Performance, Ethics and Spectatorship in a Global Age (Studies in International Performance)

Stur/ies in International Performance I'ublished in association with the International Federation of Thcatre Re$earch General Editors: JaneIle Reinelt and Brian Singleton Culture and performance cross bordcrs constantly, and not just the bordcrs that define nations. In this neIV series, scholars of performance produce interactions between and among nations and cultures as \Vell as genrcs, identities and imaginati.ons. Inter-nat.io/'lal in the largest semI', the books collected in the 5L/./die5 in Internatio/lal Performance series display a range of historical, theoretical and critical approache$

to the panoply of performances that make up the global surrounu. The series embraces 'Culture' which is institutional as IVcll as ir¡1proviscd, underground or alternate, and treats 'l'erformance' as either intercult:ural or transnational as IVell as intracultural IVithin nations.

Titles inclur/e: l'atrick Anderson and Jisha Menon (editors) VIOLENCE l'ERFORMED Local Roots and Global Routes of Conflict Elaine Astan and Sue-Ellen Case STAGING INTERNATIONAL FEMINISl'vlS Christopher Balme I'ACIFIC I'ERFORMANCES Theatricality and Cross-Cultural Encaunter in the South Seas Helen Gilbert and Jacqueline Lo PERtORMANC E AND COSMOI'OLlTlCS Cross-Cultural Transactions in Australasia Helena Grehan PER¡:ORMANCE, ETHICS ANO Sl'ECTATORSHIP IN A GLOBAL AGE Judith Hamera DANCING COMMUNITIF.S Performance, Oifference, and Connection in the Global Citv Alan Read THEATRE, INTIMACY & ENGAGEMENT The Last Human-Venue ]oanne Tompkins UNSETTUNG SPACE Contestations in Contcmporary Australian Theatre

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Performance, Ethics and Spectatorship in a Global Age Helena Grehan

YOl! c"n rccciw flllurc titles in this series as tlley are published by placing a standing arder. l'h.'ilSl· conlact ¡,our bookscller or, in case of difficulty, write lo us at the address below IVith )'''l.Ir l1al11e and address, th,,' t.itle of the scries and the ISBN t¡uoted abo"e.

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© Helena Grehan 2009

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All rights reserved . No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2009 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers limited, registered iñ England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macrnillan in the US is a division of St Martin's Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the aboye companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave é) and Macmillan, t he rawness of creation and the pain of huma n existence. (Middleton, 2002)

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Tbjs work clícited a range uf comp lex emotio ns for me also. In Act rr 'Ausch wilz' 1 was con fronted with child pe rforme rs who were, appar­ entl)', walting to be exterminated. "Iothi ng was said (in either se nse): there were images of listless ch ild ren, eerie sounds of gaiet y and music off stage, a sta r, ato)' train and a scream. This Act was left open; it jolted me out of any senSe of recognition, yet at the same time it was familiar, and it punctured me. 1 was vulnerable, wou nded and lost. Nonetheless, 1 did not flounder in this state beca use once the shock of the wound ea sed, I beca me incensed an d wanted to do someth ing practical in response. This was a moment in which response and responsibility coIlided an d ambivalence was wl leashed. lt was a moment in which I wa nted to escape fram the theatre but did not know in wbat direction to run, think or feel. lt was a moment of profound and d isturbing ambivalence that continues to resonate. For Ajan Read, in his discllssion of this performance, and particll­ larly of Act 11, something slightly different, yet no less profound, occurred, the theatre mach ,i ne in the hands of I{omeo and Claudia Castellucci, Chiara Guidi, and th eir children, insists 0 11 the theat­ ricalít y of the unthinkable. By refusing to offer an)' explanation in language, but an enthusiasm of effects, sound, light, gesture the inexplicable becomes palpable. (Read, 2007: 165) For Read the 'inexplicable beco mes palpable' and he goes on to say that 'there is no secure outside within which the audience sit safely removed fram Lhe impUcations he re of what they see' (Read, 2007: 163). lt is precisely this lack of safety that engages spectators in a pro­ cess of continued reflection and response, a process of productive ambivalence. 1 am not suggesting. however, that ambivalence results

