Both The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, and The Picture of Dorian Gray tell us about the very nature of being human; the struggle within all of us to keep the fragile balance between good and evil. However, both novels are on the one hand similar in the way they deal with a man’s weakness, his willingness to succumb to temptation and sully his own soul. But at the same time, they differ in the way the fallen protagonist is portrayed.
Wilde’s Dorian Gray is a complete, complex character, who is more or less, responsible for his own downfall. Lord Henry Wotton, may have influenced Dorian, and introduced him to a new way of thinking, and the novel that will become a blueprint for his own life; but it is Dorian’s decisions and actions alone that lead him astray. The Dorian who tries to resist, who tries to mend his ways, tries to better himself (even if this is for only a very short period of time) is the same Dorian that causes Sibyl Kane to commit suicide, who kills Basil Hallward and blackmails an old friend to dispose of the body. Within this character there is both good and evil. Dorian has the power, and the ability to choose his path, and he knowingly chooses to act in an immoral, debauched and heartless manner.
Whilst Dr Jekyll, although the same individual as Mr Hyde, seems to be two completely different beings. This is due to the change in name, change in appearance, and the complete change in attitude, actions and opinion. Dr Jekyll (or should that be Mr Hyde) is not a good man doing evil deeds, rather Dr Jekyll is a good man leading a good life, whilst Mr Hyde is an evil man leading an evil, immoral life. This character is not a complete character, within which lies both good and evil, rather he is one individual that has both a completely good and virtuous persona, and another completely evil persona. Dr Jekyll is not responsible for the actions of Mr Hyde, and Mr Hyde feels no obligation to Dr Jekyll.
The physical battle between good and evil may be more pronounced in The Strange case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde due to the fact that both men cannot exist at the same time. If Mr Hyde goes on a rampage, stealing, attacking and killing, this is only possible, because at that exact moment Dr Jekyll does not exist. Mr Hyde conquers and overpowers Dr Jekyll, until, in the end, Dr Jekyll ceases to exist. Only Mr Hyde, only the purely evil individual prevails.
The mental battle between good and evil is more pronounced in The Picture of Dorian Gray, precisely because the battle is waged within the one individual. Dorian does, at times, doubt the path he has taken, and regrets some of his most callous and heartless acts. Dorian shows that he is not completely evil, but loses the battle with his darker side. Evil prevails because Dorian allows it to prevail, believing that he will never face the consequences of his actions.
However, the end result in both novels are scarily similar good does not defeat evil. The individual, the human being dies, leaving a legacy of evil and suffering.
Sunday, 25 July 2010
Sunday, 18 July 2010
Longing for the impossible?
Have you ever read a book, seen a film, or watched a performance and then thought I wish I could go back in time, or experience a different culture? I must admit, I have always had an over-active imagination, and find myself enthralled by the locations of books, dramas and films. This is usually quite harmless, I will become obsessed with discovering as much information as possible about the country or historical period, before I move on to the next object of interest.
I don’t attempt to temper my curiousity, but see it rather as an opportunity to discover new places, peoples and cultures (even if this is only through reading books). However, at times the smallest reference to a place can fire my imagination: I was reading The Odyssey when the mere mention of the Nile caused a huge urge to go to Egypt (I would have gone immediately if I had the money). This is part of the joy of reading a book or watching a play, the curiousity it creates and the longing to learn more.
However, what happens when a piece of art makes you long for a place that has never existed, and never will exist? By this, I don’t mean Dr Who creating a longing for alien planets or Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings creating a longing to live among elves or dwarfs, but rather a piece of work that creates a by-gone era, seen through rose-tinted glasses. It could be a production that creates an image of a close-knit community, that was never in fact that harmonious, it could be a portrayal of happiness and co-operation, where in reality there was only ever strife, or it might create a political or ideological utopia, that is impossible to realise.
That is the double-edged sword of effective, moving art: whilst transporting its audience from their hum-drum lives to its own world is a pleasure, the journey back to reality can be a let down.
