action

Multiple Third-Person Narration from Inside the Action

First-Person Narration

TENSE

The Present

The Future

SECTION 7 WHY ADAPT?

THE PLAY IS NOT THE THING

THE CHALLENGE OF NEW FORMS

THE SURPRISE OF LANGUAGE

RELATING TO THE MATERIAL

SECTION 8 WHY NOT?

A DOUBLE PROCESS

DECONSTRUCTION

An Example of a Chapter Breakdown

ANALYSIS AND INTERPRETATION

CUTTING V. COMPRESSING

‘REWRITING’ THE TEXT

CHANGING THE NARRATIVE VIEWPOINT

CHANGING THE TENSE

CHANGING THE STRUCTURE

SIMULTANEITY

DOUBLING THE INFORMATION

CONVERTING FREE INDIRECT DISCOURSE INTO DIRECT SPEECH

SHORT STORIES

SECTION 9 WORLDS

DEFINING WORLDS

DISCOVERING WORLDS

Language (words, grammar, punctuation)

Structure (organisation)

Plot (events)

Narrative (point of view)

Character (action)

Themes and Topics (subject matter)

Culture (society)

Reality (relationship to actuality)

Worlds

FROM ANALYSIS TO PERFORMANCE WORLDS: SOME EXAMPLES

PART TWO:

WORKSHOPS FOR STORYTELLING

SET 1 INTRODUCTORY WORKSOPS 1–5

1. ONE STORYTELLER TELLS A STORY

2. GROUP STORYTELLING MODE I: THIRD-PERSON NARRATION FROM OUTSIDE THE ACTION

Some Provisional Starting ‘Rules’ in this Mode

3. GROUP STORYTELLING MODE 2: MULTIPLE THIRD-PERSON NARRATION FROM INSIDE THE ACTION

Differences Between Narrating from Inside the Action and from Outside

4. GROUP STORYTELLING MODE 3: FIRST-PERSON NARRATION

5. APPLYING THE THREE MODES OF NARRATION

SET 2 WORKSHOPS FOR INDIVIDUAL STORYTELLING SKILLS 6–8

6. LOGIC

Sentence Function

The Bare Bones of Sentences

Drooping, Dropped and Faded Endings

False Endings

Lists and Repetitions

Antitheses

Imagery, Similes and Metaphors

Conjunctions

Adverbial Phrases of Time and Place

Seven Questions

Conversation

Intention

7. VOICE AND SPEECH WORK

Voice: Vocal Variation

Volume

Pitch

Tempo

Resonance

Placement

Breath

Speech: Variety of Speech

Lost Consonants

Non-Verbal Vocalisation

8. PHYSICAL WORK

Awareness

A Responsive Body

Mime

Gesture

Hands

Cultural Physicality

Animals

SET 3 WORKSHOPS FOR THIRD-PERSON NARRATOR FROM OUTSIDE THE ACTION 9–12

9. AREAS OF THE STAGE AND THEIR QUALITIES

The Six Basic Areas

10. NARRATION FROM DIFFERENT AREAS OF THE STAGE

11. NARRATION WITH ATTITUDES AND AGENDAS

12. POSSIBLE RELATIONSHIPS BETWEEN NARRATORS AND CHARACTERS

SET 4 WORKSHOPS FOR MULTIPLE THIRD-PERSON NARRATOR FROM INSIDE THE ACTION 13–20

13. NARRATORS TRANSFORMING FROM ACTOR TO CHARACTER WITHIN NARRATION

14. NARRATORS EMBODYING THEIR CHARACTERS WHILE COMMENTING ON THEM

15. ACTORS MOVING FROM NARRATION INTO SCENE

16. TRAMPOLINE WORDS

17. NARRATIVE AS DIALOGUE

18. JUSTIFYING NARRATIVE INTERRUPTIONS DURING A SCENE

19. PHYSICAL LIFE ACCOMPANYING NARRATION

20. INDIRECT SPEECH AS DIRECT SPEECH

SET 5 WORKSHOPS FOR FIRST-PERSON NARRATION 21–23

21. RECALLING

22. RELIVING

23. THE GROUP IN RELATION TO THE FIRST-PERSON NARRATOR

SET 6 WORKSHOPS FOR BUILDING AN ENSEMBLE 24–36

SUBSET 1: PHYSICAL AWARENESS

24. MIRROR EXERCISES

25. GIVE AND TAKE EXERCISES

26. CONTACT EXERCISES

27. BALL GAMES

28. MASSAGE

SUBSET 2: SPATIAL AWARENESS

29. DEFINING THE SPACE AND SELF-BLOCKING

30. CONSISTENCY OF PLACEMENT

31. FLOOR WORK

SUBSET 3: FOCAL AWARENESS

32. SPATIAL FOCUS

33. INDIVIDUAL GIVING AND TAKING FOCUS

34. GROUP GIVING AND TAKING FOCUS

35. ENTRANCES AND EXITS

36. WATCHING

SET 7 WORKSHOPS FOR TRANSITIONS AND TRANSFORMATIONS 37–40

SUBSET 1: ACTIVITIES AND ENVIRONMENTS (WITHOUT TEXT)

37. TRANSFORMATION EXERCISES

A. Individual Transformations of Activities

B. Accumulative Transformations of Activities

C. Group Transformations of Situations (Places and Events)

D. Transitions of Time

E. Transformations by Clapping

38. ELABORATION EXERCISES

A. Elaborating an Activity

B. Creating an Environment

SUBSET 2: NARRATION AND SCENES (WITH TEXT)

