Letters of Jonathan Oldstyle (Letter V)

By Washington Irving

[Letter V, the final one in Oldstyle’s series which Irving intended to address New York theater directly, continues to poke fun at several aspects of New York theater. Readers, however, were delighted and Charles Brockden Brown, a novelist and editor, even sought out Oldstyle to ask his help in starting a literary journal which Brown was planning to publish in Philadelphia. Oldstyle’s letters were Irving’s début in print and brought the 19-year-old his first recognition as a writer. All but the first of the Oldstyle letters were immediately republished, slightly revised and corrected, in the Chronicle Express, the paper’s country edition.]

LETTER V

(published 11 December 1802)

Mr. Editor,

I shall now conclude my remarks on the theatre, which I am afraid you will think are spun out to an unreasonable length; for this I can give no other excuse, than that it is the privilege of old folks to be tiresome, and so I shall proceed.

I had chosen a seat in the pit, as least subject to annoyance from a habit of talking loud that has lately crept into our theatres, and which particularly prevails in the boxes. In old times people went to the theatre for the sake of the play and acting; but I now find it begins to answer the purpose of a coffee-house, or fashionable lounge, where many indulge in loud conversation, without any regard to the pain it inflicts on their more attentive neighbors. As this conversation is generally of the most trifling kind, it seldom repays the latter for the inconvenience they suffer, of not hearing one half of the play.

I found, however, that I had not much bettered my situation; but that every part of the house has its share of evils. Besides those I had already suffered, I was yet to undergo a new kind of torment. I had got in the neighborhood of a very obliging personage, who had seen the play before, and was kindly anticipating every scene, and informing those about him what was to take place; to prevent, I suppose, any disagreeable surprise to which they would otherwise have been liable. Had there been any thing of a plot to the play, this might have been a serious inconvenience; but as the piece was entirely innocent of every thing of the kind, it was not of so much importance. As I generally contrive to extract amusement from every incident that happens, I now entertained myself with remarks on the self-important air with which he delivered his information, and the distressed and impatient looks of his unwilling auditors. I also observed that he made several mistakes in the course of his communications: “Now you’ll see,” said he, “the queen, in all her glory, surrounded with her courtiers, fine as fiddles, and ranged on each side of the stage, like rows of pewter dishes.” On the contrary, we were presented with the portly gentleman and his ragged regiment of banditti. Another time he promised us a regale from the fool; but we were presented with a very fine speech from the queen’s grinning counsellor.

My country neighbor was exceedingly delighted with the performance, though he did not half the time understand what was going forward. He sat staring with open mouth at the portly gentleman, as he strode across the stage, and in furious rage drew his sword on the white lion. “By George but that’s a brave fellow,” said he when the act was over, “that’s what you call first rate acting, I suppose.”

Yes, said I, it is what the critics of the present day admire, but it is not altogether what I like; you should have seen an actor of the old school do this part; he would have given it to some purpose; you’d have had such ranting and roaring, and stamping and storming; to be sure this honest man gives us a bounce now and then in the true old style, but in the main he seems to prefer walking on plain ground to strutting on the stilts used by the tragic heroes of my day.

This is the chief of what passed between me and my companion during the play and entertainment, except an observation of his, that it would be well if the manager was to drill his nobility and gentry now and then, to enable them to go through their evolution with more grace and spirit. This put me in mind of something my cousin Jack said to the same purpose, though he went too far in his zeal for reformation. He declared, “he wished sincerely, one of the critics of the day would take all the slab shabs of the theatre in a body (like cats in a bag) and twig the whole bunch.” I can’t say but I like Jack’s idea well enough, though it is rather a severe one.

He might have remarked another fault that prevails among our performers (though I don’t know whether it occurred this evening) of dressing for the same piece in the fashions of different ages and countries, so that while one actor is strutting about the stage in the cuirass and helmet of Alexander, another dressed up in a gold-laced coat and a bag-wig, with chapeau de bras under his arm, is taking snuff in the fashion of one or two centuries back, and perhaps a third figuring with Suwarrow boots, in the true style of modem buckism.

But what, pray, has become of the noble marquis of Montague, and earl of Warwick? (said the countryman, after the entertainments were concluded). Their names make a great appearance on the bill, but I do not recollect having seen them in the course of the evening.

Very true—I had quite forgot those worthy personages but I suspect they have been behind the scene, smoaking pipe with our other friends, incog. the Tripolitans. We must not be particular now-a-days, my friend. When we are presented with a Battle of Hexham without fighting, and a Tripolitan after-piece without even a Mahometan whisker, we need not be surprised at having an invisible marquis or two thrown into the bargain.

“But what is your opinion of the house,” said I, “don’t you think it a very substantial, solid-looking building, both inside and out? Observe what a fine effect the dark colouring of the wall has upon the white faces of the audience, which glare like the stars in a dark night. And then what can be more pretty than the paintings on the front of the boxes; those little masters and misses sucking their thumbs and making mouths at the audience?”

Very fine, upon my word—and what, pray, is the use of that chandelier, as you call it, that is hung up among the clouds, and has showered down its favors on my coat?

Oh, that is to illumine the heavens and to set off, to advantage, the little perriwig’d cupids, tumbling head over heels, with which the painter has decorated the dome. You see we have no need of the chandelier below, as here, the house is perfectly well illuminated: but I think it would have been a great saving of candle-light, if the manager had ordered the painter, among his other pretty designs, to paint a moon up there, or if he was to hang up that sun with whose intense light our eyes were greatly annoyed in the beginning of the after-piece.

But don’t you think, after all, there is rather a—sort of a—kind of a heavyishness about the house; don’t you think it has a little of an under groundish appearance.

To this I could make no answer: I must confess I have often thought myself the house had a dungeon-like look; so I proposed to him to make our exit, as the candles were putting out, and we should be left in the dark. Accordingly, groping our way through the dismal subterraneous passage that leads from the pit, and passing through the ragged bridewell looking anti-chamber, we once more emerged into the purer air of the park, when bidding my honest countryman good night, I repaired home considerably pleased with the amusements of the evening.

Thus, Mr. Editor, have I given you an account of the chief incidents that occurred in my visit to the theatre. I have shewn you a few of its accommodations and its imperfections. Those who visit it more frequently may be able to give you a better statement.

I shall conclude with a few words of advice for the benefit of every department of it.

I would recommend,

To the actors—less etiquette—less fustian—less buckram.
To the orchestra—new music and more of it.
To the pit—patience—clean benches and umbrellas.
To the boxes—less affectation—less noise—less coxcombs.
To the gallery—less grog and better constables—and,
To the whole house—inside and out, a total reformation.—-And so much for the theatre.

JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.

* * * *

[A further set of explanatory notes: the white lion – The Earl of Warwick in The Battle of Hexham; slab shabs – A glutton or foulmouthed person; possibly from the Dutch slabbaerd (one who cannot hold his spittle, a driveller, an idiot); plus the slang shab, a low fellow or mean trickster; twig – to beat with or as with a twig; Suwarrow boots – Cavalry boots named for the Russian field marshal Alexander Vasilyevich Suvarov (1720-1800; buckism – the practice of a ‘buck’ or dandy); making mouths – making scornful faces, being contemptuous.

[The sixth through eighth letters of Jonathan Oldstyle also deal with theater, though Irving’s tack is different. I’ll be posting the next three Oldstyle letters on ROT over the next several days.]

Letters of Jonathan Oldstyle (Letter IV)

By Washington Irving

[This is the second in Washington Irving’s 1802-03 series of letters to the Morning Chronicle that discusses theater. (The Morning Chronicle was party owned by Aaron Burr, then Thomas Jefferson’s vice president) In Letter III, the young writer made fun of the plays offered on New York’s stages; in Letter IV, Irving, under his pseudonym Jonathan Oldstyle, takes on the playgoers.

[These letters, written when Irving was only 19, brought the budding humorist to the attention of American readers. Having begun the study of law, Irving found he wasn’t especially passionate about that field. The reception of the nine Jonathan Oldstyle letters. which began appearing on 15 November 1802, convinced him that he should focus his efforts on this occupation instead.

[When Irving mocked the theater, professionals in the theater center of New York City were irked. William Dunlap, manager of the Park Theater (where The Battle of Hexham, a subject of Letter III, had been staged), while he appreciated Oldstyle's remarks, reported that his actors were “excessively” irritated at the mockery. When Irving poked fun at the theater reviewers of the New York media, it rankled the working press of the theater district. Nonetheless, Irving, whose authorship was known despite the pen name, was delighted with the response. New York readers enjoyed the gentle criticism and Burr was so pleased that he sent copies of some of the letters to his daughter with laudatory comments.]

LETTER IV

(published 4 December 1802)

Mr. Editor,

My last communication mentioned my visit to the theatre; the remarks it contained were chiefly confined to the play and the actors: I shall now extend them to the audience, who, I assure you, furnish no inconsiderable part of the entertainment.