I don’t attempt to temper my curiousity, but see it rather as an opportunity to discover new places, peoples and cultures (even if this is only through reading books). However, at times the smallest reference to a place can fire my imagination: I was reading The Odyssey when the mere mention of the Nile caused a huge urge to go to Egypt (I would have gone immediately if I had the money). This is part of the joy of reading a book or watching a play, the curiousity it creates and the longing to learn more.
However, what happens when a piece of art makes you long for a place that has never existed, and never will exist? By this, I don’t mean Dr Who creating a longing for alien planets or Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings creating a longing to live among elves or dwarfs, but rather a piece of work that creates a by-gone era, seen through rose-tinted glasses. It could be a production that creates an image of a close-knit community, that was never in fact that harmonious, it could be a portrayal of happiness and co-operation, where in reality there was only ever strife, or it might create a political or ideological utopia, that is impossible to realise.
That is the double-edged sword of effective, moving art: whilst transporting its audience from their hum-drum lives to its own world is a pleasure, the journey back to reality can be a let down.
More than a feeling?
So far I have been to see four of National Theatre Wales’ productions and since seeing the latest show in Barmouth I have decided how I would put the shows in order of preference. This was easier than I thought it would be, and has got me thinking about how I judge a production. What makes a production effective and successful? Perhaps more importantly, what makes a production memorable? Are great performances and a good technical production enough? Is there a certain extra something that takes a drama from good to great? If so, what is it?
I think I have discovered that extra magic that makes a production (at least in my eyes) great: the performance’s emotional affect, its ability to move its audience. The performances that I have enjoyed the most (both by NTW and other companies) have been those that have stirred my emotions, revived memories, and have shown a real depth in their understanding and portrayal of human feelings. This may seem a run of the mill observation, but there is a difference between a good emotional performance, or a series of good emotional performances, and a drama that actually moves its audience.
Personally, it is the small details that usually create an impact, it might be a few lines of a song that brings back memories, or has a particular resonance, a turn of phrase, piece of clothing. These things might be meaningless to the rest of the audience, but that feeling of familiarity, of a shared emotion, shared feeling, resonates after the curtain falls, and much of what was said is forgotten. It is those fleeting moments of emotion, when the dramatist or director has created an invisible string connecting the audience and the stage, that truly make a production memorable and moving.
The plays that remain fresh in my mind, those that I remember weeks and months after seeing them, the ones that play on my mind, and won’t let go, are those that wake something inside me. I don’t go into a theatre looking for an emotional rollercoaster (or even a gentle tug at the emotions), but a true piece of drama will grab hold of you, whether you like it or not.
I can forgive a production that is full of those little moments of shared joy, and sadness a multitude of other sins: over-long scenes, self-indulgence, stretching the end of a production. However, a production that is perfect, in terms of the acting, and the technical elements, but lacks a beating heart is never going to impress.
I think I have discovered that extra magic that makes a production (at least in my eyes) great: the performance’s emotional affect, its ability to move its audience. The performances that I have enjoyed the most (both by NTW and other companies) have been those that have stirred my emotions, revived memories, and have shown a real depth in their understanding and portrayal of human feelings. This may seem a run of the mill observation, but there is a difference between a good emotional performance, or a series of good emotional performances, and a drama that actually moves its audience.
Personally, it is the small details that usually create an impact, it might be a few lines of a song that brings back memories, or has a particular resonance, a turn of phrase, piece of clothing. These things might be meaningless to the rest of the audience, but that feeling of familiarity, of a shared emotion, shared feeling, resonates after the curtain falls, and much of what was said is forgotten. It is those fleeting moments of emotion, when the dramatist or director has created an invisible string connecting the audience and the stage, that truly make a production memorable and moving.
The plays that remain fresh in my mind, those that I remember weeks and months after seeing them, the ones that play on my mind, and won’t let go, are those that wake something inside me. I don’t go into a theatre looking for an emotional rollercoaster (or even a gentle tug at the emotions), but a true piece of drama will grab hold of you, whether you like it or not.
