The Perth International Arts Festival is on at the moment and I’ve been to see a few shows. There have been fireworks, lots of drums, voyeurism and interesting ideas, colours and intriguing repurposing of objects. There’s even been some fun.
While watching one of the shows, I pondered what I enjoy in live performances. What does a show have to have to make me desperate to tell everyone I meet how wonderful it was?
Looking back on what I have thoroughly enjoyed, I noticed some common elements between them. Now this is going to sound terribly pretentious, I’m sure, but…well…it’s an arts festival. Indulge me.
A performance has to tap into strong emotions.
The most joyful thing I have ever seen in my life was an outdoor performance called Place des Anges. It was free, went for about 45 minutes and involved feathers and acrobats on guide-wires suspended between the city’s buildings.
The audience was immersed in the performance, and eventually the people and the city were covered by white feathers. The music was perfect, the performance absolutely sublime. And it provoked such a feeling of joy — not just happiness, pure joy — that there were tears in my eyes.
Once the performance finished, people stayed in the street having feather fights, laughing and everyone played like children. If you ever get the chance to be a part of it, make the effort. You won’t be disappointed.
Of course, at the other end of the scale is great sadness or melancholy, or perhaps even an acceptance of the hardships yet wonder of life. The outcome of encouraging these strong emotions is ultimately to move the audience, and when a performance does that, I’m enthralled.
A performance has to convey a truth.
Sometimes these are hard to swallow: a stone cold look at society, a disturbing portrayal of family, or a cracked mirror held up to my own reflection. I don’t mind being unsettled while watching a performance – because often you find out something about yourself in the process – but I do prefer it to touch on Truth.
What that Truth might be changes. It could be that, at a base level, we are all savages. Or it could be that, deep down, we are essentially good. A truth is something I like to explore.
A performance has to be beautiful.
I’m not just talking about pretty sets and costumes, I’m talking about beauty in each moment of the performance, beauty of the performer, beauty of their movement and their skill and dedication to their craft.
One year I watched James Thiérrée in a one man show, Raoul. He’s a master of physical theatre (unsurprising considering he’s Charlie Chaplin’s grandson). While the set wasn’t pretty, in fact it was quite industrial, it was a work of art and his performance was golden. The way he moved was a thing to gape at in awe, the finesse of his performance the work of a true genius of the theatre. It was beautiful.
The flip side of this is that if a performance is based on an interesting idea but the delivery is sloppy, then I’m going to lose interest pretty quickly.
Beauty, truth and moving emotions: I think most people will agree that those are standards worth judging a performance by.
But what about books? I wondered if I judge books by these markers as well. I think I do.
Moving: the heart has to be engaged, not just the mind, or otherwise it can be just so many words.
Truth: definitely. I think all fiction can convey a truth; it’s not just the realm of “literary fiction” though perhaps that style has more room to explore it that genre fiction.
Beauty: of course. In the writing, in the characters, in the narrative.
I recently read Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell. I found it to be one of the most life-affirming books I’ve read in a long time. It was the kind of book that once I reached the end, I sighed.
That, to me, is the sign of a good book and a good performance.
So how do you judge a book or a performance?
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