As I entered the house, some time before the curtain rose, I had sufficient leisure to make some observations. I was much amused with the waggery and humor of the gallery, which, by the way, is kept in excellent order by the constables who are stationed there. The noise in this part of the house is somewhat similar to that which prevailed in Noah’s ark; for we have an imitation of the whistles and yells of every kind of animal.—This, in some measure, compensates for the want of music, (as the gentlemen of our orchestra are very economic of their favors). Some how or another the anger of the gods seemed to be aroused all of a sudden, and they commenced a discharge of apples, nuts & ginger-bread, on the heads of the honest folks in the pit, who had no possibility of retreating from this new kind of thunder-bolts. I can’t say but I was a little irritated at being saluted aside of my head with a rotten pippin, and was going to shake my cane at them; but I was prevented by a decent looking man behind me, who informed me it was useless to threaten or expostulate. They are only amusing themselves a little at our expence, said he, sit down quietly and bend your back to it. My kind neighbor was interrupted by a hard green apple that hit him between the shoulders—he made a wry face, but knowing it was all in joke, bore the blow like a philosopher. I soon saw the wisdom of this determination,—a stray thunder-bolt happened to light on the head of a little sharp-faced Frenchman, dress’d in a white coat and small cock’d hat, who sat two or three benches ahead of me, and seemed to be an irritable little animal: Monsieur was terribly exasperated; he jumped upon his seat, shook his fist at the gallery, and swore violently in bad English. This was all nuts to his merry persecutors, their attention was wholly turned on him, and he formed their target for the rest of the evening.

I found the ladies in the boxes, as usual, studious to please; their charms were set off to the greatest advantage; each box was a little battery in itself; and they all seemed eager to out do each other in the havoc they spread around. An arch glance in one box was rivalled by a smile in another, that smile by a simper in a third, and in a fourth, a most bewitching languish carried all before it.

I was surprised to see some persons reconnoitering the company through spy-glasses; and was in doubt whether these machines were used to remedy deficiencies of vision, or whether this was another of the eccentricities of fashion. Jack Stylish has since informed me that glasses were lately all the go; though hang it, says Jack, it is quite out at present; we used to mount glasses in great snuff but since so many tough jockies have followed the lead, the bucks have all cut the custom. I give you, Mr. Editor, the account in my dashing cousin’s own language. It is from a vocabulary I don’t well understand.

I was considerably amused by the queries of the countryman mentioned in my last, who was now making his first visit to the theatre. He kept constantly applying to me for information, and I readily communicated, as far as my own ignorance would permit.

As this honest man was casting his eye round the house, his attention was suddenly arrested. And pray, who are these? said he, pointing to a cluster of young fellows. These I suppose are the critics, of whom I have heard so much. They have, no doubt, got together to communicate their remarks, and compare notes; these are the persons through whom the audience exercise their judgments, and by whom they are told, when they are to applaud or to hiss. Critics! ha, ha, my dear sir, they trouble themselves as little about the elements of criticism as they do about other departments of science or belles lettres. These are the beaus of the present day, who meet here to lounge away an idle hour, and play off their little impertinencies for the entertainment of the public. They no more regard the merits of a play, or of the actors, than my cane. They even strive to appear inattentive; and I have seen one of them perch’d upon the front of the box with his back to the stage, sucking the head of his stick, and staring vacantly at the audience, insensible to the most interesting specimens of scenic representation: though the tear of sensibility was trembling in every eye around him.

I have heard that some have even gone so far in search of amusement, as to propose a game or two of cards, in the theatre, during the performance: the eyes of my neighbor sparkled at this information; his cane shook in his hand; the word, puppies, burst from his lips. Nay, said I, I don’t give this for absolute fact: my cousin Jack was, I believe, quizzing (as he terms it) when he gave me the information. But you seem quite indignant, said I to the decent looking man in my rear. It was from him the exclamation came; the honest countryman was gazing in gaping wonder on some new attraction. Believe me, said I, if you had them daily before your eyes, you would get quite used to them. Used to them! replied he, how is it possible for people of sense to relish such conduct. Bless you, my friend; people of sense have nothing to do with it; they merely endure it in silence. These young gentlemen live in an indulgent age. When I was a young man, such tricks and fopperies were held in proper contempt. Here I went a little too far; for upon better recollection I must own that a lapse of years has produced but little alteration in this department of folly and impertinence. But do the ladies admire these manners? truly I am not as conversant in female circles as formerly; but I should think it a poor compliment to my fair country women, to suppose them pleased with the stupid stare and cant phrases with which these votaries of fashion, add affected to real ignorance.

Our conversation was here interrupted by the ringing of a bell. Now for the play, said my companion. No, said I, it is only for the musicians. Those worthy gentlemen then came crawling out of their holes, and began with very solemn and important phizes, strumming and tuning their instruments in the usual style of discordance, to the great entertainment of the audience. What tune is that? asked my neighbor, covering his ears. This, said I, is no tune; it is only a pleasing symphony, with which we are regaled as a preparative. For my part, though I admire the effect of contrast, I think they might as well play it in their cavern under the stage. The bell rung a second time; and then began the tune in reality; but I could not help observing that the countryman was more diverted with the queer grimaces, and contortions of countenance exhibited by the musicians, than their melody.

What I heard of the music, I liked very well (though I was told by one of my neighbors that the same pieces have been played every night for these three years;) but it was often overpowered by the gentry in the gallery, who vociferated loudly for Moll in the wad, Tally ho the grinders, and several other airs more suited to their tastes.

I observed that every part of the house has its different department. The good folks of the gallery have all the trouble of ordering the music (their directions, however, are not more frequently followed than they deserve.) The mode by which they issue their mandates is stamping, hissing, roaring, whistling, and, when the musicians are refractory, groaning in cadence. They also have the privilege of demanding a bow from John (by which name they designate every servant at the theatre, who enters to move a table or snuff a candle;) and of detecting those cunning dogs who peep from behind the curtain.

By the bye, my honest country friend was much puzzled about the curtain itself. He wanted to know why that carpet was hung up in the theatre. I assured him it was no carpet, but a very fine curtain. And what, pray, may be the meaning of that gold head with the nose cut off that I see in front of it? The meaning—why really I can’t tell exactly—tho’ my cousin Jack stylish says there is a great deal of meaning in it. But surely you like the design of the curtain? The design—why really I can see no design about it, unless it is to be brought down about our ears by the weight of those gold heads and that heavy cornice with which it is garnished. I began now to be uneasy for the credit of our curtain, and was afraid he would perceive the mistake of the painter in putting a harp in the middle of the curtain, and calling it a mirror; but his attention was happily called away by the candle-grease from the chandelier, over the centre of the pit, dropping on his clothes. This he loudly complained of, and declared his coat was bran-new. How, my friend, said I, we must put up with a few trifling inconveniencies when in the pursuit of pleasure. True said he:—but I think I pay pretty dear for—first to give six shillings at the door, and then to have my head battered with rotten apples, and my coat spoiled by candle-grease: by and by I shall have my other clothes dirtied by sitting down, as I perceive every body mounted on the benches. I wonder if they could not see as well if they were all to stand upon the floor.

Here I could no longer defend our customs, for I could scarcely breathe while thus surmounted by a host of strapping fellows standing with their dirty boots on the seats of the benches. The little Frenchman who thus found a temporary helter from the missive compliments of his gallery friends, was the only person benefited. At last the bell again rung, and the cry of down, down—hats off, was the signal for the commencement of the play.

If, Mr. Editor, the garrulity of an old fellow is not tiresome, and you chuse to give this view of a New-York theatre, place in your paper, you may, perhaps, hear further from your friend,

JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.

* * * *

[Once again, let me provide a few words of explanation for the archaic references in this letter: in great snuff – Elated, in great spirits; tough jockies – Toughs, ruffians; ‘jockey’ was slang for ‘boy’ or ‘lad,’ especially from the working class, from Jock, a form of John or Jack; “Moll in the Wad,” “Tally Ho the Grinders” – Traditional popular songs; “Moll . . . Wad” (“Moll o’ the Wood”) was an Irish jig dating back at least to the late 18th century; harp . . . mirror – The curtain was of blue mohair, and in the center was a lyre with the motto: “To hold the Mirror up to Nature.”

[Letter V will be posted on ROT in a few days. Come back to see what else this emerging writer had to say about New York’s theater.]

Letters of Jonathan Oldstyle (Letter III)

By Washington Irving

[I recently posted two letters by Samuel Clemens, written in the mid-1850s for two newspapers (“Samuel L. Clemens’s Letter to the Muscatine Journal,” 18 May 2010; “Thomas Jefferson Snodgrass,” 23 May 2010). Clemens, who hadn’t yet adopted the name Mark Twain, described, at some length in one letter, more briefly in the other, his impressions of the performances of plays he’d seen. Clemens wasn’t the first American literary figure to have made his thoughts about theater known in the form of letters to a newspaper (or to use a pseudonym for his writings). A half century earlier, another young writer of humor destined to become an important writer in this new country applied the same tactic.

[In 1802, a very young Washington Irving (1783-1859), under the pseudonym Jonathan Oldstyle, began his writing career with a series of nine letters in which he discussed his views of many aspects of New York society. Irving’s third through eighth letters, written for New York’s Morning Chronicle which was edited by his brother Peter, were devoted to the theater—but not only the plays presented. The young writer also criticized reviewers and spectators. He followed the original three letters with three more, ostensibly responses to correspondence from a friend. I’ll be posting these six interesting glimpses into the American stage of the early 19th century separately, starting with Letter III. (The letters, first published in book form in 1824, are available in several Irving anthologies.)

[Readers should note that I haven’t edited Irving’s prose. You’ll encounter here both the quirky 19th-century spelling and diction as well as the idiosyncrasies of Jonathan Oldstyle, a gentleman of “the old school.” I think you’ll find. nevertheless, that Irving’s points still communicate to a 21st-century enthusiast. (Some expressions are defined following the text of the letter.)]

