0/-*/&4637&: *ODPMMBCPSBUJPOXJUI6OHMVFJU XFIBWFTFUVQBTVSWFZ POMZUFORVFTUJPOT UP MFBSONPSFBCPVUIPXPQFOBDDFTTFCPPLTBSFEJTDPWFSFEBOEVTFE 8FSFBMMZWBMVFZPVSQBSUJDJQBUJPOQMFBTFUBLFQBSU $-*$,)&3& "OFMFDUSPOJDWFSTJPOPGUIJTCPPLJTGSFFMZBWBJMBCMF UIBOLTUP UIFTVQQPSUPGMJCSBSJFTXPSLJOHXJUI,OPXMFEHF6OMBUDIFE ,6JTBDPMMBCPSBUJWFJOJUJBUJWFEFTJHOFEUPNBLFIJHIRVBMJUZ CPPLT0QFO"DDFTTGPSUIFQVCMJDHPPE PASSIONATE AMATEURS Passionate Amateurs THEATRE, COMMUNISM, AND LOVE Nicholas Ridout THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN PRESS Ann Arbor Copyright © by the University of Michigan 2013 All rights reserved This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written per- mission from the publisher. Published in the United States of America by The University of Michigan Press Manufactured in the United States of America c Printed on acid-free paper 2016 2015 2014 2013 4 3 2 1 A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in- Publication Data Ridout, Nicholas Peter. Passionate amateurs : theatre, communism, and love / Nicholas Ridout. pages cm. — (Theater—theory/text/performance) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0- 472- 11907- 3 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0- 472- 02959- 4 (e- book) 1. Theater and society. 2. Communism and culture. I. Title. PN2051.R53 2013 792—dc23 2013015596 For Isabel and Peter, my parents Acknowledgments Throughout the writing of this book I was fortunate to work in the De- partment of Drama at Queen Mary University of London. Colleagues and students alike made the department a truly stimulating and supportive place to be, to work, and to think. I am grateful to them all. I owe particu- lar thanks, for conversations that contributed in tangible ways to the de- velopment of this work, to Bridget Escolme, Jen Harvie, Michael McKin- nie, Lois Weaver, and Martin Welton. A sabbatical in the academic year 2010–11 made its realization possible. During that sabbatical I was exceptionally fortunate to spend a year in the Department of Theatre Arts and Performance Studies at Brown Uni- versity. For their hospitality and intellectual partnership in this, my sec- ond professional home, I will always be especially grateful to Michelle Carriger, Jim Dennen, John Emigh, Lindsay Goss, Hunter Hargraves, Io- ana Jucan, Patrick McKelvey, Coleman Nye, Paige Sarlin, Rebecca Schnei- der, Eleanor Skimin, Andrew Starner, Hans Vermy, Anna Watkins Fisher, and Patricia Ybarra. I have also been fortunate to enjoy a range of opportunities to present parts of this work, in progress, at Quorum (the Drama Department re- search seminar at Queen Mary), the London Theatre Seminar, the An- drew Mellon School of Theatre and Performance at Harvard University, CalArts, and the University of Kent, as well as at conferences including Performance Studies international (PSi) in Copenhagen (2008), PSi in Utrecht (2010), and the American Society for Theatre Research in Nash- ville (2012), and I am grateful to the organizers of all these events for the opportunities for conversation that these occasions afforded. At such events and on numerous other occasions I have enjoyed con- versations and other theatrical experiences with many people, related ei- ther directly or indirectly to my work on this book. Among them I espe- cially want to thank Una Bauer, Claudia Castellucci, Romeo Castellucci, Kate Elswit, Chris Goode, James Harding, Wendy Hubbard, Shannon Jackson, Miranda Joseph, Eirini Kartsaki, Jen Mitas, Sophie Nield, Louise VIII ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Owen, Jim Peck, Paul Rae, Alan Read, Janelle Reinelt, Theron Schmidt, Shelley Trower, and Simon Vincenzi. At the University of Michigan Press, LeAnn Fields is an editor with whom conversation has been a source of inspiration and assurance throughout. I am grateful, also, to her assistant, Alexa Ducsay, for her support through the production process. The series editors, David Kras- ner and Rebecca Schneider (again), have been supportive and critical friends throughout. I am grateful, too, to anonymous readers for the press for their comments on the manuscript and to Sarah Thomasson for in- valuable support in its preparation. From the beginning, Rebecca Schneider (again, again) has been a con- stant friend and incomparable intellectual partner, in London, Provi- dence, and places in between. Joe Kelleher enriches my experiences of theatre, thought, and social life, always. Giulia Palladini has been a com- rade in this project, in thought, on song, and in a little shared resistance to productivity. Contents Prologue 1 ONE Theatre and Communism after Athens 5 TWO Of Work and Time 33 THREE All Theatre, All the Time 58 FOUR Of Work, Time, and Revolution 86 FIVE Of Work, Time, and (Telephone) Conversation 111 SIX Solitude in Relation 138 Notes 163 Bibliography 187 Index 199 Prologue The Yetis came as a surprise. That they possessed redemptive power was also unexpected. They appeared about half an hour through the perfor- mance of B.