Cross-posted from Brave Spirits Theatre's blog
What does it mean to take a piece of art you’ve been envisioning for years in one specific format and put it into a completely different format? I am a theatre practitioner and I spent almost ten years thinking about and planning a fully staged repertory of Shakespeare’s eight history plays. And though I know these plays intimately, I have always thought about them as works of theatre. It is quite an adjustment to try and re-imagine them within the context of audio performance, which is a new medium to work in not just for myself as a director, but for many members of the ensemble as actors.
Our primary goal in this new project is to produce not just audio dramas of Shakespeare’s eight histories, but audio dramas of BST’s version of Shakespeare’s eight histories. Though there is certainly a place for straightforward renderings of these plays, it was of utmost importance to me that our recordings have a point of view — that we found a way to retain the critique of (white, male) power that our stage productions were specifically exploring. Much of BST’s artistic identity (and artistic importance) is in the embodied feminist critiques we stage — so how do we maintain that point of view sans bodies and sans moments around and outside of text? In audio drama, there is no eye contact, no shared looks, no gestures.
These productions were always meant to be suspicious of monarchical power masquerading as merit and of our desire to see figures like Henry V as praiseworthy heroes. The audio dramas give us new ways to explore this point of view, through the intersection of history and art — narration gives us the opportunity to provide additional details and context. Historically, when Henry IV defeated the Percy family, the dead bodies of Hotspur, Worcester, and Vernon were placed on public display as a warning to others who would rebel. When Henry V captured the city of Harfleur, he had all the municipal records and title deeds burned; the French inhabitants of the town were dispossessed and owning and inheriting land was restricted to the English. We are still grappling with the history of violence contained in imperialism and colonialism, violence that continues to this day.
As a Shakespearean artist, my relationship with/to text is constantly evolving and it’s shifted once again in the course of preparing for this project. I’ve reached a new level of comfort in editing the text for clarity. When words are the only vehicle for conveying story, archaic phrasing and language feels even more obtrusive. I have to admit that now I understand the Play On Shakespeare project in a way I didn’t before. I’ve made more language edits in these plays than in any other text I’ve ever directed — swapping words to remove anti-black language, to reduce the masculine neutral, and to increase clarity. And the longer I work with Shakespeare, the more I’m convinced that nothing I do will damage what is wonderful about his plays, but I can increase understanding, enjoyment, and engagement of them for modern audiences.
The process has turned into one large experiment. We are testing out options and seeing what works. We are learning to let go of these plays as pieces of theatre and let them be something new and different. Since the method of engagement will be different, so is our method of producing and interpreting them. We’re all eager to see what form the final product takes and then to share that with our audience.
– Charlene V. Smith, Artistic Director
Monday, July 5, 2021
Friday, October 19, 2018
Feminism in the Field of Verse and Violence
Cross-posted from Brave Spirits Theatre's blog
CW: sexual assault
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a feminist. For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved William Shakespeare. As an artist and a woman, I often find myself thinking about the ways in which these two things can be in direct contrast. The drama of the early modern English stage is one that frequently stages verbal, physical, and sexual assault against women. As a company, Brave Spirits Theatre is interested in exploring the violent nature of these plays – it’s in our tagline: verse and violence. And yet our modern entertainment is full of examples of violence against women being glorified, sensationalized, or use as a shortcut for character development. I’m tired of watching movies and tv shows that use assault carelessly. So I’m often left asking myself: How do I (and how does Brave Spirits) present these plays that we are dedicated to in a responsible manner? What are we asking our audience to witness, and to what purpose?
I’ve been thinking about these issues in a renewed way, for three main reasons: 1, I’m directing The Changeling, which contains multiple instances of non-consensual touch; 2, the appointment of Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court has opened deep wounds for many, not only because of the alarming rate at which women are assaulted in America, but also the way survivors are treated in the aftermath; and 3, I recently spent the weekend in Milwaukee at the Statera conference, an organization dedicated to the uplifting of women in the arts. During one of the sessions at the conference, we talked about what female and feminist directors can do when they are hired to directed outdated and misogynistic pieces, especially when they are considered classics of the American theatre.
It’s certainly a big question, and there are not necessarily any easy answers, but the overarching take away I had is: it matters who is in the room; it matters who has a say in how how these stories are interpreted.
The story of The Changeling has been overwhelmingly controlled by men (and of course the play was written by two male playwrights from a highly patriarchal period). As I’ve researched the play, I’ve found myself frustrated with the way many male directors and editors have characterized the events and the tone of the play. Analyses of the play often treat Beatrice Joanna and De Flores as perversely meant for each other – as though Beatrice’s ugly internal desires matches De Flores’ ugly exterior. As one male director noted, “The Changeling is like Romeo and Juliet on the dark side.” I find this description, which has much more frequently been applied to ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore, to be a complete misunderstanding of The Changeling: this play is not about love, even in a twisted form. Many productions use the word “sexy” to sell this play, which is probably used to frequently as a catch-all selling point for all Jacobean drama. The Changeling may be about sex, but that is not the same thing as being sexy.