Si/aatin" the Spectntor 2S

in a set of responses that are the same for every spectatof. Instead, ambivalence is about acknowledgi ng Lhe complex, often contradictof)' and muItilayered questions and responses polítical performances can trigger for spectators. It is important to acknowledge that Levinas sees bis philosophy as a philosophy of ambi va lence . His emphasis is slíghtly d ifferent from 10)' own use of the term but it is worth considering rus use of ambiva­ lence as it helps to explain some of the complexities of his philoso­ phy. He writes that: Philosophy is caIled u pon to coneeive ambivalence ... Even if it is called to thought by ¡ustice, it still synchroni zcs in the said tlle diachrany of the difference hetween the one and the other, and remains t be servant of Ihe saying that signifies t he difference between the one and tile other as the one Jor the other, as non­ indifference to the other. (Levinas, 1998: 162) Robert Eaglestone draws attention to this aHirmation of ambiva lence when he talks about the faet that Levinas's work is fuIl of 'dollble­ nesses'. He provides a number of examples, the most relevant of wh ich is his reference to Robert Bernascolli's argulllent that 'Levinas has an understanding of the face which is bot h "empirical" and "transcen­ dental'" (Eaglestone, 2004: 269). While there is nothing ambivalent for Le\ inas about the cal! of the other (the act of caIling or of being called) what that call implies is potentially ambivalent. Tb..i5 is signifi­ cant as 1 agree that while the call is not ambivalent, how ~pectators respond, or have the potential to respond, is with ambivalm ce. And this is wh)' it is necessary to extend Levinasian ethics into the onto­ logical realm and the domain of practical responsibility.

The limits of Levinas Although 1 have been p rimaril y cOllcerned here wit h spectatorship and the ways in whic h spectator:; can be engaged ethically in arder that they might find a space far re sponse, stimulation and respon­ sibility in performance, away fram the stasis and saturation of the 'o utside' world , the dangers (already alluded to) of utilising Levinas's philosophy within this praject cannot be overlooked. There are three areas that are of specific concern. Firstl)' there is a

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Performance, Ethics and Spectatofship in ({ G/o/Ja! Age

risk in the concentration on the other that the subject (tlle active spectators imagined he re) mi.ght be silenced In tlle p roccss. Secondly, Lcvinas is suspicious of art (and representatio n more gcnerally) as he sees it as obfuscating the face of the othcr a nd this is obv iously something th at 1 must respond too Third ly, one of the most perp lexing problems w ith art, for Levinas, is its abi lit Y to elicit 'participation' and while, as 1 have stated, we have different (oppositional) understandings of participation, it is necessary to Interrogate the concept 'participation' before procecding to the analytical chapters of this book. In exploring these problems I have the opportunity to acknow­ ledge the limitations of his ideas when they are used in the context of discussions about performance (and of course to consider the pos­ si.bility that the limitations are, in the use of his philosophy within this context, not necessarily in the philosophy itself).

The 'scandal of sincerity' and the dangers of silencing the subject Levinas's focus on the other has been criticised as leading to a neg­ ation of the self and therefore to an in h ibiting of the possibility of an cthical exchange. lt is im portant to in terrogate this position as it has implications for an understanding of the notions of response and rcsponsibility for spectators, both within and beyond the per­ formance space. Paul Ricoeur, for example, argues that Levinas's philosoph y places too much emphasis on the other at the expense of the subject and the possibility of reciprocity. Ricoeur is con­ cerned with the potential for extrem e individualism involved in ultimate alterity. He sta tes 'in reality tl1is initiative establishes no rel at ion at all, to the extent that the other represents absolute exter­ iority with respect to an ego defined in the condition of separation' (Ricoeur, 1992: 188- 189). Jt would also seem that without reci­ procity the act of spectatorship becomes redundant. Surely that is what the spectator does - give back, responds, and participates in a n exchange? I think that while Levinas is adamant that the focus needs to move from an exchange between t he self and the other, wbe re tbe seU is prioritised, he is not arguing that the self be negatcd . Jnstead, l read his philosophy as one that positions the rclations hip as one of susceptibility, where the self is motivated by