39. TRANSITIONS FOR FLOW AND CONTINUITY IN STORYTELLING

Passing the Baton

40. PITCH AND TONE FOR THIRD-PERSON NARRATOR OUTSIDE THE ACTION SETTING UP SCENES

Texts for Use With Narrative Workshops 39–40

SET 8 WORKSHOPS FOR CREATING SOMETHING OUT OF NOTHING 41–42

41. BRINGING THE SPACE ALIVE

42. INDIVIDUAL IMAGES

SET 9 WORKSHOPS FOR USING ELEMENTS 43–47

43. NECESSARY ACCESSORIES

44. WORKING WITH PROPS

45. SOMETHING TO SIT ON

Chairs

46. MOVING OBJECTS DURING TRANSITIONS

47. SOMETHING TO PUT ON

Shoes

SET 10 WORKSHOPS FOR WORLDS 48–49

48. DEVELOPING WORLDS FROM OTHER DISCIPLINES

Worlds from Portraits

Worlds from Music

49. FILM LANGUAGE

SET II WORKSHOPS TO DEVELOP MUSIC AND SOUND SCORES 50–53

50. JAMMING

51. PASSING MUSIC AROUND A CIRCLE

52. BECOMING INSTRUMENTS

53. CREATING SOUND EFFECTS

SET 12 WORKSHOPS TO DEVELOP CONTACT WITH THE AUDIENCE 54–57

54. PERSONAL STORIES

55. OBJECTIVES TOWARDS THE AUDIENCE

56. ENDOWING THE AUDIENCE WITH AN IDENTITY

57. SPATIAL RELATIONSHIPS BETWEEN STORYTELLERS AND AUDIENCE

SET 13 WORKSHOP TO DRAMATISE NARRATIVE 58

58. EXAMPLES OF POSSIBLE APPROACHES 413

SET 14 WORKSHOP FOR PLOT 59

59. LOGIC AND DEXTERITY IN HANDLING PLOTS

SET 15 WORKSHOP FOR SHORT-STORY STRUCTURES 60

60. FRAMING AND LINKING STORIES

HAPPILY EVER AFTER

SUMMING UP

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

For

JANE ARNFIELD

without whom…

And in memory of

JENNY HARRIS

who did so much for so many

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author and publisher gratefully acknowledge permission to quote extracts from the following:

The Alexandria Quarter by Lawrence Durrell. Published by and reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.

Blood’s a Rover by James Ellroy. Published by Century. Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Limited.

The Bridge of San Luis Rey by Thornton Wilder. Copyright © 1927 by The Wilder Family LLC. Reprinted by permission of The Wilder Family LLC and The Barbara Hogenson Agency, Inc. All rights reserved.

Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerney. Copyright © 1984 by Jay McInerney. Published in the UK by Penguin Books and in the USA by Vintage, a division of Random House, Inc.

A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh. Published by Chapman and Hall, 1934, and Penguin Classics, 2000. Copyright © 1934 by Evelyn Waugh. Reprinted by permission of Penguin Books Ltd.

Mr Scobie’s Riddle by Elizabeth Jolley. Copyright © 1983 by Elizabeth Jolley. Published by Persea Books, New York. Reprinted by permission of Persea Books Inc., New York. All rights reserved.

The Nibelungenlied translated by A. T Hatto. Copyright © 1965, 1969 by A. T Hatto. Published by Penguin Classics, 1965, revised edition 1969. Reprinted by permission of Penguin Books Ltd.

Nights at the Circus by Angela Carter. Copyright © 1984 by Angela Carter. Reprinted by permission of the author c/o Rogers, Coleridge & White Ltd, 20 Powis Mews, London W11 1JN.

The Razor’s Edge by W. Somerset Maugham. Published by Vintage Books. Reprinted by permission of United Agents on behalf of The Literary Fund.

The Roman Spring of Mrs Stone by Tennessee Williams. Copyright © 1950 by The University of the South. Reprinted by permission of Georges Borchardt, Inc., on behalf of the Tennessee Williams Estate.

A Rose for Emily by William Faulkner. Copyright © 1931 by William Faulkner. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown Group on behalf of the Estate of William Faulkner.

Self-Help by Lorrie Moore. Published by and reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.

Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas. Copyright © 1952 by Dylan Thomas. Published by the Orion Publishing Group. Reprinted by permission of David Higham Associates.

Vile Bodies by Evelyn Waugh. Published by Chapman and Hall, 1930, and Penguin Books, 1938, 1996. Copyright © 1930 by Evelyn Waugh. Reprinted by permission of Penguin Books Ltd.

A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan. Published by Corsair, London, 2011. Reprinted by permission of Constable & Robinson Ltd.

Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. The publisher apologises for any errors or omissions, and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book.

William Blake wrote

‘The Imagination is the Human Existence Itself’

A FEW NOTES AND A BRIEF GLOSSARY

Then What Happens? is the companion to Different Every Night, in which I describe some of my rehearsal processes when working on plays – that is, material written specifically to be performed. This book deals with the performance of narrative material intended to be read or told. With the former, the storytelling is implicit and the characters usually remain within the imaginary worlds of the plays they inhabit. With the latter, the storytelling is self-evident and the actor/characters function both within and without their imagined worlds. To perform this material, actors require additional techniques to those for performing in plays. These particular skills are what, for the most part, this book is about. Of course, the essential techniques of acting – actions, objectives, points of concentration – still apply and underpin all the storytelling techniques. I do refer to them in passing, but anyone interested in a more detailed account of my approach to those fundamentals of acting should take a look at the earlier book.

Plays are written to be performed. Without us, the live audience, their performance remains an impossible object. Their texts all share the same components that identify them as plays, the most obvious being dialogue, people interacting with each other and occasionally with us, supported at times by minimal descriptions of their behaviour and appearance. They are usually concerned with a limited number of characters in a limited number of locations over a limited period of time, for the most part chronological, and are conceived, with rare exceptions, to be performed over an average of say two-and-a-half hours, more or less non-stop, with the audience absorbing whatever it can as the action proceeds. The characters are rarely if ever explained. They reveal themselves through scenes of action that we, the observers, interpret. They are almost never seen from varying viewpoints, although the characters will, of course, talk about each other. Because of the consistency of these ingredients, true from the plays of Aeschylus to whatever contemporary plays are currently on offer, Different Every Night can describe a structured process of rehearsal applicable to any play.

Stories, however, apart from all being words on a page or in the mouths and memories of storytellers, have little in common with each other, let alone with plays. Stories that are written down are, unlike plays, intended to be read – and read at the pace of the reader who, unlike the audience at a play, has complete control over the experience, able to re-read, thumb back or flick forward, stop and start at will. Their length and their number of locations and characters are without limit. Their time spans, also without limit, can move freely between past, present and future. They may exist with or without dialogue, description or commentary and can be told from any or many a point of view. A story may teem with physical action on an epic scale or contain its action within the depths of a character’s psyche. Characters may remain enigmatic or be extensively analysed and described. This variation in the contents and structure of stories means that there’s no one sequence of rehearsal work that could accommodate them all on their journey to the stage. Each story, whatever its source – novel, epic poem, myth – requires a unique treatment of its own. It is the particular needs of a particular story, the individual dramatic choices it demands, that will light the fuse of your imagination.