To place Beatrice Joanna and De Flores in a love relationship is to ignore the ways in which Beatrice’s entrapment in a patriarchal society limits her choices. To consider Beatrice as evil as anyone else in this play is to ignore the fact that she pursues killing Alonzo as an alternative to Alsemero challenging him to a duel; that Alsemero suggests murder first. It is to ignore the emotional manipulation that De Flores constantly practices on Beatrice, his purposeful and consistent attempts to demean her and have her internalize that low opinion.
In the major climax of the play, De Flores requires Beatrice’s virginity in payment for the murder of Alonzo. It is, unequivocally, an act of rape. But I’ve seen productions, artists, and academics twist themselves around in order to insist that what happens in that scene is consensual. I was horrified to read in the Shakespeare Handbooks edition of The Changeling, by Jay O’Berski, the comment, “It’s clear that he loves her and respects her enough not to drag her off for instant gratification” (pg. 48). This is a horribly offensive misunderstanding of the way sexual assault works. O’Berkski continues, “She may struggle violently with him if this is interpreted as a rape but her silence may signal a complicity that screaming for help would surely absolve” (pg. 50). This is rape culture – What were you wearing? Why didn’t you yell for help? Why didn’t you fight back? Why didn’t you tell someone? To claim that the scene would need a “violent struggle” in order for the action to “count” as rape is deeply problematic. From what I’ve seen, male interpreters of this text do not stage, or perhaps even realize, the emotional and mental manipulation that often accompanies acts of sexual violence. They do not think about what the act of coercion looks like. They do not consider the non-physical forms of abuse. And they do not consider the lasting effects such trauma has on a person.
To seek to rehabilitate De Flores, to present him as misunderstood, is to refuse to confront the cruelty men, socialized by entitlement and patriarchy, are capable of doing. To make this play a love story is to prioritize his experience over hers. What does it mean to stage early modern plays with such violence and how do we do it responsibly? It’s a question I’ll continue asking myself, but I know it matters who gets to tell the story. It means believing the experience of the female characters.
– Charlene V. Smith, Artistic Director
CW: sexual assault
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a feminist. For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved William Shakespeare. As an artist and a woman, I often find myself thinking about the ways in which these two things can be in direct contrast. The drama of the early modern English stage is one that frequently stages verbal, physical, and sexual assault against women. As a company, Brave Spirits Theatre is interested in exploring the violent nature of these plays – it’s in our tagline: verse and violence. And yet our modern entertainment is full of examples of violence against women being glorified, sensationalized, or use as a shortcut for character development. I’m tired of watching movies and tv shows that use assault carelessly. So I’m often left asking myself: How do I (and how does Brave Spirits) present these plays that we are dedicated to in a responsible manner? What are we asking our audience to witness, and to what purpose?
I’ve been thinking about these issues in a renewed way, for three main reasons: 1, I’m directing The Changeling, which contains multiple instances of non-consensual touch; 2, the appointment of Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court has opened deep wounds for many, not only because of the alarming rate at which women are assaulted in America, but also the way survivors are treated in the aftermath; and 3, I recently spent the weekend in Milwaukee at the Statera conference, an organization dedicated to the uplifting of women in the arts. During one of the sessions at the conference, we talked about what female and feminist directors can do when they are hired to directed outdated and misogynistic pieces, especially when they are considered classics of the American theatre.
It’s certainly a big question, and there are not necessarily any easy answers, but the overarching take away I had is: it matters who is in the room; it matters who has a say in how how these stories are interpreted.
The story of The Changeling has been overwhelmingly controlled by men (and of course the play was written by two male playwrights from a highly patriarchal period). As I’ve researched the play, I’ve found myself frustrated with the way many male directors and editors have characterized the events and the tone of the play. Analyses of the play often treat Beatrice Joanna and De Flores as perversely meant for each other – as though Beatrice’s ugly internal desires matches De Flores’ ugly exterior. As one male director noted, “The Changeling is like Romeo and Juliet on the dark side.” I find this description, which has much more frequently been applied to ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore, to be a complete misunderstanding of The Changeling: this play is not about love, even in a twisted form. Many productions use the word “sexy” to sell this play, which is probably used to frequently as a catch-all selling point for all Jacobean drama. The Changeling may be about sex, but that is not the same thing as being sexy.
To place Beatrice Joanna and De Flores in a love relationship is to ignore the ways in which Beatrice’s entrapment in a patriarchal society limits her choices. To consider Beatrice as evil as anyone else in this play is to ignore the fact that she pursues killing Alonzo as an alternative to Alsemero challenging him to a duel; that Alsemero suggests murder first. It is to ignore the emotional manipulation that De Flores constantly practices on Beatrice, his purposeful and consistent attempts to demean her and have her internalize that low opinion.
In the major climax of the play, De Flores requires Beatrice’s virginity in payment for the murder of Alonzo. It is, unequivocally, an act of rape. But I’ve seen productions, artists, and academics twist themselves around in order to insist that what happens in that scene is consensual. I was horrified to read in the Shakespeare Handbooks edition of The Changeling, by Jay O’Berski, the comment, “It’s clear that he loves her and respects her enough not to drag her off for instant gratification” (pg. 48). This is a horribly offensive misunderstanding of the way sexual assault works. O’Berkski continues, “She may struggle violently with him if this is interpreted as a rape but her silence may signal a complicity that screaming for help would surely absolve” (pg. 50). This is rape culture – What were you wearing? Why didn’t you yell for help? Why didn’t you fight back? Why didn’t you tell someone? To claim that the scene would need a “violent struggle” in order for the action to “count” as rape is deeply problematic. From what I’ve seen, male interpreters of this text do not stage, or perhaps even realize, the emotional and mental manipulation that often accompanies acts of sexual violence. They do not think about what the act of coercion looks like. They do not consider the non-physical forms of abuse. And they do not consider the lasting effects such trauma has on a person.