Sitllating lIte Spcclalof

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the necessity of responding to the other, instead of by a desire foc reciprocit)'. As Levin as explains: Responsibility for the other, in its antecedence to my freedom, its antecedence to tl1e present and to representation, is a passivity more passive than all passiv ity, an exposure to the other without this exposure being assumed, an exposure without holding back, exposure of exposedness, cxpression, saying. This exposure is the frankness, sincerity, veracity of saying. (1998: 15)1 I Levinas is proposing a shift that demands the positioning of the other at the centre of an)' cxchangc proccss rather tl1an a necessary negation of the self. This shift from an absorbing focos on the sel!' to the other is urgently needed in a Western culture preoccupied with 'possession and consumption.' How this reorientation takes place and what it implies for contem­ porary (secular) subjects needs further explanation, since the idea of the subjugation of the self (or the potential for this through ethica! action) generates a sense of unease and results in detailed critic ism of Levinas's work. What Levinas proposes is a complicated and power­ fui philosophy that demands great commitment from subjects. It is not an ethics that admits a symmetrical or reciprocal relation to the other; in fact Levinas cautions against Martin Buber's reciproca! eth­ ¡cs 'because the moment one is generous in hopes of reciprocity, that relation no longer ,i nvolves generosity but the commcrcial rclation, the exchange of good behavior' (Levinas, 1999: 101). The other, for Levinas, cannot be reduced to the same. On thjs matter, jeffrey Nealon makes the point that the process of 'subjection' that occurs for the subject in the tace of the other is not one of 'h a m-fisted deter­ minism, where subjection m erely creates slaves or automatons.' II is, instead, a process whereby 'subjection necessarily happens in response itself, in responding to the other by saying !: performative responsibility is subjectivity itself' (Nealan, 1998: SO). This is an aspect of Levinas's work that can be difficult to dedp her. Notwithstanding thi5 concern, it is central to an understanding of the relationship between th e self and the other and to a Levinasian notion of ethics as responsibility, as well as to understanding why his approach (des pite its complexity in the context of performance) is so useful for tl1is project. If this repositioning of the seH-other

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Performal1ce, Ethics alld Spectatvrship il/ a Global Age

relationship is con sidered within a performance context it would mean that spectators do not participate in a desire for acknowledge­ ment, or indeed in order to decode the other and reduce him/her to the same. Instead, they engage in a process of giving, in which the com plex il y and altcrity of the other is responded to without the desire to decode, contain or categorise. In the scheme of Levinasian etbics Ihe .,ubject does not attempt to contain the other, but gives him/hcrself to the other in an act of 'radical generosity' (Levinas, 1987a: 92).1 2 This sense of generosity was created for Tony Hughes-d'Aeth in response to the alterity of the Indigenous elders who told their stories via documentary footage in the midst of a multi-modal energetic per­ formance of Scott Rankin and Trevor Jamieson's T/1C Career Highligl7ts of the ,'vfAMU. Hughes-d 'Aeth explains that the work allowed him to experience 'the vectors of separate histories' (Hughes-d'Aeth, 2002) and 'tbe pUl1cturn' occurred for bim when Trevor Jamieson disguised in bJack Kendo robes danced around a distraugbt Japanese woman who was declaiming a poem about Hiroshima ... at this moment 1 comprehended that the Spinifex people and the re~icleDts of Hiroshima were bonded - as few other people in the worl d could be - in their first-hand experience of nuclear assault. (Hugbes-d 'Aeth, 2(02) This understanding allowed Hughcs-d'Aeth to gaio insight into, but not necessarily an ability to contain or OWI1, t.be experiences being negotiated or represented in the performance space. Thus, if the relationship between the sel f and the other is understood not as one in which the subject is negated or sidelined in response to the call of the other, but as one in which the focus shifts from the sub­ ject to the other - to hearing, connecting and being open to (or touched by) the other - then this is precisc1y lhe kind of relation­ ship that I see as operating productively for spectators (such as Hughes-d'Aeth above) in response to the performances discussed in this book. It is a relationship that allows for multiple and often contradictory responses. It is one that occurs in the realm of the sensible where the performance (and or performers) can reach out to spectators and engage them bodily through touch and t b e gen­ eration of an intimate space: it is a relationship of proximity.

Si//./ating the Spectator 29

As Bauman points out, for Levinas 'proximity' stands for the unique qua lit y of the ethical situation ­ which 'forgets rcciprocity, as in love that does not expect to be shared'. Proximity is not a very short distance, it is not even the overcoming or neglecting or denying distance - it is, purely (though not at all simply), 'a suppression of distance'. (Bauman, 1993: 87) In this regard, Levinasian ethics, witb its focus on the other and the subject's responsibilitv for tlle other, provides a framework for subjects who feel compelled to respond but who also understand that any action or response is contingent. lt is a framework in wbich both responsibility and ambivalence are generated. Levinas's pbilosophy is one that resists the desire to understand (in a singular or definitive sense by reducing the saying to the said), or to decode the othel', or to simplify his/her suf­ fering, expericnce or identity to something containable.