LETTER III

(published 1 December 1802)

Mr. Editor,

There is no place of public amusement of which I am so fond as the theatre. To enjoy this with the greater relish I go but seldom; and I find there is no play, however poor or ridiculous from which I cannot derive some entertainment.

I was very much taken with a play-bill of last week, announcing in large capitals

THE BATTLE OF HEXHAM, or days of old.

Here said I to myself will be something grand—days of old!—my fancy fired at the words. I pictured to myself all the gallantry of chivalry; here, thought I, will be a display of court manners and true politeness; the play will no doubt be garnished with tilts and tournaments: and as to those banditti whose names make such a formidable appearance on the bills, they will be hung up, every mother’s son, for the edification of the gallery.

With such impressions I took my seat in the pit, and was so impatient that I could hardly attend to the music, though I found it very good.

The curtain rose. Out walked the queen with great majesty, she answered my ideas, she was dressed well, she looked well, and she acted well. The queen was followed by a pretty gentleman, who from his winking and grinning I took to be the court fool. I soon found out my mistake. He was a courtier “high in trust,” and either general, colonel, or something of martial dignity.

They talked for some time, though I could not understand the drift of their discourse, so I amused myself with eating pea-nuts.

In one of the scenes I was diverted with the stupidity of a corporal and his men, who sung a dull song, and talked a great deal about nothing: though I found by their laughing, there was a great deal of fun in the corporal’s remarks.

What this scene had to do with the rest of the piece, I could not comprehend: I suspect it was a part of some other play thrust in here by accident.

I was then introduced to a cavern where there were several hard looking fellows, sitting round a table carousing. They told the audience they were banditti. They then sung a gallery song, of which I could understand nothing but two lines:

“The Welchman had lik’d to’ve been chok’d by a mouse,
“But he pulled him out by the tail!”

Just as they had ended this elegant song their banquet was disturbed by the melodious sound of a horn, and in march’d a portly gentleman, who I found was their captain. After this worthy gentleman had fumed his hour out: after he had slapped his breast and drawn his sword half a dozen times, the act ended.

In the course of the play I learnt that there had been, or was, or would be, a battle; but how, or when, or where I could not understand. The banditti once more made their appearance, and frighted the wife of the portly gentleman, who was dressed in man’s clothes, and was seeking her husband. I could not enough admire the dignity of her deportment, the sweetness of her countenance, and the unaffected gracefulness of her action; but who the captain really was, or why he ran away from his spouse, I could not understand. However, they seemed very glad to find one another again; and so at last the play ended by the falling of the curtain.

I wish the manager would use a drop scene at the close of the acts: we might then always ascertain the termination of the piece by the green curtain. On this occasion I was indebted to the polite bows of the actors for this pleasing information. I cannot say that I was entirely satisfied with the play, but I promised myself ample entertainment in the after-piece, which was called The Tripolitan Prize. Now, thought I, we shall have some sport for our money: we will no doubt see a few of those Tripolitan scoundrels spitted like turkeys for our amusement. Well, sir, the curtain rose—the trees waved in front of the stage, and the sea rolled in the rear. All things looked very pleasant and smiling. Presently I heard a bustling behind the scenes—here thought I comes a fierce band of Tripolitans with whiskers as long as my arm.—No such thing—they were only a party of village masters and- misses taking a walk for exercise, and very pretty behaved young gentry they were, I assure you; but it was cruel in the manager to dress them in buckram, as it deprived them entirely of the use of their limbs. They arranged themselves very orderly an each side of the stage; and sang something doubtless very affecting, for they all looked pitiful enough. By and by came up a most tremenduous storm: the lightning flash’d, the thunder roar’d, the rain descended in torrents; however, our pretty rustics stood gaping quietly at one another, till they must have been wet to the skin. I was surprised at their torpidity, till I found they were each one afraid to move first, through fear of being laughed at for their aukwardness. How they got off I do not recollect, but I advise the manager, in a similar case, to furnish every one with a trap door, through which to make his exit. Yet this would deprive the audience of much amusement: for nothing can be more laughable than to see a body of guards with their spears, or courtiers with their long robes get across the stage at our theatre.

Scene pass’d after scene. In vain I strained my eyes to catch a glimpse of a Mahometan phiz. I once heard a great bellowing behind the scenes, and expected to see a strapping Musselman come bouncing in; but was miserably disappointed, on distinguishing his voice, to find out by his swearing, that he was only a Christian. In he came—an American navy officer. Worsted stockings—olive velvet small clothes—scarlet vest—pea-jacket, and gold laced hat—dressed quite in character. I soon found out by his talk, that he was an American prize master: that, returning thro’ the Mediterranean with his Tripolitan prize, he was driven by a storm on the coast of England!

The honest gentleman seemed from his actions to be rather intoxicated: which I could account for in no other way than his having drank a great deal of salt water as he swam ashore.

Several following scenes were taken up with hallooing and huzzaing between the captain, his crew, and the gallery:—with several amusing tricks of the captain and his son, a very funny, mischievous little fellow. Then came the cream of the joke: the captain wanted to put to sea, and the young fellow, who had fallen desperately in love, to stay ashore. Here was a contest between love and honor—such piping of eyes, such blowing of noses, such slapping of pocket holes! But old Junk was inflexible.—What! an American tar desert his duty (three cheers from the gallery) impossible!—American tar forever!! True blue will never stain!! &c. &c. (a continual thundering among the gods).

Here was a scene of distress—here was bathos. The author seemed as much puzzled how to dispose of the young tar as old Junk was. It would not do to leave an American seaman on foreign ground; nor would it do to separate him from his mistress.

Scene the last opened—it seems that another Tripolitan cruiser had bore down on the prize as she lay about a mile off shore.—How a Barbary corsair had got in this part of the world—whether she had been driven there by the same storm, or whether she was cruising about to pick up a few English first rates, I could not learn. However, here she was—again were we conducted to the sea shore, where we found all the village gentry, in their buckram suits, ready assembled to be entertained with the rare show, of an American and Tripolitan engaged yard arm and yard arm. The battle was conducted with proper decency and decorum, and the Tripolitan very politely gave in—as it would be indecent to conquer in the face of an American audience.

After the engagement, the crew came ashore, joined with the captain and gallery in a few more huzzas, and the curtain fell. How old Junk, his son, and his son’s sweetheart settled it, I could not discover.

I was somewhat puzzled to understand the meaning and necessity of this engagement between the ships, till an honest old countryman at my elbow, said he supposed this was the battle of Hexham; as he recollected no fighting in the first piece.—With this explanation I was perfectly satisfied.

My remarks upon the audience I shall postpone to another opportunity.

JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.

* * * *

[The text I’ve used here is from the 1977 Twayne Publishers scholarly edition as reproduced in History, Tales and Sketches (Library of America, 1983). Standard American English continues to change and some practices 210 years ago were different from those we now use. In the 19h century, for instance, words, even in the same piece of writing, were spelled more than one way. Commas sometimes were used to express vocal phrasing, and capitalization was sometimes meant to give force to certain words.

[I don’t want to turn this into a collection of footnotes, but a few terms Irving used in his letters need explanation: Jonathan Oldstyle – Pen names like Irving’s were commonly used by contributors to journals specializing in witty essays and humor; “Oldstyle” is probably meant to suggest ‘old-fashioned’ or ‘out-of-date’; The Battle of Hexham – A romantic comedy by English dramatist George Colman the Younger (1762–1836), written in 1798 and set during the War of the Roses (1455-85); it was performed at New York’s Park Theater on 24 November 1802; the lyrics Irving quotes in the letter are from a song in Act 2, sung by a corporal of the Lancastrian forces; gallery song – Probably a popular song designed to gain applause from the spectators in the gallery; see ‘gallery gods,’ below; drop scene – An unframed curtain (a ‘drop’), lowered to a stage from the flies, used as the backdrop for a scene played while the set upstage is being changed; The Tripolitan Prize – A comic opera based on The Veteran Tar (1801) by composer Samuel James Arnold (1740-1802); the play was a patriotic piece concerning the First Barbary War (1801-03) between the United States and Tripoli; buckram – A stiff cloth made of cotton and occasionally linen used to stiffen clothes; Mahometan – Archaic form of Mohammedan, an obsolete alternative for ‘Muslim’; phiz – The face; colloquial contraction of ‘physiognomy’; Musselman – Archaic form of ‘Muslim’; small clothes (or ‘smallclothes’) – knee breeches or knickers; prize master – An officer in charge or command of a captured vessel; the gods – The “gallery gods” were spectators seated in the upper gallery, the cheapest, unreserved seats, near the clouds painted on the ceiling; known for direct and uncompromising reactions to the performances.

[Letters IV through VIII will follow over the next weeks. Come back to ROT to read what else Washington Irving, AKA Jonathan Oldstyle, had to say about New York theatergoers at the turn of the 19th century.]

'A Disappearing Number' (Lincoln Center Festival 2010)

On Friday, 16 July, Diana and I met uptown at the David H. Koch Theater, the former New York State Theater, at Lincoln Center to see A Disappearing Number by the London-based theater troupe Complicite. (Home of New York City Ballet and New York City Opera, the Koch was renamed in 2008 when its renovation was initiated with a grant from the billionaire philanthropist. Part of the campus-wide reconstruction, the theater reopened in 2009.)

