Why have I called this diary ‘Poetry and Madness’? Quite simply, in this show I play a poet who is believed by those around him, to have gone mad. However it’s always difficult trying to understand your character further.

Mathematicians refer to the knowns and the unknowns. Values which are understood and those that are not. So, at the very least, I have some knowns. I like to think of the rehearsal process as one where you are trying to get this balance to move more and more in favour of the former. Some of these knowns are going to be pretty banal. Some others are harder to come by: what should this guy sound like, look like, how does he move, speak, is he smart, do people like him?

There might be days at a time when it feels like these can be left in abeyance. You can’t just do it all at once. And as you get a hook on what the lines might be, what order scenes come in, then a natural evolution occurs. I look like I this, it feels right. I sound like this, it sound’s right.

So as the banal facts accrue, I am able to make educated choices. Gradual adjustments of rhythm and tempo can, for instance, yield a terrific amount of success in building a believable three-dimensional character.  I like to be on top of my lines enough to allow this exploration. If I know them well enough I can have a great amount of confidence in not just saying them all the same way. Harder than it sounds, this. Some lines stubbornly resist being said in any other way. At the moment, Ivan (my Ivan anyway) seems to spend most of the first half of the play in quite a high state of tension. It’s easy for the lines to end up in a homogenous stew, so it’s important to remain in control enough to be able to find moments empirically – by trial and observation.

So, by experimenting when to push and when to relax, you begin to make character discoveries. For instance, in the asylum, Ivan has to realize at some point that if he just shouts at everyone all the time then he’s screwed. So there is a moment when he realizes that perhaps trying to be as relaxed as possible will make them him. There is no correct answer here in terms of the timing, and the moment Ivan realizes a change of tack is necessary doesn’t have to be the same moment as the audience. In fact it’s probably better if they’re a step or two ahead. They can see the trajectory of a doomed man condemning himself by bad choices.

I also find it very useful to keep lists of facts. Some are easy and obvious: Ivan is male, he’s a poet. We know he’s written a poem about Jesus Christ, that he’s a member of a literary group ‘Massolit’. The book gradually yields more facts and the hope is that with every sweep of a scene or page the more obscure and hidden facts will reveal themselves. Simon is constantly referring to our process as like filling a reservoir. I can only hope that I’m filling it with the right stuff.

I suppose my doubts are coming because this strange sinewy book gives you so many wonderful leads and ideas that at times it is impossible to square them all.

Sometimes it just all feels completely unknown, unknowable. It can be days at a time between being able to look over scenes or moments because there is always so much work to be done on everything. Quite often our rehearsals lurch from scene to scene with no discernable pattern. Great ideas and unlikely links are made this way. The brain does not shut down too much in one direction and the hope is that this creativity geyser will continue to spurt. Everyone is in every rehearsal (16 actors, director, two assistant directors, two or three from video, the same from sound, lighting, stage managers, assistant SM, deputy SM…). That’s a lot of people filling a lot of reservoirs. The downside is that this intense and fully peopled process doesn’t allow for much in the way of introspection. You are doing all of your discoveries in the moment. They are often instinctive choices made on one’s feet.

This is a crucial missing link in my process. I need dream time.  This is where the relationship between the banal list of knowns has room to spread itself and develop, to take on a life of its own. Because, for me, this is where the scaffold of facts is most useful. It’s a proper solid structure from which the more abstract choices might hang. You find yourself able to justify your crazier ideas if that list of knowns is strong enough, has flourished enough. So. I’m just going to have to build myself some dream time, that’s the next thing on my list.

-Richard Katz

I’ve been thinking about inhibitions, how a director enables actors to do things that they might not be comfortable with, and draw them into a world of make believe. These two words are so crucial. Make. Believe. Children understand this so well. “You be the Cowboys I’ll be The Indians.” They don’t need much encouragement to enter these ideas fully and with great passion.

It’s incredible how difficult this leap is for grown ups. Even ones for whom it is how they go about making a living. When you know you are going to be judged not only by an audience, by critics, but by your colleagues in rehearsals too it’s so easy to be inhibited. Why is this?

I think my favourite actors are quite good at knowing when it’s time to be selfish. Selfishness in the correct dosage seems important. It’s so nice when an actor understands that there is nothing else for it but to show that he’s thinking of doing this moment JUST LIKE THIS. There’s always a doorway of truth and potential embarrassment that at some point you have to go through. Today I think I’m on the wrong side of the door. The polite side.

It’s certainly a balance that is hard to strike. All of the nuts and bolts stuff of a rehearsal room from learning your lines through to juggling your props, require some agreement that there is a natural evolution to a process. Coming in on day one knowing exactly how I might play something, being off book and having practiced a neat little tap dance for act 2 might look like I have next to no interest in sharing moments with my colleagues.

