Performance arts and the virtual space
The listed runtime for the National Theatre’s A Streetcar Named Desire is 2 hours and 55 minutes. Even split into two acts, any show of that length is pushing the limits of my attention span. I watched it on my 13-inch computer screen, stopping whenever I needed and even at the show’s most dramatic moments, I simply wasn’t ‘in it’. I found myself scrolling my social media, watering my plants, rearranging my desk, not even remotely immersed in the action of the play. When I think about why I couldn’t pay attention, I am led to wonder what types of theatre are afforded these high-quality recordings. Which plays get to be preserved? Whose voices get to be broadcast on the National Theatre’s YouTube channel?
My issues with the digital recording of A Streetcar Named Desire are difficult to separate from my issues with the overall production. I have little energy to spare for three-hour productions by white playwrights, white teams, and white principal casts in the first place. If I had seen it live, would I have felt differently? The broadcast recording brought me to a production that I neither had no access to nor interest in when it was on stage in 2014, but I don’t regret watching it.
Why do we watch theatre in lockdown? What are we reaching for when we press play on a recording? Watching alone is more personal but less intimate - more accessible but less immersive. Part of what I love about live theatre is the way my body becomes part of the machine. My presence, in part, creates the play. To watch a recording, is to watch a play that has already been ‘completed’ - not just in the literal sense that the script is finalised, but that my presence bears no weight on the environment of the play. Whether I laugh or cry, I am reacting to the past. My view of the play is directed by a camera lens - what I am seeing is just one of an entire universe of possible representations.
This is not to say that recorded theatre is inherently ‘bad’. The language that disparages recorded theatre often feels wrapped up in ableism, classism, and racism. For example, claiming that the limitations imposed by the camera lens on a play somehow degrade the value of the work suggests that ‘liveness’ is inherently more valuable. It implies that sitting through a four-hour Hamlet is part of being cultured. In many cases, it restricts the boundaries of taste and culture to the affluent, able-bodied, and educated, as if those traits were prerequisites for the ability to enjoy the arts.
Free broadcasts of recorded plays have vastly opened up the field of people with access to theatre. Recorded theatre is changing the way we consume plays, but does recording change the plays themselves? I would argue that more or less everything has changed. Sometimes, watching recorded theatre feels like grieving - mourning theatres that have shut their doors, mourning the projects that we put on hold and those we never started. And in some cases, it feels like mourning for the opportunities we still don’t have. While digital recordings have made theatre more accessible to more people, they have narrowed the window of what we have access to. This August, I know that I will be missing the hundreds of productions created by (and not just featuring) artists of colour that come to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival every year. Last year, less than 6% of Edinburgh Fringe theatre was created by Black or brown artists. Even so, that’s over fifty shows - so far, the National Theatre has broadcast three plays* (out of a total sixteen) written by or based on works by Black or Brown writers. While the percentage of work by artists of colour may be up, the sheer numbers of performances - especially of new work - available for viewing are plunging.
Digital theatre is rapidly changing the boundaries of what we consider theatre. It feels like everything is changing - how we receive the message of a play and how we weigh it; what we make time for and how we evaluate it. This era has brought with it a pressing sense of urgency - in a suddenly sparse landscape, we are reminded of just how precious art by Black and brown creators is. Whenever the norm is decentered, there is a chance for work from the fringes to become more prevalent. Even if the work changes, the questions we must ask ourselves are much the same. Who has access to what I am making? Why am I making it, and who needs to hear it? For me, watching theatre during lockdown is hardly escapist - I feel myself reaching more and more for work that challenges the boundaries of what I thought possible. If anything remains when theatre returns to the stage, I hope that it’s the hard-won conclusion that theatre can be - and must be - for everyone.
*As of 15 July, 2020