Founded in 1983 as the Théâtre de Complicité by Simon McBurney and two friends who were all trained in the physical theater style of Jacques Lecoq, Complicite has become the vision of McBurney, its artistic director. It works collectively to create its productions, usually based on non-dramatic material—though not always (Ionesco’s The Chairs was a hit on Broadway in 1998), but McBurney is nearly always the director and shaper of the stage performance. Complicite is firmly in the world of avant-garde and makes extensive use of multi-media and technical effects for its productions, especially projections. I last saw the company in ‘98 at an earlier Lincoln Center Festival with The Street of Crocodiles, the adaptation of a 1934 collection of surrealistic short stories by Polish writer Bruno Schultz, which I recall as being an amazing (and somewhat disorienting) experience. A Disappearing Number, inspired in part by G. H. Hardy’s A Mathematician’s Apology (1941), won the 2008 Laurence Olivier Award for Best New Play.

The short description of Number, which first played in Britain in 2007, is that it’s the tale of self-taught Indian mathematician Srinivasa Ramanujan (1887-1920) and his seven-year collaboration with Cambridge math (or “maths,” as the Brits have it) professor Godfrey Harold Hardy (1877-1947) from the years just before to just after World War I. (The character of Dr. Amita Ramanujan in the U.S. TV series Numb3rs was named for the Indian mathematician.) Like Proof and Jumpers, two other “math plays,” Number isn’t really about mathematics—though it is about numbers, in a philosophical sense. (Wait, it gets denser!) In fact, except for a brief opening set piece, you don’t even have to be able to add or subtract. (There is a math trick at the beginning, too, in which the audience is asked to do some of that—but it’s a demo and you don’t have to participate to get the point. Besides, it’s over quickly.)

Okay, I’m deliberately teasing you. I should say right away that I found this play wonderfully fascinating and intriguing—and I can’t balance my checkbook. I confess, I’m not sure what it’s about thematically—I have some guesses, which I’ll share momentarily, but I’m still searching. Theatrically, however, it’s one of the most engaging productions I’ve seen in a long time. If you’ve read some of my other articles on theater and performance, you’ve run into my personal criteria for “good theater”: it has to do more than tell a story, and it must be theatrical. (I’ve defined ‘theatrical’ before, too: using all the attributes of live performance. It’s akin to what Tennessee Williams called “plastic theater” except that he put it in the control of the dramatist and I put it in the hands of anyone who makes theater. See my essay “’The Sculptural Drama’: Tennessee Williams’s Plastic Theatre,” Tennessee Williams Annual Review no. 5 [2002], http://www.tennesseewilliamsstudies.org/archives/2002/3kramer.htm.) Well, A Disappearing Number meets these criteria in spades. (I should add that a performance can meet the criteria and still not be good theater—Teorema did, or tried to—but if it fails to meet one or both, it can’t be good theater, at least not for me.)

Not everyone agreed with me, though. Charles Isherwood called Number a “quietly mesmerizing play” and an “engrossing inquiry” in the Times, but Michael Feingold of the Village Voice, who doesn’t like Complicite—he characterized the troupe’s work as “a watery paste of image theater and narrative, usually with some kind of scientific or historical material dropped in to provide a hint of substance, and heavily decorated with multimedia effects”—concluded that the play’s “pretty patterns may all mean something mathematically; artistically, they don't.” (Feingold went on to raise objections like why Hardy didn’t hook Ramanujan up with other Indians in Britain and find him some British vegetarians—he named Shaw as a prominent example—to ease the Indian’s cultural disorientation. Please! What’s the point of asking such a question 100 years after the fact? It suffices that Hardy didn’t; that’s not Complicite’s fault! If Feingold wants to indict Hardy, he’s free to try, but it’s hardly a legit criticism of the play.)

The Complicite productions I know of aren’t linear narratives. (I’m not sure you can even discuss linearity in terms of Ionesco because he’s . . . well, absurd. Linearity doesn’t apply. Beckett’s Godot goes around in circles—is that linear? I say it’s apples and pedicabs . . . .) Nevertheless, there is a story—it’s just told . . . ummm, non-linearly. (Even McBurney’s program note is non-linear! I suspect he thinks that way.) Actually, there are two stories that wind together like a DNA helix. One is the factual history of Hardy (David Annen) and Ramanujan (Shane Shambhu) and the Indian mathematician’s odyssey from obscurity in India to prominence in England and back again to India for his death at 32 in 1920. Along the way, Ramanujan changes theoretical math forever in ways that are still being felt today. (Some of the ideas he proposed in 1913 are only now being fully explained.) The other tale is the modern, mid-life love story of Ruth Minnen (Saskia Reeves), a math lecturer at a British university, and Al Cooper (Firdous Bamji), an East Indian-American futures trader from L.A. Narrating both tales, and bridging them, is Aninda Rao (Paul Bhattacharjee), a physicist who, appropriately, specializes in string theory—otherwise known as “the theory of everything.” (I find that cognomen wonderfully arrogant.) The goal of string theory, as Rao explains, is to find how everything in the universe connects to everything else—a suitable perspective for the narrator of a play that jumps across time and space: between India and England; the second decade of the 20th century and the first decade of the 21st; research, creativity, and love; discovery and loss; science and beauty (which, Hardy and the play assert, aren’t so very separate); numbers, words, and emotions; past, present, and future (distinctions, McBurney notes, Einstein said were illusions anyway); infinity and the finite; and other unlikely juxtapositions. In one way, at least, that the play is about math is apt: pure math, after all, deals with real numbers, imaginary numbers, irrational numbers . . . and infinity. An infinity of infinities, as Ruth points out. (I won’t go into it now, but while I found little in A Disappearing Number that connected to David Auburn’s 2000 play Proof, I did find myself thinking of Tom Stoppard’s 1972 Jumpers. In a very broad sense, Number explores dramatically what Jumpers looks at comically.)

Briefly, G. H. Hardy receives a letter in 1913 from a 26-year-old, 20-rupee-a-month clerk in the Madras Port Authority. Ramanujan had written to other mathematicians and been dismissed by every one until Hardy. Not only is he barely educated—he’d had to leave college because he couldn’t pass his non-math courses—with no formal training in math, but he’s proposing theorems that seem on the surface to be crack-brained. One, for instance, is that 1+2+3+4+5+ . . . = -1/12. To most people (like . . . well, me), this makes no sense—but Hardy recognizes it as the application of some advanced developments in Germany, which Ramanujan has apparently lit upon on his own. The Cantabrigian knows the Indian’s not a crank but a genius and invites Ramanujan to come to Cambridge, but Ramanujan’s Brahmin faith doesn’t permit him to travel abroad. Eventually, he finds a way around the restriction and spends seven years with Hardy, making mathematical history. The intuitive, instinctual Indian conjures the insights and the logical, formalist Englishman provides the proofs. Together they push pure math into new realms with discoveries that form the foundation of string theory in the present. Hardy, the painfully reserved don, writes that the collaboration is "the one romantic incident in my life." In 1920, Ramanujan returns to Madras where he becomes ill with a liver infection, which ironically he may have contracted in Britain, and dies before his thirty-third birthday.

Ramanujan, of course, is a truly displaced person: an outsider, an alien, an “other.” He’s an Indian among Brits, a dark-skinned Asian among white Europeans, a vegetarian among meat-eaters, a Hindu among Christians, an unschooled intuitive among highly educated formalists, a young man among the middle-aged. His new colleagues, including Hardy, know little about him beyond his name and, as Rao observes, they even get that wrong. (The Indian genius is called Ram-a-NOO-j’n in the play, though the name should probably be pronounced Ra-MAHN-u-jan—like the TV character.) He has trouble with the British diet, especially the scarcity of fresh vegetables, and the English climate, which is cold and damp for a man from subtropical southern India. While Ramanujan’s spiritual and a devout Hindu—he attributes his insights to his family goddess, Namagiri—Hardy’s a committed atheist. Ramanujan is diffident and a loner, but Hardy’s no help because the Englishman himself is shy and makes friends only with difficulty. Still, both men buck their respective establishments to form the collaboration. Ramanujan defies his Brahmin caste and travels across the ocean to England, making himself an outcast at home; Hardy sponsors his collaborator for a fellowship at the college and membership in the Royal Society despite opposition among his English colleagues because Ramanujan is young, foreign, and uneducated. The displacement disorients Ramanujan so much that he becomes ill and tries to commit suicide by jumping onto the tracks of the London Underground. Nonetheless, their partnership is characterized as the intellectual equivalent of Edmund Hilary and Tenzing Norgay’s mountain-conquering alliance.

As this saga’s unfolding in discontinuous scenes, the story of Ruth and Al plays out. Ruth, who’s inspired by Ramanujan, has just finished lecturing when Al approaches her. He’s wandered into her session and finds himself taken with the math teacher even though he doesn’t understand a thing about numbers. Al pursues Ruth and they eventually marry; Ruth becomes pregnant, but she loses the baby, a tragedy with which she never comes to terms. She makes a solo trip to India to follow Ramanujan’s footsteps and collapses on a train, felled by a brain aneurysm. Al, whose parents were Indian (he was born in the U.S. and had never been to the land of his heritage), travels to India to scatter Ruth’s math books in the Cauvery River, “the Ganges of the South,” thinking it will bring her close to Ramanujan in death—and help him understand what captivated her so much about the math legend. (Feingold points out parenthetically that the play “perhaps unconsciously” links going to India with dying. Now, Al does meet Aninda Rao in India on a journey to do the same mitzva for his aunt’s ashes, but both Al and Rao have traveled to India without perishing! Also, you could say that leaving India is what killed Ramanujan. I’m not inclined to buy Feingold’s correlation.) The two narratives are almost parallels—both romances of a sort, one intellectual and one emotional—though the nationalities are reversed: the suitor in the math romance is British; the pursuer in the “heart” story is Indian(‑American). Further, they also travel in opposite directions: Ramanujan goes west from India to England and then returns home to die; Ruth goes east, followed after her death by Al who metaphorically returns “home.” The terms of the equation are inverted, you might say—but, according to the little math I remember, A+B = B+A. (It’s significant to note that these are patterns, a concept that will turn up momentarily.)

