Burning Bright...

Aside from a natural, human sympathy and a considerable aesthetic respect for their artistry, I don’t feel any particular affinity for the generation of Scottish theatre makers currently on the rise. That isn’t to say that their work isn’t powerful  - Stef Smith’s Cured is a fast-paced and unexpected comedy, making demands on the performers that allows them to respond with appropriate pathos and humour. Indeed, the emphasis on New Writing – found in the Tron, in Glasgay!’s annual programme, at the weekly Play, Pie and Pint sessions, upstairs at The Playwright’s Studio and across various university departments – has given Scotland a distinctive crop of contemporary authors. 

And while I maintain a lofty critical eye, I often find reflections of my own experience in the sharpest lines and most doomy dialogues: despite the attention given in national newspapers to London’s theatre, it is not parochial to suggest that Scottish performance is in rude health.

Both Smith’s Cured and Natasha Gilmore’s Tiger are strong examples of this confident culture. Although Tiger is paired with a truncated ‘children’s’ version (Tiger Tale) that is little more than an edited version that invites the audience on-stage at the end, it is emotive and fluid enough to stand alongside the best choreography in Europe. A simple tale of how a nuclear family is redeemed by the arrival of a wild, unpredictable energy, it impresses through the precision of the three dancers movements and the telling symbolism of Gilmore’s choreography. Cured is a generous romp through one woman’s flirtation with the ‘ex-gay’ movement, allowing Smith to reveal her smart wit and deft characterization – as well as a mastery of structure, which allows her to throw in a twist and happy ending.

The magic in Cured and Tiger comes from similar attention to detail, although Cured is an archetypal well-made scripted play and Tiger is contemporary dance. Both Smith and Gilmore are able, in a tiny slither of time, to capture a recognisable and resonant scenario: in Tiger, when the child dances around the stage on her parents’ bodies, never touching the ground, Gilmore expresses the devotion of the family in a direct, poetic image; in Cured, apparently trivial conversations about TV comedy The Golden Girls provides an important connection for the mother to accept her daughter’s sexuality.

The beauty and compassion of these moments eloquently express the artists’ profound humanist concern. This compassion runs through both works. If a play at Glasgay! is never likely to present a sympathetic ex-gay evangelist, Smith avoids setting up a predictable God-bothering straw woman. Gilmore’s unhappy couple, meanwhile, are not blamed or caricatured. This insistence on the worth of the individual is how both artists connect to their audiences – although Gilmore has a more detached presence as choreographer than Smith as writer, and dance encourages a more abstract interpretation.

The experience of watching Tiger and Cured is to be held by confident, clever creators: the combination of passion and intelligence they manifest might qualify them for the over-used and rarely explained category of ‘genius.’

Yet, this is not my theatre: Tiger comes closest, as it slices open the conformity of the married couple to reveal their heartache, caused by the exclusion of the wild in their domestic security. But resolution triumphs, and the human is the measure of the resolution. Even here, the wild is welcomed only as a tool towards domestic reunion. I am a determined anti-humanist, happier in the absurdity of Beckett or the uncomfortable acceptance of the strange found in Les Ballets C de la B. There is another theatre, perhaps unfashionable and maybe discovered in the interruptions of Forced Entertainment’s The Coming Storm that better reflects my world and temperament.

This could present a problem to my authority as a critic – if anyone was bothered to read this far. Since I am uncomfortable with their conclusions, I am tempted to recall Plato’s complaint and accuse both works of being dishonest. The discomfort is purely philosophical, because I left the performances happy, smiling and impressed. I’d argue that, if anything, my rejection of their content makes me, if not objective, a more impartial critic. The substance is not what makes me appreciate Tiger, but its expression. Equally, my applause for Cured is not at the romantic finale, but at the skill of Smith’s writing.