I can forgive a production that is full of those little moments of shared joy, and sadness a multitude of other sins: over-long scenes, self-indulgence, stretching the end of a production. However, a production that is perfect, in terms of the acting, and the technical elements, but lacks a beating heart is never going to impress.
Too popular for its own good...
Can an artwork, an artist, author, book or drama be too popular for its own good? Does the fact that something is popular automatically mean that it has artistic or cultural value? Or is the opposite true: does the fact that something is popular with the masses mean that it is automatically lowbrow or culturally insignicant?
Popularism is a problem for the arts. In order to resist being labelled as elitist or irrelevant the arts must engaged with the general public, and must create and commission work that speaks to everyone in the country from the baron to the binman. However, everyone in the art world is not comfortable with the idea that art could, and should be accessible to all. Some continue to believe that a creative work, be that a play, painting, book or a song, must be complicated, and only comprehensible to a tiny minority, to be of any artistic worth. How many Turner prizes have been awarded to an artist who’s work is attractive, pleasing to the eye and appreciated by the public? And how many times has the prize gone to an individual who’s work is unfathomable to the vast majority of those who view the exhibition?
The fact that a work of art is so pretentious and complex as to make it unpopular, does not mean that the work has more cultural value than an extremely popular piece. After all, is it not the aim of art (in all its forms) to amuse, entertain, to tell us somthing about ourselves and our society? And how can it do this successfully, if it does not reach out and speak to the whole of society? The most popular pieces are those that speak to us in our own language, on our own terms, and try to understand us.
Popularism is a problem for the arts. In order to resist being labelled as elitist or irrelevant the arts must engaged with the general public, and must create and commission work that speaks to everyone in the country from the baron to the binman. However, everyone in the art world is not comfortable with the idea that art could, and should be accessible to all. Some continue to believe that a creative work, be that a play, painting, book or a song, must be complicated, and only comprehensible to a tiny minority, to be of any artistic worth. How many Turner prizes have been awarded to an artist who’s work is attractive, pleasing to the eye and appreciated by the public? And how many times has the prize gone to an individual who’s work is unfathomable to the vast majority of those who view the exhibition?
The fact that a work of art is so pretentious and complex as to make it unpopular, does not mean that the work has more cultural value than an extremely popular piece. After all, is it not the aim of art (in all its forms) to amuse, entertain, to tell us somthing about ourselves and our society? And how can it do this successfully, if it does not reach out and speak to the whole of society? The most popular pieces are those that speak to us in our own language, on our own terms, and try to understand us.
Saturday, 10 July 2010
After the actors leave the stage, the audience go home and the crew clear the set, what evidence is there that a performance has ever taken place? A book exists after the reader has finished the story, and can be re-read at leisure, a CD remains as a testament of the music long after the band has argued and gone their separate ways, and a painting will stand the test of time, years, often centuries after the painter as gone to the big easel in the sky. But a theatre performance, by its very nature is a fleeting art form. A CD may be recorded of the cast of a musical, or a performance may be released on DVD, but once the curtain falls the actual performance has finished. You may read all the reviews you can find of the performance, ask each audience member to re-live what they saw on stage, but nothing can re-create the moment once it has passed. This is part of the magic of the theatre, its transience is very often what makes it so special.
Location, location, location?
How important is the location or the venue of a performance? How does the venue affect the performance, actors and audience? Last week I visited Barmouth to see For Mountain, Sand and Sea, which was performed at various locations, including the beach, estuary, high street and a hill over-looking the town. I must admit that, beforehand, I was less than enthusiastic about the promenade nature of the performance. I much prefer to sit in the darkness of the theatre, unseen by the actors, than exposed to often participatory promenade performances. However, I am more than willing to admit, that on this occasion, I was wrong.
This production was a success, not merely because of the performances of the actors, but also because of other factors beyond the control of the production team and performers. I saw the show on a beautiful summer’s day, and saw Barmouth at its best. Had it been an overcast, or rainy day, the audience’s experience would doubtlessly have been different, and far less rewarding. This is one thing that theatre performances don’t have to take into account. In fact, it is often far more pleasant to be watching a theatre production, warm, dry and cosy, when the weather is at its worse. Rather than feeling that a sunny evening, that could have been spent enjoying the (rare) sunshine has been wasted in a stifling auditorium.
