Simon Mayo’s first novel for adults
concerns a relatively unknown incident about a massacre at Dartmoor Prison
where American sailors were being held in 1815 after the end of the three
year-year conflict between the United States and Britain. The peace had not yet
been ratified and there were thousands of prisoners of war crammed into Dartmoor,
frustrated, angry and turning to violence. This much is true, and the novel is
packed with solid descriptions of prison life: crowded bunks; appalling food; general
boredom; thoughts of escape and political intrigues; and the constant backdrop
of fear and danger.
Inspired by true events, the detail is precise
including the initial march to the prison, the labour of snow-clearing, the smallpox
outbreak and vaccinations against it. The sailors are segregated by choice,
with the black sailors in Block Four, where they sing gospel songs and perform
plays which they take very seriously. King Dick ‘rules’ Block Four, and the Rough
Allies attempt to rule the rest, with violence and intimidation.
Sixteen-year-old
Joe takes on the role of Juliet in Romeo
and Juliet that is to be performed with great passion by the inmates of
Block Four, although they bowdlerize the text. The kiss between the lovers is fraught
with danger partly due to the homosexuality (punishable by flogging and further
brutality) and also because Joe is white, while Romeo, played by Habakkuk (Habs)
Snow is black. The title of the novel is taken from the opening scene of Act
Three of Romeo and Juliet, and here
implies but the growing unrest in the prison, and the illicit feelings that Joe
and Habs develop for each other.
Highlighting the theatrical elements, the chapters
are divided into Acts, some scenes are presented as scripts, and there is a list
of characters at the beginning. There are many characters and they are not all fully
formed with some aspects that could have made great stories relegated to mere
subplots, causing the novel to read a little like the first draft of a
film-script, albeit in a well-defined setting.
"Theatre focuses on the importance of the moment. No matter how many times they have repeated a play, in each performance, the players strive to create the illusion of freshness, to play their roles in such a way that their characters appear to be encountering these situations, doing these actions, and saying these words for the first time. Furthermore, since the composition of the audience (one-half of the performer-spectator relationship) changes from night to night, each performance differs subtly from every other performance; when you watch a play, you participate in a one-of-a-kind, unrepeatable art work." From Theatre: The Now-Art with a Past by Norman A. Bert
5 Great Quotes by Edward Albee on Theatre and Playwriting:
“I’m not sure that it’s the responsibility of a writer to give answers, especially to questions that have no answers... I don’t think that it’s the responsibility of the playwright to present a dilemma and then give its solution, because if he does that, and if he is at all concerned with how things are and how people are now, almost inevitably he is going to present a less puissant dilemma.”
“You notate a play like a piece of music. By the use of punctuation, emphasis, underling, you indicate the way a line is to be spoken. Two or three people in conversation are like two or three instruments answering each other. The structure of drama is similar to musical structure. When you have a dramatist who writes as precisely as Chekov or Beckett, you can actually conduct the play – you know there is a silence here, a phrase there...”
“I am absolutely opposed to that conception of the theatre defined as a great collective experience live in common with the public, by a thousand spectators who react on each other by the warmth of their bodies, and inept comments like that. The ideal production of a play would be to have all the actors in a room with an INVISIBLE spectator whom the actors would not be able to see.”
“A playwright – unless he is writing escapist romances (an honourable occupation, of course) – has two obligations: first to make some statement about the condition of ‘man’ (as it is put) and, second, to make some statement about the nature of the art form with which he is working... a playwright must try to alter the forms within which his precursors have had to work.”
“The function of the theatre as a form of art is to tell us who we are: that is its first value; and the health of the theatre depends on the degree of self-knowledge we wish to have.”
I think it's fair to say that I don't like reality TV. I have mentioned this before. One of my least favourite sub-genres is the competition variety. You know the type of thing, where people are pitted against each other to paint a room or build a wall and then someone wins and everyone at home thinks they could have done the same and the real decorators and stonemasons go out of business while general standards plummet.
Although I like the celebrity dancing ones (especially the ice-dancing one), I know I am no expert. This is not true of the people who routinely watch the singing shows and then feel free to critique performances about which they know nothing. It also means that we are left with chanteurs who think that to belt and warble is the epitome of 'singing' and we are left without subtlety, nuance or character. Bob Dylan or Florence Welch wouldn't make it through the first round.
With performance and artistic pursuits, a lot is left to personal preference - A might like sci-fi or farce; B might prefer romance or Jacobean drama; C might swoon at ballet and metaphysical poetry and so on. It doesn't mean any one is 'better' than the other - it just means they shouldn't be judged against each other. In 'pure' sport if you run fastest, jump highest or throw something furthest, you win. You are the best at that particular thing. Don't get me wrong, some things lend themselves to competition and this is a good thing (not keeping the score during football games because 'it's all about participation' is ridiculous!) but when subjectivity creeps in, nothing is so clear.
