The Cult of Sarah Kane (1971-1999)

Sarah Kane has become to the theatre world what Ian Curtis of Joy Division has long been to the alternative music world: a beloved cult icon.   Their darkly inspired works remain as dark and inspiring today as they did when they were first created.  Both Kane and Curtis suffered from depression, and their last works (hers, 4.48 Psychosis; his, the album “Closer”) rather transparently document their unhappiness and presage their seemingly inevitable shared fate–suicide by hanging.

Unfortunately, the dramatic deaths of Kane and Curtis will forever threaten to overshadow their lifes’ works.  And this is precisely why, for example, David Greig works so arduously in his introduction to the Methuen edition (2001) of Kane’s complete plays to place her work in both its contemporary and historical context. He acknowledges the connections between Kane’s plays and those of the playwrights she admired, such as Buchner, Beckett, Bond, and Barker, and he also forges an association between some themes in her work and those in Shakespeare–a claim that no doubt pleases Kane’s cult but infuriates the contemptuous camp.  For instance, Blasted, like King Lear, depicts human depravity and the boundlessness of political revenge; certainly, the soldier’s sucking out and chewing up of Ian’s eyes in Kane’s play does recall Cornwall’s gouging out of Gloucester’s eyes in Shakespeare’s tragedy.

Sarah Kane’s five plays are the definition of artistic courage and vulnerability; raw, unflinching honesty; and pointed irreverence in dramatic storytelling.  In Blasted, her highly controversial first play, the alcoholic journalist, Ian, exchanges horror stories with a soldier  who hunts him down in his hotel room.  When the soldier asks why Ian doesn’t report on the soldier’s story, Ian replies that, “This isn’t a story anyone wants to hear.”  Not surprisingly, some critics have said the same about the play itself, which rampantly depicts the scatalogical, taboo, human and inhumane, from masturbation, hunger, racism, misogyny, and homophobia to excessive violence, rape, sodomy, cannibalism, murder, dismemberment, and suicide.  All that in just five scenes.  Kane’s deeply disturbing but undeniably thought provoking work is not for everyone, definitely not the fainthearted or weak-stomached. For anyone who has read my posts in recent weeks and followed the conversation sparked by Marsha Norman about women and playwriting–Blasted IS most definitely NOT a “girl play.”

**For those of you living or traveling to the Miami area in the new year, Gable Stage at the Biltmore will be producing the southeastern premiere of Blasted from February 20-March 21.    

Look for more discussion of Kane’s plays here in the coming weeks…

Until then, to find out more about her, check out this site maintained by Iain Fisher; it’s a great resource, international in its coverage, with regular updates on upcoming productions and a healthy discussion board.  According to Fisher’s site, Kane’s fifth and final play, 4:48 Psychosis, which received its first production posthumously in 2000, will be running at The Sandra Feinstein-Gamm Theatre (The Gamm) in Pawtucket, Rhode Island from 14 Jan- 7 Feb 2010.  And, indeed, this is true…the Gamm production will be directed by Tony Estrella.

**Image from NYT 10/1/08

I miss you sitting on top of tall ladders talking outside my bedroom window.

I’m still right across from you. I’m still right outside your bedroom window, you just need to turn and look at me.

I’ve seen a lot of theatre in the past few weeks since I’ve posted. The most stirring of them all was “Crave” by Sarah Kane.

And I want to play hide-and-seek and give you my clothes and tell you I like your shoes and sit on the steps while you take a bath and massage your neck and kiss your feet and hold your hand and go for a meal and not mind when you eat my food and meet you at Rudy’s and talk about the day and type your letters and carry your boxes and laugh at your paranoia and give you tapes you don’t listen to and watch great films and watch terrible films and complain about the radio and take pictures of you when you’re sleeping and get up to fetch you coffee and bagels and Danish and go to Florent and drink coffee at midnight and have you steal my cigarettes and never be able to find a match and tell you about the the program I saw the night before and take you to the eye hospital and not laugh at your jokes and want you in the morning but let you sleep for a while and kiss your back and stroke your skin and tell you how much I love your hair your eyes your lips your neck your breasts your ass your…
and sit on the steps smoking till your neighbor comes home and sit on the steps smoking till you come home and worry when you’re late and be amazed when you’re early and give you sunflowers and go to your party and dance till I’m black and be sorry when I’m wrong and happy when you forgive me and look at your photos and wish I’d known you forever and hear your voice in my ear and feel your skin on my skin and get scared when you’re angry and your eye has gone red and the other eye blue and your hair to the left and your face oriental and tell you you’re gorgeous and hug you when you’re anxious and hold you when you hurt and want you when I smell you and offend you when I touch you and whimper when I’m next to you and whimper when I’m not and dribble on your breast and smother you in the night and get cold when you take the blanket and hot when you don’t and melt when you smile and dissolve when you laugh and not understand why you think I’m rejecting you when I’m not rejecting you and wonder how you could think I’d ever reject you and wonder who you are but accept you anyway and tell you about the tree angel enchanted forest boy who flew across the ocean because he loved you and write poems for you and wonder why you don’t believe me and have a feeling so deep I can’t find words for it and want to buy you a kitten I’d get jealous of because it would get more attention than me and keep you in bed when you have to go and cry like a baby when you finally do and get rid of the roaches and buy you presents you don’t want and take them away again and ask you to marry me and you say no again but keep on asking because though you think I don’t mean it I do always have from the first time I asked you and wander the city thinking it’s empty without you and want want you want and think I’m losing myself but know I’m safe with you and tell you the worst of me and try to give you the best of me because you don’t deserve any less and answer your questions when I’d rather not and tell you the truth when I really dont’ want to and try to be honest because I know you prefer it and think it’s all over but hang on in for just ten more minutes before you throw me out of your life and forget who I am and try to get closer to you because it’s a beautiful learning to know you and well worth the effort and speak German to you badly and Hebrew to you worse and make love with you at three in the morning and somehow somehow somehow communicate some of the overwhelming undying overpowering unconditional all-encompassing heart-enriching mind-expanding on-going never-ending love I have for you.