Consequently, this book can’t and doesn’t try to set out a structured sequence of work, but offers some ideas and workshops around the subject, the intention being to open up for consideration the rich possibilities of story-theatre.

In story-theatre four disciplines converge: storytelling, theatrical performance, the adaptation of material from non-dramatic sources, and the development of an ensemble with the necessary skills to fulfil its special demands.

Only actors give life to theatre. This is true whether they’re performing plays or telling stories. That’s why this book echoes the other in its insistence on the primacy of the actor. To that end, the reader should bear in mind that, as stressed in Different Every Night, all rehearsals and performances are kept alive by constant process. That’s to say, the work aspires to constant development and never to predetermined results: to allow things to happen rather than to make them happen, to discover rather than to know, to become rather than to be.

The book is in two parts. Part One deals with the What, Part Two with the How.

Part One is in nine sections:

Section One sets out my own experience of story-theatre.

Section Two extols the virtues of storytelling and its difference from playacting.

Section Three describes the optimal physical and spatial conditions for story-theatre.

Section Four details the extensive skills that storytelling demands of performers.

Section Five enumerates the component parts of narrative, together with some principles for transforming a narrative text for reading into a narrative text for performing.

Section Six concentrates on the processes for transforming a narrative text for performing into an actual performance.

Section Seven does some further extolling, this time of the virtues of adaptation.

Section Eight offers some techniques in the process of adaptation.

Section Nine discusses the creation of consistent worlds or realities.

Part Two contains sixty workshops to develop storytelling skills, grouped under fifteen topics.

Most of the workshops contain a considerable number of exercises. All exercises are in boxes.

Matters discussed in Part One are cross-referred with their appropriate workshops in Part Two. Workshops whose techniques may overlap are also cross-referred.

____

My experience of adapting and staging non-dramatic fiction is that the two functions form a synergy. At various stages in the process they can alternate, overlap or travel in parallel, but finally they’re inseparable aspects of the same process. So whenever I use the word Adaptation or any of those Trans-words (-pose, -late, -mogrify and the like) I’m referring to the whole journey from page to stage. When I need to refer to them individually, the context should make it clear that I’m doing so.

Actor, Performer and Storyteller are all-embracing, interchangeable nomenclatures that apply whether an actor/performer/storyteller is narrating or playing a character or in any other way contributing to the performance; the Storyteller can act and the Actor can tell stories. Narrator refers specifically to whoever is actually delivering the narrative, that is to say, literally telling the story. When I need to distinguish between Narrators and the rest, especially when describing exercises, I refer to Narrators as such and the others as the Group. Both together I refer to variously as the Company, Ensemble, Cast or Class.

Story can refer to any sort of narrative, whether in prose or in verse, from a fable to a novella, from a biography to a devised piece; Narrative for the purpose of this book refers to all prose or verse with the exception of dialogue; Scene refers to any section of dialogue in a story.

Stage indicates any acting space; Theatre, any venue where a performance can take place.

Transition is any change from one state to another; Transformation is the nature of the change.

When I use we, I am at times identifying myself with the audience and the world at large; at others with the smaller world of theatre practitioners. Whenever I refer to you, I’m addressing whoever may be guiding a workshop or rehearsal. When I identify an individual, should I subsequently need to refer to them again, I’m adopting, as often as I can – at times, I acknowledge defeat – the grammatically incorrect ‘they, them, their and theirs’ (as I’m doing in this sentence). This is to preserve some euphony while avoiding the politically condemned ‘he, him and his’, the politically grovelling ‘she, her and hers’, and the acceptable but cumbersome ‘he or she, she or he, her or him, his or hers’…

____

A Note for Devisers and Improvisers: To illustrate narrative devices, I’m inevitably taking examples from stories that already exist as texts. And this sort of material, mainly from novels, does predominate throughout the book. But the methods described can be intelligently put to use on devised and improvised storytelling. Devised work is usually spared many of the analytic procedures applied to existing texts since an improvised story and its interpretation usually arrive hand in hand; the what and the how tend to be created together. Of course, once a devised piece exists as a text, you can analyse it just like any other type of narrative or play. In fact, this is a useful way to find out with a cool head the subtextual themes and patterns underlying work that has been created in the heat of improvisation. It’s also a useful way to ensure that the world that’s been devised is coherent and consistent.

Part One

THOUGHTSHOPS FOR STORYTELLING

SECTION 1

THIS STORY OF MINE

TO BEGIN AT THE BEGINNING…

HAVE I GOT NEWS FOR YOU!

Tell me! What?

I hardly know where to begin.

Oh, for God’s sake! What??

Look, I’ve been sworn to secrecy. So…

Yes, yes, I promise!

Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have –

Well, you did.

Forget I said anything.

Too late now. You’ve got to tell me!

Your words have triggered an instant reflex that arouses my need to know. And any delay increases it. The suspense might even kill me. You’ve tempted me with the promise of a story, a temptation that’s hard to resist. If the offer’s withdrawn, the story withheld, I’m left dangling: off-balance and incomplete. The need to tell and be told stories seems as essential to our existence as breathing. Stories transcend time and space, travelling down generations and across borders, cutting through the otherness of cultures and languages. Prehistory pieces together whatever evidence it can find to tell us possible stories about our earliest selves. Stories beckon us in pursuit of the unanswerable ‘why’, the relentless quest of that Holy Grail: to make sense of our lives and give them shape. But there are times when we want stories to take us in the opposite direction – out of ourselves. Is it possible to conceive of a world without stories? Without beginnings, middles and ends? Without manga, Man Booker and myths? Sagas and scandals and soaps? Stories nourish our imagination. Imagination nourishes our empathy.