To seek to rehabilitate De Flores, to present him as misunderstood, is to refuse to confront the cruelty men, socialized by entitlement and patriarchy, are capable of doing. To make this play a love story is to prioritize his experience over hers. What does it mean to stage early modern plays with such violence and how do we do it responsibly? It’s a question I’ll continue asking myself, but I know it matters who gets to tell the story. It means believing the experience of the female characters.
– Charlene V. Smith, Artistic Director
Saturday, April 15, 2017
In Defense of Villainy
Cross posted from Brave Spirits Theatre
Constantin Stanisklavski’s system of acting and Sigmund Freud’s theories on psychology have had a transformative effect on performances in modern theatre and film. One tenet that has been born out of them is the oft-repeated idea that actors need to be their character’s best advocate. I’ve heard another version of this philosophy – that actors must like their character. But what does it even mean to like your character? Actors interpret this idea in a myriad of ways.
Though there is helpful wisdom at the heart of this idea, I’ve seen actors who cling to it get into trouble when the play requires their character to be the bad guy. I was once in a play where a young character was killed, and though the circumstances were ambiguous, the text made it clear who had committed the murder. Since the murder didn’t occur on stage, the actor playing the murderer argued for a more positive situation. His character couldn’t have possibly killed the child out of malicious intent — “It must have been an accident.” This actor refused to play the bad guy.
I once saw a production of Thomas Middleton and William Rowley’s The Changeling in which the actor playing De Flores gave the most earnest performance I’d ever seen in the role, with a strong sense of De Flores being wronged by the world, and merely misunderstood. But De Flores is a villain. He mentally and physically violates a woman and he kills and mutilates a man. He is an extremely smart character who successfully, and constantly, manipulates those around him. To play De Flores as heartfelt and earnest is to unbalance the entire play. It also robs the audience of the perverse joy we feel in these plays when the villain succeeds.
Having to like your character makes sense through our current lens of psychological realism. Human beings are complicated and don’t fall into easy boxes of “good” and “bad.” Within the classical theatre, however, characters often do fall into those boxes. And while psychological realism can absolutely be applied to great success in the plays of the English early modern stage, actors have to be aware of the traditions out of which their characters comes.
BST’s 'Tis Pity in rehearsal; photo by Claire Kimball
The plays of the English early modern theatre were born out of the medieval morality plays and must be understood in the way they deviate and borrow from that earlier theatrical era. Medieval morality plays traded in stock characters with a set of personified virtues and vices seeking to win control over an Everyman character. These characters represent abstract qualities rather than distinct individuals.This convention made its way into early Elizabethan plays, such as The Three Ladies of London, where the names of the title characters are Lucre (greed), Love, and Conscience.
The most famous of the medieval stock characters is, of course, Vice. Morality plays used vice figures in different ways over the period. Some plays had multiple vice characters, with specific names, such as Lust-Liking or The Seven Deadly Sins. Other plays had one overarching vice character, sometimes simply called Vice. The Vice character often spoke directly to the audience in soliloquies. Many vice characters were also entertaining or comic, so audiences would enjoy watching the character scheme and manipulate. You can see the direct descendant of Vice, and the apotheosis of the character type, in Shakespeare’s Richard III.
I spent a lot of time thinking about villainy as I was preparing to direct John Ford’s ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore. In fact, my first rehearsal comments to the cast and production team centered around the notion of villainy. In this Carolinian tragedy, though Vasques is arguably the main villain of the piece, the play is filled with them. In contrast with the modern performance advice to like your character, I asked all the actors to embrace villainy.
In John Ford’s gruesome tragedy, siblings Giovanni and Annabella commit what is seen as a universal horror: incest. Even Vasques, Soranzo’s amoral servant, is taken aback when she learns the news: “Her own brother? O horrible!” Though almost all the characters are aghast at the news of Giovanni and Annabella’s sexual relationship, none of them are without blame. Vasques arranges torture and murder; Soranzo seduces and abandons a lover; Hippolita commits adultery and hopes for her husband’s death; Grimaldi and Hippolita each seek to poison Soranzo; and Richardetto’s selfish actions lead to the death of an innocent victim.
Ford fills his play with unrepentant characters, leaving the audience to question who is the true villain of the piece. The Cardinal wraps up the play pointing the finger squarely at Annabella: “Of one so young, so rich in nature’s store, / Who could not say, ‘’Tis pity she’s a whore?’” But Annabella’s sexual activities were consensual and faithful. The Cardinal moralizes, but we’ve already seen him mishandle justice on behalf of a relative and seize the property and goods of Giovanni and Annabella’s family in order to enrichen the church. Like the rest of the characters, the Cardinal has a compromised ability to judge right from wrong.