Things have been so insanely busy…between Master Electrician for Streetcar Named Desire, which was epic and wonderful, and then moving directly into work for the Department show of Rent, I’ve barely had time to lift my head above water let alone eat, sleep, or do non-theatre work.

Streetcar: Team Lights

Things have gotten better, but this week has still contained two nights without sleep (Wednesday night /Thursday morning and Saturday night/Sunday morning).

I spent a long while at the cast party for Streetcar talking outside with the lighting designer, cursing about gender and the Vassar experiment and how it has spilled over into my world at Smith.

And I cannot decide what I want and I now have no idea who I am. I have to face returning to Smith, returning to an all-women’s college when inevitably, people have begun to ask C. what pronouns I want to go by. How can I explain this? Do I need to operate through life with a disclaimer on my chest?

Am I constantly doomed to be read as a gay man (for when I am read as male, that’s how I am read) ?

Can “Jacks” and “Alana” exist as one person when I feel constantly displaced as both? I don’t really care about acceptance from the real world, though the reactions of my parents terrify me, but why can’t I just find a place within myself where I feel comfortable residing? Why must I choose, male or female? I am neither. I disagree with the perceptions and connotations of both so why can’t E. and Smith students and Vassar students and my parents just understand that?

I feel comforted by the fact that E.V. seems to comprehend it. She has mentioned once or twice that she wants to have these “gender conversations” with me. But I feel like my life is one big conversation about it. So sometimes its nice just to be with someone who sees my maleness and femaleness as one unalterable compound thing. Finally I feel viewed as an individual, a person. Perhaps I feel so comfortable with her because I do not feel like I have to act male or act female, do not have to hide the fact that when I get drunk or high, i become girly, do not have to be macho or feminine to please the viewer or the viewer’s perception of me.

Back to real life, my favorite of the all-nighters I pulled was Saturday. It started with going to see The Full Monthy, then pizza at Bacio’s at midnight, then writing a paper on The Handmaid’s Tale until 5 AM, moments of other what other’s would see as violent but to me was intimate and unifying, then prep cooking for Sunday night and watching the sun rise over Sunset Lake. And then, finally, sleep.

Last night was Ferry House Thanksgiving. Delicious vegan/vegetarian food: vegan mashed potatoes, salad with tahini dressing, mushroom and cabbage pieroges, whole wheat pesto pasta, squash lasagna, sweet squash and beans, corn muffins, apple crisp, bread pudding, molasses pie, wine and beer. Yet before anyone even got there, with the craziness in the kitchen and mass cleaning and then beers while waiting for everyone to arrive…it felt like family, like real family. Finally now, I know where I belong. It’s many hundred miles but it won’t be long.

I’ve had so many adventures here. And even with a little less than a month left, even though that is so much time, I have begun to reflect, perhaps to prepare myself for the inevitable return.

A lot of people have been asking me lately if I’m staying for a semester or a year. The last time it came up, the answer managed to silence the whole room. Before that, the stage manager of Streetcar spent twenty drunken minutes trying to convince me to transfer.

But who will remember me when I’m gone from this place? Will they look back and think: “Oh remember Jacks? He was awesome.” Will freshman ask, “Who was Jacks?” “Oh just this guy. He was only here for one semester…”

I don’t really care either way. My friends, the people who matter here, will miss me. I think. These silly things I like to dwell on.

Memories of friends, memories of any night, of nights I like best: The room is full of smoke and dialogue I know by heart. It’s well after midnight, and I’m sitting on the couch with my good friends, relaxin’ and passin’. Someone is playing a game on the TV and there is ska music coming from the walls. The world has stopped, and we have too; stopped caring, stopped crying and stopped regretting. We are all friends, no matter the difference.

ML and JK forever

Cute drunkies.