Michael Levine’s set for Number shape-shifts much as the play itself does. It opens on a lecture hall with a long whiteboard that stretches almost across the whole stage on which Ruth is writing an inscrutably complex and apparently endless equation, then morphs into Hardy’s office where he receives Ramanujan’s letter. Rao, who sometimes performs the function of Wilder’s Stage Manager in Our Town, demonstrates that nothing we see is real—except the math. (He amends his assertion quickly as Hiren Chate, the musician, emerges to set up his instruments: the music is real, too, Rao acknowledges.) He proceeds to shift the panels making up the walls, opens doors to nowhere, raises the whiteboard out of sight, and points out that all the people are really actors playing parts. Over the two-hour, intermissionless performance, the set mechanically reconfigures itself like the sci-fi movie Dark City without the menace, shifting from Cambridge to Madras to a hotel room in England to a train in India and to various locations beyond time and place, greatly assisted by Paul Anderson’s fluid lighting. All the while, videos of scenes (like a taxi ride through the streets of Madras), random images, silhouettes and shadows, or equations and numbers are projected on the back of the stage (courtesy of Sven Ortel’s conception). (The white-on-black digits, which one reviewer said seemed to “snow down across the walls” of the set, along with the voice over a PA system counting backwards, kept making me think of Tom Lehrer’s "Wernher von Braun": “’In German oder English, I know how to count down / Und I’m learning Chinese,’ says Wernher von Braun.”)

There is also Indian dance, performed by Shambhu, otherwise appearing as Ramanujan, and Divya Kasaturi, who plays other roles as well. More than the music, which underscores the action, the dance interludes function contrapuntally—moments of pure, but foreign, aesthetics amidst the relentless logic of the math. That the dancers are sometimes dressed in western garb makes the Indian dance sections more exotic and out of place—the way Ramanujan must have felt a lot of the time. The projections—which also include images from an overhead projector in Ruth’s lecture hall displaying images of Al’s hand and a bee he just swatted—aren’t just background pictures but an essential part of the production’s atmosphere and dynamic. The projections are usually accompanied by Indian music (composed by Nitin Sawhney), played live by Chate sitting just off the set at stage right, or the voice-over, sometimes in Hindi, which works like a soundtrack that’s integral to the production, not incidental to it. Together, the voice, music, dance, and projections form an alternative, parallel text. The effect of all the production elements is cumulative—the result, if you’ll pardon a mathematical metaphor, is greater than the sum of the parts. Everything adds a level and even if I can’t define or even describe the effect of each aspect—I may not even have noticed them all—removing one would diminish the whole the way taking off one of a car’s wheels destroys the vehicle’s effectiveness.

As I said, I’m not sure what Number is supposed to mean. Many of the reviews offered interpretations that I didn’t catch. I took away some thoughts I’m not sure were the intended point (which doesn’t make them invalid, or even unwanted—just not the main idea). Feingold of the Voice pretty much dismissed the whole effort, of course, and Isherwood bought into the idea that Rao articulates at the end: “All beautiful theorems require a very high degree of economy, unexpectedness and inevitability,” which Isherwood says is also true of theater and that McBurney meets the requirement. McBurney wrote that the play is as much “enquiry” as narrative “about our relentless compulsion to understand” (not far from what I contend is Stoppard’s prevailing theme), which allows me to free-float unreservedly. A lot of what I came away with—or sat there thinking about as I was watching and listening—were almost random thoughts. In most plays when my mind wanders, it’s because I’m bored or confused. Occasionally, it’s because the play sparks my imagination, starts me on a mental journey and, try as I might, I can’t stop myself. I don’t know if that’s good or bad—it certainly makes it hard to articulate later what I saw and heard—but it can be exhilarating. That’s what happened to me at A Disappearing Number.

I can’t sort all this out in any kind of cogent order, so I’m just going to ramble—the way my mind did while I was watching the show and right after as I was making my way home. (The New York Times reviews of both Number and Teorema came out the next day and I read them on the bus to Washington, starting me off again ruminating on the plays, especially Number.) Writing this report has spurred more thoughts, or connections among some I already had.

At the start of the play, Rao comes out while Ruth is lecturing on numerical series, scribbling ever more fantastical formulæ on the whiteboard. Before Rao shifts the set, he jokes that the play won’t all be like what the math prof is doing. Then he launches into the math gag I mentioned: Pick a number, he tells us. “Now double your number. Add 14 to the new number. Divide this number by 2. Finally, subtract the first number you thought of.” There were laughs in the audience when Rao reveals that we were all now thinking of the number seven. The math is pretty simple, of course (even I figured it out, after all), but the point seemed to be that numbers, even in so silly and simple an application, are magical. Like romance and creativity, they’re mysteries—and that’s what Number explores: the mystery of romance, both intellectual and emotional, and creativity, both artistic and scientific. Feingold complained that we never learn what attracts Al and Ruth to one another since they don’t share her obsession with math. I saw this as part of the mystery of numbers: Al is inexplicably but inexorably drawn first to her lecture, even though he doesn’t understand it, and then to her. Hardy proclaims, “A mathematician, like a painter or a poet, is a maker of patterns” equating the creativity of logic with the creativity of art. Ruth continues the quotation: “[T]he mathematician's patterns must be beautiful.“

Feingold, of course, disparaged the claim to creativity: a math theorem can’t equal the accomplishment of painting Guernica or writing Leaves of Grass, he insisted. I’m not so sure: when I was in college, the hardest course in the curriculum was generally agreed to be organic chem. The prof, an amateur actor and playwright, used to give points on his exams for “elegance,” even if the answer was factually wrong. A scientist, he rewarded creative thinking even over correctness. I reject this particular distinction between science and art. (The debate surfaces even within art. There’s a persistent argument among some whether actors and directors are “creative” or “interpretive” artists. I say it’s an artificial dichotomy.) What Hardy was saying, and what Number illustrates, I believe, is that there are different kinds of creativity. One kind makes something where nothing existed before—that’s what artists do, as Feingold observed. But scientists engage in a different kind of creativity. They discover things that already exist, but they use creative methods to identify them, reveal them, explain them, and use them. How is it possibly not creative when a physicist predicts the existence of particles no one has ever seen because her mind made the logical and reasoned connections that revealed their presence? Or an astronomer who “discovers” a new planet even before it’s rendered visible because he’s interpreted the evidence of its existence creatively? How is it not creative to conceive of such a thing as an imaginary number? Here’s how McBurney reconstructs the conception (a word, you’ll note, we also use to decribe the creation of a baby):

[O]ne day some mathematician simply said, “. . . We need a square root of minus one, and if we imagine it, it will exist.” And so they did. It was a leap of the imagination and they called it “i,” the imaginary number. And this “leap” gave us complex numbers. And without complex numbers, we would not be able to describe electromagnetic behavior or create digital technology in the way that we have. We would have no radio, no television, nor the mobile phone . . . . A leap of the imagination.

It’s not what they discover—it’s how they get there. No, what Hardy’s saying, in McBurney’s rendering, and what the play is meant to show is that aesthetic creativity and intellectual creativity are aspects of the same impulse. We know, for instance, that music, which figures significantly in Number, and math are related; McBurney points out that in the middle ages, people saw music as audible arithmetic. But string theory posits that everything is connected—math and painting and poetry and music and perhaps even love and friendship. (In that TV series, Numb3rs, the main character, a math genius who uses his skills to solve crimes, actually wrote a popular book about the mathematics of friendship and there’s a book on store shelves called The Mathematics of Marriage.) The artist makes things that didn’t exist before; the scientist thinks things that no one had ever thought before. The creativity Hardy sees is the working of the human mind, not the human hand. Archimedes was creative; Columbus was creative; Copernicus was creative; Galileo was creative; Newton was creative; Einstein was creative; Heisenberg was creative; Hawking is creative. Feingold found this to be a “gap in Hardy’s reasoning,” but it’s his definition of creativity that’s crabbed and narrow—and that’s his problem.

The mystery of numbers is also elegant—in its symmetry for example. Whatever’s true on one side of zero is also true on the other. (As I noted, Ruth states that there are an infinity of infinities. For instance, there are an infinity of positive numbers and an infinity of negative numbers. QED.) Numbers are also mysterious and elegant in their vastness. Ruth also invokes the axiom that there are an infinity of numbers between 1 and 2: 1.1, 1.2, 1.3, 1.4, and so on. But there are also an infinity of numbers between 1.1 and 1.2: 1.11, 1.12, 1.13, and so forth. This is where I began flashing onto Jumpers: “Cantor’s proof that there is no greatest number ensures that there is no smallest fraction.”