’Tis Pity She’s a Whore builds on the form of the Jacobean revenge tragedy and includes not one but five revenge plots. As such the body count at the end of the play is high, and the gruesome tragedy of the play becomes all the more delicious and effective for the audience when the actors are willing to be bad.
– Charlene V. Smith, BST Producing Artistic Director
Constantin Stanisklavski’s system of acting and Sigmund Freud’s theories on psychology have had a transformative effect on performances in modern theatre and film. One tenet that has been born out of them is the oft-repeated idea that actors need to be their character’s best advocate. I’ve heard another version of this philosophy – that actors must like their character. But what does it even mean to like your character? Actors interpret this idea in a myriad of ways.
Though there is helpful wisdom at the heart of this idea, I’ve seen actors who cling to it get into trouble when the play requires their character to be the bad guy. I was once in a play where a young character was killed, and though the circumstances were ambiguous, the text made it clear who had committed the murder. Since the murder didn’t occur on stage, the actor playing the murderer argued for a more positive situation. His character couldn’t have possibly killed the child out of malicious intent — “It must have been an accident.” This actor refused to play the bad guy.
I once saw a production of Thomas Middleton and William Rowley’s The Changeling in which the actor playing De Flores gave the most earnest performance I’d ever seen in the role, with a strong sense of De Flores being wronged by the world, and merely misunderstood. But De Flores is a villain. He mentally and physically violates a woman and he kills and mutilates a man. He is an extremely smart character who successfully, and constantly, manipulates those around him. To play De Flores as heartfelt and earnest is to unbalance the entire play. It also robs the audience of the perverse joy we feel in these plays when the villain succeeds.
Having to like your character makes sense through our current lens of psychological realism. Human beings are complicated and don’t fall into easy boxes of “good” and “bad.” Within the classical theatre, however, characters often do fall into those boxes. And while psychological realism can absolutely be applied to great success in the plays of the English early modern stage, actors have to be aware of the traditions out of which their characters comes.
BST’s 'Tis Pity in rehearsal; photo by Claire Kimball
The plays of the English early modern theatre were born out of the medieval morality plays and must be understood in the way they deviate and borrow from that earlier theatrical era. Medieval morality plays traded in stock characters with a set of personified virtues and vices seeking to win control over an Everyman character. These characters represent abstract qualities rather than distinct individuals.This convention made its way into early Elizabethan plays, such as The Three Ladies of London, where the names of the title characters are Lucre (greed), Love, and Conscience.
The most famous of the medieval stock characters is, of course, Vice. Morality plays used vice figures in different ways over the period. Some plays had multiple vice characters, with specific names, such as Lust-Liking or The Seven Deadly Sins. Other plays had one overarching vice character, sometimes simply called Vice. The Vice character often spoke directly to the audience in soliloquies. Many vice characters were also entertaining or comic, so audiences would enjoy watching the character scheme and manipulate. You can see the direct descendant of Vice, and the apotheosis of the character type, in Shakespeare’s Richard III.
I spent a lot of time thinking about villainy as I was preparing to direct John Ford’s ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore. In fact, my first rehearsal comments to the cast and production team centered around the notion of villainy. In this Carolinian tragedy, though Vasques is arguably the main villain of the piece, the play is filled with them. In contrast with the modern performance advice to like your character, I asked all the actors to embrace villainy.
In John Ford’s gruesome tragedy, siblings Giovanni and Annabella commit what is seen as a universal horror: incest. Even Vasques, Soranzo’s amoral servant, is taken aback when she learns the news: “Her own brother? O horrible!” Though almost all the characters are aghast at the news of Giovanni and Annabella’s sexual relationship, none of them are without blame. Vasques arranges torture and murder; Soranzo seduces and abandons a lover; Hippolita commits adultery and hopes for her husband’s death; Grimaldi and Hippolita each seek to poison Soranzo; and Richardetto’s selfish actions lead to the death of an innocent victim.
Ford fills his play with unrepentant characters, leaving the audience to question who is the true villain of the piece. The Cardinal wraps up the play pointing the finger squarely at Annabella: “Of one so young, so rich in nature’s store, / Who could not say, ‘’Tis pity she’s a whore?’” But Annabella’s sexual activities were consensual and faithful. The Cardinal moralizes, but we’ve already seen him mishandle justice on behalf of a relative and seize the property and goods of Giovanni and Annabella’s family in order to enrichen the church. Like the rest of the characters, the Cardinal has a compromised ability to judge right from wrong.
’Tis Pity She’s a Whore builds on the form of the Jacobean revenge tragedy and includes not one but five revenge plots. As such the body count at the end of the play is high, and the gruesome tragedy of the play becomes all the more delicious and effective for the audience when the actors are willing to be bad.
– Charlene V. Smith, BST Producing Artistic Director
Monday, October 31, 2016
Cleopatra and the Male Gaze
Cross-posted from Brave Spirits Theatre's blog
Woolly Mammoth’s recent production of Collective Rage: A Play in Five Boops made waves in the DC theatre community. In the play, as described by the company, “five different women named Betty collide at the intersection of anger, sex, and the ‘thea-tah.’ Award-winning playwright Jen Silverman’s absurdist romantic comedy is at once hysterical, inspired, and boldly uncompromising. When you’re done laughing, you’ll be ready to deliver a knockout blow to a thousand different well-worn tropes about female identity…and dare them all to say ‘Boop.’” This world premiere production was lauded by female critics in the blogosphere. But Peter Marks, arguably the most important DC theatre critic in terms of readership and effect on ticket sales, hated the piece, calling it on Twitter one of the worst plays he had seen in DC.
