I wasn’t sure what to expect before I went in to see Marina Abramović’s theatre piece. And when I came out after watching it, I was still just as, if not more confused. For a live performance artist who made accusations and claims against theatre, suggesting it was too false- this play couldn’t have got any more theatrical.
Upon entering the theatre, the first thing I noticed was the dull drone that filled the entire room, which made me instantly look at the stage, and not for my seats. There were three silhouettes, laying equal distance apart on stage wearing strikingly white masks. The bodies I am guessing were symbolic of the three dead bodies Abramović states she wants in three different countries to ‘celebrate’ her funeral. The glare of the masks made the dogs that walked around in the background seem much darker, their little faces coming to light only every now and again. Yes, that’s right. Dogs. Live dogs on stage. Sniffing, pacing, investigating around the stage, in between each coffin. Scurrying off, then back on. Living, breathing, real-life dogs.
These ‘props’ were just the beginning of a play that was to be full of interlacing between the completely absurd and the very real. Each set was simple, nothing too much on stage, nothing more than maybe two or three objects/structures but this simplicity was not to be taken for granted. Each scene was drowned with impelling music, played by a live band, powerful costumes in luxurious fabrics shown off by the intelligent use of movement (and stillness) of those wearing these gowns on stage… Then there was the props. If there were knives, they were real butchers knives, if there were snakes, they were real snakes, if there was food there was real food. I am only hoping that in a scene where a man was shown masturbating on stage- that it was a scene where they decided to use a prop!
It sounds compelling, and it was, to an extent. A lot of the time I was left thinking, what the hell is going on?
It began as a chronological view of her life, brilliantly laid out by the narrator who was played by Willem Dafoe (I will discuss his role shortly.) But this structure crumbled into an eclectic mix, jumping years ahead and then back again, getting to a point where I didn’t know which stage of her life we were on and viewing some ludicrous scene.
So far I have reviewed this play for its ‘story-telling’ qualities but maybe I shouldn’t. Perhaps it wasn’t about ‘telling a story’. Perhaps Abramović wanted to experiment with her live performance art background in a theatre surrounding. Investigating creativity, awkward situations, how performers take on a role and the effects of music and lighting; testing things which perhaps she couldn’t experiment with totally in gallery performances. Perhaps it was completely about control and taking the minds of the audience into a frenzy.
The characters were almost faultless. The role of each character was acted out with incredible sophistication and with single minded passion for their role only. They looked like part of a military group in the way they ‘operated’ on stage, which is very much reflective of Abramović’s strict standards. The narrator, played by Willem Dafoe, was mesmerising. He was like a wired puppet, jaunty, energetic, unpredictable. His sniggers, quick remarks, brash actions totally drew in the audience from the moment the spotlight hit is position. Throughout he maintained this air of dark humour, but he was a character we could rely on. All be it bizarre information, he was informing us of it sometimes in constructed sentences, sometimes repeated over and over, most times in persistent riddles during which he’d rarely surface for air. His character stole the show.
Stole the spotlight of Marina Abramović, even. Her presence on stage featured a black gown, with the sound of heels clip-clopping amplified as she walked on, and then off again. Her one and only song, was something I’d rather not have heard. And when she did one scene alone with the narrator, her character seemed dull and drab in comparison to the character of Ulay that Dafoe was playing. I think because she tried to make a ‘big deal’ about her entrance and presence on stage, to sort of say ‘This is me,’ I felt she gave off a very narcissistic impression of herself. For the artist I previously admired and was reading a biography about, I’ve not wanted to continue reading it since. What does that say?
Many of the scenes were like mimes, silent with only gestural communication. There was very rarely any talking. The only talking was that of the narrator before and after a scene, and even the words from him were twisted into a riddle and spoken in a very exaggerated manner. Other than that language was spoken through song or not spoken at all. Sound, music and lighting were played up, making it even more sensually unsettling being blast from light to dark, from silence to loud thrashes.
After watching it I do not know whether I could ‘recommend’ this play to someone. I would say they should go and see it to see what they make of it; if they could they understand it better than I could.
If this play was meant to confuse, dazzle, and bewilder, then it did just that. I didn’t know whether to laugh, feel angry or sorry for Abramovic. I did come out feeling a little bitter towards her. For the narcissistic, ‘look at me and my life’ impression I got of her. I adored her for her strength and passion, because I envisaged her to be quite humble, and inwardly determined, I was not expecting this boasting, brash display.
It is over a month on and I still have not picked her autobiography back up.
