Illuminati, Satan and Me

Who wants some illuminati history? Madonna does.

The root of the word is “illuminate”, and that means “The enlightened ones”, and it came from the Age of Enlightenment, when a lot of arts and creativity flourished, from Shakespeare to Isaac Newton, to Leonardo Da Vinci, Michelangelo: the philosophers, artists, scientists were all engaged in a kind of high level of consciousness through their work, and they were enlightening and inspiring people around the world. And those are the true Illuminati. 

Well, she's not too far off. I could do a bit of research, but I'll go for what I remember, with added wikipedia. Given that most things about this that I might find on the internet is going to be pretty much some enthusiast threading together their version, why not have mine?

So, Adam Weishaupt founded the illuminati in 1776 (right at the end of the period known as The Enlightenment). He was a mason, a lawyer, got educated by Jesuits, got suppressed, contradicted himself, probably achieved very little in terms of social change. However, it is worth pointing out that Weishaupt's illuminati was a real thing. 

Other, later, versions may or may not have existed, and may or may not have any connection to the source group.

But really, who cares about the history? We want conspiracy... so let's do it.

The illuminati of Weishaupt were just a manifestation of an organisation that has existed since the Big Bang. It kicked off when two quarks decided to gang up against a proton. Millions of years later, a couple of amoeba made up some bullshit about a magic source of power. However, these manifestations were isolated in an essentially hostile universe until consciousness turned up... probably because a cabal of angels had been conspiring behind the scenes to...

That's right... Lucifer came up with the illuminati. Come back for more in episode three...

(Pop Culture side bar one: man, I love the way Madonna has Shakespeare and Isaac Newton as part of the same thing. Because they are so similar. Onza a playwright, the other is a scientist who spent equal time getting apples on his noggin and pondering unitarian interpretations of The Bible.)

Sacred and Profane present Satan’s Playground

The current battle-ground between faith and science (occasionally advertised as "religion versus reason" but any attempt to easily define the two factions is bound to collapse into name-calling) leaves theatre in an awkward position. Rather like the question of arts' funding, there are arguments on both sides, and a great deal of the conflict's heat is generated by straw-man arguments. But theatre, which has a natural affinity for using powerful symbolism, is sometimes more comfortable using an almost religious sensibility as it grapples with large issues.

Take Sacred and Profane. Their latest production stars a classic  version of Satan, all temptation and magic. And while I am sympathetic to the religious impulse, both on and off stage, my first question is whether director David Zoob has a particular spiritual agenda.

"It’s not about being some sort of Holy Joe Theatre Company," Zoob puts my mind at rest. "But we are interested in moments in the theatre that you might call ‘spiritual’.  Where it’s not just about ideas or emotions, but something else that kicks in.  It’s hard to define but we know it when we experience it."

This moment - which I experienced most powerfully during VSPRS by Les Ballets C de la B, and whenever I see Iona Kewney's collaborations with Joe Quimby - is both the triumph of performance, and a problem. Not only is it unfashionable, it is hard to explain and has inspired a strand of criticism that sinks comfortably into mysticism. I've been reading up on theory for the Fringe, and much of what once passed for analysis is revealed as a sort of theology.

Zoob continues. "It happens in lots of great plays and shows – Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale, Tony Kushner’s Angels in America, at the end of Miller’s Crucible.  We hope that by playing with the interaction of music and theatre and storytelling, we might stumble across it."  While I might try to define this moment as the result of the complete immersion of the audience, it is intensely personal. Having been brought up on the intensity of Tramway's programming, it has become my holy grail for performance, and although I am tempted to use universal terms to discuss it, I am very aware that my own taste and history determine its nature. For example, it tends to happen during dance shows for me, and I watch a great deal of dance. 

Fortunately, Zoob does share some of my history. "I saw Peter Brook’s Mahabharata when I had just graduated," he says - and Mahabharata  was an early Tramway visitor. "And then recently his show THE SUIT.  I loved the way the pieces were so rich and complex and the staging was so simple at the same time.  The heart and soul of the material was too important for his Director’s ego to get in the way.  We are n’t at that level, but it’s something to aspire to."