In a daring response, Woolly Mammoth sent out a marketing email highlighting the discrepancy, saying, “There are seven critics who consider Jen Silverman’s world premiere a form-breaking, revolutionary inquiry into gender identity and expression … On the other hand, there’s one critic who used his review to scold the play for using “dirty” words.” Marks heavily criticized the production, calling the conceit “at all times juvenile, and the sophomoric portraits of the five women … astonishingly patronizing.”
It can be dangerous for a theatre or an artist to take issue with a negative review; after all, critics are just doing their job, even when they don’t like a production. But Woolly Mammoth’s reputation and standing within the theatrical community allows them to take such risks. Indeed, it was this marketing ploy and the social media response to Marks’ review that led me to buy a ticket. I quite enjoyed the production and, judging from the laughter and applause, so did the many women around me in the audience.
Studies show that women make up over 70% of ticket buyers and 60% of audiences. We are the majority of the audience, and yet plays written specifically for a female audience are rare. They are so rare that watching a play about women and for women can feel like a revelation. Collective Rage was a play for women, and it seems remarkable that Marks completely neglected to consider that. The characters were all women; they talked about female body parts; the play dissected female stereotypes; the women existed beyond their relationships to men. As one commentator on the Post review astutely put it, “I find it fascinating that Mr. Marks couldn’t see this play for what it is: an indictment of the strictures society puts on women and how women adopt and sometimes embrace those strictures often to the detriment of their own happiness.”
I found myself thinking about these issues in reference to Brave Spirits’ recent production of Antony and Cleopatra. We received a somewhat mixed review in the Post from Marks’ colleague, Nelson Pressley. But it’s not his criticisms of the production that gives me pause; it’s the coded language used in the review and what that language says about gendered expectations in art. Pressley referred to our Cleopatra, played by Jessica Lefkow, as “unconventional” and the production in general as “non-sexy.” In contrast, female audience members characterized the production as “STEAMY,” “dangerous, creative, sexy, intimate,” and “bewitching.”
The point of this blog post is not, however, to take issue with any opinions expressed by Mr. Marks or Mr. Pressley, but to use these examples as a jumping off point into why more female representation and more female voices are needed, at every level of artistic engagement. That also involves parsing the word “unconventional” and digging into what that word suggests and what it reveals about our industry and our expectations of what female characters behave and look like.
As men are systemically hired as directors at a higher rate than women, Antony and Cleopatra is almost always directed by a man. The Shakespeare in Production edition of this play lists seventy productions in a select chronology from 1759 to 1995; only five of those productions had female directors. As a result, Cleopatra is almost always presented through the male gaze. The “male gaze” is a phrase coined by feminist film critic Laura Mulvey in 1975 and is used for analyzing the way stories and art depict women as solely objects for male pleasure.
Cleopatra’s sexuality is often staged as her primary feature, and her primary weapon, though the text does not necessarily support this interpretation. (For more information, see our production dramaturg’s blog post “Search for ‘Drunken Antony’ and the ‘Cleopatra…i’th’ Posture of a Whore” ). Indeed, the text often de-emphasizes Cleopatra’s status as a sex symbol. This comes through the mouth of Enobabus, the play’s truth-teller. When Agrippa crudely remarks, “She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed. / He ploughed her, and she cropped,” Enobarbus responds, “ I saw her once / Hop forty paces through the public street / And, having lost her breath, she spoke and panted, / That she did make defect perfection, / And, breathless, pour breath out.” Obviously these lines are open to actor interpretation, but arguably Enobabus is providing an alternative view of Cleopatra, a corrective to what Agrippa has heard about her. Enobarbus also tells us that Antony, upon meeting Cleopatra, “goes to the feast, / And, for his ordinary, pays his heart / for what his eyes eat only.” In other words, Antony falls in love with Cleopatra prior to any sexual or physical contact. Enobarbus tells us that Cleopatra’s appeal is about more than sex.
But no matter what the text may say, we bring with us ingrained expectations. I was reminded of this when a cast member posted on facebook a picture I had seen before, of a young Helen Mirren as Cleopatra in the 1966 production at the Old Vic.
I think this picture shows Cleopatra as many of us picture her in our head – in low cut, form-fitting costume that reveals a lot of skin. Now, Brave Spirits doesn’t shy away from sex and skin (in fact, in our production three men appeared in the early Egypt scenes bare-chested). I’m also more than willing to admit that Helen Mirren looks incredible. But neither of those changes the fact that this picture epitomizes our industry’s habit of staging Cleopatra for the pleasure of men: her body is on display. This fact did not go unnoted by the (male) critics of the day. Milton Shuman went on about it in a horribly inappropriate manner: “As Cleopatra, Miss Helen Mirren was well equipped physically for the part with a voluptuous, sensuous figure that swayed with such conviction that rehearsals must have made considerable disciplinary demands upon the rest of the company. I can well imagine them being tempted to break out into storms of appreciative whistles.” Not only the character of Cleopatra, but also the actress herself is here reduced to a physical object for the appreciation of others.