How a story reaches us obviously affects its impact on us. Reading is an altogether private activity, done at our own speed and in circumstances of our own choosing. Nothing intrudes between the page and our imagination. But the process is totally one-way: from the story to us. We respond to it but we have no effect on it. More to the point, our response is to rewrite the story in our imaginations, but it remains unchanged on the page. But being told or read a story face to face creates the possibility of an exchange between teller and listener in which the listener’s reactions may well affect the teller’s telling. Inevitably, there must be some degree of interaction. Storytelling in theatre lifts this interaction onto another level of possibilities entirely. Plays, of course, act out stories, but most often indirectly, at a slight remove. Storytelling refreshes theatre by restoring it to its roots: stories first, plays after.

Some people disapprove of the theatrical appropriation of texts not originally conceived for theatre. But theatre survives by a magpie existence, helping itself from other arts, crafts and disciplines to whatever seems useful for its own purposes. Its uniqueness and vitality reside not so much in the provenance of its materials as in the form of its expression: the phenomenon of performance. This is the domain of the actor. Only actors can bring life to the stage. They transform productions into performances. Actors are the performance. Acting is the élan vital of theatre, its breath, its pulse, its source of energy. And storytelling actors epitomise theatre at its purest and acting at its most multifaceted.

Actors exhibit our potential to transcend ourselves: to imagine what it’s like to be someone else. Storytellers manifest our potential to transcend the moment we chance to live in: to imagine what it’s like to be somewhere else in time and place, actual or speculative. Story’s plot is theatre’s action. Nothing offers a more inviting point of departure on an empathy-expanding journey of the imagination than a company of storytellers entering a space to greet the other company gathered there with the irresistibly seductive incantation:

ONCE UPON A TIME…

A Thousand and One Nights

I happened upon storytelling by chance. I came upon it in pursuit of an entirely different preoccupation: defining for myself precisely what I believed to be the essence of theatre. It was one of those rare and serendipitous occasions on which two seemingly separate paths of enquiry synthesise into one. Storytelling drew me into an entirely unexpected world where many of my questions about the nature of theatre were answered, and many of my instincts on the matter confirmed.

It happened through A Thousand and One Nights. I made the acquaintance of this cornucopia of stories while working in Israel. A friend suggested that they might be adaptable for the theatre. Reading a bunch of kids’ stories didn’t fill me with the greatest enthusiasm. To my surprise, the thirty or so I did read were far from the familiar tales of magic and adventure I’d expected. Since their first appearance in the West, many of them had been heavily expurgated and subsumed in that guise. These I read were altogether more sophisticated and revealed much of the life that would have been experienced in the cultures from which they’d evolved. What’s more, they were flagrantly, joyfully carnal and their women, confounding some current burqa’d and niqab’d impressions of Islamic culture, clearly the more enterprising and dynamic of the sexes. These tales were immediately alluring: rich in plot, character and action, replete with city life, daily toil, landscapes, philosophical ruminations, religious proselytising, prayer, myth, magic, verse, romance, adventure, history, moral fables, shaggy-dog stories, dirty jokes and, as noted, celebratory eroticism; all human life was there. But they didn’t seem to lend themselves to conventional adaptation into scenes of extended dialogue. Possibly because I was then living in the Levant, where there were still pockets of traditional public storytelling – not that I’d experienced this myself, but nonetheless romantically visualised it – it occurred to me that the ideal presentation of these stories might be to retain them in their natural form: as stories. The challenge was to find the dramatic means of doing so.

Initially, I was somewhat deterred by having seen too many dull adaptations with the undernourished narrator unimaginatively stuck in a corner of the stage making colourless links between scenes, a lazy way of conveying information that the dramatist had failed to resolve within the drama itself, one that offered the actor in question a thankless task in a boring role, remarkable only for its missed opportunities. From a practical standpoint, these stories roamed so frequently from one exotic location to another and involved such vast casts of characters that their adaptation as plays would have defeated the means of the most spiralling Defence Budget. What helped me to make a leap of imagination was that this challenge coincided with my own personal concern at that time with what exactly constituted an act of theatre. I was becoming more and more convinced this had to be the creative presence of the actor, the one ingredient in theatre that cannot be dispensed with; the only one necessary, together, of course, with an audience and their shared imaginations, for theatre to exist. The actor was the defining element of theatre. I began to visualise actors in an empty space, transforming themselves into concubines and caliphs, wise women and wazirs at the demands of a story and somehow, out of nothing, conjuring up to order souks and palaces, hammams and harems, fields of battle and the djinn-infested Upper Air. Looking back now, it all seems obvious, but then the solutions came slowly and piecemeal.

The eventual production, literally called A Thousand and One Nights, comprised some ten stories that most appealed to me. They had no thematic or dramatic connection. I linked them together in a rather obvious sequence of alternating long and short, dramatic and comic pieces, ending with the most elaborate. What held them together was the set, a large black box containing a sequence of smaller black boxes from which bolts of material were variously drawn, one for each story. In one, about a dyer who only knew of the colour blue, his moment of revelation came when, by the tug of a cord, the frieze of blue cloths festooning the black box was transformed into all the colours of the rainbow. But my moment of revelation was seeing the possibility of actors both playing their characters and telling us about their characters, moving to and fro between those two functions as the narrative required. From that discovery came the challenge to find unanticipated ways of rendering all types of narrative stage-worthy. The dramatic potential of narrative and narration opened up endless questions about attitude, viewpoint and role that eventually came to be explored in great detail when I returned to London and formed Shared Experience Theatre Company.

The Book of Esther

Before my return I created another piece of storytelling theatre based on the Old Testament Book of Esther, though, at the time, I didn’t realise I was doing that. As part of my efforts to learn Hebrew, I’d acquired a bilingual Bible padded with footnotes quoting the conflicting, highly disputative interpretations of the text by very ancient rabbis (Here Rabbi Akiba says. But Ibn Ezra finds evidence… Less acceptable is Rashi’s view…). The Book of Esther, one of the shortest in the canon, has considerably more than its fair share of such commentary. For these sages, it was also the most problematic. In the story, Esther, a nice Jewish girl, marries out of the faith (the King of Persia – to save her race from ethnic cleansing, it should be noted); but, more worrying than this, the name of God is never once invoked: two definite strikes against this story’s right to belong amongst such scriptural company, one that needed a lot of explaining. I suddenly had the image of the characters in the story trying to get on with their lives, surrounded by a group of rabbis, draped in prayer shawls, constantly interrupting them with contradictory interpretations of their behaviour and demands for them to change their ways, all the while squabbling amongst themselves over some recondite point of scholarship. This image became the starting point for an eventual piece of theatre called The Persian Protocols. Researching the material, I found that, in keeping with the need for so many justificatory footnotes, there were more exegeses and versions of Esther than of any other book in the Old Testament. The final production was a retelling of the story five times, starting with the biblical version – complete with footnotes and rabbis – and moving through four variations (children’s folk tale, agit-prop, ecstatic vision, and archetypal ‘Everyman’ legend), each written at a different period in the evolution of the Hebrew language, and manipulating the story to fit the prevailing needs and values of its community.