But sooner or later you have to step through the door. With a ‘normal’ play it might feel easier because (hopefully) you’ll be digesting the character’s words for a long time even before rehearsals start. But it’s no less daunting knowing that at some point, without the script in your hand or the bedroom mirror to pout into, you’re going to have to look like you mean it.

I suppose this is what I mean about being selfish in the right doses. To take a moment on stage requires just the right dose of this. It’s a person grabbing a moment. Hamlet is selfish. He looks straight at the audience and says “I’m feeling like this and it feels like hell.” What’s lovely is having actors who are able to know when and how to honour that selfishness but not to create so much turbulence that everything else is blown out of the water. Hamlet knows when to be quiet too. I think that the reason make believe is such a wonderful phrase is that it allows for proper engagement. Be the cowboy, be killed by the arrow through the forehead, but the game is as much about the delight in being able to play the moment as it is about honestly convincing anyone that you are dead.

 - Richard Katz

Every actor I know has a different attitude to this, but the Stanislavskian method worries me. Don’t get me wrong, I think there’s a great deal of juice in there, but it seems to breed an over-emphasis on your own inner world and, if you’re not careful, fails to take into account what is happening around you. An over-reliance on what you think your character had for breakfast, say, can lead to you forgetting that good theatre is a relationship between the practised and the spontaneous.

It’s best thought of in terms of the banana skin. All good comedic actors know that to make this trick work relies just as much on the journey of the banana skin as it does on the journey of your character. I propose that it’s impossible to really enter the inner world of the character at the same time as making sure you drop the banana skin at the end of Act Two just so you’ll slip on it in Act Three.

This is not to deny oneself some inner journey, but there has to be a relationship between the inner and the outer. It’s what the conductor Daniel Barenboim calls ‘conscious naivety’. Feel the inner, play the inner and be moved by it, but not at the expense of the outer.

I find Laban’s archetypes extremely useful for this. Again, it’s just a tool, not to be taken too seriously, but it analyses a character’s way of moving in terms of space, weight and time. Is he direct or indirect? Light or heavy, sudden or sustained? By combining these simple forces there are archetypes that I can play with and explore. By engaging with these ideas physically I can quickly leave my habitual relationship with these forces behind. This sits alongside the inner world, augments it, supports it.

And by remaining engaged physically you are immediately, inevitably and inextricably caught up in the inner psychological world.  What gets really interesting is if you can then add this to the tension work. Maybe Ivan is constantly at a higher state of tension than I am, coupled with moving in a more repressed and restrictive way.

The use of each or any of these techniques is simply about the blend. These tools are there to help, not to restrict, and one man’s meat etc. etc. Each new project helps me redefine my attitude to these processes. Be a magpie. Steal rhythms and moods, ways of being, ways of finding your route through.

And if it turns out my ability to recite reams of Soviet era poetry wins me an Olivier, I’ll proselytise Stanislavski as much as you like…

 - Richard Katz

On a spring evening in Moscow, Berlioz, the Chairman of the literary society MASSOLIT, is out walking with the young poet Ivan. While discussing atheism, they are approached by a stranger – a man called Woland. Woland introduces himself as a professor of black magic, berates them for saying that Jesus Christ never existed and recounts the story of Christ’s final hours. Woland knows the true story because – he says – he was there himself. He describes Pontius Pilate, bothered by a headache, trying to save Christ (or Yeshua Ha-Nozri) from death. Woland finishes his bizarre tale by predicting Berlioz’s death in chilling detail.

Believing Woland to be mad, Berlioz hurries to report him to the Foreigners’ Bureau. On the way, just as Woland predicted, he slips and falls into the path of a speeding tram. Ivan arrives at the scene just in time to see Berlioz’s severed head rolling along the pavement. As he chases the professor through the city, the poet is hindered by Woland’s associates: Koroviev, Azazello and Behemoth, who is a huge black tomcat. After a madcap race through Moscow, the hysterical Ivan takes a swim in the river only to have his clothes stolen. Nevertheless, half dressed and raving, he makes his way to the MASSOLIT headquarters.

The evening party at MASSOLIT is interrupted first by the news of their Chairman’s death and then by the arrival of Ivan, who rants about the strange professor but cannot remember Woland’s name. A fight breaks out and the police are called. Ivan is escorted to a psychiatric clinic where he is tranquilized and diagnosed with schizophrenia and alcoholism.

While the poet is kept in the clinic, Woland and his bizarre companions cause chaos in Moscow. They move into the Chairman’s former apartment, spiriting his roommate Styopa off to Yalta. Styopa is the director of the Moscow Variety Theatre, and Woland uses his absence to set up a hellish black magic act there, despite the objections of the managers Rimsky and Varenukha. During the show, Koroviev rains down money on the audience and hands out beautiful, exotic clothes to the women in the crowd. When the compere explains their tricks as ‘mass hypnosis’, Behemoth the cat tears off his head, and then screws it back on when the audience protest.

