Churchill's Cloud 9 - the conclusions of Act 1 & Act 2

Both acts of Caryl Churchill's Cloud Nine attempts to conclude a chain of events. In Act 1, Joshua raises a gun to Clives head, unseen by him and everyone else except for Edward who "puts his ands over his ears". In Act 2, the actress playing Betty in Act 1 returns to "embrace" the current Betty. In responding a narrowing cone of tension in both acts, a conclusion is only satisfied when it is violent: In Act 1, violence threatens to subvert the pre-existing structures of social and gender hierarchies by the implied murder of Clive. In Act 2, we are presented with a different form of violence: Betty's embrace of her 'former' self disrupts the linear integrity of the Act 2 and the play itself by forcing two different times to coexist, indeed, to "embrace". Even though Clive re-emerges near the end of Act 2, his role is detached from the events of present time; he appears as if he was a memory, or an afterthought of Betty's made manifest.

Although both acts appear to 'conclude' by violent means, one may suggest that both Acts resist a 'closure' of its narrative, in other words, both Acts resist and end via satisfactory resolutions. In Act 1, Joshua's act of implied violence (implied because the actual shooting is never actualized onstage) defies a satisfactory resolution of the narrative's conflict. Clive's murder would rob the audience of satisfaction derived from witnessing how Clive's new knowledge of Harry's sexuality 'plays out' after the heightened theatricality of the marriage. Too many loose ends between characters would be left unaddressed: Harry and Edward, Clive-Saunders, Betty-Ellen, Joshua-Harry and Betty-Harry. Rather, Joshua operates as the intrusive 'Other' on two levels: firstly the literal level as a Black manservant, and secondly as a Formalistic level as the wedge in the door that prevents the confrontation and resolution of all previous conflicts and secrets. In Act 2, the Betty-Betty embrace offers no solution when approached from a realistic viewpoint. The very fact that Act 2 Betty can only find satisfactory solace in her 'previous' self (from Act 1) suggests the failure of the Present in offering solutions for its characters. Alternatively, we may also read that the present 'Real' is insufficient satisfy Betty's incompleteness, and the play has to rely on an act based in the 'Imaginary' (or the impossible Absurd) in order to conclude. Hence, it resists closure by virtue of Act 2 Betty's inability to achieve resolution with her-self autonomously, where her Act 1 self intervenes as the intrusive Other.

Godot, again...

The world which Samuel Beckett paints in Waiting for Godot is ultimately one that is bereft of meaning, a condition pointing at the absurd existence of man in an environment he fails to understand or control. This ‘emptying’ of truth, purpose and meaning is echoed tirelessly through various intermediate worlds which coexist within the structure of Godot, namely the physical landscape, the ‘world-outside’ and the implied otherworldly paradise apparently achievable through Godot himself.

The most immediate world of the play, the physical world, is arrestingly desolate. Beckett describes its setup simply: “A country road. A tree. Evening.” Four principle characters occupy the sparse physical space of Godot, drawing attention to a fourth (and perhaps more important) part of the physical landscape: the real and present void onstage. Rather than the elements of the stage filling the void, the void fills the stage as a physical element itself. Metaphorically, Beckett’s void displaces (or outplays) the material usefulness of the existing onstage elements, as it continually threatens to consume the very existence of its human occupants as well. In a heated exchange, Gogo exclaims: “There’s no lack of void.” The physical world of Godot (the interplay between onstage elements and the void) therefore appears to mirror the ‘inner conditions’ of its characters who struggle to assert their existences lest they become consumed by meaninglessness. The length of “country road” chosen by Beckett to represent an ‘event’ likewise metaphorises the ‘wait’ that Didi and Gogo undertake: an aimless pursuit without knowledge of its own head or tail, without conception of arrival. What is clear to Didi and Gogo is the nature of the arrival (the arrival of Godot himself), but what is unclear, or remains un-confronted by their dialogue is how Godot is to save them. At the end of the play, Vladimir contemplates the options available to him:

Vladimir: We’ll hang ourselves to-morrow. (Pause.) Unless Godot comes.
Estragon: And if he comes?
Vladimir: We’ll be saved.