In a daring response, Woolly Mammoth sent out a marketing email highlighting the discrepancy, saying, “There are seven critics who consider Jen Silverman’s world premiere a form-breaking, revolutionary inquiry into gender identity and expression … On the other hand, there’s one critic who used his review to scold the play for using “dirty” words.” Marks heavily criticized the production, calling the conceit “at all times juvenile, and the sophomoric portraits of the five women … astonishingly patronizing.”
It can be dangerous for a theatre or an artist to take issue with a negative review; after all, critics are just doing their job, even when they don’t like a production. But Woolly Mammoth’s reputation and standing within the theatrical community allows them to take such risks. Indeed, it was this marketing ploy and the social media response to Marks’ review that led me to buy a ticket. I quite enjoyed the production and, judging from the laughter and applause, so did the many women around me in the audience.
Studies show that women make up over 70% of ticket buyers and 60% of audiences. We are the majority of the audience, and yet plays written specifically for a female audience are rare. They are so rare that watching a play about women and for women can feel like a revelation. Collective Rage was a play for women, and it seems remarkable that Marks completely neglected to consider that. The characters were all women; they talked about female body parts; the play dissected female stereotypes; the women existed beyond their relationships to men. As one commentator on the Post review astutely put it, “I find it fascinating that Mr. Marks couldn’t see this play for what it is: an indictment of the strictures society puts on women and how women adopt and sometimes embrace those strictures often to the detriment of their own happiness.”
I found myself thinking about these issues in reference to Brave Spirits’ recent production of Antony and Cleopatra. We received a somewhat mixed review in the Post from Marks’ colleague, Nelson Pressley. But it’s not his criticisms of the production that gives me pause; it’s the coded language used in the review and what that language says about gendered expectations in art. Pressley referred to our Cleopatra, played by Jessica Lefkow, as “unconventional” and the production in general as “non-sexy.” In contrast, female audience members characterized the production as “STEAMY,” “dangerous, creative, sexy, intimate,” and “bewitching.”
The point of this blog post is not, however, to take issue with any opinions expressed by Mr. Marks or Mr. Pressley, but to use these examples as a jumping off point into why more female representation and more female voices are needed, at every level of artistic engagement. That also involves parsing the word “unconventional” and digging into what that word suggests and what it reveals about our industry and our expectations of what female characters behave and look like.
As men are systemically hired as directors at a higher rate than women, Antony and Cleopatra is almost always directed by a man. The Shakespeare in Production edition of this play lists seventy productions in a select chronology from 1759 to 1995; only five of those productions had female directors. As a result, Cleopatra is almost always presented through the male gaze. The “male gaze” is a phrase coined by feminist film critic Laura Mulvey in 1975 and is used for analyzing the way stories and art depict women as solely objects for male pleasure.
Cleopatra’s sexuality is often staged as her primary feature, and her primary weapon, though the text does not necessarily support this interpretation. (For more information, see our production dramaturg’s blog post “Search for ‘Drunken Antony’ and the ‘Cleopatra…i’th’ Posture of a Whore” ). Indeed, the text often de-emphasizes Cleopatra’s status as a sex symbol. This comes through the mouth of Enobabus, the play’s truth-teller. When Agrippa crudely remarks, “She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed. / He ploughed her, and she cropped,” Enobarbus responds, “ I saw her once / Hop forty paces through the public street / And, having lost her breath, she spoke and panted, / That she did make defect perfection, / And, breathless, pour breath out.” Obviously these lines are open to actor interpretation, but arguably Enobabus is providing an alternative view of Cleopatra, a corrective to what Agrippa has heard about her. Enobarbus also tells us that Antony, upon meeting Cleopatra, “goes to the feast, / And, for his ordinary, pays his heart / for what his eyes eat only.” In other words, Antony falls in love with Cleopatra prior to any sexual or physical contact. Enobarbus tells us that Cleopatra’s appeal is about more than sex.
But no matter what the text may say, we bring with us ingrained expectations. I was reminded of this when a cast member posted on facebook a picture I had seen before, of a young Helen Mirren as Cleopatra in the 1966 production at the Old Vic.
I think this picture shows Cleopatra as many of us picture her in our head – in low cut, form-fitting costume that reveals a lot of skin. Now, Brave Spirits doesn’t shy away from sex and skin (in fact, in our production three men appeared in the early Egypt scenes bare-chested). I’m also more than willing to admit that Helen Mirren looks incredible. But neither of those changes the fact that this picture epitomizes our industry’s habit of staging Cleopatra for the pleasure of men: her body is on display. This fact did not go unnoted by the (male) critics of the day. Milton Shuman went on about it in a horribly inappropriate manner: “As Cleopatra, Miss Helen Mirren was well equipped physically for the part with a voluptuous, sensuous figure that swayed with such conviction that rehearsals must have made considerable disciplinary demands upon the rest of the company. I can well imagine them being tempted to break out into storms of appreciative whistles.” Not only the character of Cleopatra, but also the actress herself is here reduced to a physical object for the appreciation of others.
Photo by Claire Kimball.
