The Great Disappointment of Gareth K Vile

My assumption that the worth of theatre is based on its potential for social engagement has always been largely uncontested - at least by me. I'll throw out the odd comment that performance has a consistent political dimension without ever clarifying why that matters, or whether it is supported by any evidence. Gestures towards a vague interpretation of the feminist mantra, "the personal is political" or the half-understood Marxist analysis of all culture being an  expression of the economic infrastructure aside, my actual politics are badly defined, making my edifice of criticism the victim of  shaking foundations.

This is why I fail to articulate where I stand on issues like the boycott of Bathsheva dance, and have crises about the purpose of  criticism. And when I see work that I instinctively enjoy - Michael Clark's recent New Work at Tramway being a case in point - I struggle to locate my pleasure,  even if it is mixed, within any broader framework.

And it's no good me talking about revolutions in critical form and reception unless I can explain what I am revolving.


Ironically, it is these largely unread pieces that I regard as my most important contribution to criticism. It's where I tool about with ideas, often getting it wrong (the lovely phrase used by a headmaster in one of my old schools which described any activity that did not uphold the school's authority or discipline). They act towards providing the purpose of those whacky little free-form reviews that imitate William Burroughs, get massive numbers of hits and are then ignored by most theatre-makers because they aren't clear on how "good" their production actually is.

By making explicit my self-doubt here, I am hoping that my other articles will be undermined enough that they become more obviously subjective - places for the start of conversations rather than pitiful attempts to define performances within a limited structure of ratings and critique.

But let's mix it up... after the preamble, how about a little bit of applied critique? Last week, I went to see Pony Pie's latest one woman special, The Great Disappointment of Santa Muerta. It emerged from The National Theatre of Scotland's Reveal programme for Emerging artists, and transferred to the venerable Play, Pie and Pint series at Oran Mor.

Pony Pie is Amanda Monfrooe, actor, puppeteer, monologuist and director. I have admired her ever since she explained How Keanu Reeves Saved the World at Arches Live two years ago: her signature style is a very serious message, filtered through a bricolage of styles and chunks  of popular culture. She likes to fiddle around with the persona of the performer - her scripts usually star someone called Amanda, and have fun suggesting that the actor might be acting herself. And she'll usually make a passionate informed speech that cuts to the chase at some point.

Even when I disagree with her message - and in Santa Muerta, I think the disjuncture between her opinions on personal immortality and mine is pretty vast - I enjoy the way she presents it. She is constantly snapping between the literal and metaphorical levels of performance - sometimes she the play is best understood as a woman on stage saying what she thinks, other times it is necessary to accept the fantasy of her acting.

If that's tough to understand, blame me. But it does reflect how complicated Monfrooe's attitude to  acting can be. But what this disorientating slippage achieves is to make her plays a demanding vehicle for some intriguing ideas.

She pointed out in a recent interview on The Vile Arts Radio Hour that Santa Muerta is not about the fear of death, but the human tendency to pretend that it won't happen: in her final speech (spoken by Monfrooe in character as the actor Amanda in character as Santa Muerta, a Mexican personification of Death, but pretty clearly Monfrooe's own opinion on the matter), she points to the various stupid antics humans are prone to do, and identifies them as the result of a denial of death. Suicide bombers, greed, eating crap food: Monfrooe is explicit about the problems of humanity, and offers a solution. Accept death.

Personally, I'm all for the acceptance of death,  but I am also generally pro-religious belief - although I probably have far more anger at its corruptions by fundamentalists. I've frequently argued with My Producer Harry that religious belief has been behind more art than it is given credit for - like Bach. Everyone acts like he just liked doing sums. Yet his intention was explicitly religious, and no amount of post-modern reclamation can prove that his Lutheran beliefs were merely for show.

Monfrooe's Santa Muerta goes through a series of transitions as Amanda tries to rehearse the role: she looks for death around her, gate-crashes a children's party to relay her message of death, throws a tantrum in the supermarket (death is everwhere in the aisles, and humans have replaced hunger with lifestyle choices, thereby forgetting the reason that food is necessary in the first place). Later, she has a chat with that bloke out of Twilight - irritating the actor who plays Edward by insisting that he is a real life vampire - and gets a visit from a literal black dog of depression.

Each scene emphasises Monfrooe's first message - life is meaningless, and death is the end. From here, however, both Monfrooe and Amanda strive to discover meaning. Compassion, she recognises, can come from this understanding. She shares this idea with certain Buddhist teachings. Realising that all mortal life is limited makes it more precious.

It's surprising that she gets so many laughs. Especially out of the black dog, who gets the punchlines. The script is harrowing: even without the death of the goldfish - Amanda forgets to feed it - Monfrooe's vision is uncompromising. She is not interested in petty matters - the whole Mexican theme is dismissed through a few snatches of music and a funky costume - but likes to throw out the Big Idea.

Ironically, the way she builds up her theatre, using whatever skills she has, is a smart analogue for the way that personality is developed, a mixture of different experiences feeding off each other. Pony Pie plays never fit easily into a category (they could be puppetry, they could be stand up comedy, they could be lectures). It's genuinely post-modern, competing ideas fighting for prominence.

Yet her intention is determinedly modernist: like the absurdists, she is in a world without inherent meaning. Unlike them, she wants it  back.