The limits of art The question or idea of art (in the broadest sense) is a complex one for Levinas and one that elicits a range of (at times contradictory) responses throughout his writings. The majority of his responses to art describe his mistrust or outright condemnation 01' it. For example, in his Col/ected PI7i1osophical Papers, he says: 'there is something wicked and egoist and cowardly in artistic en¡o)lrnent. There are times when one can be ashamed of it, as of feasting during a plague' (Levinas, 1987: 12; my emphasis). Despite this misgiving, he draws on a range of artists throughout his work, including Paul Celan, fyodor Dostoyevsky, S.Y. Agnon and Sasha Sosno. 13 Art and representation in general trouble Levinas, and in 'Reality and its Shadow' he outlines a number of reasons for his mistrust. Firstly he fears the ways in which art has the ability to interfere with the face of the other. As Robbins points out: Art consists in substituting for the object its image ... it is an obscuring or a shadow of reality. Whereas 'a concept is the object grasped, the intelligible object,' and thus a 'living' relationship with that object, 'the image neutra/izes this real relationship'. (Robbins, 1999: 51-52)

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PerformClllce, Ethics Cllld SpectatorsllijJ in

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SitllOUl1g the Speclalor

Global Age

Th is may be interpreted as assigning literalness to the face, that it is, when presented to the subject, outside of representation. While [ have signalled tile dangers of a literal approaeh earlier it is also worth questioning what this then means for an understanding of the face. Surely t11e face in itself (its rawness or flesh) cannot exist beyond representatio n? Doesn't the face represent the person, the body? Levinas addrcsses this concern: The epiphany of the face is alive. lts life eonsists in undoing the form in which every entity, when it enters into immanenee, that is, when it exposes itself as a theme, is airead)' dissimu lated. The other who manifests himself in the faee as it were breaks thraugh his own plastic essence .... His presenee consists in divesting him­ self of the form which, however, manifests him. His manifest­ ation is a surplus over the inevitable paralysis of manifestation. (Levinas, 1986: 351-352; original emphasis) For Levinas, representation gets in the way of the subject's ability to respond to this manifestation. The faee cannot be held 'cap tive', and the danger of art is that it attempts to do this and therefore denies the possibility of responsibility. Beeause Levinas's specific references to theatre concentrate on work that is m imetic, they are therefore quite different in focus fram the performances addressed h ere, although his concerns cauDot be dismissed. [n m any of his references to both theatre and poetry, for example, he highlights a larger concern, and that is his relationship to the aesthetie in general. He is concerned that aesthetic practices aet in such a way that 'the numinous or the sacred envelops and transports man beyond his powers and wishes' (Levinas, 1969: 14). While this is possibly true, and m ay indeed have been tbe case for much of the art (broadly understood) Levinas was exposed to, in the current environment and with tile proliferation of sophisticated ITl edia technologies art do es not have the cen tral position of influ­ ence or indeed of potential for distraction that it once had o"fhe func­ tion of art (particularly political art) is rather different in the contemporary sphere. 14 l experience sorne anxiety about Levinas's critique of art on the grou nds that this critique suggests that art gets in the way of a 'true' (prior or real) ethical relationship with the oth er. For him there is a

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space or moment (the pre-ontological realm) in which an unmedi­ ated relationship between the self and tlle other will or can occur. Although this belief is admirable, it can only work on a theoretical level as relationships are always m ediated. !Levinas's position in this regard does not fully ad ;n owlcdge the 'real' or lived contexts with in which h uman re lationships and exchanges operate and it is for this reason that h is pb ilosophy n eeds to be extended if it is to be eonsid­ ered in terms of actual relationships between the subject and the other, whetl1er these occur within or beyond the theatre.

The question of partk ipat ion Another aspect of art th at Levi n as fears is its ability to move the sub­ ject away from a toeus on responsibility by both obscuring the face, and by generating an environment in which the individual spectator or the audienee as a whole participates in the \-vork. 1S Partic.ipation, for Levinas, signals a submission, loss or paralysis that exists in oppos­ ition to ethies. 16 He states: 'The relaxation ,i n intoxieation is a semb­ lance of distance and irresponsibility. lt is a suppression of fraternity, or a murder of the brot h er' (Levinas, 1998: 192). This fear of part ici ­ pation is explained by Robert Eaglestone as afear of both 'individual drunken , stoned, poetic delirium', and of the 'same blinding, mass­ or-mob-intoxieating effeet of, for example, marching or chanting rhythmically in a earefully designed rally' (Eaglestone, 2004: 262).17 This is a crucial clarifieatioo_ lt is Levinas's feaJ, that through 'par­ ticipatinn' the subject will somehow become deaf to the need for responsibility, and, as a eonsequenee, wil! not be able to hear the call of the other, that most powerfully informs his mistrust of arto [t is as if the fact of participatlng in a eolJective (for example as an audlence member) negates any possible individual respomes. 1H 1 cou n ter these concerns wilh the argum ent th at each of tbe works discussed in trus book performs lhe function of disrupting any desire for participaUon in the Lev i.uaslan se nse. W h ile there are, of eourse, m oments of coIlective response, which can be discerned by audible gasps, increased ten sioo, nr laughter, these do not occlude the possibility of alternative individual respon ses. In fact, these works generate rupture upon rupture, the kind of 'rupture' Levinas assLgns to language when he says 'Ianguage is "rupture and com­ meneement, breaking of rhy th m which enraptures and transport s