All you need is love

There's a girl, named Jackson

Talking about love, dancing about architecture...but I'm sure Vassar has an architecture/dance class

Good friends + cheap wine = memorable wonderful times

UN AÑO MÁS, LA COMUNIDAD DE MADRID CELEBRA UNA NUEVA EDICIÓN DEL FESTIVAL DE OTOÑO CON UN CARTEL DE PRESTIGIO. Y VAN YA VEINTISÉIS. DURANTE CASI CUATRO SEMANAS PASARÁN POR LOS TEATROS DE LA COMUNIDAD FIGURAS DE LAS ARTES ESCÉNICAS COMO ROBERT LEPAGE, DANIEL VERONESE, ANGÉLICA LIDDELL, EL CIRCO DE VIETNAM LANG TOI O EL COMPOSITOR JAPONÉS RYUICHI SAKAMOTO, ENTRE OTROS MUCHOS. Por Vanessa Ramiro.

UN CARTEL HETEROGÉNEO

Fiel a su estilo, consagrado ya en la región, el festival presenta un desfile de estrellas llegadas de todas las partes del mundo que contribuyen a crear un cartel heterogéneo orientado hacia un público variado que podrá disfrutar de montajes de teatro, danza, música y circo.

Del 4 al 29 de Noviembre.

Más información en www.madrid.org/fo/2009/es/index.html

En av de olyckligaste författare jag någonsin stött på är den engelska dramatikern Sarah Kane. Hon skrev pjäser om sinnesjukdomar, krigsskador, kannibalism, våldtäkt. Hon led av psykoser och hängde sig på en psykavdelning när hon var 28 år.
Här får man veta mer om henne:

Och här är ett utdrag ur pjäsen 4.48 Phycosis. Klippet är på polska, men man får ju en känsla. Jag såg den för några år sen med Riksteatern och Annika Hallin. Jag har för mig att hon var helt ensam på scenen då? Hon var bra i alla fall, och då hette pjäsen Psykos klockan 4.48. (Vid detta klockslag skulle hon ta sitt liv.)

UPPDATERING: Jag kanske ska meddela att jag inte är deprimerad själv. Då skulle jag verkligen inte vilja bry mig om Sarah Kane! Borde satt ut en varningsskylt, kanske…
—————–
Läs även andra bloggares åsikter om Sarah Kane, 4.48 Psycosis, dramatik, sinnesjukdomar, deprimerade författare, Riksteatern, Annika Hallin

Can be such an interesting experience. On one hand, it’s absolutely fantastic to see this friend transform herself. It’s like she has grown an entirely new skin. It’s magic, Dumbledore-style. On the other hand, your mind begins to race as you’re trying to reconcile her with the character, and you wonder if she has ever screamed and cried like this in what we like to refer to as “real life.”

*shiver*

As I was waiting for Anya after the performance, I honestly ran into the one person in the entire city of Kiev who wishes to discuss a particularly warped version of feminist politics after a theater performance. Head meet desk. Or wall – I was standing next to a good, hard wall at the time.

Here’s a paraphrase:

“She got naked at the end!”

“So?”

“Naked! NAKED! Naked-naked!”

“Well, as I already most eloquently pointed out: so?”

“NAAAAAAAKED!”

Right. Fascinating. You know, I thought I’d never use the phrase “I’d much rather discuss Meghan McCain’s Twitter picture with Twisty’s commentariat,” but, after those five minutes of rhetorical Hades crossed with Nancy Grace-style charm, I’d much rather discuss Meghan McCain’s Twitter picture with Twisty’s commentariat. (And thank you, Twisty, for some much-needed clarity)

Other than that, I just have to say – if you’re depressed like me, don’t be an idiot and see “4.48 Psychosis.” Well, unless your brilliant friends want you to see it. And get you a free seat. In front row. And hang out afterward. Then maybe, maybe see “4.48 Psychosis.” But after you’re done for the evening, just get home and log into, I don’t know, ONTD, as quickly as you can, to check out stuff such as – “The only way Jon could put his kids in more danger is if he somehow found a way to squeeze Roman Polanski onto that ATV.”

Nothing like a little rapist humour to lift the mood after a Sarah Kane play.

And I want to play hide-and-seek and give you my clothes and tell you I like your shoes and sit on the steps while you take a bath and massage your neck and kiss your feet and hold your hand and go for a meal and not mind when you eat my food and meet you at Rudy’s and talk about the day and laugh at your paranoia.

I give you tapes you don’t listen to and watch great films and watch terrible films and tell you about the the programme I saw the night before and not laugh at your jokes.

Want you in the morning but let you sleep for a while and tell you how much I love your hair your eyes your lips your neck your breasts your arse.