In Brave Spirits Theatre’s production of Antony and Cleopatra, Jessica Lekfow’s performance and Melissa Huggins’ costume design were not about showing her skin. During rehearsal, we never specifically had a conversation about the “male gaze,” but our choices were all in line with each other. After the production closed I spoke with both Jessica and Melissa about these thoughts, and though we hadn’t used the phrase during rehearsal, they both knew exactly what I was talking about. Melissa said that while she hadn’t been specifically thinking about the male gaze, her design for Cleopatra’s costume had been inspired by Coco Chanel, who was a woman designing clothes for women. In fact, Chanel spoke out about the “illogical” design of New Look fashion created by men. Chanel’s aesthetic was known for its practicality and movement: her clothes allowed women to work, ride bicycles, and engage in physical activity. With the rise of Chanel’s fashion, the corseted female silhouette finally became passé.
In our production of Antony and Cleopatra, three women working together (as director, actor, and designer) to create this character gave audiences a new perspective on Cleopatra and presented new possibilities for who this dramatic character might be. Because a conventional Cleopatra is one whose appearance and behavior has been determined by men, our presentation of Cleopatra should be unconventional. The conventional Cleopatra is one of sexual objectification, but Cleopatra, and women everywhere, are more than their sexualities. Both Cleopatra and female audience members can find power in places other than our skin. This is why one of the keystones to Brave Spirits’ work is providing more opportunities to female artists, both onstage and off. We aim to increase women’s representation in the stories we tell and in the gatekeepers who control the ways those stories get told.
— Charlene V. Smith, Artistic Director
Thursday, November 19, 2015
Re-gendering Shakespeare’s Verse
Cross posted from Brave Spirits Theatre's blog
Brave Spirits begins every rehearsal period with an exploration of the play’s text and verse. Because of the primacy we give to language and meter, re-gendering a character, or an entire play, is much more complicated than simply switching pronouns. Kevin Finkelstein, the director, and I worked through the script before the cast ever saw it, having many discussions about what words meant and how to make changes while maintaining the verse form. Several changes we were able to make before rehearsals began, such as the easy flips between him and her and he and she. Many gendered moments in the script we marked to go over with the cast and dramaturg during tablework.
Beyond simply re-gendering the characters, we also wanted to re-gender the world. By this we mean that we wanted to remove from the script all generic language that was actually coded as male. In both our world and the world of Henry IV, male pronouns and words are treated as the default. Male is the norm. Our world is one in which we constantly hear male versions of words, even though 51% of the population is female. We wanted our audience to be aware of the shifts in language and to notice that we were presenting a world to them where female was treated as default.
We talked about not just the genders of the characters, but the gendered language that refers to concepts like peace, war, the devil, and the sun. We had a lengthy discussion with the cast about religion and the gender of God. In the bible, God is referred to as both a mother and a father, even though God has come to be referred to in male pronouns exclusively. Our dramaturg notes that Rabbinic tradition is very clear that God has no gender because God is perfect, it is just that Hebrew, as an imperfect language, has no gender neutral pronoun so they defaulted to male ones.The Judeo-Christian basis of the script is inescapable, so we still had to create a world in which religion exists, but through our discussions we decided to think of it as a world in which the birth of Jesus by the Virgin Mary became the dominant event of the religion. As such we kept oaths that referred to “God” or “Jesu” or “by’r lady,” but substituted in any of those in when the script said “By the Lord.”
We also considered the way in which insults were often gendered. Most common is the word “knave.” Though knave originally specifically referred to a male person, we felt our audience today would not read gender into the word and thus we could leave it. Another insult used frequently is that of “whoreson.” Whoreson, or son of a whore, very clearly insults someone by insulting their mother. Our dramaturg, Mara Sherman, discovered the word “byblow” as a replacement. Byblow, much like whoreson or bastard, references an illegitimate child. We liked the word because it removed the female gender, and maybe for some audience members flips the gender insult to the male side, as byblow perhaps conjures up the idea of ejaculate going somewhere it’s not supposed to.
During this entire process, maintaining the verse form was of utmost importance. Of course, in prose sections the number of syllables doesn’t matter in the same way, but we also wanted to make changes consistent across the script regardless of whether the dialogue was in verse or in prose. We got lucky in a couple ways. First of all, Queen is an easy switch for King. Secondly, all the other honorifics became easy to deal with when we realized that almost every instance of a title being used included “of.” So instead of struggling to figure out how to swap in Countess for Earl and Duchess for Duke, we were able to swap in “the Countess Douglass” for “the Earl of Douglass” and maintain the verse form. We had to get creative in a few places, such as changing “uncle” for “good aunt” or “cousin” and “nephew” for “young niece.” We left prince alone because there wasn’t a clean way to insert princess, and the words can conjure up very different images since the second one is often used in a derogatory sense.
And our final bit of creativity involved fudging things a little. Man/woman and gentleman/gentlewoman was the biggest issue when it came to maintaining the verse form. We decided to make these switches but ask the actors to play elision — to treat woman/women as one syllable, i.e., wom’n. We thought we could get away with this for a couple reasons. First, the pronunciation difference in woman and women is mostly in the first syllable, even though it is the second syllable that is spelled differently. Secondly, there is a precedent for eliding words into one syllable that have a -en ending. This often involves removing the middle consonant instead of the vowel. So e’en for even or ta’en for taken. There are examples in early modern playscripts, however, of the e being removed instead, such as sev’n written for seven or heav’n for heaven.