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Per(orm(lnce, Fthics (1/1(1 Spectaturslzip in (/ gaf)C/rtji Ngapa rtji written by Scott Ran kin in col­ lahoration with Trevor Jamieson, which foUowed MAM U and extended its tllemcs and ideas, is one exa m ple of a work th a t call s for concrete practical resPonsibi li ty. In terested ~p ectato[s can emo l in an online language cOUrse and can study the Pitjantjatjara language before attending a performance of Ngapartj i Ngapartji so that they can participate in the parts of that work that are conducted in Pitjantjat jara. Th is provides a tangible forum for people, -who may be interested in, yet disenfranchised from Indigenous cult ure, to fee l as if they are doing SOll1ething practical lhal is bo th soc ially an d cu ltur­ ally useful.

Spinifex people/Spinifex cou ntry lvIJlM U explores some of the complex historical and cultu ral experi­

ences of the Spinifex People. Spinjfex country spans 55 ,000 square kilometres covering the southern part of the Great Victoria Desert it crosscs the Western Australian/South Australian bo rd er. 7 The Spinifex people descended from the people of 'The SUl1 and The Shadow' an d were an almost invisible people in modern Aboriginal Australi a, known only by rumour to observers of Aboriginal culture and abse nt from virtually all Western Desert anthropological scholarship. Hidden from European eyes lIntil the 1950s, the last of the Spinifex nomads remained uncontacted in their homelands until 1986, making them perhaps the last hunter-gatherers on earth. (Cane, 2002: 1)

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Trcvor Jamieson and Milton I-Iansen perform a traditional dance,

TI/(: Carel'l lIiSilliShls o(the '"fA ,H U, 2002. (Pho tograph.: Jon Grecn)

The Spinífex people lived through colonisation, the 8rltisb-led nuclear tests at Maralinga from 1956 to L9 67 ami the (government initiated) movement af families off the land to Cundeelee Mission in tt¡e 1960s and to the Coonana commu n ily in the 1980s. These sites were hundreds of kilometres away from their hOlIleland, and community members experienced dispossession and frag mentation as a resu lt of these moves. In the mid 1990s the Australian Government held a 'Royal Commission' to investigate the impact of the Marali n ga atomic: tests on the community.~ The Cornmission

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Perfor/llance, HhiCl

(//1(/

Specta/ol".\/¡ip in a Global Ase

fou n d that tb e Spini fe x peopIe were directly affected by the tests and t hey were afforded some monetary com peruation . They used th e compensation to (literal!y) bu ild a road home. As the programme notes for the performance of MAMU al the Perth International Arts Festival explain : 22 bombs were tested in t his forgotten lan d, far away from Western civilisation . We know now this place was not terra nuWus but home to another civllisation, one who had lived in the desert for over 20,000 years. ... Far removed from the board-rooms and conferences of powerful meo, these people were left to feel the aftersh ocks of this explosion for many yea rs to come. Displaced, sick and ignored, tb ese people wandered through th e physical and clll otional fal!out in search of their hom eland. (Black Swan Theatre, 2002) In the 19905, a flcr years of slruggle, me Spinifex people achieved native UtleYThe Premier of Weste rn Australia flew to Spinlfex cou n­ try and decla rcd lh at the rights of the Spinifex people to t be land had oo t been exti nguished nor in 3ny way impaired, and tb at they were the tradit ío nal ow o('rs of the reclaim ed land.

MAM U - the performance MA.MU makes u crucial conlributio n to the re-wr ill ng and the re- presentation of Austra lla n history. The perform ance recuperates (for a wide aucUence) the stories o f hard ship and su.r\'ival ex perie nced b}' lhe Spinifex people. As 1outlined earlier, the juxta posi ng of modes of tel Ullg reinforces t he power o f the docu mentary sequences. These sequences, filmed in Spinifex country, show the elders speaking about the si gnificance of t heir lancl, tradH ions and cultu re in their language. Their na rratio n is poetic, sparsc an d metaphoric. The doc umentary footage sits in sta [k contrast to (or interrupts) the live elcme nts of the perfo rmance, as the sequences are calm, quiet and refiec tive a nd con nections are made with the eldeTs w ithaut overt theat rica l devices or pe rform a nce techniques. The images a re pro­ jeclell onto a la rge screen at t11e back of the performance :.pace, while mal1y (lf lhe co m mun it y mem bers invo)ved (rangi ng from smal! ch ildren to e lders), who feature in the film seq uences, sU at lhe front of l he st¡¡ge MOllnd a campfLre.