Sacred and Profane's ambition is no bad thing: and while Brook was once a game-changer, his recent work has revealed a more gentle approach, which, again, can descend into a simplistic representation of faith in terms of acceptance and compassion. This doesn't necessary reflect the reality of lived religious belief, and it is a relief that Zoob isn't just about the fuzzy warmth. "We like the opposite too – rough earthy storytelling, humour, guts energy and all that," he laughs.

With a story based on The Destruction of Kreshev by Isaac Bashevis Singer, a live Klezmar score and a promise to explore the boundaries between faith and hysteria Satan's Playgroud has a tough-headed approach. The plot centres around Satan's attempt to destroy a village through love - even if it seems that lust is really his tool. 

Warming to the theme, Zoob elaborates. "It seems to me that the story reveals the dangers of Faith.  The villagers believe that the crop failure is a punishment for the sexual indiscretion of two prominent members of their community.  They are too busy trying to deal with their guilt and with punishing the sinners, to take practical steps to deal with the threat of famine." Of course, in Greek tragedy, this would make sense: Oedipus Rex is based on exactly this problem. 

But Singer's influence leads the production out of the mythical and into something closer to magic realism. "His early stories are a wonderful combination of earthy human realities –  sex, love, hate, intrigue –  with otherworldly ‘realities’ and extremes – magic, spiritual yearning, superstition, religious obsession," says Zoob. "It makes for rich storytelling and lends itself to the thing we like to do which is to look at the way music, digital sound and drama can interact to create something powerful and memorable."

Satan fits nicely: he might not be the most topical of characters - even the Christian Churches can be reluctant to mention him - but his status is undisputed. From the imp of Job, through his period as the stock villain in Morality plays to his twentieth century role as the suave instigator in The Rolling Stones' classic, Satan has all the bases of evil covered. "In the show, Satan is a seductive, charming and self-congratulatory storyteller.   I am not sure if we should always trust him," Zoob admits. Yet this devil has not been ignoring the social diminution of his power. "He questions his own power at the end.  So in the final moments he comes across as resentful and insecure: the people of Kreshev were so wrapped up in their own guilt and suffering that they didn’t pay attention to him and his conviction that he destroyed them."

In a rather nice twist towards a more secular vision of His Satanic Majesty, the play's use of Old Nick ends up questioning itself.  "This can prompt audiences to question the existence of Satan as an independent force.  The story seems to demonstrate that misfortunes and disasters happen as a result of human choices, rather than arising from the will of ‘Satan the Destroyer’, Zoob explains.

There is a further strand of contemporary evil at work: the show's tagline  “It's well known: women bring misfortune” is, Zoob acknowledges "a provocation.  The story bears this out – if you see the world through the eyes of a traditional and Patriarchal society." And for Zoob, the patriarchy is not dead.  "There are plenty of them about and plenty of communities in Britain who see things in this way.  Consequently they think it’s important for women to dress ‘modestly’ and wear wigs, headscarves, hijabs or burkas in order to protect men from temptation and from the misfortune it can bring."

Apart from the spiritual preoccupations, Sacred and Profane are striving towards a vision of total theatre: the live musicians, the use of technology, the twin influences of physical and story-led performance suggests the company are willing to use whatever they need to impress their point. If the Fringe can sometimes be associated with unambitious chancers and cheap attempts to get attention, Sacred and Profane are chasing the big questions of life and drama with gusto.

Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2012, 2^nd-26^th August 14.20 (no show 13^th)

The Belly Button, Underbelly

Terminal Madness

While I am unlikely to ever develop a systematic theory of drama - I try now and again, but the other critics laugh at me, kindly - my resistance to the script as the foundation of theatre is fairly consistent. I like words well enough. Teaching Hamlet to teenagers didn't kill my joy of the Bard, it took uninspired directors to do that. And in the crop of new Scottish playwrights, a few names stand out for me: Martin O'Connor, Rob Drummond, Oliver Emmanuel, and not just because they are nice to me when I meet them in The Arches.

But I have amassed evidence that the director, the actors, even the lighting designer - if it happens to be Paul Sorley from Traway, especially the lighting designer - can be of equal, even greater importance. Two plays this week - The Abbey's Terminus at the Citizens, and Crazy Gary's Mobile Disco at the Tron - have reminded me why the rather British ideal of the page as blue-print for the stage frustrates me.