Sit on the steps smoking till your neighbour comes home and sit on the steps smoking till you come home and worry when you’re late and be amazed when you’re early and give you sunflowers and go to your party and dance and be sorry when I’m wrong and happy when you forgive me

Look at your photos and wish I’d known you forever and hear your voice in my ear and feel your skin on my skin and get scared when you’re angry and tell you you’re gorgeous and hug you when you’re anxious and hold you when you hurt and want you when I smell you and offend you when I touch you and whimper when I’m next to you and whimper when I’m not

Dribble on your breast and smother you in the night and get cold when you take the blanket and hot when you don’t and melt when you smile and dissolve when you laugh and not understand why you think I’m rejecting you when I’m not rejecting you and wonder how you could think I’d ever reject you and wonder who you are but accept you anyway

And tell you about the tree angel enchanted forest boy who flew across the ocean because he loved you.

Buy you presents you don’t want and take them away again and ask you to marry me and you say no again but keep on asking because though you think I don’t mean it I do always have from the first time I asked you.

I wander the city thinking it’s empty without you but I want want you want and think I’m losing myself but but but I’ll tell you the worst of me and try to give you the best of me because you don’t deserve any less.

Answer your questions when I’d rather not and tell you the truth when I really don’t want to and try to be honest because I know you prefer it and think it’s all over but hang on in for just ten more minutes before you throw me out of your life and forget who I am! And let me try to get closer to you!

And somehow, somehow, somehow communicate some of the overwhelming undying overpowering unconditional all-encompassing heart-enriching mind-expanding on-going never-ending love I have for you.
—

I’ve blogged this a million times before, but I love it so so much. Sarah Kane only left us with 4 plays but they have thrilled and filled me with the most fantastic pleasures of love and grief. This comes from an extract of Crave, and has been edited to fit the short film.

And tell you about the tree angel
enchanted forest boy
who flew across the ocean
because he loved you

Quer tanto ver pega um retrato
e guarda na carteira.
O filme entrará em cartaz em pouquíssimas sessões
da Mostra Internacional competitiva
e não, não entrará em circuito nacional, porém
talvez ocorram mais algumas exibições pra poucos
e bons
em pequenas mostras sobre coisas maravilhosas,
esplendorosas,
e esquisitas
daquelas que entram no CCBB
e absolutamente ninguém do seu círculo social
fica sabendo.

Diga, caro frequentador do Reserva.
Quer ver o filme pra
aplacar seu ego cinéfilo?
Chegar a conclusão que não valia mesmo a pena
comprá-lo e exibi-lo
no cinema mais próximo?
Pra sofrer por não ter assistido antes,
não ter feito mil sacrifícios na Amazon
em 24 vezes no cartão?
Ou então, ah,
você tem cara disso,
quer ver pra compará-lo com o blockbuster hollywoodiano
localizável em qualquer locadora?

Pois saiba que esse petardo
está destinado a ser aquele tipo de cult
que quase ninguém assistiu mas
todo mundo comentou
entre uma frase sobre a suicida Sarah Kane
e um MP3 do The Shaggs.
“Deve ser enfadonho”, pensam,
“mas como saber com certeza?
Um comentou que tem três horas e meia
e outro disse que foi tão rápido…”

Mas, amor,
que filme de fases!
Só de pensar na fila
já me dá gases!

***

Pós-dramático
Póstumo
Um recado no post-it dizendo
“Não esqueça de ir a Brasília
e antes passar na farmácia
pra comprar Sorine.

Esse sorriso deixou seu ar completamente seco.”

Lei. Loro. La galleria.

Lei è un’artista performer che in tutto quello che fa entra davvero dentro con tutta sè stessa, con il corpo e la mente come un tuttuno, come in una sofferenza che vive sulla sua pelle segnata. Come il suo nome e cognome che scrive tutto attaccato e minuscolo, barbarauccelli.

Loro sono le donne scrittrici che hanno deciso di vivere “oltre”, immortalandosi per sempre nel gesto più coraggioso perchè di scelta finale che è quello del suicidio. Ma cosa c’è tra la decisione e l’ultimo minuto? Quell’istante che precede l’ultimo respiro consapevole, l’attesa, la preparazione. Il momento finale ce lo racconta proprio lei, in una serie di video e autoscatti in mostra fino al 13 novembre alla galleria “Ingresso Pericoloso”.

“Ho passato quasi un anno e mezzo a leggere tutto quello che queste donne, Marina Tvetaeva, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Virginia Woolf e Sarah Kane, avevano scritto e poi tutto quello che su di loro era stato scritto. Poi in mezzo a tutto questo ho lavorato a togliere, per lasciare spazio proprio a quell’ultimo minuto. In una pulizia finale non semplice. Non mi interessava il suicidio in sè, in quanto tale, ma il loro percorso“.

Fatto che è testimoniato anche da un dettaglio molto interessante. barbarauccelli si è autoscattata e immortalata in ognuno dei video che riprendono le scrittrici e in essi queste donne così sofferte portano sempre le stesse scarpe rosa. Quasi a voler dire che il loro cammino, pur partendo da strade diverse, ha portato le stesse stigmate.