MAMU: Alterity alld SIWII/t'

7.">

The community members perform traditional songs to accompany the storytelling. Same of these performers live traditional lives in Spinifex country and visit the city rarel)', if at aH. Despite this they par­ ticipate in al! aspects of the performance and do not seem anxious about their roles as performers. In fact, the positioning of the cornm u­ nity members at the front of the stage around the campfire is signifi­ cant as they sing, chant and play instruments as well as interact with other performers. This interaction, which takes the form of laughing, adding words or responding to Trevor Jamieson's antics, adds to the intimacy in the space and fractures any expectations spectators might have about the form uf the work. Children and adults participate in the traditional dances throughout the performance, and they act as extras in some of the stand-up sequences. As Samela Harris, who attended the Adelaide performance explains, 'Mamu is not strictly theatre. It is a sharing. The Spinifex people have come to US, a large extended famil)' of them, and camped around a fire upon the stage' (Harris, 2002). The performance is provocative on numerous levels; however, many of the most profound moments of provocation emerge in response to the polítical and personal implications of the stories per­ formed and represented via the documentar)' sequences. The issue of both response and responsibility looms large as spectators wonder how governments could have al!owed people to be left out in the desert and exposed to nuclear tests, and more importantly how they, the survivors, can share their stories with an audience without a tone of castigation or bitterness. ]oanne Tompkins's fine work on 'Contamination' in her book Ul1sett/ing Space helps to expla in the motivation behind the tests¡ however, her explanation is also unsettJjng, as it scems that gowrn­ ments acted in the in te rest of governments rather Iha n of pcople. Tompkins points out that the Australian government and Kielltific communities encour­ aged the explosion of nuclear I>ombs on Australian soil in the 1940s and 19505 to secure a g-rt'ater ro le in international politics, as weH as for protection from its neighbours during the Cold War. (Tompkins, 2006: 91) Tompkins goes on to ex pla in that the Australian government was later abandoned by botb the Brit ish and the American military an d

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Performance, Ethics and Spectatorship in a Global Age

left to deal with a site that would remain contaminated for the next 24,000 years. The community was seriously affected by the testing, the subse­ quent movement of people from their traditional lands, and the impacts of contact with Western society on both adults and children. Yet they seem willing to perform, share and engage in a vvay that might suggest tllat the signiHcance (or necessity) of telling the stories, of educating the public outweighs an)' bitterness. lvrAMU neither commodifies nor attempts to apportion blame for this situation; instead, it begins a process of engagement, and dia logue across bound­ aries (be they boundaries w1thin the Spinifex community or between the community and the 'outside' world) so that (des pite or perhaps beca use of the treatment of the community at the hands of various Australlan governments and the lack of awareness among the general public) knowledges can be preserved and cultural understanding increased. Ihis willingness to share, this generosity, heightens the potential for feelings of shame and responsibility in response to the stories of death, hardship and loss.

The significance of process: creating the archive Through the recuperation and archiving of their stories the Spinifex elders hope to prevent the destruction of their cultural memory. For the elders it 1.S crucial to create this repository so that the stories can be preserved . Stories are central to the maintenance of culture. As Laura Marks, in The Skil1 o( ¡he Film, eloquently explains: Storytelling crosses and recrosses between private life and politics, making the boundary between them impossible to locate. As Benjamin suggests, storytellers' knowledge is of a different order from that which passes as official information. As 'the communic­ ability of experience decreases,' as official knowledge diverges from community experience (or vice versa), the storyteller's prac­ tical information becomes increasingly rare and precious (Benjamin, 1968: 84-87). Old people are thus repositories of vir­ tual images; their death is like the loss of a past-that-is-preserved. Thei r stories, again, are Iike those 'radioactive fossils' that cannot be explained in terms of the geological layer on which they are fou nd. (Marks, 2000: 70)