Terminus is everything I don't want theatre to be: gritty, verbose, grandiose and in rhyme. Author Mark O'Rowe appears so busy showing off the clever word-play that he forgets that characterisation comes as much from the way characters speak as story that they tell. There are three monologues - something I am less than enthusiastic about, since they miss out on relationships between characters that a simple conversation can bring - cleverly weaved together towards a vicious finale.  A women who escapes death, only to be killed by an angel; a shy man potters about killing women; an ex-teacher rescuing a former pupil out of guilt: they all hide in the dark, pop into the spotlight, tell their stories and disappear. And although the expense is obvious - great lights, great enunciation - the lack of drama in the script's form is elegantly expressed through a static staging. 

It may have a very Irish love of language - At Swim Two Birds, an adaptation by Blue Raincoat of some Flan O'Brien antics, shares Terminus' love of word-play, only energised by great direction - but Terminus mistakes violence for realism, and seems proud of gross-out imagery. Demons are made of worms, a nasty serial killer prowls, a pregnant woman gets raped with a broom and crushed under a speeding truck. The three performers are wasted on such ugly material and the moments of savage realism are undermined by the metaphysical plot involving sold souls taking revenge on their bodies, even before it all turns Death Race 2000.

Over at the Tron, Leann O'Kasi is dealing with a similar problem: three monologues, this time told in sequence. O'Kasi has rescued a poor script before - exactly a year ago, at the last Mayfesto - but Crazy Gary suffers from an overlong central yabber that patronises both the mentally ill and Christians. Of course, the three monologues link, there's plenty of stuff about small town frustrations and the consequences of school bullying. An incident round the back of the sports hall involving ingested semen is at the heart of it all - thanks to Gary Owen for that conceit - dooms all of the characters. O'Kasi keeps it sprightly, and the cast almost manage the Welsh accents - not that they needed to bother. There is nothing specifically Welsh about the plot. People get frustrated in small towns everywhere, and probably shit their pants on Fife rugby pitches as well. 

Every so often, I get called a prude for complaining about bad language or brutal imagery: for the record, I find people shitting themselves funny in real life, and love nothing more than stage nudity and self-harm. And I put my hand up to a special pleading. I forgot to get my happy pill prescription this week, and have been on one hell of a citalapram come-down. That added to my irritation at the central monologue - the character, who has been on years of medication, is no more than unlucky and a bit sleepless, while I have been numb all over, unable to sleep and paranoid since Friday. Owen has good some good ideas - small towns do breed odd hierarchies, and Crazy Gary is a very recognisable thug. The scene where the deluded cabaret singer performs You've Lost That Loving Feeling while experiencing the actual emotions, without realising, is crafty and evocative.  And in the first and last monologues, the conflicts between desire and fear are profound. Even if Crazy Gary ends up glassed and bleeding, he is both a monster and vaguely sympathetic, as trapped by his past as the boy he made lick up his pal's jism. Plus it has a superb opening line. 

Both Terminus and Crazy Gary have great sets - a little melodramatic with the light design, but enticing, while the directors are battling against a form that is inherently undramatic once it goes beyond ten minutes. Crazy Gary is enjoyable and insightful at points - mostly when it is being humorous, or capturing the low level misery of co-dependent relationships - but lacks a good editor. It rambles when it could strike, and gets lost in the minutiae of plotting the links between the the characters.

The Tron cast are exceptionally good at catching Owen's Big Dramatic Moments, like the final ruck or the karaoke championship. And unlike Terminus, the connections are, at least, subtle and telling: the bully beats up the karaoke man who gives the cabaret singer his moment of glory, and the female romantic interest - never performed, but spoken about - is a ghostly, sinister presence in all three monologues. There is also a sense that all of the characters are delusional, untrustworthy, and the shifts in their versions of the day undermine each other's perceptions. This universe is far more interconnected than  Terminus' world, despite the latter's complex metaphysics of Satan, souls and avenging angels.

All six actors in both plays come across well, and Terminus' direction follows the self-consciously iconic nature of the script. O'Kasi keeps her actors on the move, and despite the running time, the pace rarely slackens. My grand project to systematise my understanding of good theatre falters in both works: a straight description of both plays would praise the performers, the sets, the directors, even the theatres for programming bold content. And Crazy Gary has a strong relevance, opening up debates on how it is not school learning that shapes us, but socialisation. And yet the scripts have such weaknesses that it might be true that they are the foundation. In this case, they are as sandy as any parable's ground.