(Source: Gaggle/Almeida Theatre)
I’m coming to the end of my time in London, so this week I
managed to squeeze in two Greek plays at the Almeida (thank goodness for
student prices). On Wednesday, I saw Euripides’ Bakkhai, newly translated by Anne Carson and starring Ben Whishaw
as Dionysus. Then last night, I saw Aristophanes’ Lysistrata, performed by Gaggle and starring Charlotte Church. While
the tone of these plays is very different (the first a tragedy, the second a
comedy) both explore gender politics through the power (and the threat) of a
large group of women speaking and acting collectively. Take these plays from
their original context (fifth century BC Athens), and it’s surprising just how
relevant the issues they present remain in contemporary society. It was only
through seeing two striking groups of female performers in such quick
succession that I realised how unusual it is to see women given a space in this
way.
The Bakkhai are a chorus of women who have gathered in the
mountains to carry out Dionysian rituals, to dance and wear ivy and drink wine.
They are positioned physically and ideologically between the neglected,
offended god Dionysus and the dismissive Pentheus, King of Thebes. To what
extent this position is elected is ambiguous, creating a tension that runs
right through the play to its painful climax. At a critical moment in the
action, Ben Whishaw (Dionysus) stands opposite Bertie Carvel (Pentheus) in the
middle of the stage. Whishaw is wearing a dress and holding a thyrsus that
mimics the curves of his slight frame, while Carvel stands tall and straight,
almost hypermasculine by comparison. Dionysus advises Pentheus to dress up as a
woman, and Pentheus’ response is one of horror – it would mean giving up his
status as man and ruler, and all the social and cultural connotations of this
identity. Meanwhile, the Bakkhai interject with song and dance, commanding the
stage with a different kind of control that contradicts their association with
weakness and frenzy, making them more dangerous.
As object of worship, Dionysus is simultaneously compelling and
repugnant (a combination which Whishaw negotiates very successfully,
demonstrated similarly in his previous role as Richard II). However, Anne
Carson and James MacDonald don’t make it easy for us as an audience – there is no
explicit ideological stance taken in this production. This is most clear in the
unforgettable (and troubling) acts of the Bakkhai women. Their idol-worship of
Dionysus is uncomfortable, their final, brutal undertaking vicious and painful.
In the rare moments in which they use speech rather than song, their robotic,
monotonous use of the singular pronoun ‘I’ jars against their sophisticated
musical harmonies. And yet the overwhelming impression they create remains one
of incredible power. The other characters become secondary to their mesmerising
collective presence. The Bakkhai women are not just a mass saying the same
things in the same way. Instead, they create a textured visual and aural scape
on the stage which continues to surprise, to engage, and to shock, far more
hypnotic than Dionysus could ever be.
Bakkhai creates an
uneasy ethical situation, especially as a woman viewer. On the one hand, the
Bakkhai women appear to be possessed, being used as a weapon by a single male
divine figure. On the other hand, to dismiss their anger, celebration and
seeming liberation from repressive practices as a product of outside manipulation
limits their agency and responsibility. It risks belittling the legitimacy of
female anger and ecstasy. This problem persists in contemporary feminist
debate, and is something at the forefront of Deborah Coughlin’s Lysistrata. Like the Bakkhai women,
Gaggle completely own the stage. They stamp and they thump and they work with
and against each other, making a wall of sound. Again, their collectivity is
paramount, but they refuse to be homogeneous.
Lysistrata
is about the capacity of women to influence change.
Dissatisfied by pervading warfare, a group of women decide to hold a sex strike
until war ends. Coughlin brings the drama to post-election Britain. There is a
failed politician (Charlotte Church), a well-off alcoholic (Katy Menczer), a
mum-of-ten (Jamie-Rose Monk), and an outspoken hairdresser (Lauren La Rocque).
There’s also God in a glittery dress (Scarlett Lasoff) and an ever-so-slightly-irritating
newsreader (Roberta Morris). And yet, to classify the women in this way (as if
they were contestants on Masterchef) seems entirely to defeat the point. What
this production demonstrates is that women from different backgrounds can work
together to dismantle oppressive systems. It might not be plain sailing, it
might even end up as a kind of tragedy itself (in the newspaper sense of the
word), but the emphasis is ultimately on collective movement and energy,
exploring the places where experiences intersect and differ, rather than
pursuing a kind of individualism that ultimately reproduces rather than
challenges existing structures.
Lysistrata
ends with ‘Make Love Not War’, a song with a pulsing
beat that reinforces the creativity and celebration involved in collective
action, while maintaining the anger providing its impetus and dynamism. Instead
of a usual music video setup, in which female performers are filtered through a
gaze explicitly gendered male, Gaggle rock the boat. There are flashing penis
graphics and all kinds of fun things, but, more importantly, there is a group
of women confidently asserting their sexuality, for themselves and for each
other. It was frightening to realise just how radical this seems. You only have
to scroll absent-mindedly through the comments of almost any article on
feminism and feminist action (or even just women) to find people who evidently
feel intimidated by and hostile towards groups of women, especially ones who
are enjoying themselves against the status quo, or demanding change. Two and a
half thousand years after they were written, plays like Bakkhai and Lysistrata can
still shock – not because of some incredible transcendent quality of the
writing, but because our gender politics remain skewed to the extent that women
collectively can still very easily and very believably be portrayed as a
threat.
