Stage Sets Pt. 2

I wanted to continue a meditation on stage sets, about which I began writing last week. With those previous comments in mind, it's worth noting that I've now performed five shows (as of yesterday) on that set in Willimantic. In that time I've come to know its contours, blind spots, creaks, and warped boards as well as (or better than) any location I've frequented in the past few months. Considering this description of the set I think it would make a good blog post to speak about ephemeral homes.

This concept doesn't apply only to stage sets. In my opinion dorm life may also be considered "ephemeral" living. Because I live on campus and spend my time away from my dorm on a stage, I find myself in a situation I've not often encountered in my life: I have two temporary homes and no permanent home. Looking at this setup from an outsider's perspective, I would imagine that the person in my shoes would feel uprooted, without grounding, and a little lost. However, having lived in this transitory state for the past few years, I can say with certainty that I've grown accustomed to it. Dorm rooms are the same temporal homes as stage sets in their willingness to give you up in order to accommodate the next person. Students move in and out of dorms from year to year while stages see ten or more sets per year, hosting actors for weeks or even days at a time. The meaningful objects and devices of one's life can easily move from dorm to dorm, while stages need only new layers of paint and trimmings to seem fresh again. This comparison leads me to believe that the stage as a home doesn't care much for its inhabitants: it's the meaning with which we imbue these places that makes them so uncannily ours.

The Apartment Pt. 2

Now that we've all but finished viewing The Apartment I realize that seeing the film in halves had its benefits. Around the middle of the movie, when Fran overdoses on sleeping medication in Baxter's apartment, Baxter undergoes a distinct shift in character. In the first half of the story it's Baxter's supervisors who truly own his apartment, but when his boss makes him responsible for Fran's health during the second half Baxter takes the reins.

It's interesting that it takes love for Baxter to claim ownership of his home. By claiming ownership I mean forcing out a supervisor who attempts to "christen" his apartment while he's still there nursing Fran, as well as using the place and its amenities for himself. These actions stand in contrast to occasions earlier in the film when Baxter simply vacates his apartment for his superiors' sexual endeavors at a moment's notice. Because Fran is the one to turn this habitual abandonment around, I believe that all Baxter needed in order to assert himself was someone to care about. Once he is given responsibility for a human Baxter takes responsibility for his apartment and himself. It's almost as if Fran were a key, something that Baxter had sorely missed earlier in his life. Not necessarily her womanliness--after all, Baxter brings a girl back to the apartment before discovering Fran--but that innate sense of affectionate duty that accompanies love. Because Fran's overdose is the catalyst for every outward event that occurs in the second half of the film, it must lead to this inward shift in Baxter.

Stage Sets Pt. 1

I was cast in a play in Willimantic at the beginning of this semester. On my way to rehearsal I often think about how stage sets as "places" might be an interesting idea to explore in my blog. With the production now in the heart of its run, I think it's about time to write a bit about this notion.

I've done theatre since the seventh grade. In all that time I can't think of a single onstage set that I have not gradually come to think of as my home. Whether it's the Forest of Arden from Shakespeare's As You Like It or a mock steam engine from The Wind in the Willows, there's something about inhabiting these spaces over a period of months that makes them something greater than plywood and paint. Each actor with whom I've ever worked has his or her spot onstage that he or she occupies more often than other people. These spots become territory. They are marked by spare costumes, personal water bottles, used sweat rags, difficult lines scrawled on nearby set pieces, broken pens and pencils, and an array of other physical details that bring a sense of "dwelling" to the location. It is not uncommon for actors to spend three, four, or five hours a day occupying these spaces. Yet after a number of months they are torn down, unhinged, folded up, and stored until next year, during which they will host new actors and acquire new meanings. The great number of hours one actor spends in his or her spot is erased from existence.

Despite the ever-changing nature of these spots onstage, I find them to be true places. Non-places are temporary according to many of the theorists we've read in class, but all of those other traits (identity, genuineness) are present. What's more, I feel terrible dismantling my "spot" when a play is over, which goes to show that temporariness can actually create true places, not prevent them.