Acting, comedy and writing awards are often suspect. Yes, they are worth something when awarded by your peers, but often they are voted for by a partisan panel - the more friends you have in the audience; the more likely you are to win. These tributes might provide a feel-good factor, but they are relatively worthless. Entertainment is not a science; nor should it be a competition.
5 Things that should never be a competition:
Cooking - as far as I am concerned you either cook because it is your job and you are paid, or because it is a way of expressing love and friendship to those around you. Eat with me and know you are welcome. Do not judge the temperature of the soup or the slicing of the vegetables. I have prepared this gift for you in my own way.
Surgery - there will come a day when cameras go into operating theatres and viewers vote on who best wields the scalpel. I'm surprised it hasn't happened already. Health is personal, although you wouldn't know it from those shows which 'expose' physical deformities and laugh at fat people. Some things should be conducted behind the curtained cubicle - pull yourself together.
Sex - it's personal and not up for discussion apart from between the relevant parties. According to late-night phone-ins (you hear a lot driving home from rehearsals) many people seem to be concerned about whether or not their sex-life is 'normal'. As long as you and your partner are happy with it, whatever you're doing, or not doing, is fine.
Raising children - I hate the use of nouns as verbs, so have resisted the urge to call it parenting. I'm sure it's pretty difficult to raise a child to be a reasonable and responsible human being. Just do your job and stop comparing yourself and your child to others. In some respects they're all the same; in others they're all different - don't bother worrying or boasting, and if you must do either, do it to yourself as no one else cares. Really.
Friendship/love - when I was little I used to refer to 'best friends'. Now I know that best is a superlative meaning 'of the most excellent or outstanding or desirable kind' there can only be one, by definition. I would now say I have many good or close friends - all of them special to me in individual ways and I love and admire them for their specific qualities. I would never try to rank one above the other. That's not how this love thing works.
One of the things I enjoy about theatre and performing or directing is the way all the elements come together. Sometimes these blend almost seamlessly, and at other times they are more awkward.
We are currently in 'black week' for the Alexandra Musical Society's production of The Full Monty. This is the term given to the week before the performance where the actors, having been the focus for the past three months of rehearsal, are no longer centre-stage. Instead the director turns his or her attention to aspects of sound, lighting, cotumes, hair and make-up, the band and traffic.
This show uses 'trucks' or set pieces on wheels which must be rolled into position and then removed from stage for various scenes. We have to negotiate urinals, pianos, police sergeant's desks, sofas and coffins: the stage-crew are busy. There are very quick changes: the costume department are very busy. Microphones have to be attached and removed in a rapid time-frame; meanwhile lighting and sound cues are crucial to the actors and the band.
It's all coming together and it will be a wonderful show. Many people are learning a lot and learning it fast. Our director, Bryan Aitken, is a good teacher - he spells things out clearly and concisely. The most important lesson he teaches is, "It's not just about you. Make sure you communicate". The stage manager calls the show - he or she makes sure that the actors are ready; the sound and lighting technicians know when their cues are; the band are tuned up and focussed in the pit.
No one component can start without the other. It is a giant dramatic jigsaw puzzle and each piece fits in exactly the right place - if it doesn't, then the picture will be subtly (or radically) altered. Clear forms of communication are necessary between departments, which may mean that not everybody has to pipe up at the same time and create a chaotic cacophony.
Meanwhile the rest of the nation is embroiled in the throes of the Rugby World Cup. The media here is still harping on about the mess of the 'party central' when lots more inebriated rugby fans, and other folk, turned up to the Auckland waterfront than were expected so all public transport was thrown into turmoil, even though this was routinely advertised as 'the place to be'.
Ignoring the sideshow, the players have been out and about mingling with the public and attempting to foster good PR networks. You may have noticed that I went along to meet some of the England team when they visited the local school. Other team members (including top trump Jonny Wilkinson) went to Wakatipu High School for a skills sessionwith the young players.
Asked for advice, Jonny Wilkinson (OBE) said the most important aspect of any team sport was to communicate clearly with your team so everyone was aware of what the others were doing all the time. It's all very well to be the Flash Harry, but for the sake of cohesive teamwork and ensemble performance, it's better to be Johnny-on-the-spot.
I’ve never been a fan of opening ceremonies – I find them shallow spectacles, lacking in substance and too politically correct to actually be entertaining. I am anxious about the complete cock-up London will make of the Olympics (the sheer weight of necessary cultural touchstones will doubtless sink the enterprise), however, so I watched the opening ceremony of the Rugby World Cup with interest, and a couple of girlfriends and a bottle of two of bubbles.
It began with a karanga (the Māori call at the start of the pōwhiri – the official welcome) which was spine-tinglingly beautiful, and her frock was pretty cool too, although not ‘o for awesome’ as the commentator opined (that’s actually a Kiwi in-joke based on an intellectually challenged comment by a boxer with a left hook and a bad haircut). As she emerged from the swirling mists projected onto the central oval stage (which incorporated Scenic landscapes with Air New Zealand design motifs), she resembled the lady of the lake.