“Volevo anche lasciare loro un simbolo di femminilità – continua l’artista – dare un segno in questo modo. Dato che ho spogliato ognuna di tutto”.

Il luogo in cui avviene la tragedia è lo studio di barbara, luogo scevro da ogni orpello. Un muro bianco, c’è l’essenzialità di ogni oggetto, c’è la fine. Il silenzio dopo le tante parole scritte.
E mentre scorrono i video c’è però una cosa non può non rimbombare nella testa. E sono i passi. I passi di queste donne che vanno verso il silenzio e che si richiamano da una stanza all’altra, da un video all’altro, come se si cercassero tra le stanze, tra le parole, tra i gesti che non vogliono essere dimenticati. E te li senti risuonare dentro a lungo, quei tacchi, quelle scarpe.

La galleria si chiama Spazio Pericoloso. Bisogna cercarla bene, è in via Capo d’Africa. Ma è location perfetta per questa mostra, è location perfetta per quel sentire che il suo proprietario Massimo Rosa ha messo qui dentro. Con poche parole e tanto lavoro, creando atmosfera rarefatta, quasi ultraterrena.

 Writers
di barbarauccelli
Galleria Ingresso Pericoloso
Fino al 13 novembre 2009
orari: martedi – venerdì 15,30 – 19,30 o su appuntamento
info: 06 454 96564
www.ingressopericoloso.com

le foto della performance sono di edf, in esclusiva per aftersix

Świat Sarah Kane zbudowany jest z lęku, że nasza ludzka niedoskonałość zostanie obnażona. Że zostaniemy odrzuceni, bo sami nie umiemy pojąć i zaakceptować swoich wyborów i decyzji dotyczących miłości. Bo sami czytamy w sobie fałsz. Bo sami sobie nie wierzymy. Bo jesteśmy chorzy na brak miłości. Bo tracimy ją lub zatracamy się w niej. Bo jesteśmy niezdolni do kochania. Czy to czyściec? Raczej piekło ludzkiego umysłu, w którym jesteśmy skazani na samotność. Nie ma stąd wyjścia.

Boję się wyobraźni Sarah Kane, która ustawia kolejne piętra międzyludzkich relacji w poszukiwaniu miłości, nie cofając się przed niczym. Boję się chorobliwego idealizmu i radykalnej pewności, z którą stwierdza: nie, to nie jest miłość, to też nie, i to także. Boję się jej bezwzględności, nawet jeśli urodziła się ona z lęku.

Domani, 3 ottobre, ricorre la V Giornata del Contemporaneo indetta dall’AMACI (Associazione Musei d’Arte Contemporanei Italiani). Tra le tante iniziative proposte da gallerie e istituzioni romane, vi segnalo una personale, quella di Barbara Uccelli (ma il suo nome figura come barbarauccelli), che aprirà i battenti alle ore 18.30 negli spazi della galleria Ingresso Pericoloso, in via Capo d’Africa 46, e che resterà aperta fino al 16 novembre.

Il titolo della mostra, Writers, è dovuto al tema scelto dall’artista: cinque scrittrici, tutte morte suicide. Marina Tsvetaeva, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton Virginia Woolf e Sarah Kane. Cinque donne che hanno legato la propria esistenza ad un doloroso tormento interiore che le ha condotte ad un gesto estremo, drammatico e definitivo. Cinque donne di grande ingegno, fascino e sensibilità. Incarnandole, la performer Barbara Uccelli le riporta in qualche modo in vita. Cinque donne, cinque video, tutti della durata di un minuto. E una fotografia, ad eternare questo omaggio. La costante, un paio di scarpe rosa.

Barbara Uccelli è nata nel 1975 e, attualmente, vive e lavora a Bologna. La sua ricerca artistica è incentrata sul corpo e sul suo linguaggio. Ha partecipato a mostre collettive e personali in Italia e all’estero, particolarmente significativa l’esperienza in Cina.

So it’s the end of July and I find myself leaving London for a month…  Probably good timing, as I don’t seem to have had much luck with theatre in London this Summer.  I was defeated in an attempt to queue for day tickets to see Jude Law’s Hamlet – the final quarter of the Donmar’s residency at Wyndhams Theatre.  What we considered was ‘early enough’ to secure some of the 30 tickets released each day was trumped buy what the maniacs considered appropriate – 5am…

I did manage to see the Young Vic production of Sarah Kane’s final play 4:48 Psychosis, directed by Christian Benedetti and performed by Romanian star Anamaria Marinca.  The play is overshadowed by the circumstances in which it was written – the final piece by the controverisal ‘in yer face’ playwright dealing with depression and written only months before she took her own life.

I feel that the challenge of the play is in it’s theatricality.  Written with no characters, stage directions or setting, the play screams out for directorial interpretation.  Marinca’s performance was spellbinding; throughout the 72 minutes that she spent with us, she stayed firmly rooted to the spot, addressing us directly and unflinchingly.  Although the performance was disturbingly engaging and thought provoking, I felt that the decision to produce the play as a monologue eventually undermined its effect.  It became too easy to assume that the play was autobiographical, and label Marinca as just another depressed poet.  ‘We might as well just stayed in and read some Plath’ concluded my friend.