And their conversation regarding Godot immediately ends, with Gogo suggesting that they should leave. The lack of meaning and function in the physical world is further augmented by material insufficiency: firstly, the lack-of material to accomplish meaningful activity and, secondly, the insufficiency of the onstage elements to fulfil meaningful activity. The tree embodies such a state of insufficiency in Godot, proving itself to be useless as leverage for hanging (the tramps fret that it may “break”) as well as an object to hide behind. Frustrated, Didi declares: “Decidedly, this tree will not have been the slightest use to us.” Also, when Didi and Gogo decide to attempt a hanging, they realise that they lacked a “bit of rope” with which to do so. The material insufficiency of Gogo’s belt is also highlighted; the cord which is tested for strength “breaks” when the tramps tug at it.

The external world, or the ‘world-outside’ the immediate physical landscape occupied by the tramps is hinted at frequently. Didi speaks enthusiastically of his time in “the Macon County” and reminisces about standing “hand-in-hand” atop “the Eiffel Tower … in those days”. Pozzo’s journey to the fair suggests a going-to and coming-from, and Gogo makes reference to “a ditch” which he spent the night. There is further evidence that points to the possibility of people living “outside” the world which Didi and Gogo occupy. Didi refers to the existence of Gogo’s nightly assailants (“they”), while the appearance of the boy-messenger as a mediator between the tramps and Godot indicates the possibility of a realm beyond the tramps’ immediate reach. Despite the strong assertions of an existence of a ‘world outside’, Beckett gives us indications that the ‘world outside’ is just as ephemeral as a world constructed by the characters themselves. Gogo rebuts Didi’s musings of the “Macon County”, blurting:

Estragon: No I was never in the Macon county! I’ve puked my puke of a life away here, I tell you! Here! In the Crackon county!

However, even Gogo’s revelation is thrown into suspicion; a while later, he contemplates what he had said, admitting that the Macon County incident could “have been possible”, although he “didn’t notice anything”. Statements about the world outside are made, contradicted and restated again, throwing the very possibility of the ‘world outside’ into suspicion as well. The ‘world outside’, as it seems, could very well have been imagined as Godot’s elusive world. After all, is memory not an active form of imagination engineered in the present? Didi contemplates the indeterminate nature of his own memory:

Vladimir: Was I sleeping, while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day? […] But in all that, what truth will there be?

Beckett’s external world presents itself as the antithesis of the present physical world which the tramps occupy. The juxtaposition sets up the possibility of meaning and value ‘outside’ the immediate physical world, but the tramp’s state of meaninglessness extends beyond their premises and implicates the external world as well:

Vladimir: We’ve nothing more to do here.
Estragon: Nor anywhere else.

Arguably, the world of Godot himself is not a world, but a symbolic representation of salvation or paradise. Godot’s presence is never experienced by the tramps. Gogo admits that they “hardly know him”, and that he “wouldn’t even know him if I [Estragon] saw him”. The possibility of Godot as a physical presence is represented by the boy who acts as his messenger, turning up only to deliver news of Godot’s postponed arrival: “Mr Godot told me to tell you he won’t come this evening but surely to-morrow.” In Act 2, the boy’s (or his double’s) return once again reveals Godot’s deferred arrival. However, Didi and Gogo are insistent on their purpose, which is to “wait for Godot” and be “saved”. To this extent, the world of Godot represents a paradise which Didi and Gogo hope to be brought into, in order to relieve their existential crisis. However, the very meaninglessness of their act of awaiting Godot’s arrival is intensified by the faint possibility that Godot may never arrive. Godot’s non-arrival (and the deferment of his paradise) may precisely be the nature of Godot. Furthermore, the ‘godlike’ status of Godot is potentially dashed by Didi’s interrogation of the boy:

Vladimir: What does he do, Mr. Godot? (Silence.) Did you hear me?
Boy: Yes Sir.
Vladimir: Well?
Boy: He does nothing, Sir.

