A NOTE ABOUT PERFORMANCE

Once again I am baffled by writers who express opinion about performance. I shall explain.

Nineteen years ago (I cannot believe it was that long) I embarked on a course of study at Dartington College of Art. Whilst in Devon on the point moving permanently back to London, I spotted in the Guardian’s list of University Clearances, a writing course at Dartington. It was labelled ‘Performance Writing’. After some deliberation and tentative enquiries I was finally encouraged by Charles Carne, a friend who had also embarked on a university course, to make a proper appointment and go to the establishment to discuss the possibilities with a real person at the college.

 

It was a bit late in the year and the fall term was starting in a couple of weeks. There was not much time left to enrol; nonetheless I made the appointment and met the course tutor Jerome Fletcher. We discussed and it ended with Jerome saying I could start at the beginning of the week. I had no idea what was meant by Performance Writing. I assumed it was connected with writing scripts for theatre, film, television, radio and any other form of media that required a prepared text to perform to the public.

 

I had previously taken Robert McKee’s screen writing course in London. It was a two day course on the finer points of how to tell a story through writing a screenplay. Not just any screenplay, but one that might actually have a chance of being produced. I had heard that John Cleese had taken the course and apparently A Fish Called Wanda was the result. There were a number of luminaries on the course at the time I sat through it, so the notion of John Cleese having taken the course seemed probable.

 

I had also written a play which I presented to a playwriting competition run by director Ted Craig at the Warehouse Theatre in Croydon. It was actually one of five works shortlisted in the competition. Not too shabby for one’s first play, and a bit encouraging; however, there had been no follow up. Procrastination and shameful laziness are all I can say.

 

So having been accepted on the course at Dartington, I assumed the discipline required to complete a University Degree course would eventually produce great works of art. Indeed after obtaining my writing degree (BA writing) I went on to complete an MA in the subject and even embarked on doing a Phd. Sadly, I have not continued with the doctorate nor have I produced any great works of art, but I do have an understanding of what performance writing is about. That first year, nineteen years ago, was the beginning of an appreciation of just what words can do.

 

So I repeat, I am baffled by writers who express opinion about ‘performance’ who do not seem to have any real appreciation of what is being ‘performed’. When I read an article purporting to be an analysis and appreciation of a stage play, film, concert, art gallery, museum or whatever venue presenting and showing stuff to look at, read or listen to, I am, on the whole, able to distinguish whether the writer understands what their own writing is about and how it is performing

 

One has to realise that just about everything we do is part of performance. Everything we say, hear, feel and imagine, physically or emotionally is preforming. Never has this been made more apparent than in the current digital age. AI programs, such as ChatGPT, Perplexity, Otter, NotebookLM, Grammarly, Siri, Google Gemini, Microsoft Copilot, Claude etc. are all performance engines. As an example, using Perplexity, one can put in, either through speech of by text, a number of words including a suggestion as to the outcome, and the program will produce a text, within seconds. A usable text that will most likely meet your requirements or at least something that you can use to deal with those requirements. That text will perform for you. Whether it is good or bad, or rather whether it is appreciated or not, in part or whole, depends on the recipient of the performance. How the viewer or listener receives and analyses the performance depends on the recipients own point of view and knowledge.

 

For example, even if someone is presented with a text in a foreign language they do not understand, they will know that the text is in a language they do not understand, in which case the text has performed. It has revealed itself as something the recipient knows nothing about and either creates a sense of curiosity and intrigue or a sense of indifference, but it will have created an emotion of some kind.  The recipient may not even recognise what language is being performed, but if they do, then that is another level of performance and indicates additional knowledge of the recipient.

 

The brain is a curious instrument. It always seeks a way of understanding what it perceives; however, if it cannot find a way, it will disregard or overlook whatever it might be that perplexes it. It might also invent or fantasise an explanation. Whatever it is, the brain will seek some sort of explanation. That is just the nature of things.

 

As part of our culture and background, in particular since the Greek Civilisation, we have developed the theatre, which is the most iconic form of performance, with its continuously developing conventions, protocols and traditions of presentation. Along with this development came the analysis, appreciation or valuation of the performance, its creators and the performers as well. Alongside this evolution there has been a growing intellectual valuation of performance and a hierarchy attributed to certain aspects of performance, such as great, magnificent, worthy, terrible, poor, indifferent etc. all attributes put on the performance by those who have seen the work in question.

 

Along with this development has come a commercial aspect of theatrical performance in that people are invited to come and see the work performed at a specific site or theatre. As part of the commercial exercise, the work is presented for analysis and valuation on a chosen day, and the various individuals who are chosen to produce their analysis and appreciation, generally produce their piece shortly after viewing the performance. One must appreciate of course that the evaluators work is itself a form of performance writing and subject to the same kind of evaluation. Each and every piece of this kind is a critique that runs and runs, quite like the opposing mirrors shot in Citizen Kane, as Kane walks out of his wife’s demolished bedroom passing by the mirrors holding the snow globe that is the little catalyst of memory leading to his final word at death ‘rosebud’, there is an infinity of images.  But that is another story. Readers of this blog who have seen Citizen Kane will know whereof I speak, for those who have not, it will be like a foreign language they know of, but do not fully understand, and will either be intrigued enough to see the film or not as the case may be. In any event, the critic is very much a part of todays performance, and therefor subject to the same type of analysis.

 

So I come back to my bafflement about writers who express opinion about performance. There is at the moment a play called The Score being presented at the Theatre Royal Haymarket, in London. A number of people have now produced their analysis of the performance and some of them do not appear to fully understand what it is they have witnessed.  Some of their comments indicate that they have the same problem as the person hearing a foreign language and not knowing what to do, and so invent or divert attention elsewhere to some other aspect of the work they see as separate from the whole. Not wishing to appear ignorant of course, they will make comment on all aspects of the piece in order to appear knowledgeable.

 

Naturally everyone is entitled to have an opinion, informed or not, as the case may be, and those views are perfectly valid in so far as they represent an opinion. What baffles me is the emphasis put on one aspect of the performance by separating it from a part of the performance that is entirely allied to the one aspect they seek to emphasise. They seek to separate the acting from the text. They speak of the actor’s performance as if the actor were inventing the words they are performing on the spot. The idea of wonderful performance, sorry about the text, does not make sense. The actor’s performance does not happen without the text to perform. As the text performs, so does the actor. One occasionally hears the comment actor proof text, one rarely hears of text proof actors. Truly great performance only comes from good text.  It is sometimes said that some actors can read the phone book and make it great. That is not true and only demonstrates that the actor can amuse to great effect by being flamboyant. So what. Anyone can light a math which goes out in a flash. A sustained performance requires substance.

 

In my view the text of the play gave it substance. The levels and variety of ideas touched upon, personalities concerned and the situation enacted were the seeds giving up a wonderful and thought provoking performance. There may be quibbles about this or that aspect of the ensemble, set, costume, sound, direction or bits of business, but the soundness of the text gave the whole a life of its own to which the audience showed much appreciation. Indeed there is a scene in the play in which the character of Mrs Bach sees off one of King Frederick’s billeting officers in the town of Leipzig which brought about an instant reaction and cheer from members of the audience. How often does that happen in a play of any kind? There were other moments of this kind as well, which brought about audible reaction from the audience.

 

What it boils down to, of course, is that opinion in the arts is just that, an opinion. It usually stands on its own without opposition.  Sometimes it does attract opposition, which is a sure sign that the performance has been a great success as it promotes controversy and discussion, which is proof of life for any play. Of The Score  I say, lang may your lum reek.