The "Apart"-ment

Yesterday we began watching Billy Wilder's The Apartment in class and I wanted to record a few observations and reflections from the portion that we've watched so far. The theme of the film appears to be possession and ownership: C. C. Baxter owns his apartment by deed, but doesn't see enough of it to call it his property because he's always letting his supervisors borrow it for their sexual rendezvouses. This causes him distress not only out of sleeplessness, but also (though he doesn't seem to acknowledge it yet) out of a sense of belonging. He spends much of the day in his office complex, certainly a non-place by the look of it. Every desk and row on his floor is the same as the others and every person does the same repetitive tasks. Because no such environment could inspire a sense of belonging in any sane person, Baxter's apartment should be a haven for ownership and personal bearing. This is not the case, however. While his coworkers leave work for their homes, Baxter stays on at the office, sitting alone at his desk in an empty room. His sense of belonging is thrown off by both having to remain in this non-place longer than anyone else and also by often not being able to reenter his apartment when his supervisors are done with it for the night. Afterwards Baxter is left to pick up their garbage in his own place, which only further entrenches the notion that he doesn't belong anywhere. In a world where one's comfort is often determined by material means, not having this sense of ownership must be upsetting for him.

Here There Be Horses

Despite all of the social revelations that come towards its end, I found the most interesting part of Book 4 of Gulliver's Travels to be Gulliver's first encounter with the Houyhnhnms. Two of this breed of intelligent horses appear to Gulliver as he hides from the Yahoos (after making enemies of them with the flat of his sword). One approaches him, examines him, and calls on his partner to decide what to do with him. In the meantime Gulliver reflects on the grace and knowledge of these horses, remarking that breeders of such wise beasts must be very smart. He talks of going to find the dwellings of this breeding race of men, unaware that humans are the true Yahoos in this episode.

What intrigues me most about this encounter is the ease with which Gulliver casts assumptions about the Houyhnhnms. Being a man of science, and having just finished a voyage thematically focused on the pros and cons of scientific inquiry and rational thought, one would think that his character might regard the two horses objectively before considering their human masters. If they exhibit the traits of wisdom, why not go regard them as sentient beings? Why frame one's observations inside conventional laws of nature when one's past three voyages should discredit with this train of thought? I took from this instance that one ought not take for granted what others take or don't take for granted.

Perhaps the most interesting part of Heidegger's "Building, Dwelling, Thinking" is his definition of the term "mortal" in relation to the concept of dwelling. The writer breaks it down into four components, which state that in order to be mortal one must "save the earth," leave natural elements like the sun and moon to their own devices, do not attempt to influence divinity, and strive to live life well in expectation of death. Combined these items constitute what Heidegger defines as dwelling on this earth.

I found this interesting because I've only ever thought of dwelling as a noun to mean a physical "home." Never had I considered it as a term to describe our mortality. When I think of the word "dwelling" I think of caves, places with light or fire, where people can sleep and keep warm. To regard it as a figurative noun is to connect the idea of the home with our survival. I'm reminded of that list of basic necessities without which man cannot survive: food, water, clothing, shelter, etc. The shelter is the one that Heidegger targets, though I've always thought of shelter as the weakest addition to that list. Is it really that important for man to have a roof over his head to survive? Or does Heidegger's definition of the dwelling make this the most important necessity of them all? I can see how all of the other requirements of survival could fit under the umbrella of "dwelling," but do not believe that "shelter" means the same thing. The former transcends physical needs, while the latter remains there.

Another Swing at Will

After taking a closer look at the so-called "heath" in King Lear, I thought it might be interesting to take a look at another use of space in Shakespeare, namely the Forest of Arden in As You Like It. (Last week I finally saw Kenneth Branagh's 2006 film adaptation, which does some cool stuff with this space.) The forest stands in stark contrast to the court of France, from which all of the play's major characters hail. At the start of the piece one may note that most of these people are snobbish, materialistic, self-centered, and greedy. It seems as if the atmosphere of the court, in combination with the greed of an uncle, the jealousy of an older brother, and the neediness of some of the women, make the civilized world a very untamed place. This stands in opposition to the Forest, whose inhabitants enjoy peaceful contemplation and tranquil happiness in the heart of nature.

It's a theme that literature has seen before and after the composition of the play: can nature be less wild than the world of men? Once the characters from the French court escape to the forest, they begin to see what is truly essential in life. To offer affection to another person, to have that affection reciprocated: these become the only things that matter. The disputes of the court, and even the reasons for which the characters left it in the first place, are made unimportant in light of these simple virtues. The Forest is described as a rough and unorganized place, but somehow the lack of order brings about the opposite effect in people. There are not any malevolent distractions, such as gambling and fighting for possessions, out in the woods, which I take to mean that once temptation is removed, we return to a more primal, thoughtful way of life. Stated simply, our definition of "order" is what nature would consider "chaos" and vice versa.