In this instant, Godot mirrors the condition of the tramps; the world of Godot’s imagined paradise is held up like a reflection of the tramps’ conditions, throwing into subversion the very worth of Didi and Gogo’s high hopes in waiting for his arrival. At this precise moment, Godot and the tramps transcend beyond mere reflection of each other, they collapse into each other and are one and the same. Godot is very much a figment of the tramps’ imagination, spurred on by physical traces of his existence (Didi’s knowledge and the presence of the boy) rather than a concrete being. Godot as a symbolic unit also represents the hopes and dreams of the tramps, and is built as a world antithetical to the one in which they exist in, an imaginary world in which the tramps are able to invest their hopes of being “saved” in.

“Salvation” indeed is the word on the tips of Didi’s tongue when he makes biblical reference to the crucifixion, a subliminal yearning for deliverance that underlies the conditions of the tramps. Caught in a world without solid meaning and where memory betrays (exasperated, Gogo admits he fails to understand why he cannot remember: “I don’t know why I don’t know!”), Didi and Gogo adapt to their conditions by distracting themselves from their condition, engaging themselves in routines, games and other amusements in order to create meaning for themselves. Faced with the desperate prospect where there is “nothing to be done”, Didi and Gogo fill their endless wait with patter and play. Eager to “pass time”, Gogo prompts Didi to “abuse each other”, culminating in Didi’s suggestion to “make up”. At other times, the tramps lapse into a verbal improvisation about a theme. Estragon improvises upon the tramp’s established routine of phrases when they encounter Lucky:

Estragon: It’s the rope.
Vladimir: It’s the rubbing.
Estragon: It’s inevitable.
Vladimir: It’s the knot.
Estragon: It’s the chaffing.

The tramps also engage in occasional poetic cycles based on loose threads of thought. Sometimes, the cycle breaks away into a mild competition, as a more aggressive form of play:

Vladimir: They make noise like wings.
Estragon: Like leaves.
Vladimir: Like sand.
Estragon: Like leaves.

This continual game of affirmation, reaffirmation, stating, restating and contradiction forms the backbone to their language games, a device to fill the “void”. More importantly, the language games provide the tramps with a routine that is mutually familiar, a point of return, familiarity and certainty, juxtaposed against the uncertainty of their existence, and Godot’s arrival. Didi’s frequent use of the phrase “nothing to be done” indicates more than what it literally means. For Didi, the phrase is reproducible, and therefore acts as a device of security which he can reproduce and recognise immediately. It is as if Didi capitalises upon the meaningfulness of the phrase in context of its recurring pattern in order to replace the lack of meaning which he experiences. Similarly, the use of the phrase “Let’s go” affirms the bond between the tramps: both recognise the “meaning” of the phrase (in the way that it relates to their waiting for Godot) and both use it regularly as if they were executing a secret handshake. Physical routines are also employed; the tramps combine discovery (of found objects) with improvisation, adding new elements to their play-performance. Discovering Lucky’s hat left behind, the tramps fall into a routine of hat-removal and hat-wearing that evolved from Didi trying on the hat. All this business of play and routines constitute a performance which Didi and Gogo actively engage in to amuse themselves. More importantly, performance constructs a platform in which the tramps, as ‘characters’ in a show, are able ‘believe’ in the part they are playing, and hence create meaning for themselves.

Inasmuch as Didi and Gogo construct meaning through their mutual performances, the tramps actively deny the possibility of their meaningless existence, indeed skirting the very discussion of it. A glaring example that demonstrates that very hostility can be seen through their violent rejection of Lucky’s “think” speech. Lucky’s “think” speech threatens to disrupt the orderly world of words, language patterns and meaningful games of the tramps by introducing self-ambiguity and obscurity; Offended by Lucky’s subject matter built upon man’s meaningless suffering, Didi and Gogo “protest violently” and “throw themselves on Lucky” in order to silence him. Likewise, Didi refuses to hear of Gogo’s dreams (“Don’t tell me!”), as if Gogo’s dreams spring from the same absurd source as Lucky’s monologue, threatening to throw his thoughts into disarray.