MAM U: ¡lIterilF and Shame

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The act of creating lhis archive of the Spinifex people is one \Vay of allowing their 'rare and precious' cultural stories and traditions to continue, at least as traces, long after the performance has fin ished and the elders have passed away. lf the young people have the opp or­ tunity to return to the land and 'keep up the law' they will at least have this record to guide them. Positioning the archive as an exten­ sion of the performance signals the difference between this work and the kinds of art that Levinas feared would use representation to obscure the face of the other. MAAJU and its associated documenta­ tion participates in a process of redressing the obscuring of the other (particularly the Indigenous other) in Australian culture and society. It uses the performance space as a site in which the call of the other can be not only heard but responded to by a 'live' auctience, and also records, stores and protects the stories of t.he elders, the 'rep ositories of virtual images'. Thus, the complex cultural stories and the experi­ ences of loss, survival, triumph and pain can be preserved and remembered. According to Andrew Ross, the (then) director of Black Swan Theatre, film was initially chosen so that the elders could te]] their stories from the place s where they occurred. Ross states that 'the idea of the storytellers getting up on stage each night and repeating their stories in p eriormance mode wasn't an appropriate approach' (Grehan, 2003). The documentary footage, when juxtaposed with the live performance, highlights the depth of Spinifex culture in a way the repeated telling of these stories within a performance con­ text may not have . lndeed, part of the focus for the production was to assist in the creation of an archive documenting the stories and experiences of the Spinifex people. Black Swan Theatre wa nted to work with the elders to establish this archive so they travelled out to Spinifex country and spent time with the elders, listening to their stories and creating documentary footage . Hundreds of hours of footage was recorded with the aim of storing this footage at the proposed 'education centre' at Tjuntjuntjara so that it could be accessed by the community as we.!J as interested scholars and students. The footage included interviews with elders, cultural stories, images of the landscape, as well as a record of the performance and rehearsals . A careful selection process took place so that the community elde rs vvere happy with the mateTial eh osen for MAMU Ross told me that the aim was to 'create a situation whereby

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the community felt that the)' owned the work, that they were co­ collaborators' (Grehan, 2003). When the production \Vas fi nished much material remained and it was hoped that future projects would be developed to extend the work done in MAMU.!O

Documentary as testimony Through the play of elements AJAMU becomes a performance where moments of dissonance and connectedness are created for spectators. In this regard, then, the performance mO\l es away from the idea of participation that Levinas found so objectionable as it does not generate any kind of frenzied or group response or involve spectators in a process that might engender passivity. Feel ings of responsibility, privilege, shame and despair are most apparent in response to the documentary footage as it emerges in the sequen­ cing of images and in the storytelling process. This footage works in a similar way to sorne of the filmmaking practices discussed by Marks. She suggests that in certain intercultural filmmaking proc­ es ses, techn iques are utilised whereby the images and the narrative do not oecessarily match. Through the disjuncture created, film can stimulale reflection and elicit an embodied response in specta­ tor5 as they search Co r meaning within a piece. Such film can also provide a space for alternative "oices that refuse to be absorbed ¡nto the mainstream . Marks 's ideas about film and its potential fOI embodiment are interesti.ng when the types of storytelling used through the documentary sequences in MAMU and the juxtapos­ ition of these with the 'live' elements of the performance are considered. In this performance the filmmakers and the filmic documents themselves 'trouble the relationship between vision and knowledge' (Marks. 2000: 133). This occurs both through lhe sharing of many previously untold Indigenous stories in often poetic and me taphor­ ical language (in Pitjantjatjara and translated via subtitles without the inclusion of a voice-over to narrate or direct OUT understanding )f l he story) . Tbe documentaries refuse to provide information sim­ ply a nd didactically, preferring to use the material performatively in a ma nner that supports l\Jarks's description of documentaries which 'frustrale thc pélssive absorption of information, instead encouraging the vicwer to engage more actively and self-crltically \Vith the image'

MAMU: Allerily an.l SlllIl/le

79

(Ma rks, 2000: 133). While Marks is specifically concerned with gen­ erating a critical (an d particu lady se U-critical) engagement, the re are also parallels to be d I3W D wilh Levinas's discussions of the relalion­ ship hetween the saying and tlle said. W hat Marks ~ees as lhe ability of documentary to 'frustrate' 'pas­ sive absorption' by spectators, is what I read as perfoTmance's abi lit y (through its mobHisation of the senses) to engage spectators viscer­ ally and at a sensor y leve!. In MA M U it is n ot just the docum entary that does th is but, as I pointed out al the outset, it is also its position­ ing i n the midst of (or juxtaposing against) the live evento jUlie Salverson makes a similar point in an essay discussing the use of refugee testimony in her creative work . Draw ing on Lev in as ~h e explores the use of testimony wit h in the frame work of a performance. She [loints out t hat 'the act ofp erfoImance, then, would ask artist and listener to attend to the "said " ... and the "saying,/I (Salverson, 1999) and she goes on to explain, qu oting Levjnas tliat 'within these ten lUi, artist and aud ience are asked to beco me a "here 1 am ... a witn ess that does not thematize what it bears witness of, and whose truth is not the truth of representation , is not evidence'" (in Salverson, 1999). Testimony emerges, in th is chapter, as an important mode of tell­ ing beca use the documentary sequences serve as testimonies to the experiences of the Spinifex peop le. These testimonies h ave not been heard hy the majority of the non-Indigenous population. They are poignant and poetic and provide a space Í11 wh ich the Spinifex elders talk in their own way about their relationships to land, country, trad­ ition and culture, and the deeply held sense of loss that tbe destruc­ tion of this relatio nship has had on the people. Th ere is n o attempt to coerce, redress, challenge or confront; .i nstead spectators are jm ited to share the poetic narration of the elders as they describe their stor­ ies io Pitjantjatjara. Shoshana Felman, in her exploration of Holocaust testimony, focuses on its impact; her account beautifully describes the ways in which the testimony in lHAAJU works. She writes that testimony is ... a discursive practice, as opposed to apure theor)'. To testify - to vow to te", to promise and produce one's own speech as material evidence for truth - is to accomplish a speech aet, rather than to simply formulate a statement. As a performative speech act. testimony in effect addresses what in history is actio/7 that exceeds any substantialized significance, and what in happenings is impact