Which was apt, as it happened, as next-up appeared boats on wheels that appeared to glide across the stage representing the city of sails. The Mysterious Minx pointed out that they had holes in them and probably wouldn’t catch the breeze all that well (she’s a Sagittarius and disturbingly pragmatic). This would not have been felicitous considering the hammerhead shark graphic that proceeded to circle across the projected screen. Following the recent death of a bodyboarder due to a shark attack at a popular Western Australia surf spot, perhaps this was specifically intended to intimidate the trans-Tasman competition?
We were then treated to a thundering haka with columns of fire and red and gold flashing lights that recalled the violently geological formation of this land. The Fudge Princess mentioned that there was ‘a bit too much bum’ for her liking and that the ‘star jumps’ were ‘a bit out of time’. She claims Māori descent so is officially entitled to her opinion.
Next a small lad clad in the red and black strip of Canterbury protected a very large rugby ball from about 100 burly blokes as he negotiated scrums and tackles with the assistance of flying harnesses, bendy try-lines and some dodgy manoeuvres. I was taking notes as I fully expect the All Blacks to make use of these methods to win ‘the prize’ – represented here by a sort of gilded cage type affair. He approached the ‘mystery guest’ at the head of a ladder of top-try scorers. Jonah Lomu materialised as the embodiment of the world’s worst kept secret and encouraged the young Jeff-Wilson-look-a-like to ‘do it for Christchurch, my friend’. It was actually quite emotional and well-executed.
Not so the World in Union, which was beautifully sung but marred by drums, ukuleles and ‘freestyle’ dancers who looked like your drunken aunts and aunties at a wedding. The problem with mass participation performances is that they either look like the Nuremberg Rally or a complete shemozzle. This was the latter.
Old ‘smile and wave’ (or John Key as some people like to call the Prime Minister of New Zealand) smiled and waved and hoped that having a rugby world cup on his watch would make up for his political absence, and then the IRB dude came on and spoke both Māori and English with ridiculously improbable accents to declare the games officially open.
People called to each other on conch shells (I liked the one on the lighthouse even if the ever-practical Mischievous Minx pointed out, ‘You wouldn’t really be able to hear that’) to signify the start of the fireworks. I had heard great things about these – they were going to represent pohutukawa, kowhai and kiwis. Perhaps it was the coverage, but they looked like a damp squib.
The out-of-tune accompaniment on the recorder (or ‘squeaky tube’ as my dad used to call it, with justification based on this evidence) didn’t help, and the remote-control dancing container lifters were like something out of one of Peter Jackson’s early B-Movie attempts.
Outside the stadium, there were folk attempting Spiderman antics on the side of tall buildings, and a pipe bandon the Domain illuminated by the lights of the Auckland Museum, who could at least play in time. I’m not being fair – that bit was remarkably affecting for someone who moved 12,000 miles to get away from bagpipes!
Final dress rehearsal went well and I’m happy with that. I know there are lots of superstitions among theatre folk, but I’ve never really followed them. I will say Macbeth quite blithely and I don’t come over all histrionic should someone whistle in the dressing room (although singing from musicals bothers me a bit, but that’s got more to do with good taste than superstition).
Some people maintain that a bad dress rehearsal means a good opening night and vice versa but this is pure hokum. You know whether you are ready for a performance – whether you have put in the work; practiced the words and movement; built the character; listened to the direction; considered the attitudes of those around you and prepared as best you can. No amount of mumbo jumbo is going to change that. It’s like taking a mascot into an exam – no amount of cuddly toys, sharpened pencils or lucky undies are going to make a blind bit of difference if you haven’t learned your stuff.
Of course there are variables – some things might happen before an audience that have never happened in rehearsal, but that’s the beauty of live theatre. People say (usually irritatingly smugly) ‘life’s not a rehearsal’ but in some ways it is. You learn from your mistakes and you move on. You experiment, try different approaches and find what works best. That’s life, and what’s that if not a rehearsal?
I overheard a fellow actor explaining their part in the play – they got half way through the plot and then said, ‘But I won’t spoil the surprise for you.’ It occurred to me that some people will be surprised by the ending. Not everyone knows the story. And I wondered what that would be like. How different it must be to see Hamlet, Macbeth, or, indeed Twelfth Night without knowing what happens. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know the ending of Romeo and Juliet or Casablanca.
I do know how annoyed I was when a friend, asking about The Sixth Sense said SPOILER ALERT ‘Is that the one where he’s dead all along?’ There seemed little point in watching it once I knew the twist, and so I never have. And so I won’t ruin the surprise, you’ll just have to come and see it. END OF SPOILER ALERT
Some people prefer to read a play, particularly Shakespeare, before they go and see it so that they know what’s going on. They find the language difficult and would rather have it wash over them, without having to concentrate on the intricacies of language as well as plot. I can understand this, especially with some of the history plays. But I think Twelfth Night lends itself far better to the stage than the page.
I recently heard someone say that reading a play without seeing it performed is like studying the ingredients without baking the cake. I like that analogy. And tonight I can safely say that for better or worse, we will be breaking some eggs.