Ruth carries this consideration further. She asserts to an incredulous Al that 1+1/2+1/4+1/8+1/16 . . . ∞ = 2. It’s not possible, insists Al (to the silent agreement of the audience, I’d wager). Of course, Ruth explains, only at infinity would the series equal 2, otherwise, it only gets closer and closer. Jumpers, again:

[I]t was precisely this notion of infinite series which in the sixth century BC led the Greek philosopher Zeno to conclude that since an arrow shot towards a target first had to cover half the distance, and then half the remainder, and then half the remainder after that, and so on ad infinitum, the result was . . . that though an arrow is always approaching its target, it never quite gets there, and Saint Sebastian died of fright.

Of course, there’s a bit more to this proposition than the mathematical mystery of it. The people in Number are always approaching one another but never quite connecting. Hardy and Ramanujan, though they differ in many significant respects, aren’t precise opposites. In addition to their shared passion for math, they are both solitary men. Yet they never become friends beyond their collaboration. Ruth and Al don’t seem suited to each other, but they do love one another. Yet they don’t really come together, either, sending Al off to search for the missing connection in India after Ruth dies. Like the fractions approaching 2, they never quite get there . . . .

It seems, however, that you can do anything with math, even if it defies ordinary logic and common sense. (And isn’t that magic?) In the world of math, however, it’s still true. And that’s another place my mind went. The infinty of fractions between 1 and 2, for instance, is the source of this thought from Jumpers:

Furthermore, . . . before reaching the half-way point, the arrow had to reach the quarter-mark, and before that the eighth, and before that the sixteenth, and so on, with the result, remembering Cantor's proof, that the arrow could not move at all!

Think about it. Perfectly logical, right? But impossible! The play sets up a dichotomy between pure math and the real world. In our regular existence, numbers represent mundane things we work with every day: money, telephone numbers, taxi registrations, room numbers, time on a digital clock. All those appear in Disappearing Number, some with more import than others. We know what all those mean to us and they don’t seem mysterious or inscrutable. They also don’t always follow the rules. In math, one and one make two. But in life, one woman and one man, say Ruth and Al, can combine to make three—and then, unlike the regular and predictable world of math, three reverts to two and then to one again. In the other narrative, one and one, Hardy and Ramanujan, make impossible discoveries that continue on into an unforeseeable future and proliferate beyond anyone’s ability to predict or even comprehend. The creativity that Feingold doesn’t recognize was the sum of Hardy’s discipline and precision plus Ramanujan’s insight and intuition—and it eventually helped give rise to “the theory of everything.” (How is that not as much a masterpiece of human creativity as Guernica or Leaves of Grass?) But without Hardy, Ramanujan was just a 20-rupee-a-month clerk; and without Ramanujan, Hardy was just a math don. (Hardy spent the remainder of his life after Ramanujan’s death—another 27 years—largely promoting the products of their remarkable collaboration.)

This doesn’t mean that the play is perfect. (McBurney did considerable retuning of the script and production between performances in Europe—where he played Al—and the transfer to the West End.) A few reviewers dismissed Number as insufficiently beefy, relying on too much intellectual verbiage and not enough drama. (This is short of Feingold, who rejected the entire effort.) Coincidentally, that’s the same criticism Tom Stoppard gets—and he’s one of my favorite playwrights. (For the record, I reject the judgment in both instances.) It wasn’t hard to sit for the two hours without intermission, but I always feel that the optimum length for a long one act is 90 minutes. The center of the script could be trimmed, eliminating some of the sections that don’t seem to contribute to the sweep of the play’s principal themes. There’s an extraneous discussion, for instance, of “colony collapse disorder” among bees in America that appears to be presented as a metaphor for the situation of the play, but the scene doesn’t really relate. There are also some ideas that were introduced but weren’t developed or used as strongly as they ought to have been. One, for example, is Al’s profession, a futures broker, which entails, he says, predicting the bad fortune of some enterprise and essentially betting on the failure—but in a play that contends so much with time, past and present in particular, the future orientation of Al’s work seems to have been dropped in for balance and then forgotten.

The star of this show is McBurney, who both conceived it after a friend introduced him to Hardy’s book over a decade ago and directed the company through the creation of the piece and in the resulting production. He’s very practiced, of course, at this kind of highly theatrical presentation; it’s what Complicite does. But that doesn’t mean the actors were mere automatons moved about the stage to make McBurney’s pictures come to life. (The cast did create the text together, after all.) The whole company was good; no one hit a false note, but a few deserve special commendation. Saskia Reeves portrays a touching and warm Ruth who, for all her scientific distance, wants to be a wife and mother—and wants her non-mathematician husband to understand and appreciate her subject. That they never connect makes her all the more engaging as a character. Reeves allows Ruth to be girly, despite the character’s age and intellectuality. Paul Bhattacharjee’s Rao is light-hearted and funny, in contrast with the profundity of his main subject—finding the connectedness of everything in the universe is surely a daunting responsibility!—and lends a palpable humanity to the story of Hardy and Ramanujan that it might otherwise miss. One of the best performances isn’t even visible. After Ruth’s death, Al tries to get her cell phone number (which she makes a deal of when they first meet) transferred to his name, to keep a part of her—a number—close to him. On the phone with “Barbara Jones” at the company’s customer service center, he is exasperated with the lack of comprehension he encounters. Of course, it turns out that “Barbara” is really Lakshmi in Bangalore and, as voiced by Chetna Pandya, provides a delightful progression of obliviousness, understanding, sympathy, and finally empathy with Al’s loss, for she has lost her job when the phone company relocates the call center back to Britain.

[A Disappearing Number was at the Lincoln Center Festival for only five performances, a disappointingly short stay. But it will be part of the National Theatre’s program of live broadcasts of performances to movie theaters (and other venues) worldwide on 14 October.]

'Teorema' (Lincoln Center Festival 2010)

[The Lincoln Center Festival 2010 took place around Manhattan from 7 through 25 July. With my theater companion Diana, I chose two performances from the offerings this year: the Toneelgroep Amsterdam’s Teorema on Governors Island and Complicite’s A Disappearing Number at the Koch Theatre at Lincoln Center. Below is my report on Teorema; my report on Disappearing Number will follow.]

On Thursday, 15 July, my friend Diana and I made our way downtown to take the ferry to Governors Island to see Ivo van Hove’s staging of Teorema for the Dutch theater company Toneelgroep Amsterdam, part of the Lincoln Center Festival. (Toneelgroep is Dutch for ‘theater company.’) The play is an adaptation by van Hove and Willem Bruls, the company’s dramaturg, of the film and novel of the same title by Pier Paolo Pasolini, the controversial Italian poet, writer, and filmmaker who was brutally murdered in 1975 at the age of 53. Van Hove’s been in New York a number of times as an independent director, working with Off-Broadway companies such as the New York Theatre Workshop (More Stately Mansions, 1997, and Hedda Gabler, 2004, both of which garnered him Obies; and Streetcar, 1999). He’s a relatively well-known avant-garde presence in this city’s theater life, so whatever Pasolini had made of his story in 1968, it was pretty certain van Hove’s take wouldn’t be straightforward. (Variety noted, in its review of NYTW’s Hedda, that “van Hove has made his reputation with revivals that run 180 degrees away from your average, typical interpretation of classic text.”) Though himself a Fleming (born in 1958 in Heist-op-den-Berg, Belgium), van Hove’s been director of Toneelgroep Amsterdam, the largest rep company in the Netherlands (and Amsterdam’s official theater company), since 2001.

The venue for this performance, Governors Island, had earlier been the site for a 12-hour LCF piece from Italy, a stage adaptation of Dostoyevsky’s The Demons by Peter Stein. (Van Hove also directed Cocteau’s La Voix Humaine there for the New Island Festival in September 2009.) The space was a commercial warehouse about 20 minutes by foot from the ferry landing. Since the performance was scheduled to start at 7 p.m., we were required to take a ferry from lower Manhattan at 6; the island was still light (and, as it turned out, pretty hot and humid) when we arrived. I’d never been to Governors Island; it’s really only been open to the public for about a year, I believe. The 172-acre island (which includes landfill from the excavation of the Eastside IRT subway tunnels) was an army post from 1783 until 1966 when the Coast Guard took it over. In 1996, the USCG abandoned the station and in 2003, New York State and New York City “bought” the island from the Feds for $1. They still haven’t figured out exactly what to do with it—some proposals have been floated, including some commercial, for-profit use, but decisions haven’t been made—and at present there’s little there aside from the park-like landscape and the spectacular view of lower Manhattan, downtown Brooklyn, New Jersey, and the harbor with the Statue of Liberty prominent to the west and the silhouette of the Ellis Island immigration facility beyond. At night, with the skyline and the East River bridges lit up, the view is worth the free 7-minute trip over. (There are ferries from Brooklyn, too, but they charge a fare.) The problem is, of course, that’s there are almost no facilities there yet, except for a few food carts, swings, and hammocks for relaxing in the relative tranquility of an island in the middle of New York Harbor. Basically, you can hang out, hike the circumference of the island, or pedal the bike path around it (bikes are available to rent if you don’t bring one over). There’s a tour of the old military facilities (which are a National Monument, so the guides are Park Service personnel) and there are some buildings in use for art exhibitions and installations, but otherwise, it’s basically a place for communing.