For the tramps, meaning is not sufficient to support their existence. Didi constantly seeks affirmation of his own existence through memory. In Act 2, Didi unsuccessfully tries to revive Gogo’s memory of the events that had happened the day before (“do you not remember? […] Is it possible you’ve forgotten already?””). At other times, Didi’s faculties of memory betray him: “…can’t think of the name of the man, at a place called … (snaps his fingers) can’t think of the name of the place”. Through this, however, Didi can be seen as attempting to restore a sense of time to his world, which then makes progress visible to him. Didi takes no time in pointing out that “things have changed … since yesterday”, and he draws attention to the leaves that have sprouted on the tree. Perhaps by tracing the progress of the hours, Godot’s arrival becomes all the more imminent.

The most important coping mechanism the tramps use is their very faith in the coming of Godot, regardless of his arrival. Their faith resembles a religious faith in a being that will grant them “salvation” from their suffering, and also gives them an event to look forward to:

Estragon: He should be here.
Vladimir: He didn’t say for sure he’d come.
Estragon: And if he doesn’t come?
Vladimir: We’ll come back to-morrow.

Didi talks of their act of “coming back” like one of self-sacrifice, an act that will buy them pity or favour, which will spur Godot to come. Their faith therefore is one that is based on human action and the rightful rewarding of their actions. Faith in Godot’s arrival also provides meaning for Didi and Gogo in the sense that they are involved in something greater than themselves, something which they are unable to control but nonetheless express their nobility and selflessness by keeping their “appointments”. The extent which their faith becomes so necessary to their survival in Beckett’s world is displayed when the figure of Godot is transformed from saviour to oppressor. Near the end of Act 2, Didi acknowledges the imprisonment to their faith when he admits that Godot will “punish” them if they abandoned their wait. Waiting for Godot is more than a motley task for the tramps. Rather, it is the means to their survival and the ultimate distraction which they occupy themselves with in order to avoid their existential crisis.

Beckett presents us with no answers. Clearly, the tramps recognise the futility of their situation and therefore have no choice but to continue living and believing. Rather, Beckett challenges the audience head-on with his version of the human condition, framing fundamental existentialistic difficulties that would not be discussed in normal life. His version is not necessarily pessimistic; by exposing the groundless beliefs and distractions that man employs to create meaning in life, one is encouraged to appreciate the beauty and importance of these beliefs. Also, what Beckett displays is but a condition, not a claim to truth in any way. Underwritten in that condition is the mystery of life itself, the source that drives man to question, to ponder and to create meaning for himself, as well as to create plays that prod other men to question, think and wonder.

Bach's Allemande, Gould & Turek

Both Glen Gould and Turek employ bold strategies in their respective performances of Bach’s Allemande, Partita No. 4 in D. However, while Gould opts for a stricter rendition of the Allemande with a precise and clear touch, Turek seems to enjoy exploring the romance in Bach’s complex harmonies.

In Turek’s interpretation, hints of rubato are used generously, as one might add for flavour. What results is an implied romanticism of the work without blurring too much of Bach’s rhythmic and harmonic structure. Through this, Turek achieves refreshing melodic clarity in the right hand textures, which tends to dwarf the left-handed motions until he encounters denser harmonic shifts. Turek’s interpretation reads like a delicate conversation between its composite parts, each edging each other on toward new harmonic material which is then further explored between them. Although melodic clarity may come as a welcome renewal from austere Baroque purists, Turek’s rendition of Bach as melodic interlocution seems to usurp Bach’s harmonic material in favour of the textural elements rather than its harmonic complexities. Bach’s harmonies tend to follow Turek’s lyrical tendencies like a shadow, stealing behind. Bach’s harmonies require no further cluttering, rather, when approached plainly without excessive emotional gesture, tends to ‘speak’ for itself. Turek’s individual indulgence in musical excesses could have been superfluous in place of Bach’s harmonies. However, in this recording, Turek chooses to repeat the first section of the Allemande, thereby offering a second chance for the listener to sift through the work. Though amiable, Turek’s chosen repeats do little to salvage remaining harmonic interest. Rather, the repeat tends to reiterate the exhaustion of harmony over favour of melodic intention, and it feels more like a tiresome formal repetition rather than the visitation of an old friend. Also, the piece tends to feel slightly sloppy when tinkered out on a distinctly warm piano tone, as if the flow of the piece were less exact, but rough geometries seen through frosted glass.