Despite my gripes about interpretation, this remains an intriguing and provocative production – well worth seeing as an insight into the tortured beauty of Kane’s work.

Too Close To The Sun, an original musical exploring a fictional account of the last days of Ernest Hemingway posted its closing notices this week – the same week that it opened to unanimous 1* reviews.  Charles Spencer in The Telegraph had labeled the score as ‘staggering banality’ – his review was precariously balanced between an honest criticism and a personal attack on composer John Robinson.  Michael Billington was slightly kinder, although still branded the musical as ‘implausible and unnecessary’.

The show promised a potentially interesting situation – the fading days of a literary legend, his struggle with writer’s block, and ultimate (unexplained) suicide.  The problems began when it became clear that these issues would be dealt with in a tedious and improbable manner.  I spent much of the first act desperately wondering why such a story had been crowbar-ed into musical form, especially as none of the songs were memorable, tuneful or necessary.  The second act held no improvements (although we were allowed more elbow room as much of the audience had left).  The actors struggled against a terrible script and unimaginative direction before what was left of the audience offered polite applause and smirks of derision.

‘With a lot of work, that could almo­­­st have passed for an average play’ my friend loudly said as we walked passed the depressed-looking team making notes at the back of the theatre.  As it stands, Too Close To The Sun will open and close as an instantly forgettable blip on the West End’s radar.

It was with higher hopes that I took my family along to the Dominion Theatre to see the Queen musical We Will Rock You. It’s one of the few long-running West End musicals that I hadn’t seen, now in its 7^th year and performed worldwide.  I was excited to see how Ben Elton had managed to blend the popular songs into an equally popular stage play, but I feel I must have missed something between the noisy opening and even noisier standing ovation.  The structure of the show is wholeheartedly jukebox, and the futuristic premise is childish and basic.

The story is set 300 years in the future, but the production still manages to feel dated, with clunky direction and ludicrous set pieces.  The performances were exaggerated and one-dimensional, the jokes were crude and simplistic at best.  If I’d known that all it took to get a standing ovation was to have a male character called Britney Spears ask ‘who let the dogs out? (who, who, who, who)’ then I’d have probably sold out too…  With tickets starting at £35, and overpriced merchandise thrust down your throat the minute you enter the auditorium, Elton’s onto much more of a money spinner than his early left wing stuff.

The musical was panned by the critics when it opened, and I find its continued success mildly depressing in a time when decent fringe theatre is struggling to survive.  However, the non-English speaking audience and Queen enthusiasts loved it and offered a standing ovation.  The only audience participation I could manage was an involuntary groan as the ensemble launched into another number via a tacky and brainless link:

‘I don’t want to fit in.’
‘Well… What do you want?’
Pause.  Face audience. ‘I WANT TO BREAK FREEEE!’

With rubbish like this, there’s hope yet for Too Close To The Sun.  Perhaps Elton can give Robinson a hand – from one talentless egotist to another.

Sometimes I turn around and catch the smell of you and I cannot go on. I cannot fucking go on without expressing this terrible, so fucking awful, physical aching fucking longing I have for you. And I cannot believe that I can feel this for you and you feel nothing. Do you feel nothing?

Do you feel nothing?

And I go out at six in the morning and start my search for you. If I’ve dreamt a message of a street or a pub or a station I go there. And I wait for you.

You know, I really feel like I’ve been manipulated.

I’ve never in my life had a problem with giving another person what they want. But no one’s ever been able to do that for me. No one touches me, no one gets near me. But now you’ve touched me somewhere so fucking deep I can’t believe and I can’t be that for you. Because I can’t find you.
—
4.48 Psychosis by Sarah Kane is so bloody amazing; but then again what can you not expect from the same writer whose extract in Crave was adapted into the most amazing Reflections of a Skyline (click!). The Theatre Practice is staging 4.48 Psychosis from 16-26 July; its M18 and Sab and I are getting our tickets tomorrow.

And sometimes, life just calls out for something more than a coffee induced stupor of lessons and homework. CJ’s first H1N1 case scared me into realising how grateful I am for God keeping my friends safe. It just wakes you the hell up when you have someone you actually know, went to Pre U Sem with down with something you would think only the news would talk about.