As my own footnote to this, I somewhat wistfully acknowledged to myself that whereas in Israel the entire population, religious and secular, could relate – and relate to – the story of Queen Esther, having studied it in school and celebrated it during Purim (the one playful holiday in the Jewish calendar), there was not now in our British culture a single narrative I could think of that would have the same communal, unifying familiarity, not Genesis, not the Gospels (despite their Christmas Story), nor the Arthurian legends, Beowulf, The Canterbury Tales, Hamlet, David Copperfield, Pride and Prejudice (coming pretty close), not World Wars One and Two, not even 7/7.

Sharing the Experience

I started Shared Experience Theatre Company to convince myself – and anyone else who cared – that all you needed to create theatre were actors with stories to tell and audiences to tell them to. What made theatre unique was one group of human beings transforming themselves into a second group of human beings in the actual – not virtual – presence of a third group of human beings who fulfilled – completed – this act of transformation by accepting and believing in that second group. This was the essence of pure theatre: the shared imaginations of actors and audiences conjuring up characters who really weren’t there: bringing the non-existent into existence. Nothing and nobody else was necessary. Our boast was that we could perform anywhere at any time for anyone.

But what were we to perform? Plays tell wonderful stories, but they carry a certain amount of predictable baggage that, to begin with at least, might have trapped us in old ways of working. I wanted to start fresh, free from received practice. I wanted the actors in neutral: clear, clean and uncluttered, ready to go in whichever direction was required of them. I wanted them to come into their open acting space transparent, as themselves, greet the audience with a ‘Hello’… and then what? Maybe ‘There was once a wise woman… a fair princess… a fisherman… a mighty king… who…’ The seemingly innumerable stories from the Thousand and One Nights were the ideal material for such a starting point to our travels.

I had no idea that from this point of departure we’d embark on what proved to be a ten-year voyage of discovery. Initially, storytelling was intended as a means to an end – a vessel to demonstrate the creative autonomy and dramatic sufficiency of actors in an empty space. It proved, in time, to be more than that and became part of the purpose. Storytelling revealed its vitality and completely refreshed my view of play-bound theatre. We made discoveries about stories and the nature of telling them. These led to discoveries about adaptation – the dramatic rendering of material from non-dramatic sources. This, in turn, led to the development of special techniques that enabled the actors to perform this new material. And finally, we discovered the many functions and identities, well beyond their traditional role as interpreters of character, that the actors had to acquire in their empty space. All of which is what this book deals with. Much of this new knowledge would eventually be applied to the performance of actual plays. At that time, I think, no play would have led us to any of these discoveries.

At first the company’s name received a lot of sarcastic comment (‘It sounds like a sanctimonious rock group’), but the name meant what it said. It defined theatre: the experience of actors and audiences together sharing in an act of imagination. And so it came to prove.

The principles on which I founded Shared Experience postulated that we should work without any of the usual theatrical reinforcements: no wings, no curtains, no scenery, no costumes, no props, no musical instruments, no blackouts, no dressing-rooms for the actors to escape to, no technology either ancient or modern, lighting only as an unvarying means of illuminating actors and audience together in the same space; nothing more. Accordingly, our first explorations were focused exclusively on how the actors could tell stories without resort to anything beyond themselves. We soon found that there was very little that they couldn’t achieve on their own. I think that’s worth repeating: there is nothing essential to a performance that actors cannot create by their own powers of suggestion.1

Theatre is embodied in the actors: in their relationship to their audience, to their material and to each other. They are the nucleus of theatre; everything flows through them. Storytelling created the possibility of pursuing in its purest form my conviction that the essence of theatre is the exercise of the imagination, our willingness to believe that something is happening that isn’t happening at all. This is even more strongly stressed when actors work in an empty space, creating everything out of nothing other than their own infinite skills to tell stories. I am consequently unsympathetic, as you will gather, to theatre which employs dominating, frequently domineering – in fact, bullying – scenic means of communication that pre-empt the expressive power of the human being.

Much later on, the company did add scenic elements, but only when absolutely essential for the world of a story (its stylistic reality) to be realised in a particular way, and then only applied sparingly. Maximum economy for maximum expressiveness ensured that both actors’ and audiences’ imaginations would continue to breathe. The principle was to start with nothing and then, only after rigorously convincing ourselves of their necessity, to let other elements grow together with the actors from the core of the story. However, what I’ll be describing is, by and large, a company of actors working in an empty space.

Some Storytellers

Roberto

The first professional storyteller I encountered was Roberto, who had a day job with the Post Office. As a way of launching the company’s research into telling tales, we invited him to moonlight and share his skills with us. He sat us on the floor in the dark and told us Japanese ghost stories. He told them well and they were suitably spine-chilling.

Two things in keeping with my aims for the company struck me reassuringly. One was the strong impression he achieved with a minimum of means. By voice alone he drew us into a chilling atmosphere of fear and suspense. The other was that we were doing half the work ourselves. Because we were in the dark (we could only see him as a shadowy – haunting – presence), we were totally free to visualise these ghost stories, each one of us in our own way. He had promoted us from passive listeners to active participants. He had instantly established the principle of the shared imagination. He was doing precisely what reading and radio do: stimulating our individual, sensory imaginations. We were seeing what wasn’t there; possibly hearing, tasting, smelling, feeling by touch, too, if a story so roused any other of our senses.

But as I far as I remember, he used only a portion of what a voice might do. He didn’t, for example, characterise. I’m not even sure if there were any dialogues in his stories. He didn’t make use of a particularly broad emotional range. He didn’t use accents or dialects. He didn’t use exclamatory sounds – or any sounds at all, come to that.

