The worst thing that could happen

My interest perked up quickly as soon as we started entering the kind of “sci-fi dystopia” topics in this class (simulacra, The Uncanny, commercialism), and I’ve been keeping up with those thoughts quite a bit lately. On the way to West Monroe, I was listening to the “You Are Not So Smart” podcast, which is about various topics “in the realm of self-delusion,” and this specific episode was based on technology and the logical fallacies people make. Basically, as new technologies are created, if they affect the way we deal with one another, there become two distinct groups on the topic—people who believe that the new technology will push everyone into a wonderful utopia where all of our current problems are nonexistent, and people who believe it will be the end of life as they know it. It comes down to two logical fallacies—“argumentum noventatis” (the appeal to novelty) and “argumentum ad antiquitam” (the appeal to tradition). The former is basically the false belief that something new is inherently superior and the latter is the opposite, that the traditional ways of the past are not broken and therefore do not need fixing. All of this to say that, historically, when people claim that new technology will make everything perfect or disastrous, they’ve generally been wrong and the effect has been somewhere in the middle.

So where does that fit in with our doomsday view of Facebook, commercialism, and commodification? While I’m not particularly fond of the idea of short-form Tweet-sized messages being the ideal mode of communication, or of the essence of a human character being boiled down to which corporations they “like,” I can’t help but think that, generally, doomsdays don’t happen. Theoretically, the world 20 years from now will be shallower than it is today or than 20 years ago. It’s obviously reasonable to assume that there will still be people with the capacity for complex thought who won’t be constantly feeding into the new Young-Adult blockbuster hype machine. If, on the other hand, literally all the world becomes engrossed in a shallow, 140-character existence… well, I will probably enjoy it, because I will be as shallow as anyone else.

I have opinions on this.

For an example of entertaining theatre that had absolutely no truth to it, I really have to go with last spring's production of Vampire Cowboy Trilogy. As stage manager, this was actually the only show I've worked on that I enjoyed almost every single night--it was a joy for everyone involved, and it seemed to be a joy for the audience, as well. Director Michael Mentz proposed the play with this in mind--"I want to direct a play that doesn't make me hate myself." Honestly, I really think it succeeded in this regard. I have high opinions of all three scenes and the interludes. However, after a few weeks of rehearsal, it really did call to me that, honestly, the show was pretty meaningless. Personally, even if a show is pure comedy, there has to be some form of truth or honesty or relevance for the thing to become worthwhile, and I think Vampire Cowboy Trilogy actually showed itself up with the incredible second act. "The Adventures of Captain Justice and Liberty Lady" was my favorite segment by a mile because it actually brings up some concerns about modern superhero storytelling (i.e., that everything is getting darker, less campy, and more violent because that is what audiences want to see). It's not a particularly profound theme, but there is some substance there, and it really makes that piece stand out so much more than the other two.

Plays that convince me of something "true," however, seem to be less common. The naturalistic-ish pieces that I've seen performed here (August: Osage County, Clybourne Park, Stick Fly) still left me keenly aware that I was watching was theatre. I supposed I'll never achieve that suspended disbelief for a long time (although I do actually get that sometimes with wrestling), but it's certainly the case that August: Osage County and Clybourne Park left me with a feeling of truth. For August, the family dynamics and mannerisms are so real, almost everyone who has seen it remarked that it was like a family reunion. The fact that it included our most ambitious and naturalistic set also helped in that regard. Clybourne Park really felt that it had something to say about race relations, and it was a statement that is not heard very often--that people are too PC and afraid to have the argument. In contrast (and here's where I may be outing myself as some kind of close-minded or bad person), but I didn't see that same level of truthfulness out of Stick Fly because, to me, I have a hard time imagining that it is more difficult to grow up rich and black than to grow up poor and white, which seemed to be an implication of the script. I know I'm reading into that too much--what I mean to say is, as a salty, classist person from a working-class family, it is hard for me to listen to complaints from rich people about growing up rich. That doesn't mean that the arguments and complaints aren't valid, because I know that everyone has their difficulties and money can't solve every issue. However, I can't help but feel some of the monologues started with "Here's what sucks about being rich." So, ultimately, the question of what rings as truthful is answered on an entirely individual basis. I have no doubt that an upper-class black family would find Stick Fly to be incredibly truthful.

There is certainly a difference between naturalist/documentary theatre and "truthful" theatre. Especially if a production is trying to tell an unstated or challenging truth, the ideal way to do so, in my opinion, is with a very stylized slant. The style serves the function, after all. I have no doubt that I would find Next to Normal (with all of its impromptu singing, throwaway jokes, and melodrama) much more truthful than any given documentary theatre about manic-depression. In my opinion, every production should be aiming for some element of truth, and the stronger, the better, but every production certainly should not have to be naturalistic or verbatim.

"I will not rest until this flag is shat upon."

The above video is part of a sketch from the tremendous HBO comedy show Mr. Show. In the sketch, David Cross plays a performance artist known as "Spank." Spank's intended performance for this crowd is to defecate on the American flag, an act of defiance against what he believes is the United States defecating on him. Unfortunately, he gets too nervous to move his bowels, so he instead tries to urinate on the flag, but, again, he is not able. He also cannot successfully vomit on the flag, and after one final failed attempt to defecate on it, Spank takes the flag to court for not letting him defecate on it.