The island isn’t even open for tourists during the week; it’s public operating hours are Friday through Sunday, from 10 in the morning to 5 on Friday and 7 on Saturday and Sunday. The Lincoln Center Festival performances are by special arrangement and the ferry that took us over and back was a special charter for the LCF audiences. There were LCF guides at the landing to walk us to the warehouse-theater and even golf carts, if you could get on one, for those of us who found the trek a bit of a strain in the heat of the waning day. When I arrived at the Battery Maritime Building at 10 South Street, catty-corner from the Staten Island Ferry Terminal, I found Diana checking with a guard about the boat and the loading procedure. We went into the building next to the slip, mercifully air-conditioned, and heard from the LCF staff mustered there that the boat was going to be late, departing at 6:15, and that the performance would start later to accommodate our arrival if necessary. This was despite the admonition printed right on the ticket that the “ferry departs promptly at 6 pm” (my italics) and the suggestion that we arrive at least 15 minutes earlier than that. So we were stuck at the foot of Manhattan waiting now for 45 minutes instead of half an hour, with no alternative but to hang around until the ferry arrived. (I took the opportunity to eat the sandwich I brought, but I had to do it standing in the waiting area.) As far as I was concerned, this didn’t bode well for the forthcoming performance. (I’d never seen any of van Hove’s work, but the reviews always made me think of one word: self-indulgent. I had reservations about this production already, and I hadn’t even gotten to the island.)

Finally the boat arrived and we boarded as dusk began to descend over the harbor. I can say now, after the fact, that this was the best part of the evening—a seven-minute cruise across a corner of the harbor with the city skyline at our backs, the Statue of Liberty out over the starboard side of the ferry (where we happened to be standing), and the seascape of the working harbor itself spread out before us. (The return ride, in the dark with the lower Manhattan and downtown Brooklyn cityscape lit up, might have tied for the honor of best moment of the evening, but we’d had to sit through the performance by then and that took the edge off some.) In the future, when Governors Island has been developed for visitors more than it is, I’ll wholeheartedly recommend a trip over for an afternoon. Unhappily, unless the city expands the hours past 5-7 p.m. (or you travel in the fall), you’ll miss that evening ride back and the view from the island to the sparkling city over the water. On the other hand, your ride would be free; mine cost $42.50.

Well, I guess I’ve delayed the inevitable as long as I can. I have to tell you about Teorema, and I don’t really know what to make of the production. I’ve never seen Pasolini’s film, which is described as difficult and enigmatic—Variety labeled it surreal—but I know a little about the artist. Somehow, I can’t imagine Pasolini making much of this adaptation of his work, either. Pasolini’s art exuded passion, sensuality, sexuality (he was openly gay, though Teorema was the only film in which homosexuality was openly displayed), and even a little mysticism. His films often revealed considerable anger, too. He was a committed communist—he got into more trouble for his politics than his sexuality, though both caused him a lot of problems in his life—and he despised western middle-class consumerism, a characteristic that was at the base of Teorema. Yet van Hove’s interpretation is cold, emotionless, dispassionate, and unengaging. No one feels anything or, though voices are raised sometimes, shows any emotion. Van Hove incorporated many distancing techniques in his script and his production, as if he were deliberately trying to subvert Pasolini’s heat and fury. The other conclusion would be that van Hove misunderstood the material, which seems unlikely. I’m forced to determine that this was one of those “180 degrees away from your . . . typical interpretation” readings for which van Hove’s known.

I suppose it could be a case of “hot, southern temperament” versus “cold, northern reserve”—but I don’t believe in that dichotomy. At least one reviewer described the central character, a young man who enters the home of the upper-middle-class family and wreaks havoc on their existence, as a Dionysian figure, and I might describe the set and the performance style van Hove created as Apollonian, so perhaps there’s a different dichotomy operating. But I think I’ve gotten ahead of myself: I’m concluding an analysis before I’ve given you any idea what the show looked and felt like. Let me back up and see if I can come back to this in its proper order.

The story of the play (and the movie) is fairly simple: a stranger (called The Guest in the play; in the movie, he’s called The Visitor, played by Terence Stamp) arrives at the home of Paolo (Jacob Derwig), a wealthy businessman, and his family. The Guest (Chico Kenzari), who demands nothing from his hosts, raises romantic and sexual feelings in all the members of the household and has brief affairs with everyone in the house, including the dowdy maid, Emilia (Frieda Pittoors), as well as the teenaged son and daughter, Pietro (Eelco Smits) and Odetta (Hadewych Minis); the wife, Lucia (Chris Nietvelt); and the father. Just as suddenly as he arrives, The Guest departs and the family falls into chaos and destruction. Only the deeply religious Emilia survives the tumult, returning to her home village where she’s reported to have performed miracles. For Pasolini’s film, there are many interpretations offered, but it’s hardly surprising that The Visitor was seen by many critics as a Christ figure (Pasolini said he was God—any God) and the movie was seen as a religious allegory. Other interpreters saw the movie as an evocation of Pasolini’s homosexuality and his struggle to live as a gay man (the writer was forced to flee his hometown, Casarsa, in 1950 and go to Rome to live and work because of a sex scandal); still others asserted that the meaning was political and that Pasolini was condemning capitalism and the Italian bourgeoisie (Paolo, the father, turns his factory over to the workers and gives up his material possessions, even stripping himself naked at a railroad station). If van Hove accepted any of these interpretations, he didn’t put it on stage; he seems to have left the analysis entirely to the spectator without offering any clues or signposts. The stage director left the basic plot intact, but he took the mysticism and passion out.

The staging was minimalist. The set (by Jan Versweyveld, who also did the stark, harsh lighting), an open area covered almost entirely in gray industrial carpeting (walls darker, floor lighter), was sparsely furnished. The three walls were low, about eight or ten feet high, so we could see over them into the “backstage” areas beyond. (This was especially so if, like Diana and I, you sat up high in the raked seating area, arrayed like a proscenium house.) Up center was a doorway through which The Guest entered and exited the world of the family. In the center of the set was a wood-and-chrome table like you’d find in a postmodern boardroom. On the stage right side of the table was a short bench of the same construction; at the upstage end and on the left were single-seat backless stools that matched. This was clearly the dining table of the home, but it was also the place where the family gathered when they all appeared onstage together. (No food was actually served; much of the performance was pantomime with the exception of a few specially chosen activities.) Around the rest of the open set, designating other rooms of the house, were carpeted pallets (some light grey like the floor, others dark like the walls) representing beds (for the bedrooms of Paolo and Lucia, Pietro, and Odetta) and a couch (for the TV room up right, where Lucia spent much of her down-time). There were no rounded corners or soft edges, either; all the construction was right-angled and hard—even with the carpet upholstery, which was also the kind of material you’d find in a corporate office, not an upper-middle-class home. There was no character or personality to any of this; it was institutional, corporate, cold. This was not a welcoming or comforting home.

Other than those set pieces, the only set elements were several technical stations built into the side walls: two stereo turntables down right and left and two computer stations about center right and left. Aside from the techies who worked this equipment, these stations also functioned as the “offstage” neutral areas for the characters who never actually left the playing area. Hand props, such as Pietro’s guitar and Emilia’s vacuum cleaner, hung on the walls near the tech stations as well. Except for obstructed views because of structural pillars within the set area, the actors were always visible even when they weren’t “on.” (Even when Paolo went to work, he didn’t actually leave the acting area.)

Also in the space, principally in chairs right of center, was a string quartet (with the peculiar name of Bl!ndman [new strings]—and that’s no typo). They played live music (composed by Eric Steichim) like a soundtrack, but every now and then, some characters interacted with them a little. I read, however, that the music in Pasolini’s film was minimal and subtle. That was far from the case on the stage. The production was accompanied by a blanket of loud, blaring recorded music, contrasted with the occasional softer strings of the quartet. The sound was almost constant; if not from the sound system then from Pietro’s guitar, which he played twice in unmelodic screeches. The boy may be a sensitive artists beneath the surface, as we discover later, but not when it comes to music.)

The acting was essentially affectless. Characters might have raised their voices to suggest emotions such as anger or fear, but it was just volume; there was little emotional content to the voice. The actors’ bodies were similarly unengaged and they were blocked without regard to the audience, it seemed, because they often faced upstage or took other obscured positions. Along with the pantomime—which wasn’t used often; most of the business wasn’t even indicated at all—most of the text was delivered as narration, each character describing what he or she was doing, saying, or thinking. These speeches, drawn apparently from the novel Pasolini derived from his screenplay (which had almost no dialogue at all), were voiced interior monologues. (Some lines, all in Dutch with supertitles, were delivered twice, once in third person and then again in first person.) All the actors wore headsets, which not only made them all look like techies doing a sound check but it meant that all the lines came from the same source, whichever loudspeaker was nearest each spectator, regardless of who was speaking or where the actor was on the set. I heard everything from above my left shoulder and sometimes had to search the stage, occasionally with the help of opera glasses, to determine who was speaking. This technique also evened out the speech so that any highs or lows introduced by the actor was equalized by the tech.