That night, a stranger enters Ivan’s hospital room. When he hears Ivan’s story, the stranger informs Ivan that the mysterious professor Woland is in fact Satan. Ivan’s new companion is the Master, who, with the help of his lover Margarita, has written a novel about Pontius Pilate – a novel that strangely echoes Woland’s tales of Pilate and Yeshua. The Master, who was admitted to the hospital after breaking down when his novel was rejected by publishers, now longs to meet Woland. After speaking to the Master, Ivan sleeps and dreams of Yeshua’s crucifixion. The dream centres on Matthew Levi, Yeshua’s devoted disciple, who steals a bread knife from a local shop, planning to stab Yeshua to spare him the horror of death by crucifixion. Matthew arrives too late and is forced to suffer as he watches Yeshua die, but is then able to cut down the body and steal it away.

The scene turns to the Master’s mistress Margarita, who, not knowing that her lover is locked away in the hospital, believes she will never see him again. As she walks sadly through Moscow, she hears gossip about the magic show at the Variety Theatre. Suddenly she is approached by Woland’s ugly companion Azazello, with his red hair and single fang – he quotes from the Master’s novel and says he can take her to a man who will give her news of the Master. She agrees enhusiastically and Azazello gives her a pot of magic cream, telling her to rub it all over her body at half-past nine that evening and wait for further instructions.

Margarita does what he says: the cream transforms her appearance and turns her into a witch. Her telephone rings – it is Azazello telling her to leave through the window on the broom that has just flown into her bedroom. When she arrives at Woland’s apartment she is met by Koroviev, who explains that Woland is holding a grand ball for the undead, and that she is to be the hostess. The apartment transforms into a tropical jungle, a ballroom and then a jazz hall before suddenly the guests arrive, jumping out of coffins that fall through the chimney. Margarita greets them and learns that they all committed terrible crimes when they were alive and are still being punished. One woman, Frieda, choked her unwanted baby with a handkerchief; the handkerchief now haunts her wherever she goes.

The night is exhausting, and at the end of it Margarita can barely stand. Woland tells her that she has done well, and that he will repay her efforts by granting her a wish. Margarita begs a pardon for the haunted Frieda, which Woland grants, but then offers Margarita a further wish – one that is just for her. She asks for the return of her lover, and to be allowed to live with him quietly in his old basement apartment. At her word, the Master is magicked into the room and they leave together, although the Master is shaken by his ordeal and is afraid that their reunion cannot be real.

Back at the apartment, the Master sleeps while Margarita reads chapters from his novel. They describe Pontius Pilate in conversation with a mysterious cowled man, Aphranius, the head of his secret police. Aphranius informs Pilate of a plot to kill Yehudah of Kerioth – or Judas Iscariot – the man who betrayed Yeshua. Although Pilate instructs Aphranius to take every precaution to protect Yehudah, his true meaning is that Aphranius should arrange his murder. The chief of police carries out Pilate’s secret orders, and Yehudah is killed. Pilate dreams of peace, a peace in which he walks along a path of moonlight, deep in discussion with Yeshua Ha-Nozri. Back in Moscow, Margarita finishes reading as the dawn rises.

That day, investigators visit Woland’s apartment but he has escaped along with his companions. At sunset, he and Koroviev sit on a hilltop overlooking Moscow where they are visited by Matthew Levi. He tells them that Woland must take the Master and Margarita with him when he leaves Moscow, and should give them peace. Woland asks why the couple are not being taken into God’s light, and Matthew replies that they have not earned light, only peace. Azazello is sent to find the lovers. He invites them on a trip and offers them wine which poisons them. The Master and Margarita barely have time to realise they are dead before Azazello sets fire to the apartment, and the three of them ride away on huge black stallions. They join Woland and his entourage on a mountaintop, where Pontius Pilate sits bathed in moonlight: he has been sitting in this lonely spot for thousands of years. But in this mysterious moment, Pilate is set free and is at last allowed to walk along the moonlight path, accompanied by his beloved dog Banga. As dawn arrives, Woland sends the Master and Margarita to eternal rest in a small house over a little bridge, along a sandy road.

]]> http://www.manuscriptsdontburn.org/799/feed/ 0 http://www.manuscriptsdontburn.org/poetry-and-madness-despatches-from-the-rehearsal-room-4/ http://www.manuscriptsdontburn.org/poetry-and-madness-despatches-from-the-rehearsal-room-4/#comments Fri, 02 Mar 2012 18:04:47 +0000 Poppy http://www.manuscriptsdontburn.org/?p=793 Continue reading →]]> It is, perhaps, harder being in a devised piece than in any other kind of show. There are so many different things to fail at – can you improvise, can you write? Can you look at the subject, characters and story and make instinctive choices about what passages from the book will work well in the theatre? Can you play within the group, knowing when it’s your turn to lead, and when to follow?