There is a much bigger fear of the unknown during an outdoor or promenade performance, this keeps both the actors and the audience on their toes, and ensures that no two performances are quite the same. Members of the public were often unwittingly taking part in National Theatre Wales’s performance on the streets of Barmouth, something almost unheard of within the walls of a theatre. Most seemed amused, or even a little bewildered, whilst a handful decided to play their part with gusto, from the man who jumped out of his front door, shouting “BOO”, to the man who accosted Marc Rees outside the Cambrian Establishment. In the theatre, an audience member’s mobile might ring, an individual might be taken ill or the fire alarm might disrupt the performance, but there is no real element of risk, no feeling that anything could, and might just happen. Traditional theatre has a safety net, that is all but absent from an outdoor performance.
Promenade and outdoor performances, especially those that take place on the streets of a town or village, bring drama to the attention of those that might not step inside a theatre from one year to the next, and this can only be a good thing. Making theatre a participatory, rather than merely a spectator’s activity, will doubtless inspire people to take part, and perhaps more importantly, inspire those that haven’t previously taken an interest in traditional theatre.
This production was a success, not merely because of the performances of the actors, but also because of other factors beyond the control of the production team and performers. I saw the show on a beautiful summer’s day, and saw Barmouth at its best. Had it been an overcast, or rainy day, the audience’s experience would doubtlessly have been different, and far less rewarding. This is one thing that theatre performances don’t have to take into account. In fact, it is often far more pleasant to be watching a theatre production, warm, dry and cosy, when the weather is at its worse. Rather than feeling that a sunny evening, that could have been spent enjoying the (rare) sunshine has been wasted in a stifling auditorium.
There is a much bigger fear of the unknown during an outdoor or promenade performance, this keeps both the actors and the audience on their toes, and ensures that no two performances are quite the same. Members of the public were often unwittingly taking part in National Theatre Wales’s performance on the streets of Barmouth, something almost unheard of within the walls of a theatre. Most seemed amused, or even a little bewildered, whilst a handful decided to play their part with gusto, from the man who jumped out of his front door, shouting “BOO”, to the man who accosted Marc Rees outside the Cambrian Establishment. In the theatre, an audience member’s mobile might ring, an individual might be taken ill or the fire alarm might disrupt the performance, but there is no real element of risk, no feeling that anything could, and might just happen. Traditional theatre has a safety net, that is all but absent from an outdoor performance.
Promenade and outdoor performances, especially those that take place on the streets of a town or village, bring drama to the attention of those that might not step inside a theatre from one year to the next, and this can only be a good thing. Making theatre a participatory, rather than merely a spectator’s activity, will doubtless inspire people to take part, and perhaps more importantly, inspire those that haven’t previously taken an interest in traditional theatre.
For Mountain, Sand and Sea : Barmouth
National Theatre Wales’ latest, and most adventurous production, For Mountain, Sand and Sea, is a twisting helter skelter journey around the seaside town of Barmouth. Devised, and directed by the acclaimed Welsh artist Marc Rees, the production leads its audience through the town’s nooks and crannies that hide behind the brash amusement arcades and the endless pubs and pound shops.
The show is a truly glorious journey, meandering as it does through the narrow alleys, along the garish high street, onto the beach and to the estuary. We meet all manner of characters from the town’s past along the way, and the ensemble cast of artists, including Cai Tomos, Guillermo Weickert, Marega Palser and Gareth Clark, must be praised for convincingly bringing such a melting-pot of personalities to life, and keeping the audience’s attention despite the background noise of a busy, sunny Saturday in high season.
The audience is lulled into a false sense of security as we are served tea and cake in the Church Hall by local members of the “Merched y Wawr”, before a rowdy, singing French sailor bursts out from underneath the stage, and sets about seducing (or scaring) the women around the table.