The performative aspect of this sketch is Spank's defiling of the flag, but the twist is all in David Cross's portrayal of the character. If the typical theoretical performative act is to defecate on a flag as an act of rebellion/disgruntlement, the tweak of being unable to do so is a satire of performance artists. This is foreshadowed by the ineffectual, nonsensical slam poetry before the act (also, the fact that it is Mr. Show, and nothing is taken seriously). Cross is criticizing performance artists who are edgy for the sake of attention, as opposed to spreading a message ("I am a taxpayer who makes a living--a good living--shitting on things.") This is the pretty clear joke as soon as Cross steps onstage.

However, in true Mr. Show fashion, another complication is added when Spank cannot complete his job, presumably due to nervousness (although a lack of fiber and caffeine is also suggested). This performance artist is either afraid or unprepared. The only reason I'm entirely certain that the joke is either "performance art is bad" or "this performance artist is bad" and not "this performance artist's biological functions aren't working on cue" is the implication that this is Spank's whole act (i.e., shitting on flags, religious icons, etc.), which is a pretty dim performative act to begin with.

Plus, really, performance art is an untapped comedy goldmine, especially for a show with as much freedom as Mr. Show had.

EXTREME DEFINITIONS OF PERFORMANCE!!!

Upon reading this introduction, the idea that really stuck out to me is Carlson’s suggestion that all conscious action is a type of performance. Of all the definitions given, this makes the most sense to me, even if it’s in an inclusive, “All the world’s a stage” kind of way. Carlson says, “The difference between doing and performing, according to this way of thinking, would seem to lie not in the frame of theatre vs. real life but in an attitude—we may do actions unthinkingly, but when we think about them, this introduces a consciousness that gives them the quality of performance.”

I mentioned in class that Scott and I talked about this in regards to going to CVS—99% of the time, when one is out in public, purchasing toiletries, libations, or peanut butter-filled pretzel nuggets, one is performing the character of “regular, not-weird human being.” Despite how much I may want to mumble to the cashier, or how much I feel the urge to bite my fingernails or dance like an idiot, I will ultimately do none of these things, as I have to consciously speak up to the cashier in order to obtain my peanut butter-filled pretzel nuggets, and there is likely a policeman outside waiting to curb my hooligan dance-shenanigans. 

No matter what “auto-pilot Jordan” wants to do in a given social situation, this is usually turned down so I can consciously choose to do something more interesting, sanitary, or “good,” as in “what other people think would be a good thing for me to do.” I would certainly agree that it always feels like performance, especially the more one continues to think about his actions.

With that in mind, I’ll actually be going in a different direction with my fringe theatre of choice—I feel like having my primary example be “going to CVS” would be stretching our definitions of performance a little too thin in my world. Therefore, I’m going to introduce to you a world most of you are likely unaware of—deathmatch wrestling. Deathmatch wrestling is similar to regular professional wrestling, but with an emphasis on weapon-based violence, bleeding, and extreme “bumps”—falls from huge distances or onto dangerous surfaces. The stipulations for deathmatches can be anything, from including barbed-wire, light tubes, or even “Fans Bring the Weapons.” One of my favorites is “Double Hell, Light Tubes, Electrified Light Bulbs, Electrified Light Tubes, Barbed Wire Board, Light Tube Caribbean Spider Web, Ladder & Lobsters Match.”

The video I’m linking is a deathmatch between Jon Moxley (a personal favorite) and Brain Damage (possibly not the most subtle wrestling name).  This match is from CZW’s “Tournament of Death” card, where the winners of each match continue forward into the tournament, where the stipulations get increasingly dangerous. This is a first-round match, and it is a “Dining Room Deathmatch,” a stipulation for which there is certainly no codified rulebook.  Warning—the video is very graphic, as there is a ton of weapon violence (standard wrestling fare such as tables and chairs, but also plates, forks, saws, etc.) and blood, especially at the 12:40 mark, where Moxley takes a (rigged) electric saw to the forehead.

Let me try to justify this as performance in all three ways that Carlson suggests. (1) The public display of technical skill—this is slightly harder to argue in deathmatches than in traditional professional wrestling, but the same idea is still there. The athleticism is there (more for Moxley than Mr. Damage), but the performance also requires technique in regards to how to fall, how to not hurt your opponent (arguable, in this case), how to play to the crowd, and how to blade oneself (taking a razor to the forehead to cause bleeding). (2) Exemplifying “restored behavior”—again, this is harder to argue than in traditional professional wrestling, but the elements are there. It is tempting to assume that Brain Damage and Jon Moxley went into this career because they are insane sadists, but that’s not necessarily the case. I’ll attach two more videos below—one of a Jon Moxley promo (basically, monologue) and one of a Jon Moxley shoot (basically, out-of-character interview). You can easily see the difference, and it is clear that Moxley is an actor. (3) Something that can be judged—you can judge a performer in this about as well as you can judge an actor onstage. Clearly, Brain Damage is less mobile, so Moxley has to do more work and move more quickly to entertain the crowd. This is often called “carrying the match” for someone. Also, Moxley is much better about selling his injuries to the audience.  In professional wrestling, the metrics by which one usually judges in-ring performance usually come down to safety, speed/athleticism, crowd awareness, psychology, and maintaining the illusion of reality.

Also, if you want to see an example of someone “carrying a match,” I’ll also add one of my favorite matches of all time, Kota Ibushi (a personal favorite) vs. YOSHIHIKO (an inflatable “love doll”).