And on top of all of this, plain and simple: can you act?

It is really hard at the moment. Stuck as I am playing a poet who people believe to be mad I feel no meaning. No nuance. I know Simon would like a degree of physical engagement, but it’s just not coming.

Ivan’s journey is an interesting one. From party-line poet, through trauma,  mistaken madness, incarceration and finally transcendence. Ivan’s passion seems very important to me – he does everything to the extreme.

One of the tools we use in rehearsals is known as ‘The Seven Levels of Tension’, and it’s a useful shorthand for degrees of physical engagement. For example, with no tension in the body, you are catatonic, perhaps, or asleep. That’s Level One. With the body completely overcome by tension you become rigid, petrified. That’s Level Seven – the level of great tragedy. In between one and seven are the points on the way. Lot’s of people give the levels different names: ‘Californian/relaxed’, or ‘alert/is there a bomb in the room?’.

Instinct would have me nudge Ivan’s tension all the way to Level Seven. The tragic.

When these tools work for you they free up your brain because you don’t need to make any clever decisions. You simply play the level you’ve chosen, meaning intellectual explanations can be explored later on. My problem at the moment is that in the higher states (Ivan spends quite a lot of time up in what we call ‘the passionate’) it can be quite hard to remain open and flexible in improvisations. Great performers are able to play at this level of intensity without it becoming heavy. Even in great tragic moments it’s as if they can still remember it’s a game, they can still play. They’re still reactive and proactive, reaching these levels of physical extremity and engagement while maintaining a sense of ease. This, for me, is essential. Children do this so instinctively. They can engage a level of play that is at once serious and playful. They’re always willing to take the game to the next level.

- Richard Katz

Over 28 years of theatre making, Complicite has adapted, created and been inspired by a variety of texts from a Steve Bell cartoon to Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure.

Working with the text was a major component of The Master and Margarita devising process, and often the most daunting part as in this particular case we were adapting an incredibly detailed novel with a cult following.

But the key is to just dive in. As scary as it may seem, there is no better way than to stage the chapter immediately after reading it.

1. Put the text on its feet: Split the chapter into sections and give small groups different sections to stage. Thread these sections together and see what you get. Can you already see ways to make the story clearer, or the images more exciting? It is important for everyone to realise that this is not the definitive staging. These are just preliminary ideas. In our rehearsal room, we went through heaps of ideas. Some of these inspired other ideas, some came to nothing – it didn’t matter.
2. Experiment with the text: In your initial attempts, notice how different readings of the chapter lead to different interpretations of the story. For example, give three groups the same chapter but ask them to focus on different things: one group stages just the dialogue; another just the narrative; and the last just the descriptions of people and place. Or perhaps groups could look at references to particular themes in the chapter, or a single character’s journey through that chapter. Completely different stories will emerge from the same bit of text – and again, no one of them is likely to be right first time, or perhaps at all. Think about how you might combine the most successful bits of each of these versions – be playful and bold.

Most importantly, don’t make decisions too early about what to keep in the show and what to discard. Keep digging into the text for different interpretations by doing as many exercises as possible. This will also be great training for your group. They will learn to create together, to use each other’s ideas, to be constantly alert and thinking about new ideas and storytelling devices. It doesn’t matter if at first the results of these exercises are unsatisfying. They will get better the more you do them.

Words: Sasha Milavic Davies/ Image: Sarah Ainslie

Over 28 years of theatre making, Complicite has adapted, created and been inspired by a variety of texts from a Steve Bell cartoon to Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure.

Working with the text was a major component of The Master and Margarita devising process, and often the most daunting part as in this particular case we were adapting an incredibly detailed novel with a cult following. It sounds obvious, but the first thing to do when working with a text is very simple:

1. Read together: It is vital that everyone has had a chance to properly read and think about the text you’re using, so there is nothing better than sitting down in a circle and reading it together. Everyone can take a page or a paragraph to read aloud.
2. Talk about it together: Then it’s important to talk about what’s happening in the text. Even if someone thinks they understand everything about the text already, there will be unexpected insights in a group discussion, just by virtue of being together and thinking out loud. It is clear from Complicite rehearsals that the most powerful research is that which can be experienced and explored as a group. It is crucial that the group has a shared understanding of the central themes and images to be used.

As a starting point, we find this infinitely more effective than reading silently and alone.

Words: Sasha Milavic Davies/ Image: Sarah Ainslie