Emlyn Williams

Subsequently, thinking about Roberto, my memory was suddenly jolted. He was not the first storyteller I’d encountered. That role belonged to Emlyn Williams.2 A quarter of a century earlier, when I was about fourteen, I had been to one of his recreations of Charles Dickens’s public readings. His material, some of it chosen from the pieces that Dickens himself had performed on his own reading tours, covered a wide range of genres: the death of little Paul from Dombey and Son, the opening to A Tale of Two Cities (‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times’), the banquet given by the Veneerings in Our Mutual Friend… There it suddenly was; though I’d not consciously thought about that evening for more than twenty-five years, the entrancement of it came back to me in a rush. I remembered how I’d wanted to stay in that theatre for ever, listening to him tell those stories. And I also remembered, more likely realised at this moment of remembering – for I doubt that at the age of fourteen I’d have been conscious of how he achieved his effects – that it was what he did vocally that had made this impact on me. He was dressed and made up as Dickens and stood at a lectern as Dickens had done in his own performances. As far as I recall, his body language was of little interest other than to underline what he was doing with the language.3 But with his voice he had used a whole battery of techniques: bold vocal characterisations and accents (with Dickens, what else?), huge variations in volume, tone, tempo and rhythm. His tessitura rivalled Yma Sumac’s,4 it seemed able to travel from basso profundo to the highest falsetto. He employed weeping and laughter, gasps and cries, pauses and silence… or so I seemed to remember; he was simpering, savage, plangent, soothing, pompous, incisive, sentimental… At this moment, I understood what an influential theatregoing experience that had been for me, though I hadn’t thought about it in all those years! Yet there was the memory of it waiting for the appropriate moment to resurface and remind me of the power of the voice and the word.

Bruce Myers

This led to another recollection of a more recent vintage. While working in Israel for the five years prior to the start of Shared Experience, I was directing a production for Haifa City Theatre when Bruce Myers paid us a visit. Bruce, a superb actor, was one of the mainstays of Peter Brook’s Paris-based International Centre for Theatre Research, of which he was to remain a stalwart member for many years. This was in its early days, not long after its first major project, Orghast, had been performed in Iran at Persepolis. Orghast was also the name of the project’s language, devised for the company by Ted Hughes from several ancient languages. The emphasis was on the expressive sounds of the words at an instinctive, primal level,5 rather than on their intellectual meaning. In addition to the formidable development of their physical skills, the actors had received intensive training in the creation of these sounds, many of which had initially been quite alien to them. We persuaded Bruce to demonstrate a few for us. We sat there, rapt and envious, as his voice seemed to range through his whole body, from bowels to occiput and back again, to places where an English-speaking voice is rarely asked to go, not even Emlyn Williams’s. Some of these sounds were described in an account of the Orghast project as ‘glissando shrieks, roars, hoarse whispers and harsh, explosive laughing sounds’.6

Telling stories was one thing; telling stories as theatre was another. As much as I wanted to distil the essence of theatre to actors, I didn’t want to distil actors to just their voices. On the contrary. I wanted the whole of the actor to do everything that was needed to fulfil a complete theatre experience. Besides, theatre was about enacting events, embodying characters in action and in space. Theatre was about telling through doing.

Ruth Draper

Yet another solo performer, appositely one that exploited her entire presence, surfaced from my memory, someone else I’d seen when I was young – one of her performances was in fact a sixteenth-birthday present. Hard to know how to define Ruth Draper.7 She wasn’t a storyteller, though stories were inevitably relayed through her performances. She wasn’t a monologist either. She created character studies. An austere-looking American woman in late middle-age, her particular brilliance was to fill the stage with people. Each character she played engaged with others that she imagined, people that you definitely saw and heard although she was the only one present. From the way she spoke to them, reacted to them, dealt with them, she could, like a juggler keeping several balls in the air, keep several of these invisible characters simultaneously alive in the space and in your imagination: for example, an actress of Slavic provenance receiving visitors in her Paris apartment, greeting them in several languages, fighting with her manager, handling her admirers and so forth. These sketches were really small dramas. In another, Three Women and Mr Clifford, she played, in sequence, a secretary, wife and mistress and, through each of them, created the man of the title, first at his desk, then in the back of a chauffeur-driven limousine and, finally, seated in a deep armchair, on an arm of which she lovingly perched to embrace her imagined lover. Her genius seemed to lie in her ability to wed an extraordinary precision of focus and use of space (aspects of mime) to an absolute conviction in the existence of the people she was conjuring up. Trying to describe the basis of her art, she wrote:

I do nothing more than suggest… There, I believe, is where the whole thing has its greatest appeal. The people who come have to use their own imaginations to get the effect… There is no scenery, no person except myself on the stage. The others are the joint product of my own and the audience’s imagination. You see, it appeals to the highest thing in the people who come. They… assist in creating an effect which I could never create alone.

She said it all! (You could stop reading this book right here.) Not only did she confirm for me the necessity of the audience’s creative contribution to the performance; the fullness of what she achieved with such economy of means yet again reinforced my thoughts inspiringly about actors in empty spaces.

____

What connected these performers was their ability to create worlds and environments exclusively from their own presence with their own talents and powers of suggestion, and with only the most rudimentary scenic elements: Roberto in darkness; Emlyn Williams dressed as Dickens and provided with a lectern; Ruth Draper in elements of clothing that represented the character she herself was playing and the occasional piece of furniture; and Bruce Myers, whom I watched in Paris a couple of years later, doing wonders with a pair of old boots for a classroom full of children. Essentially, they all functioned in an empty space. From the postman to Persepolis, from Dombey to Draper, I’d been given plenty of food for thoughts about the company’s work on storytelling. It was to nourish our explorations through the next decade. This book is about the discoveries we made and the techniques we developed to exploit them.

THE NEXT THING WAS…

Arabian Nights

When I returned to the UK from Israel, I set out to read the entire Thousand and One Nights canon, or as much of it as I could locate. Fortuitously, browsing in one of those specialist bookshops that cluster at the gates of the British Museum, I caught sight of a Victorian ten-volume set of the stories with an additional four volumes of Supplemental Tales, published privately – because unexpurgated – in the 1865 translation of Sir Richard Burton who, in addition, had annotated copious details of their cultural and anthropological provenance.8 The volumes were large and slightly crumbling and entitled, in gold leaf on black, Arabian Nights Entertainment (Arabian on the front cover, Nights on the back, in full on the spine and on the first page: Now Entitled the Book of The Thousand Nights and a Night – the literal translation). I paid £80 for the lot, with an earlier three-volume expurgated translation thrown in for good measure. Over time, I read every story, creating an index card for each title, with a brief plot synopsis, a classification by genre, any noteworthy details and an indication as to whether I thought it stage-worthy.