This is merely a taste of the strange sights that hide along the way: we are chaperoned up Barmouth’s steep hillside spine by Auguste Guyard, an exiled French social reformer who settled in the town, and was a herb specialist. We sit at Dinas Oleu, the first piece of land ever given to the National Trust, listening to Guyard singing, before he attempts, in a wig and comedy cut glass accent, to re-enact the moment Fanny Talbot gifted the land on which we stand.
From here, we make our way down to the beach, guided by a Welsh pied piper figure, a woman in traditional Welsh costume, with lullabies emanating from her wicker basket. On the beach, in the middle of all the tourists we find two glamorous 1950s style individuals posturing and preening, before inviting us to take part in some, thankfully, non –strenuous, beach exercises.
This is followed by a visit to the Sandancer nightclub where a pensioner dances with her long-dead soldier sweetheart, a presentation by Rees outside the Cambrian Establishment about Tommy Nutter, the Barmouth tailor who dressed the Beatles, Mick Jagger and David Bowie, and a surreal elephant-led parade through Barmouth High Street.
The production finishes at the estuary with a re-creation of the scene from A Matter of Life and Death when the pilot declares his love to the radio operator before bailing out without a parachute, which mirrors a tragic plane crash which happened over the bay at Barmouth. As we leave we see soldier from the nightclub re-united with his sweetheart in her prime, dancing in the dunes.
For Mountain, Sand and Sea certainly succeeded in breathing new life into history, and the staging of history. Barmouth’s past: its moments of joy, sadness, and utter disbelief, were created with humour, a true visual flair and an obvious warmth towards the town and its residents. This may not be the easiest or the most cohesive way to learn about a Barmouth’s history and identity, but with the sun shining, and clear blue skies, it is certainly the most rewarding.
The show is a truly glorious journey, meandering as it does through the narrow alleys, along the garish high street, onto the beach and to the estuary. We meet all manner of characters from the town’s past along the way, and the ensemble cast of artists, including Cai Tomos, Guillermo Weickert, Marega Palser and Gareth Clark, must be praised for convincingly bringing such a melting-pot of personalities to life, and keeping the audience’s attention despite the background noise of a busy, sunny Saturday in high season.
The audience is lulled into a false sense of security as we are served tea and cake in the Church Hall by local members of the “Merched y Wawr”, before a rowdy, singing French sailor bursts out from underneath the stage, and sets about seducing (or scaring) the women around the table.
This is merely a taste of the strange sights that hide along the way: we are chaperoned up Barmouth’s steep hillside spine by Auguste Guyard, an exiled French social reformer who settled in the town, and was a herb specialist. We sit at Dinas Oleu, the first piece of land ever given to the National Trust, listening to Guyard singing, before he attempts, in a wig and comedy cut glass accent, to re-enact the moment Fanny Talbot gifted the land on which we stand.
From here, we make our way down to the beach, guided by a Welsh pied piper figure, a woman in traditional Welsh costume, with lullabies emanating from her wicker basket. On the beach, in the middle of all the tourists we find two glamorous 1950s style individuals posturing and preening, before inviting us to take part in some, thankfully, non –strenuous, beach exercises.
This is followed by a visit to the Sandancer nightclub where a pensioner dances with her long-dead soldier sweetheart, a presentation by Rees outside the Cambrian Establishment about Tommy Nutter, the Barmouth tailor who dressed the Beatles, Mick Jagger and David Bowie, and a surreal elephant-led parade through Barmouth High Street.
The production finishes at the estuary with a re-creation of the scene from A Matter of Life and Death when the pilot declares his love to the radio operator before bailing out without a parachute, which mirrors a tragic plane crash which happened over the bay at Barmouth. As we leave we see soldier from the nightclub re-united with his sweetheart in her prime, dancing in the dunes.
For Mountain, Sand and Sea certainly succeeded in breathing new life into history, and the staging of history. Barmouth’s past: its moments of joy, sadness, and utter disbelief, were created with humour, a true visual flair and an obvious warmth towards the town and its residents. This may not be the easiest or the most cohesive way to learn about a Barmouth’s history and identity, but with the sun shining, and clear blue skies, it is certainly the most rewarding.
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