'Would you like me to show you?'
Once when I was 17, my friend Sam and I were walking between Euston station and Euston square. A man in a long coat approached us at a bus stop and asked the time. As we walked away I said to Sam, 'His eyes were so wide when he was talking to us weren't they?'. She laughed and said, 'Hannah didn't you notice? He had his dick out. He was masturbating!'
In Havana in 2001, my friend Lucie and I got chatting to a petite man called Miguel in the ladies bathroom at the Royal Ballet of Cuba. He was pretty and vivacious and worked in the toilets handing out lolly pops and spritzing ladies with perfume because it was the closest he got to being on the dance stage. He took our hands and led us through the night, across the town, giving backchat to any man that whistled at us. As he led us through the ferry gates we got scared. Who was he anyway? Where the fuck is this ferry going? He laughed and batted away our complaints. It was a short ride and on the other side we were at the top of a hill, with a tall, brightly lit statue, surrounded by the most beautiful people I'd ever seen, smoking, drinking, kissing, laughing, soaking up the vast view of the city lights. It was magical.
This question is asked constantly in Phillipe Quesne's La Melancholie des dragons. It is put forward by a group of extravagantly wigged metal heads. They have been stranded, with a broken down car in a snow encrusted field, in which they wait, listen to music and chug cans of lager. Sophie, a puffer-jacketed middle aged women pushing a bike with one of those kids seats on it finds them. She climbs inside the bonnet (literally), removes the cars contents and declares a recovery period of one week. It soon transpires that this group of laidback techies are on tour with an installation/adventure park sort of thing, imagine an uncynical version of Dismaland, created using the contents of a well equipped garage. They have a part of the show set up in their trailer. They ask Sophie if she would like to see it.
'Would you like me to show you?'
Thus begins the sharing of the entirety of their 'park', revealed piece by random piece, like a string of fancies from a magicians sleeve. Wigs hanging on strings brought to life with a fan, a library of books which have influenced the show, a snow machine, a ski jump, if you use your imagine at least.
La Meloncholie des dragons is a lesson in taking time to wonder. It's also a lesson in refusing to be cynical. It makes a tongue in cheek comment about the use of technology and spectacle in the theatre and the audiences relationship with it. It places the humble 'Techies' at the centre, and by doing so pulls apart the hierarchy of theatre creativity and ownership, taking responsibility away from the director and placing the audience and wider technical team at the centre of the meaning making, literally and symbolically. This sends apt from a scenographer turned director playing with the most collaborative of crafts.
Through Sophie, we are allowed a moment to have wonder, to move slowly, to put down our phones, to laugh at ourselves and pull the fake snow rug from under our feet.
'Would you like me to show you more?'
You bet I would.
Once when I was 17, my friend Sam and I were walking between Euston station and Euston square. A man in a long coat approached us at a bus stop and asked the time. As we walked away I said to Sam, 'His eyes were so wide when he was talking to us weren't they?'. She laughed and said, 'Hannah didn't you notice? He had his dick out. He was masturbating!'
In Havana in 2001, my friend Lucie and I got chatting to a petite man called Miguel in the ladies bathroom at the Royal Ballet of Cuba. He was pretty and vivacious and worked in the toilets handing out lolly pops and spritzing ladies with perfume because it was the closest he got to being on the dance stage. He took our hands and led us through the night, across the town, giving backchat to any man that whistled at us. As he led us through the ferry gates we got scared. Who was he anyway? Where the fuck is this ferry going? He laughed and batted away our complaints. It was a short ride and on the other side we were at the top of a hill, with a tall, brightly lit statue, surrounded by the most beautiful people I'd ever seen, smoking, drinking, kissing, laughing, soaking up the vast view of the city lights. It was magical.
'Would you like me to show you?'
It's quite an offer isn't it?
What if you show me something I can't unsee? Something that I can't put back.
But by now, it's too late, you've piqued my interest. You've framed a moment with those words.
'Would you like me to show you?'
This question is asked constantly in Phillipe Quesne's La Melancholie des dragons. It is put forward by a group of extravagantly wigged metal heads. They have been stranded, with a broken down car in a snow encrusted field, in which they wait, listen to music and chug cans of lager. Sophie, a puffer-jacketed middle aged women pushing a bike with one of those kids seats on it finds them. She climbs inside the bonnet (literally), removes the cars contents and declares a recovery period of one week. It soon transpires that this group of laidback techies are on tour with an installation/adventure park sort of thing, imagine an uncynical version of Dismaland, created using the contents of a well equipped garage. They have a part of the show set up in their trailer. They ask Sophie if she would like to see it.
'Would you like me to show you?'
Thus begins the sharing of the entirety of their 'park', revealed piece by random piece, like a string of fancies from a magicians sleeve. Wigs hanging on strings brought to life with a fan, a library of books which have influenced the show, a snow machine, a ski jump, if you use your imagine at least.
Sophie, like an A+ student in an improvisation class, consistently says 'Yes'. 'Yes, please!', 'That's amazing'. She does not critique, she approaches each of the 'rides' in the 'park' with wonder. 'Look Sophie, A bubble machine!', 'Text projected on any surface, in any font!'. She never says 'No', or asks 'Why are you showing me these things?' or says 'That's a bit shit actually.' When they inflate a huge square plastic bag in 'three ways', she stands on a chair patiently watching the bag slowly deflate. Instead of saying 'That one looked a bit like the first' she says 'It looks like it is breathing!'.
The exchange between Sophie and the assorted aging rockers is disconcertingly dreamy in nature. It is similar to watching the interaction between school children in a nativity; huge sagging gaps between lines as if we have all the time in the world. Lines which are spoken but without any of the intonation usual for those words. It feels like the antithesis to the usual way that Brits direct texts; at high speed, as if we are worried that the audience will walk out if we take our time. Gaps between words smaller than the distance between a car parked on a Brighton street.
The exchange between Sophie and the assorted aging rockers is disconcertingly dreamy in nature. It is similar to watching the interaction between school children in a nativity; huge sagging gaps between lines as if we have all the time in the world. Lines which are spoken but without any of the intonation usual for those words. It feels like the antithesis to the usual way that Brits direct texts; at high speed, as if we are worried that the audience will walk out if we take our time. Gaps between words smaller than the distance between a car parked on a Brighton street.
La Meloncholie des dragons is a lesson in taking time to wonder. It's also a lesson in refusing to be cynical. It makes a tongue in cheek comment about the use of technology and spectacle in the theatre and the audiences relationship with it. It places the humble 'Techies' at the centre, and by doing so pulls apart the hierarchy of theatre creativity and ownership, taking responsibility away from the director and placing the audience and wider technical team at the centre of the meaning making, literally and symbolically. This sends apt from a scenographer turned director playing with the most collaborative of crafts.
Through Sophie, we are allowed a moment to have wonder, to move slowly, to put down our phones, to laugh at ourselves and pull the fake snow rug from under our feet.
'Would you like me to show you more?'
You bet I would.
No comments:
Post a Comment