There wasn’t any actual dialogue in the sense of one character addressing another and receiving a response. The only interaction among the characters, almost exclusively between one of the family members and The Guest (who spoke very little—he did have some exchanges with Emilia—since most of the narration by the others was about him), was physical—but always emotionless. Considering that much of the story was about sex, there was a fair amount of nudity. But even this was peculiar: only the men actually stripped; the women all mimed undressing but remained clothed even during the simulated sex. I have no idea what van Hove intended the dichotomous nudity to mean, except perhaps an allusion to Pasolini’s homosexuality. (As I mentioned, Teorema was the only movie in which Pasolini confronted gay sex, though many critics also noted that the film was omnisexual. The camera, however, apparently lingered on Stamp’s crotch and van Hove may be invoking this aspect of the cinema in his staging.) Although in the film, the sex was considered shocking in its day—the Catholic Church condemned the film and the Italian court tried Pasolini for obscenity—van Hove’s portrayal was bloodless; even the love-making was stylized and dispassionate. All the action in the play was demonstrated, as if van Hove were presenting a literal interpretation of the acting Brecht described in his writings. (The narrative line delivery also suggested a literal-minded take on some of Brecht’s ideas—such as when he’d tack on a “she said” to the end of a line.) I can’t say for certain that van Hove was using Brechtian techniques—I haven’t read anywhere that he’s a follower of Brecht—but if he was, it’s not my understanding of the German theorist’s concepts. (I won’t go into a disquisition on Brechtian theater techniques according to my lights, but I will assert that his ideas were much more complex and nuanced than van Hove’s application appeared to me.)

Those are the distancing techniques I mentioned earlier: the cold, corporate set; the affectless acting and narrative line delivery; the amplification of the lines; the blaring music and the on-set quartet; the lack of engagement between and among the characters. In my understanding of Brecht, his distancing tactics were intended to keep the audience from identifying with the characters and the situation on an emotional level. (He also didn’t want the actors to connect with their characters the way Stanislavsky wanted his actors to.) This was all done so that the spectators would look on the play as a new experience, not one they could relate to from their past, and see the details afresh and analyze the circumstances intellectually, not emotionally. Van Hove’s technique was enervating in the end—I didn’t relate to anything in any way; the performance had no effect on me beyond a case of fanny fatigue. In a recent post on ROT, I offered the opinion that using “alienation” as a rendering for Brecht’s Verfremdung is a mistranslation and inaccurate. That’s because he never intended to “alienate” his audience in the sense of making them hostile or antagonistic. I think that van Hove’s distancing procedures did just that, however. At least it did for me and Diana. If the director was trying to employ an adaptation of Brecht’s Epic Theater practices, he’s misapplied them. (If he was doing something else, then he left me in the dust somewhere.)

Most of what van Hove put on stage (or suggested) was straightforward and literal; Elisabeth Vincentelli called it “sterile and obvious” in the New York Post. If there was any symbolism or allegory in the play, it was derived from Pasolini’s work (with the possible exclusion of the nudity dichotomy). There were, however, two exceptions I noted. If there was a Dionysian-Apollonian divide invoked by van Hove’s staging, there was also an allusion to humankind’s bestial side, or at least the similarity between humans and animals. Throughout the play, the TV screen on the upstage right wall was tuned to Meerkat Manor, the British-made cable documentary series (aired on the Animal Planet channel) that anthropomorphized the little animals, encouraging a comparison with human society. Lucia, the family’s mother, retreated to the TV room as a way to get away from her motherly and wifely obligations, but even when she wasn’t watching TV, the show was running. The program and the meerkats were never mentioned in the text (Lucia did explain about using the TV to get away) and I’m still not sure what this was meant to convey. (Variety called it “baffling.”) The other animal image was more straightforward: shortly after the arrival of The Guest, the family dog burst into the home through a doggy door at stage right. He playfully chased The Guest all over the set, frenetically running from one corner of the space to another, up on the furniture, barking and grabbing at The Guest, until he ran back out the portal. (We met the dog, a Belgian shepherd, and his handler on our way off the return ferry. He’s the most mellow, even-tempered, and friendly dog; obviously he was well trained for that brief, frantic escapade.) For me, the dog scene, which was also never mentioned, was intended to show that The Guest had a magical effect on all the creatures in the house, that all the living beings, not just the people, were instantly attracted to him. When The Guest left the family, and they regressed into chaos, tearing the home to pieces, the implication was that they’d reverted to their animalistic nature, which they’d been suppressing in their ordered, empty, and meaningless bourgeois lives.

In the conclusion of both the play and Pasolini’s movie, the chaos that destroys the family following the departure of The Guest/Visitor leads the members to follow their true, formerly concealed and suppressed destinies. Pietro, the son, previously a repressed and friendless teen, leaves to become an artist; Odetta, the timid and fearful daughter with an Electra fixation on her father, sinks into catatonia; Lucia, the sexually frigid mother who had isolated herself from her family, pursues young men on the street; Paolo, the father who went through his life and work with a feeling of dissociation and disinterest, turns his business over to his employees and rids himself of his material possessions, wandering naked through the detritus of the destroyed home. Even the religious maid, Emilia, the only character who remains calm after The Guest’s departure, is affected: she returns to her village where she seems to perform miracles.

It may be unfair to judge the performances in Teorema since the production was almost certainly completely the construction of director van Hove. Nonetheless, I want to make a few points about the actors. They may have been little more than automatons which van Hove programmed, in which case they mostly did what he wanted well enough, but two actors stood out. First, Chico Kenzari as The Guest couldn’t remotely compete with Terence Stamp in the film. As I said, I’ve never seen Pasolini’s film, but I have seen Stamp in other work. He was 29 when he made Teorema and his performance was variously described as “magnetic,” “mesmerizing,” and “otherwordly.” Kenzari’s work was none of these; the Village Voice, saying that Kenzari “offers little charisma,” describes him as a “blank cipher.” That encapsulates my response, although it suggests that van Hove may have meant The Guest to be a blank slate on which the other characters inscribe their own images. If that’s what the director intended, it didn’t work for me. Kenzari, who looks quite different from the other actors (he’s swarthy, bearded, lithe; they’re pale, smooth, stiff), was more like a living prop to me, leaving a huge hole in the middle of this production. (It may be irrelevant, but while Stamp is a very good-looking man, and was an almost pretty youth, Kenzari is not physically attractive in my estimation.) On the positive side, however, Eelco Smits imbued Pietro (the son) with a dash of passion—possibly the only one in the show—especially when he was showing The Guest his art books and, in the end, painting vigorously on panels that were the remnants of his former home. Though quite a bit older than his character (Smits is 33), he nicely portrayed Pietro’s awkwardness when he finds himself attracted to The Guest and, when he’s naked with the stranger, he remains physically stiff, hiding his genitals with his hand or his guitar. (It may be significant, too, that Pietro is the most complex and interesting character in the story. I suspect that Pasolini saw the young man as his avatar—Pier and Pietro are, I believe, both versions of the same name—and put more of his own experiences and sentiments into the creation.)

The film and play’s title, Teorema, means ‘theorem’ in Italian. Pasolini (and van Hove by default) seems to have posed the hypothesis that if the bourgeoisie could somehow be relieved of their inhibitions and societal masks, they'd go nuts, collapse, and turn into artists and mystics. Given Pasolini’s politics, the film may have made a better case for this theorem, especially if the film was as enigmatic and mystical as the reports have it. But van Hove’s literal and direct demonstration of the disintegration, with all the distancing tactics he employed, doesn’t convince me that this is any more than the portrait of one seriously dysfunctional family and the force (whatever he is) that came along one day and burst their protective bubble. Most bourgeois manage quite well, thank you—and even do some good now and then I believe.

In the end, however, no matter how intriguing this description makes it sound, the resulting performance, which was only 100 minutes (fortunately), was enervating and impressed me as intellectually pretentious. Pauline Kael said the film was the kind “that looks like art”; I’d apply the same characterization to the play. Several reviewers put some of the blame on the differences between the late ‘60s of Pasolini’s movie, when sexual freedom and the open expression of sexuality were startling and provocative notions, and the end of the first decade of the 21st century, when those ideas are no longer shocking or even new. Even Pasolini’s avid anti-capitalism and his disgust with the bourgeoisie and their complacency is far from a new theme for popular art. I suppose that could be part of van Hove’s problem, but I’d put more of the blame on his artistry (or lack of it, if you wish). What Pasolini seems to have accomplished with innovative and interesting techniques (the lack of dialogue, for instance) and cinematic tactics (close ups on the actors’ faces) van Hove didn’t or couldn’t employ. He made everything literal and then, to disengage us even more from the action, he used deliberately distancing and alienating (in the non-Brechtian sense) techniques. Brecht wanted us to think about what we saw, not react with emotion; Pasolini wanted us to become as enraged and passionate as he was. But van Hove just ended up making me want to go home.

In his New York Times review of The Demons, the all-day performance that preceded Teorema on Governors Island, Charles Isherwood bemoaned his “door-to-door time commitment” of 15 hours. Mine was a scant 5½ hours for the 100-minute performance. That’s a rather large investment, exacerbated by the dearth of amenities on the island, considering how little reward it brought. Under the circumstances, I think that using Governors Island as a performance venue was little more than gimmick-siting. (The LCF brochure’s description of The Demons characterizes the Governors Island site as “in feeling, a world apart” from the rest of New York City. I find that a little hyperbolic, but even if it weren’t, once you’re inside the warehouse-theater, it’s irrelevant anyway.) Had I appreciated the play better, I might feel different, but I know there are more accessible spaces available that don’t take as much effort or time to reach. Past large-scale shows I’ve seen were at the Park Avenue Armory (where the RSC will recreate their 930-seat Stratford theater next summer for LCF), Damrosch Park, and even the Park Slope Armory in Brooklyn.

[The Italian word teorema means ‘theorem.’ That’s a propitiously coincidental fact because the subject of Complicite’s A Disappearing Number, the second show I saw in the Lincoln Center Festival, is theoretical mathematics. The play centers on several theorems of Srinivasa Ramanujan, a brilliant, self-taught Indian mathematician. Come back to ROT in the next few days to read my report on that production.]