i don’t know what day it is

Chcę bawić się z tobą w chowanego i pożyczać ci moje ubrania i mówić ci że podobają mi się twoje buty i siedzieć na schodach kiedy się kąpiesz i masować ci kark i całować ci stopy i trzymać się z tobą za ręce i wychodzić na kolacje i pozwalać ci jeść ze swojego talerza i spotykać się z tobą w knajpce U Rudy’ego i rozmawiać jak minął ci dzień i przepisywać na maszynie twoje listy i przenosić twoje pudełka i śmiać się z twoich obsesji i dawać ci taśmy których nie będziesz słuchać i oglądać dobre filmy i oglądać złe filmy i narzekać na programy radiowe i robić ci zdjęcia kiedy śpisz i przynosić ci do łóżka kawę z baglami i ciasteczkami i chodzić do Florenta i pić kawę o północy i pozwalać ci kraść moje papierosy i nie znajdować zapałek i opowiadać ci o programach w telewizji które widziałam poprzedniej nocy i brać cię do okulisty i nie śmiać się z twoich dowcipów i pragnąć cię rano ale nie budzić cię jeszcze i całować twoje plecy i gładzić twoją skórę i mówić ci jak bardzo kocham twoje włosy twoje oczy twoje usta twoją szyję twoje piersi twoją dupę twoją i siedzieć na schodach paląc papierosy aż twoi sąsiedzi wrócą do domu i siedzieć na schodach paląc papierosy aż ty wrócisz do domu i smucić się kiedy wracasz późno i dziwić się kiedy wracasz wcześnie i dawać ci słoneczniki i chodzić na twoje imprezy i tańczyć do upadłego i przepraszać kiedy robię źle i cieszyć się kiedy mi wybaczasz i oglądać twoje zdjęcia i żałować że nie znałam cię wcześniej i słuchać jak mówisz mi do ucha i czuć twoją skórę na mojej i bać się kiedy się złościsz i jedno twoje oko robi się czerwone a drugie niebieskie i włosy spływają na lewą stronę a twarz jest tak orientalna i mówić ci jaka jesteś wspaniała i obejmować cię kiedy jesteś smutna i przytulać cię kiedy tego nie chcesz i skamleć kiedy mam na ciebie ochotę i skamleć kiedy jej nie mam i lizać twoje piersi i okrywać cię w nocy i marznąć kiedy zabierasz cały koc i umierać z gorąca kiedy go nie zabierasz i czuć ciepło kiedy się uśmiechasz i rozpuszczać się z gorąca kiedy się śmiejesz i nie rozumieć dlaczego myślisz że cię odrzucam jeśli cię nie odrzucam oburzać się jak możesz myśleć że cię odrzucam i zastanawiać się kim naprawdę jesteś ale i tak cię akceptować i opowiadać ci o leśnym duszku który przepłynął przez ocean ponieważ cię kochał i pisać dla ciebie wiersze i zastanawiać się dlaczego mi nie wierzysz i kochać cię tak bardzo że nie można tego wyrazić słowami i kupić ci kotka o którego będę zazdrosna ponieważ poświęcasz mu więcej uwagi niż mi i zatrzymywać cię w łóżku kiedy musisz już iść i płakać jak dziecko kiedy już pójdziesz i wyrzucić fifki do marihuany i kupować ci prezenty których nie lubisz i zabierać je z powrotem i prosić cię o rękę chociaż i tak znowu powiesz nie bo chociaż myślisz że nie mówię tego na poważnie to zawsze mówię to na poważnie i chodzić po mieście myśląc jakie jest puste bez ciebie i chcieć tego samego czego ty chcesz i myśleć że przestaję być sobą ale wiedzieć że przy tobie nic mi nie grozi i opowiadać ci o tym co we mnie najgorsze próbować ci dawać to co we mnie najlepsze ponieważ nie zasługujesz na nic gorszego i odpowiadać na twoje pytania kiedy wolałabym tego nie robić i mówić ci prawdę kiedy akurat tego nie chcę i próbować być szczerą bo wiem że ty tak wolisz i myśleć że wszystko już skończone ale pozostawać jeszcze tylko przez dziesięć minut zanim wyrzucisz mnie ze swojego życia i zapominać kim jestem i próbować zbliżyć się do ciebie bo poznawanie ciebie jest wspaniałe i warte wysiłku i mówić do ciebie fatalnie po niemiecku i jeszcze gorzej po hebrajsku i kochać się z tobą o trzeciej nad ranem i jakoś jakoś jakoś przekazać ci część nieprzepartej niegasnącej przygniatającej bezwarunkowej przytłaczającej wzbogacającej rozwijającej nieprzemijającej nieskończonej miłości do ciebie.

The heat is going out of me.
The heart is going out of me.
I feel nothing, nothing.
I feel nothing.

Am I an unnecessary complication?
A sporadic addict.

And I am shaking, sobbing with the memory of her, when she loved me, before I was her torturer, before there was no room in me for her, before we misunderstood, in fact the very first moment I saw her, her eyes smiling and full of the sun, and I shudder with grief for that moment which I’ve been hurtling away from ever since.
Begin again, begin again.
Move on.

You’ll be alright. You’re strong. I know you’ll be okay because I like you and you can’t like someone who doesn’t like themself. The people I fear for are the ones I don’t like because they hate themselves so much they won’t let anyone else like them either. But I do like you. I’ll miss you. And I know you’ll be okay.
—

What if I told you I applied for Bristol almost entirely because of Sarah Kane, Portishead and Banksy?