#03, the Berlin episode of Socìetas Raffaello Sanzio’s Tragedia Endogonidia, presented at the Hebbel Theater in 2003.1 They were white, hairy, and amiable. They enclosed part of the stage— which had recently been transformed from a murky and cinematic darkness into a field of white— behind a low white picket fence, with the playful enthusiasm of children setting up a camp for the night. They carried flags, some of them white and emblazoned with black letters in a gothic- style font, one of them the German national flag. Then they brought the dead girl back to life, and she danced, in red shoes, on the lid of her white coffin, while in a recorded loop a choir of children sang again and again a song by Benja- min Britten about the cycle of a cuckoo’s life: “In April I open my bill, in May I sing day and night, in June I change my tune, in July far, far I fly, in August away I must.”2 This girl’s death had inaugurated the action of a drama. Or, more properly speaking, the drama began when her mother awoke to find her dead. For half an hour, before the arrival of the Yetis, we had followed this anonymous mother through scenes of intense grief. We had watched the woman’s desperate and supposedly solitary gestures of self- consolation. But who were or are “we”? According to a scholarly convention, “we” may be used by an author to include the readers of a text, sometimes a little presumptuously, in the experience or knowledge being affirmed. It gathers consent around the text in order to allow it to proceed. According to a less well-defined convention, “we” may also be used in writing about performances for an audience, in order to scale up the experience of a single spectator into an experience that may be imagined as having been shared by others, by an audience. In a book about theatre, therefore, espe- cially one in which questions of, say, communism, might be at stake, an author might wish to be rather careful about the use of this “we,” careful, that is, to assume neither that a solitary experience might have been 2 PASSIONATE AMATEURS shared by others nor that the act of writing really can gather its disparate, solitary, and occasional readers into any kind of collective. Sometimes, then, this problematic first- person plural may call for back- up, recruiting other authors or spectators by means of citation to corroborate or substan- tiate claims about experience that might be too fragile to stand alone, to justify with force of numbers the use of the word “we,” to suggest the presence that might constitute even the most minimal form of audience: two people, on their own, together: The Berlin episode of Romeo Castellucci’s Tragedia Endogonidia is a play about grief. A mother awakes to lose her daughter and her grief erupts, in full view and straight on. It comes, though, with a glacial slowness, and filtered through a haze of semi- transparent screens. It is sorrow played out like a history lesson we are unable or unwilling to comprehend, processed into a series of ritual ac- tions: stepping out of bed, walking and rocking herself, before it all has to begin; putting on shoes and a dress; taking a child’s toy (a wooden horse) from out of the tangle of sheets; attempting to wake the child; failing; putting on the rubber gloves; dragging the dead child from out of the bed and off the stage; showing us the ham- mer, balancing the hammer at the front of the stage (the weapon moves of its own accord); scrubbing the blood from the bed and floor; settling on the end of the bed to masturbate, or try to mastur- bate, first with fingers, then with the child’s horse: an impossible attempt at self- abandon. As if history could be turned off at the tap and she could be in any other moment than this one, now.3 These scenes culminated in an encounter with a disembodied female voice that commanded the mother to “show yourself . cross the bridge . come here . closer to me . lean out of the window . take off the mask . eat my ash . eat my metal . drink my water.”4 The stage trembled as if in an earthquake and was transformed from a space of gray and black into a world of pure white, into which the Yetis emerged. During the scenes of Yeti redemption the mother stood alone, her head shrouded, as a kind of witness who cannot see, and the performance as a whole took on the tone, or rather the tense, of a demonstration of what might just, at the very margins of plausibility, be possible, in a dazzlingly improbable spectacle of resurrection: Perhaps if we keep looping the cuckoo song, spring and summer will always be coming, and will never pass into autumn and win- PROLOGUE 3 ter.