Gould, on the other hand, opts for the bright, less mellow timbre, a pianoforte tone less removed from that of the harpsichord. Unlike Turek, Gould opts for a rhythmically solid hankering-out of the piece, each line approached with definition and distinction. Gould’s interpretation of the first section sounds slightly declarative, but it lays the necessary groundwork for harmonies that inextricably ‘announce themselves’ rather than creep into existence. For Gould, Bach’s harmonies are swept to the fore (at least for the first section), and what results sounds like block chords stretched over multiple measures. Melodic interplay that accounts for Turek’s interpretive ambiguity plays no part in Gould’s strict performance, the work stands out boldly as a single unit that shifts and morphs, edged on by Bach’s tonal ripples. There is a regal sense of importance that Gould manages to impart to each phrase that counters Turek’s somewhat aloof approach, and it pays off handsomely: rhythmic nuances present in Bach’s subtle sixteenth-note triplets and mordents sparkle amidst a rich tonal exodus. Bach’s implied harmonies that teeter on two notes appear stark in space rather than bare, and are given room to breathe while retaining the stain of their former tonal origins. Gould’s second section, however, liberally uses staccato in order to highlight textural differences between sections, as well as to mark the rise in tension. Rather than smudging pre-existent harmonic intentions, the staccato tends to augment areas of heightened harmonic frivolity, although some may find it draws too much attention to what should be already apparent. Nonetheless, Gould’s balanced approach would find itself in the good books of most listeners who prefer music-on-a-diet, whilst even dessert-seekers might find Turek’s delivery slightly overdone for their liking.

faculty dance concert, fall 2006

As early as 1922, Oskar Schlemmer employed strategies which were to define the possibilities of “modern” dance under the umbrella of the Bauhaus. His conception of human “presence” on stage was not to be “a portrayal of individual expression” manifested by pathos, but rather the manifestation of “formal stage elements” such as “space, form, colour, light, and materials. ” The sidestepping of the human dancer suggests an invocation of its performance elements which become constitutive of the dance itself. In other words, the Modern dancer, in Schlemmer-speak, is the total composition of its theatrical elements, rather than the human provocateur.

Such was the case, exemplified by Jody Sperling in La Nuit, involving the manipulation of successive layers of long, flowing garments. Sperling’s continual working of the costume became a motif central to the performance; the perpetual flux of the cloth’s hem-line moving rapidly in space recalls Laban’s theoretical disposition for movement as “a continuous flow within space itself … [and space as] the concealed basic feature of movement ”. The fluctuations of the line in space became the focus of the dance, along with the space it ‘carves out’ or draws the eye to. Each successive layer of cloth that Sperling sheds creates a physical threshold; her awakening sexuality is dramatically unveiled by the physical shedding of her premature inhibitions, a lengthy black drape that shrouds the motion of her limbs. The line is never lost through her metamorphoses: instead, the relationship between line and space is utilised to reveal new levels of freedom.

