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Theatron – the Greek word from which we get the word 'theatre' – means "seeing place." The theatre is a place where you see things. The auditorium is a place where you hear things.
Lately I've been thinking more about how an audience comes to see a show. The ancient Greeks during the Great Dionysia in Athens would see the works of the great tragedians for the first time. They got to see the first productions of Oedipus and Medea. One source I've read had Sophocles putting up Oedipus the same year that Euripides put up Medea. A notable year for theatre.
The City Dionysia evidently started with a series of sacrifices to a god or gods. Now, some folks I know talk about the sacred nature of these sacrifices and the combination of the sacred with the creation and early years of tragedy. But one of the things that strikes me is that the practical result of the sacrifice is a huge barbecue. The beast or beasts slaughtered in honor of the gods is open roasted and shared by the community. To my mind this isn't much different than walking through some American neighborhoods on Memorial Day when one can go from house to house smelling the roasting meat – burgers, steaks, chickens. And of course a fish or two – for the liberals, don't you know.
During the Middle Ages, some English towns put on cycle plays. The entire story of creation from God's first word through to the New Jerusalem told in a series of short plays put on by the citizenry of the town. Given that each play was taken from station to station through town on pageant wagons, there had to be some time breaks for most of the stations in town. What do people do during the breaks? I'm guessing there's some eating and some pretty good drinking going on for those people.
The barbecue of the ancient Greeks and the food and drink (!) of the Britons seems to contrast with the staid and stolid nature of some of our theatre today. Would we be in the mood to see The Persian Women after a good plate of ribs?
I'm always shaken a little by the use of theatre in reference to war. The soldiers who fight do so in a theatre. And one sees reports of soldiers being moved from this theatre to that theatre of the war. This use of theatre stretches back to its meaning as a "seeing place."
In the old days, a general would stand atop a hill or other geographical lookout and watch the field of battle. Because of the proximity, the general could be in great danger from the battle waging below him. And so generals fell. For example, during the American Civil War such a fate befell General "Stonewall" Jackson, depriving Robert E. Lee of one of his more aggressive and effective commanders.
These days, of course, generals watch the field of battle from a very long distance. The general staff can be in another country and direct troop movements somewhere else. Even in war, tv has displaced theatre somewhat.
Even though this essay is in the April issue, it is being written at the anniversary of the USA's involvement in Operation Iraqi Freedom. As a remembrance for the men and women who've died, I provided a public reading of the names of these fallen soldiers. I thought it important that these names be spoken aloud and these names heard.
As of this writing that terrible list comprises just under 3,200 names. It filled some 70 pages of single-spaced text. For each name I gave the persons rank, their name, and their age.
There are some remarkable things that I found in reading these names aloud. Skimming a list quietly allows the reader to skip over a name. When speaking aloud, the reader must account for the whole of the name, for every name. So I got to see the names.
One thing I noticed is the common-ness of most of the names. There were Adams, and Joshuas, and Jamals, and Jesus's, and . . . . yes, Nathans. Mostly men, although there are some women in the list as well. There are a few names that are "Name Name, IV." The fourth. There had been three previous generations of men with this name. Now this 19-year-old fourth generation will never begat a fifth.
But the thing I found in reading the names was the number of corporals, privates, and lance privates on the list. There have always been more "grunts" who die in war, compared to the colonels and the generals. And there are a few colonels who've died as part of their service, and I don't want to demean that sacrifice in any way.
But there are darn few generals on that list. The theatre of war has changed for them. And it's a circular maxim, but a true one – "How you see something affects how you see something."
In 2003 in this space I wrote the following:
As I write these words, the United States of America is at war in many places—in the War on Terror, in the War in Iraq, in the War in many places. Particularly with the land war in Iraq, a columnist has a clear choice—write about the war or ignore it. This particular war with its attendant political and diplomatic difficulties seems to me like walking through a fireworks factory with a flame-thrower while wearing a roller skate on one foot and a snow shoe on the other. It can be done safely, I imagine. But it takes a great deal of skill to go all the way across the floor and come out with your skin pretty much on your body.
Movement is a troublesome thing for the actor. It seems like such an easy task. Enter the stage. Walk across the stage. Sit. Stand. Walk some more, perhaps. Exit the stage. Yet, the actor is so often left at odds with the body. The body wants to do one thing, and body doesn't seem always to follow what's going on inside the mind/spirit/soul of the actor. Stanislavsky talks about the fear of "the black hole of the proscenium arch." (Unknowingly, Stanislavsky made an important discovery of physics in which a gaping maw sucks all energy that enters its zone of influence. . . .)
A soldier is trained to stand in the line of fire and fight and kill the enemy when it might seem like a good idea to run away and find a nice spot behind a very large tree. The field-soldier is rightly admired for facing great risk and meeting that risk with courage.
A great organizing force for the actor is breath—the most human of all acts. When we enter the world for the first time, we take a breath. When we leave this world, we breathe our last. The cycle of inhalation, exhalation, and the mysterious pause when we neither inhale nor exhale—influences the actor's speech, movement, energy.
Conflict is said to have a life of its own. Someone slaps a troubled situation, and war cries aloud with a miserable wail. War lives like a troubled soul, flailing and cursing and wanton in its destructive force. The breath is pained and burdened.
More could be said, but at this time we see the future only dimly. I end with two quotes from Emile Jaques-Dalcroze. The first:
"Through innumerable centuries, humans march in file through time; one generation following the other, and the burden of life is passed from hand to hand and the will of each person may decide whether that burden shall become lighter or heavier. The duty of each one of us is to see that it becomes lighter."
The second: "The future belongs to us as long as we are alive."
As the years rolls by, and we look toward the fifth and those that follow, it strikes me that we, as artists and actors and directors and people of theatre and people of music and people of film, have the most important task we've ever had.
Imagination is our business. It is our job to help people in our communities, in our provinces and states, in our nations, and in our world to learn to use their imagination better. To simply imagine another possibility. We don't have to kill or be killed today.
I know people have real differences. Real disagreements. Real reason for conflict. Real and actual wrongs that have been done.
But can we imagine that we can look honestly at reality and not kill or be killed today? Teaching the use of imagination is what we can and must do as artists.
Peace will come again.
Peace.
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