Finally, here are some of my favorite switches that we did. Many of these the cast help create.
HOTSPUR: ‘Zounds, an I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady’s fan.
HOTSPUR: ‘Zounds, an I were now by this rascal, I could brain her with her husband’s slipper.
FALSTAFF: but if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack.
FALSTAFF: but if I be not Jill Falstaff, then am I false.
DOLL TEARSHEET: thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon…
DICK TEARSHEET: thou art as honorable as Antigone, worth five of Helen…
And since the director wanted to create a world in which matriarchy had always been the dominate mode, we even re-gendered Caesar, so that Falstaff “may justly say, with the hook-nosed woman of Rome, ‘I came, saw, and overcame.’”
Brave Spirits begins every rehearsal period with an exploration of the play’s text and verse. Because of the primacy we give to language and meter, re-gendering a character, or an entire play, is much more complicated than simply switching pronouns. Kevin Finkelstein, the director, and I worked through the script before the cast ever saw it, having many discussions about what words meant and how to make changes while maintaining the verse form. Several changes we were able to make before rehearsals began, such as the easy flips between him and her and he and she. Many gendered moments in the script we marked to go over with the cast and dramaturg during tablework.
Beyond simply re-gendering the characters, we also wanted to re-gender the world. By this we mean that we wanted to remove from the script all generic language that was actually coded as male. In both our world and the world of Henry IV, male pronouns and words are treated as the default. Male is the norm. Our world is one in which we constantly hear male versions of words, even though 51% of the population is female. We wanted our audience to be aware of the shifts in language and to notice that we were presenting a world to them where female was treated as default.
We talked about not just the genders of the characters, but the gendered language that refers to concepts like peace, war, the devil, and the sun. We had a lengthy discussion with the cast about religion and the gender of God. In the bible, God is referred to as both a mother and a father, even though God has come to be referred to in male pronouns exclusively. Our dramaturg notes that Rabbinic tradition is very clear that God has no gender because God is perfect, it is just that Hebrew, as an imperfect language, has no gender neutral pronoun so they defaulted to male ones.The Judeo-Christian basis of the script is inescapable, so we still had to create a world in which religion exists, but through our discussions we decided to think of it as a world in which the birth of Jesus by the Virgin Mary became the dominant event of the religion. As such we kept oaths that referred to “God” or “Jesu” or “by’r lady,” but substituted in any of those in when the script said “By the Lord.”
We also considered the way in which insults were often gendered. Most common is the word “knave.” Though knave originally specifically referred to a male person, we felt our audience today would not read gender into the word and thus we could leave it. Another insult used frequently is that of “whoreson.” Whoreson, or son of a whore, very clearly insults someone by insulting their mother. Our dramaturg, Mara Sherman, discovered the word “byblow” as a replacement. Byblow, much like whoreson or bastard, references an illegitimate child. We liked the word because it removed the female gender, and maybe for some audience members flips the gender insult to the male side, as byblow perhaps conjures up the idea of ejaculate going somewhere it’s not supposed to.
During this entire process, maintaining the verse form was of utmost importance. Of course, in prose sections the number of syllables doesn’t matter in the same way, but we also wanted to make changes consistent across the script regardless of whether the dialogue was in verse or in prose. We got lucky in a couple ways. First of all, Queen is an easy switch for King. Secondly, all the other honorifics became easy to deal with when we realized that almost every instance of a title being used included “of.” So instead of struggling to figure out how to swap in Countess for Earl and Duchess for Duke, we were able to swap in “the Countess Douglass” for “the Earl of Douglass” and maintain the verse form. We had to get creative in a few places, such as changing “uncle” for “good aunt” or “cousin” and “nephew” for “young niece.” We left prince alone because there wasn’t a clean way to insert princess, and the words can conjure up very different images since the second one is often used in a derogatory sense.
And our final bit of creativity involved fudging things a little. Man/woman and gentleman/gentlewoman was the biggest issue when it came to maintaining the verse form. We decided to make these switches but ask the actors to play elision — to treat woman/women as one syllable, i.e., wom’n. We thought we could get away with this for a couple reasons. First, the pronunciation difference in woman and women is mostly in the first syllable, even though it is the second syllable that is spelled differently. Secondly, there is a precedent for eliding words into one syllable that have a -en ending. This often involves removing the middle consonant instead of the vowel. So e’en for even or ta’en for taken. There are examples in early modern playscripts, however, of the e being removed instead, such as sev’n written for seven or heav’n for heaven.
Finally, here are some of my favorite switches that we did. Many of these the cast help create.
HOTSPUR: ‘Zounds, an I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady’s fan.
HOTSPUR: ‘Zounds, an I were now by this rascal, I could brain her with her husband’s slipper.
FALSTAFF: but if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack.
FALSTAFF: but if I be not Jill Falstaff, then am I false.
DOLL TEARSHEET: thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon…
DICK TEARSHEET: thou art as honorable as Antigone, worth five of Helen…
And since the director wanted to create a world in which matriarchy had always been the dominate mode, we even re-gendered Caesar, so that Falstaff “may justly say, with the hook-nosed woman of Rome, ‘I came, saw, and overcame.’”
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