As theatre exists, and especially in the context of A Play, A Pie and A Pint (a worthy and impressive venture that is made all the more precious for including Santa Muerta, which is a real departure from  the usual "well made play" it presents), Pony Pie makes difficult work. Such a bold statement invites discussion, but that can't happen as long as criticism is concerned with giving ratings. On the other hand, if it becomes a response to theatre, the game is afoot.

Criticulous to follow...

The Great Disappointment caused by Criticulous

Well, Santa Muerta. I guess one symbolic character deserves another, and sometimes even the President of the United States must stand naked.

Wait, is that right? Is that relevant? Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of taste... and little else. Your obedient servant, Criticulous, rising up in praise of the misreading, the imposition of prejudice and the perpetual denial of the fixed reading.

Santa Muerta, I guess we share this much: nobody's too pleased to see us when we come around, and we have a reputation for killing things. Ever wonder whether our creators have some kind of death wish?

So, I ended up writing this reply because Vile is, frankly, terrified of death. Your last speech struck a nerve - you can see it in the review he wrote. He knows, even if he denies it, that his fascination with religious thought is more than a simple intellectual respect for the accumulated wisdom of the ages. It's a deeply held conviction that dangles on the thread of his childhood fear of death. Ask him about the time he met God. That's always good for a laugh at his expense.

As I understand it, you are asking us to embrace death... to embrace oblivion. Not out of some stupid suicidal impulse, but on the grounds that acknowledging death is a sure route to compassion - and a drive towards making meaning out of this meaningless universe. I get why you'd tend towards the nihilistic - I guess Santa Muerta handles those stars that explode, or whatever they do, and you've presided over some hairy situations. Say, was it you that God sent that time to take care of the Egyptians? Are you the same thing as the Angel of Death?

You'll indulge me the questions: like you have a will towards The Big End, I have a will towards criticism. I'm sure you'll appreciate the problems of being a cypher. Everything gets determined by the symbolism of our position. None of those human personality quirks for us. I mean, there's the possibility of irony for humans. Not for me.

Maybe I ought to present an alternative. Maybe I can suggest there are other ways to inspire than to recognise the innate fragility of human life. But you know what they say - you can't argue with death.

I rather admire how single-minded you can be. I suppose that's where we differ: you have a solid location. All the various cultural representations of death - those details that make you comprehensible to the limited consciousness - give you a personality, but they are all related to that one,  unalterable fact. You are the end of life.

It's not so simple for me. I have to be different - not in form, or description, but genuinely different every time I manifest. Perhaps not every single time. But I can't approach Pony Pie's show at the Oran Mor in the same way as I approach Michael Clark's Barrowland Project. Death just turns up at the end, switches the lights out. I have to pay attention to whatever is summoning me,and respond.

Death can  never get it wrong. Criticulous is bound to get it wrong.

Finally, an answer to your challenge. Sure, think of death if you like. It might make you more compassionate - although it is as likely that the Black Dog will turn up, or  you'll just end up being a pain at parties (Monfrooe does warn of these before she incarnated you, it's true). But being a critic... be like Criticulous... accept fallibility, be constantly alert to failure and success, assess, express, determine, be brave.

Ach, we probably don't disagree that much.

Good Women

It seems pretty clear that the traditional actor's complaint that "there are no good parts for women" has become untrue in Scotland. Recent months have seen The Guid Sisters - The NTS making good on the promise of their earlier all-female special, The House of Bernarda Alba - She-Town up in Dundee and Alison Peeble's searing My Shrinking Life. There was even a one woman special at The Oran Mor, The Great Disappointment of Santa Muerta, written and performed by the always imaginative Amanda Monfrooe.

Although The Guid Sisters was originally written in a French Canadian dialect, it has become something of a Scots classic: the translation went straight into Scots and, despite having some awkward edges - it's never clear why a bunch of Scottish ladies would have fancy French names or be so horrified by the thought of a club where people like to drink - picks up on the same cheeky energy of that genuinely home-spun classic, The Steamie. Praised for its representation of working class life, and respect for the strong female characters, The Guid Sisters acts as handy showcase for the wealth of wonderful Caledonia female actors.

My Shrinking Life is a deeply personal piece that sees Peebles grapple with the consequences of MS: unlike The Guid Sisters, it emphasises a stunning central performance (Peebles is brilliantly cynical, and even throws down a few of those Chekov and Shakespeare lines, just to prove she can). It's the same in Santa Muerta: the power of the actor defines the impact of the work. The Guid Sisters had a few star turns - that one out of Chewing The Fat - but was mostly all about the ensemble. In fact, it would be unfair to pick out one or two names as exceptional when the play is predicated on each character being revealed through their interactions with the others.

At this point, I probably ought to make some ridiculous statement about how things have gone too far the other way, and that men aren't getting their share. As it goes, there are still more male authors and directors knocking about, and equality is probably still a distance away. Instead, I'll make another sly dig at those directors who pick Shakespeare - if there was less Shakespeare on stage, they'd be more good roles for women - and vaguely wonder whether the very idea of talking about "male" and "female" theatre is even relevant.

Santa Muerta and My Shrinking Life are both very personal works, but the issues they raise are not insular. They share a preoccupation with death - one's concerned with the denial of it, the other with its inevitability - and range across various emotions that are not necessarily limited to the artist's life.