Now that I’ve found you I can stop looking for myself

don’t say no to me you can’t say no to me because it was such a relief to have love again and to lie in bed and be held and touched and kissed and adored and your heart will leap when you hear my voice and see my smile and feel my breath on your neck and your heart will race when I want to see you and I will lie to you from day one and use you and screw you and break your heart because you broke mine first and you will love me more each day until the weight is unbearable and your life is mine and you’ll die alone because I will take what I want then walk away and owe you nothing and it’s always there it’s always been there and you cannot deny the life you feel fuck that life fuck that life fuck that life I have lost you now.

Jo thinks Sarah Kane is really unhealthy because I ended up sitting along the shelves pouring over her plays and feeling sad while they zapped readings. But lately I’ve been feeling so sad and so much like dying and I don’t know what to make of anything anymore.

Sarah Kane is a compass point in the world of edgy student theatre, and this year students from London’s Royal Holloway boldly go where many have gone before.

Crave is Kane’s second last play. It was premiered at the Fringe in 1998, just a few months before her suicide aged 28, and has since been obstinately reappearing in Edinburgh year after year like an angry ghost. Typically considered her most mature work, it’s an unflinching, anarchic projection of her disturbed psyche, told through the morbid mutterings of four strangers in a bar. They are the fragmented voices of one shattered mind despairing over sexual and familial rejection. Together they paint the portrait of a nervous breakdown.

Essentially Crave is a meaningless play, valued for its wild uniqueness and bolstered by the premium of its writer’s death. It has been staged to great effect in some triumphantly creative productions in the past and there will be more good productions in the future, but this particular one is a dud. Crave needs a thoughtful and enterprising director to interpret it in their own way and play around with it. Here, there’s no added value.

It’s a lacklustre narration of a shallow script handled by actors who look cheerfully drama-school, who look smug about putting on a Sarah Kane play, who look like they’re laughing when they grimace in Kane’s incurable agony.

Crave is a blank canvas and a blank canvas is what Royal Holloway Theatre has brought along to the Fringe. Where’s the imagination? What are they trying to achieve?

(Originally featured in Festmag)

Oh, how I wish you wouldn’t worry so. There’s hope in every breath. But when fear infects the bones, I’m told, the heart is always next.
—

I’ve been reworking some pictures today; I’ve realise how much I love candid portrait shots over posed ones. Can’t wait to get the Portra photos; I’ve still got about 8 shots left on the 400 though.

It kinda feels surreal to know 2 of this year’s President’s Scholarship recipients, yknow? Uni is nearer than just a distant dream.

because
you don’t deserve any less.

Kerckhoff, die 1950 Selbstmord beging, ist nicht die einzige der Autorinnen, die den Freitod wählte. Andere flüchteten in den Alkohol. Die ungewöhnlichste Dichterin ist Eveline Kuffel, die mitten in der DDR als Vagantin lebte und 1978 wie Ingeborg Bachmann durch einen Brand im Bett starb.

Das Schicksal Edeltraud Eckerts weist Züge einer antiken Tragödie auf. 20-jährig wurde die Rilke-Verehrerin 1950 zu 25 Jahren Arbeitslager verurteilt. Sie hatte sich aus Protest gegen die Fortführung des NS-Lagersystems in der SBZ der „Kampfgruppe gegen Unmenschlichkeit“ in West-Berlin angeschlossen. 1955 wurde ihr im berüchtigten DDR-Zuchthaus Burg Hoheneck bei einem Arbeitsunfall die Kopfhaut abgerissen. Nach wochenlangem Überlebenskampf starb sie qualvoll an Wundstarrkrampf. Ein Schreibheft mit ihren Gedichten wurde nach ihrem Tod der Familie übergeben.

Zumindest im Zuchthaus lebte die Erinnerung an Eckert fort. 1977 wurde die Studentin Gabriele Stötzer dort zur Verbüßung ihrer Haft eingeliefert und begegnete der Legende von der gehäuteten Dichterin, die verreckte, weil sich niemand traute, den Erste-Hilfe-Kasten zu öffnen. Stötzer hatte den Erfurter Protest gegen die Ausbürgerung Wolf Biermanns mitorganisiert. Wegen Staatsverleugnung wurde sie zu einem Jahr Zuchthaus verurteilt. Verbüßen musste sie die Strafe zwischen Mörderinnen, Diebinnen und Prostituierten. Nach der Entlassung aus der Haft ist sie gezeichnet. Stötzer werde inzwischen von Kritikern, so Geipel, als ostdeutsche Sarah Kane oder weibliches Pendant zu Rainald Goetz eingeordnet. / Sabine Pamperrien, Freitag 29.7.

Zensiert, verschwiegen, vergessen. Autorinnen in Ostdeutschland 1945-1989. Ines Geipel Artemis & Winkler, Düsseldorf 2009, 287 S., 24, 90 E