Once I’d seen the sign for EXTREME scenography, it was inevitable that I would spend most of the day in a darkened basement, staring at costumes that were either sexually explicit or just plain nasty. A wedding dress that was made from bullets; an inflatable that looked like a big pair of knockers; opera body suits articulated like crap action figures: it might have come for the cheap thrills, but I stayed for the lesson in how a single outfit can express the entire philosophy of a performance.
Obviously, this was the stuff that nations rolled out to show who was the best at art. Every country wants to show how cool they are, and even theatre-makers aren’t above a wee spot of swaggering. But I have under-estimated the importance of costume – is this because I’m just not getting enough cool gear in Scotland?
Going back to that wedding dress made of bullets. It was for a production of Titus Andronicus – one of those Shakespeare rags that is worth reviving, simply because it tends to get ignored for another Romeo and Fucking Juliet. Titus is hardcore violent. Everything gets chopped off, there are none of those soulful soliloquies. It’s like Bill got the Chapman Brothers to brainstorm a concept.
The dress of bullets is pretty revealing: enough T and A on show to make the bullets fetishistic. It’s erotic in the filthiest sense, jarring the sexual response to naked female flesh by associating it with violence and death. This is the Two Girls One Cup version of Shakespeare.
The inflatable hooters, conversely, were an oddly slapstick presence in a work that overdid the kitsch. Yet they served a similar purpose, in short-circuiting an expected response. Shakespeare and Co. Are all well and good, but years of generic productions and education have blunted the edge. It is this kind of magic that makes me so irritated by the traditional British veneration for the script. Despite my ranting, I am fond of words, right up until they become a replacement for the total, immersive potential of theatre.
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