This purchase was another occasion of serendipity. Up till then, the translations I’d read suffered either from censorship or bland language – or both – and created little atmosphere, little sense of time and place other than what you might get from a conventionally written fairytale. Burton’s work was completely different. His translation is described as ‘plain and literal’. I have no idea if this is so (though he was reputed to speak twenty-nine languages), but with my knowledge of its Semitic sibling, Hebrew, it indeed read to me as a commitment to the original Arabic, channelled through the sumptuousness of The Song of Songs. Plain it wasn’t!9 With its eroticism intact, it evoked an extravagant culture, violent and voluptuous. It was language as much as plot that released my imagination. I began to visualise the possible direction an adaptation might take in conjuring up such an outrageously vibrant world. Stories ultimately are not defined by their plots, characters and themes, but by how they are told. Literature is language; the most individually expressed language creates a world uniquely its own. I can see that the writers I’ve subsequently adapted (Austen, Dickens, Waugh, Ellroy…) have claimed my imagination by their language’s ability to summon up a particular vision of life. That’s why I try to keep my adaptations as close as possible to their original texts, incorporating not only the dialogue but as much as I can of their narrative, precisely to retain the authorial voice. Paraphrasing dilutes, approximation distorts and free adaptation denies the individuality of a work. Many television versions of classic novels fall into a sort of uniformity because they’ve dispensed with the original voice. So those much-serialised works of Victorian novelists tend to blur into one generalised vision of nineteenth-century Britain, telling us more about British culture at the time of the adaptations than of the original writers’ visions of their worlds. What you see and what you hear jar against each other: characters speaking an updated demotic language while wearing period clothes and moving within authentically recreated environments produce an unnatural hybrid, an artistic mule.

Shared Experience’s first production, An Arabian Night, was a considerable development from my initial groping at storytelling with the Israeli Thousand and One Nights. This version was more firmly structured. Instead of a series of discrete stories, we used a framing story within which other stories with connection to the plot or the subject matter were integrated like blueberries in a muffin. We were encouraged in this by the extraordinary range of structures used in A Thousand and One Nights itself. There were anecdotes little longer than half a page, and sagas, the longest of which spanned three hundred pages. There were clusters of stories which debated a particular issue, presenting alternate sides of the argument. There were stories within stories within stories. [Cross-refer Section 8: Short Stories; and Set 15, Workshop 60: Framing and Linking Stories]

Our main story was called The Loves of Kamar and Budur, in which the eponymous would-be lovers, seeking each other throughout the world, become embroiled in a multiplicity of other liaisons en route. We had prepared a reservoir of relevant shorter stories that could be inserted at certain points in the performance. The actors responsible for initiating such stories on a particular night could, without forewarning the rest of the cast, announce which one they would have to take part in at that precise moment. The production was a huge success and encouraged us to redistribute some of the stories, add others and explore new structures, until this initial show had proliferated into three: The First, Second and Third Arabian Night: respectively a revised Loves of Kamar and Budur, The Rogueries of Dalilah the Wily and The City of Brass, each played in totally different conventions to best convey the particular themes and atmosphere – the World – of each specific Night. [For our approach to the different conventions of this trilogy, cross-refer Section 8, Why Not?: Short Stories; Section 9, Worlds: From Analysis to Performance; and Set 9, Workshop 46: Something to Put On] We toured these shows for about eighteen months, won a Fringe First at the Edinburgh Festival and were the company in residence at that year’s National Student Drama Festival.

During this period we were invited by the London Borough of Barking to create a performance suitable for schools. I’d never planned a production specifically for children and was somewhat apprehensive until I was given the excellent advice to treat them like any other audience. (This, I’m now convinced, applies in all circumstances.) So we did just that and added a Fourth Arabian Night: The Adventures of Hasan of Basra, in a shorter and longer version for younger and older pupils. This proved to be an unexpectedly rewarding venture that completely reinforced my belief in storytelling. We would turn up at a school at nine o’clock in the morning (not the best time of day for an actor), and the company, wearing the clothes they’d come to work in, would perform in some shabby classroom in need of fresh paint and decent light, with the children seated on the floor in a semicircle around our ‘empty space’, totally transfixed. Later, we’d see them in the schoolyard, acting out variations on what they’d been watching. One teacher sent us what her class of eight-year-olds had drawn and crayoned, inspired by their early matinee. These pictures were filled with animals, characters, costumes, landscapes and incidents, all in the most brilliant colours and patterns; they had absorbed even the most casual, passing phrases and released them in this firework display of imagination. No design could have come anywhere near their riotous creations, in fact, might well have inhibited them. This was a gift and a vindication of the ability of storytelling to stimulate creative participation in its audience: one of those experiences that make you glad you work in theatre.

Eventually, we brought the three adult shows into London to the King’s Head and with huge success played them in repertoire under the collective title, Recitals of Mystery, Violence and Desire: Three Arabian Nights Entertainments. The two years devoted to this Arabian Nights project was an exhilarating period of exhaustive, not to say exhausting, trial and error, steep learning curves, rewarding discoveries and the acquisition of new skills, all of which formed the basis of any subsequent storytelling work and flowed over into our productions of plays.

Bleak House

Shared Experience followed The Arabian Nights with Charles Dickens’s Bleak House. I had been in Israel during the Yom Kippur War, left to kick my heels while the rest of the country slotted into its pre-assigned war duties. My tentative offers to be of use having been discouraged, I somewhat guiltily looked for something to take my mind off the situation. Work being on hold and socialising reduced to zero, I went to a Jerusalem bookshop and bought Penguin editions of half-a-dozen novels by Dickens whom, despite several attempts over the years, I’d never been able to read. Now I devoured him like comfort food, starting with Martin Chuzzlewit and making my way through Little Dorrit, Our Mutual Friend, David Copperfield, Great Expectations and, best of all, Bleak House. They were revelatory. I laughed out loud, cried uninhibitedly (no doubt already feeling somewhat shaky), held my breath, hung on to cliffs, gasped – even jumped – in surprise and kept my back firmly against the wall. They seemed to offer everything that makes good theatre.