Sperling’s ‘chrysalis’ phase draws out and defines space at an elemental level: her broad, low strokes of black material sweeps out and explores the void of black around her as if it were once a component of the void it emanated from. The substance of her youth which at once imprisons, becomes the element of her sexuality (transforming into a magnificent cape that augments the splendour of her dress), and the motion of the line arcs out a larger field of space through fluid, breath-like motions. In a twist of narrative, Sperling’s final shedding returns the space to the element of the human, but one that is bereft of movement, hinting at the catastrophic transformative power of society and popular culture. Her semi-nakedness becomes a new map of space in the form of static contour, as if space itself has been collapsed into an object of desire, erasing the possibilities of free uninhibited movement characteristic of her earlier explorations.
In contrast, Kim Root’s Players expands the playing field of movement and space through the identification of 2 independent but coexistent spaces: the stage space occupied by the dancers and virtual space, occupied by the image of a pianist projected onto a mound of cloth suspended from the ceiling. Players takes its reference point from the Western Silent film tradition; the projected video of the pianist is occasionally interrupted with slides of text. As a performance unit, Players aligns itself to Schlemmer’s aesthetics of the total theatrical experience, the sum of its theatrical parts: even emblematic costumes are thrown into this confusing postmodernist pantomime. Dancers resemble vaudeville characters, and movements are stylised to capture the polar extremities between hero/villain, oppressor/oppressed and innocent/guilty, as well as to call into question the nature of their boundaries. During the pas de deux between the ‘hero’ and the ‘villian’, each character melts into the other: the villain sometimes adopts the posture of the hero, and the hero melts into the role of the oppressor. At times, both characters fully mimic each other’s rhythmic gestures, neither following nor leading until they have become inseparable elements of a total unit. These shifting boundaries are re-emphasized by the same dancers re-entering theatrical space in different costumes: the “performer” is blatantly identified by the audience; the performance is merely an ‘enactment’ of one’s roles.

The shifting nature of a “centre” of performance further augments a sense of spatial disorientation, mimicking the destruction of constructed character-dependent boundaries. Holistically, the performance can be seen as a postmodern unit dealing with plural space: the virtual (but equally valid) realm of the pianist versus the visceral space of (live) performers. Building upon the given notion that “any arbitrary point in space can become a centre ”, either regions in the performance has equal claim as a performative “centre”. Is the focus of the piece the underlying mechanism (pianist) that supports the performance, or is it the “played out” action? The Players further aggrandizes this relationship by reversing the roles of the traditional silent film. Whereas the pianist was originally the “live” element of the performance and the projected image the focus of the performance, the pianist becomes the object of the film, whilst the “live performance” takes on an implied secondary role to the projection. Through this messy web of reversals, it is ultimately the audience that shapes the overall arc of movement, vacillating between the simultaneous motion of the pianist, text, and live performers. Much like scanning a work of art, the audience’s eyes are drawn to multiple focus points that mark out the form of the painting, as Kaprow identifies:

“[S]low march of … [the viewer’s] eyes and body before the canvas. The accent is really on our sensations. ”

As movement creates space, the eye-line movement of the audience also carves out and manipulates the performative experience of the Players, pointing to the possible (co)-existence of multiple aesthetic centres individually identified by the viewer. However, the existence of “centres” within the dance suggests an implicit sense of stability, or equilibrium in contrast with its surroundings. It is this very sense of dynamic equilibrium (a process of reaching-towards) that Patricia Beaman and Seth Williams’ Cuddle evokes. Framed within a style depicting 17th Century Victorian drawing room episodes, Cuddle explores the dynamics between male and female, as they continually work towards establishing a centre of equilibrium. The equilibristic centre, however, is in a state of perpetual transience, a “never ending change of connecting and loosening ” amidst stillness and movement: “labile states of equilibrium ”, as it were. The performers form sculptures in space defined by the artistry of balance. Using each other as centres of gravity, Beaman balances atop the Williams’ flat back before breaking a sense of equilibristic ‘arrival’ and moving towards the next position. Symmetry between Beaman and Williams is clearly depicted as another form of equilibrium; both performers ‘mirror’ each others’ actions along imagined planes of symmetry creating a tension between their opposing forces, attempting to create “temporary, relative peace” between the male/female figures.

Urip Sri Maeny’s Gambyong, on the other hand, relocates the centre of gravity within the performer itself. Maintaining an austere centre, Maeny’s peripheral motions do little to alter the stability of the dancers’ core. Maeny’s strict control of inner-space likewise affects the focus of outward space: outward space points inward to the dancer’s centre of stability, suggesting a “homunculus-like” proportion in relation to the surrounding space. In other words, Maeny’s structural centre operates to “[structure] space in time ”, re-proportioning the outward space in relation to her inward space (proportion) as a measure. Maeny’s body-space architecture shifts periodically according to her positions onstage, but the overall complex remains constant, locked in a firm state of equilibrium that Cuddle occasionally hints at.