But novels with exponentially proliferating casts of characters in multiple plots that take days to read do not. Or didn’t until eventually we found ways of putting such abundance into a dramatic form. So for the moment Bleak House remained a shadowy project in a list of works I wanted somehow, some day, to direct.

Which happened a few years later. Around the time of The Arabian Nights, Robert Cushman, the then theatre critic for the Observer, reviewing Ken Campbell’s nine-hour trilogy, Illuminatus, wrote to the effect that, given sufficient time, anything could be adapted.10 This jolted me into reconsidering the possibility, long relegated to the back-burner, of a Dickens novel being rendered on stage in toto. The ambition – the challenge – was to create a form of performance that would retain as much as possible of Dickens in all his detailed variety of tone and scale. The ’70s was a period of considerable optimism and innovation in the theatre. The fringe and alternative-theatre circuit had become the place for cutting-edge theatre and had usurped the traditional supremacy of London’s West End, now regarded as – and indeed looking – tired and reactionary. These new venues and their audiences were open to experiment and willing to take risks. The idea of theatre as a special event was very much in vogue; rather than sitting in rows in a traditional, purpose-built structure for two hours, you might now be embussed to some mystery site far away from Theatreland,11 maybe moved from location to location during a performance,12 or made to mingle with the performers and the rest of the audience in theatres whose familiar arrangement of stage and auditorium had been radically reorganised to create the exciting disorientation of entering the unknown.13

In this mood of euphoria, the decision to adapt Bleak House in its entirety, taking as much time as we needed, seemed perfectly reasonable. I knew, of course, that some loss would have to occur, but that would be for reasons other than pressure of time. Eventually, we created a ten-hour show that was performed over four evenings, with six actors playing over a hundred characters. Members of Dickensian Societies expressed their amazed approval, convinced that we were presenting the entire novel. In actuality, we played one fifth of the text, subtly compressing the material rather than hacking out great chunks. One solitary tributary of a subplot and some half-dozen characters were all that hit the rehearsal-room floor. [Cross-refer Section 8: Cutting v. Compressing] This project covered the best part of a year. In the first three months, we created the first two evenings with which we began to tour. While touring, we created the third part. Then, while touring the three parts, we created the fourth. By this time, the actors had become virtually word-logged sponges, incapable of absorbing another syllable should they even try. But they tried and they did. Audiences, encouragingly, made no objection to seeing just one part of the whole, but better still, and quite unanticipated by us, would often travel from one part of the country to another to catch the episodes they’d missed. As with The Arabian Nights, we ended the project with a run in London, this time at the Royal Court, which included playing all four parts at weekends.

TO BE CONTINUED…

From A Handful of Dust to The Tin Ring

A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh was the third adaptation for the company. It occurred five years later, after we’d reaped the benefits of our initial storytelling experiences by applying this fresh knowledge to the performance of proper plays by proper playwrights. The first of these was Shakespeare’s Cymbeline. A play of his seemed the natural progression for developing the idea of theatre as the creation of something ‘out of nothing’, that is, relying exclusively on actors and the material they were performing. After Cymbeline, however, I felt that we’d painted ourselves into a corner: five actors, all in white, performing that entire text in an empty space seemed to have levitated us to a level of purity from which there was nowhere to go but up or – the only route available to us – back down to earth. In the intervening four years, between Cymbeline and A Handful of Dust, we continued to try out whatever skills and insights we’d gained from our narrative explorations on productions of plays in which we began to make slight gestures towards design.

For A Handful of Dust, we made the decision to create a storytelling production conceived exclusively for a proscenium stage, the space we’d found least sympathetic to telling stories and the least frequently used for our previous shows. We had favoured venues where we could be sure of a more intimate contact with the audience. But this type of stage seemed aesthetically right for this particular novel. Waugh displays his characters for our evaluation in a way that suggested we should observe them from a slight distance.

The novel was in many ways a gift for stage storytelling. It has a single, developing plot that builds on scenes of social gatherings. It is mainly executed through dialogue of great economy and wit, much of it over the phone. It has a containable range of some twenty characters viewed objectively with little attempt to get into their minds or describe their feelings; they reveal themselves by what they say and do, a requisite for most plays. And its length was manageable within a single performance.14

We twice revived The First Arabian Night for foreign touring, and later I recreated it with Norwegian actors for the Nationale Scene, formerly Ibsen’s theatre in Bergen, where we introduced, as our single concession to design, a sort of magic carpet that started very small, folded as a cushion to sit on, and gradually opened up, episode by episode, until, in the final story, it spread out as a huge star-lit backcloth across the whole rear of the stage. I also adapted and directed for the Heidelberg Staatstheater a four-hour production of King Omar and His Sons, the longest story from the Thousand and One Nights, an epic saga about three dynasties of Moslems in their struggles against the wicked Christians. We played in a traditional theatre on a costly sand-coloured carpet that covered the entire stage floor, with a gauze canopy that shot out into the auditorium to link the actors and audience together. With the writer, Michelene Wandor, I indulged in yet another four-hour adaptation, this time for the Royal National Theatre, of The Wandering Jew, a sprawling, early-nineteenth-century French novel by Eugène Sue, an immensely popular writer in his time. He specialised in overwrought, operatically melodramatic political thrillers, multiplotted with inordinate complexity and fuelled by his loathing of all established institutions and their injustices. These last two productions were notable for finding fresh and flexible ways of presenting labyrinthine plots, multiple flashbacks, large casts of characters, huge crowd scenes and rapid movement between wildly various locations and events (battles, theatre spectacles, tavern brawls, a cholera epidemic…). Some of these were achieved by devising theatrical equivalents of certain cinematic techniques. [Cross-refer Set 10, Workshop 49: Film Language]

As artistic director of Cambridge Theatre Company, later reconceived as Method & Madness, I revived A Handful of Dust. After which, with David Glass, I adapted the screenplay of Les Enfants du Paradis, which largely involved reinventing the film’s imagery. After this I made a series of adaptations which opened up new approaches to narrative. One was a Victorian terror story, Uncle Silas