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(//1(/

SpectalorslJip ;11 (/ G/obal Age

that dynamit ally explodes any conceptual reifica tions and any con stative delimitations. (relman, 1992: 5; original emphasis) The elders use metaphor and image to tell their stories, but tbese are not mere devices. Instead they reflect the ways in wh ich the Spinifex elde rs see the world. The land and its spirits dominate, and as they s[¡are their experien ces spectators begin to gain a sense of the pro­ foundly different worlds inhabited by these people and the 'main­ stream' population. The elders 'bear witness', in the manner outlined by Giorgio Agamben, when he sta tes that to bear witness is to place oneself in one's own language in the position of those who have lost it, to establish oneself in a living language as if it weTe dead, or in a dead language as if it were liv­ ing - in any case, outside both the archive and the corpus of what has already been said. (Agamben 1999: 161) Although 1 argue here, following Levinas, Marks, felman and Agamben that the testimony used in lv lAlvlU is not designed to prod­ uce singular answers, or to be 'thematized' (as Levinas explains), and that it 'explodes conceptual reifications' as Felman points out, it is also important to acknowledge that there can be problems with the use of documentary theatre. As Carol Martin makes clear, 'because so much documentary t heatre has been made in order to "set the record straight" or to hring materials otherwise ignored to the pub­ lic's attention, we ought not to ignore its moral and ethical claims to truth' (Martin, 2006: 14). W hile lvfAMU is not strictly documentary theatre, (jt is described by Gilbert and Lo as a 'multimedia perfonn­ ance' (2007: 123)) it is essential to consider what this means or might mean for spectators responding to the filmic testimony in this performance. The documentary sequences (particularly those that involve testi­ mony) function to provide a sense of both the depth and alterity of Spinifex culture, and of the elders in particular. Because the elders :;peak in poetic terms, they do not attempt to deliberateLy make (o bviollS) truth-claims, or present counter arguments, or even de ma m l that we rcad their stories in particular ways. Given this con­ text we can understand that while there are undoubtedly emotional and mo rol investments made in determining what to sllow and how

M AM U: Alteril)' ami SilLllIlI!

In

to position it within t he performance, the testimony in th i
Testilllo/l}' 0/1(1 tiTe [)o/lgers ()( Puln,lu'/I,I'

()l)

significant as, dra",ing on Levinas, he calls for a process of re ~ po m~' that disallows any easy identification (or reduction of the other to the same) for the subject, and in this case the spectator. He emphasises the necessity of uncertainty or ambivalence in response to traumatic stories. Levinas elaborates cogently on this when he says: The witness is not reducible to the relationship that leads from an index to the indicated. That would make it a disclosure and a the­ matization. lt is the bottomless passivity of responsibility, and thus, sincerity. It is the meaning of language, before language scatters into worus, into themes equal to the words and dissimu­ lating in the said the openness of the saying exposed Iike a bleed­ ing wound. But the trace of the witness given, the sincerity or glory, is not effaced even in its said. (Levinas, 1998: 151) This focus on 'disruption' and the desire to avoid 'thematization' seems to reflect the process at work in Sandakal1 Threnod)'. As with representations of the Shoah, the horrors of the 'death marches' and prison camps in Borneo are such that attempting to develop a per­ formance in response to this material is a complex task. As Martin Buzacott, in his review of the production, remarks:

The known and the unknown tale Given that a simple sharing of the historical material may, in effect, di/ute the power of the story, traumatise spectators, or result in an experien ce of 'the erudest form of em pathy' (Brecht, 1976: 518), Ong must lread a fi ne line between deconstructing these 'conspiracies' and presenting them in a way that alJows spectators to inscribe t he ir own responses onto or within the performance. James Hatley, writing on wilnessing and representatíon in his book Suffering Witness, argues cogently about the complexities involved in representing or respond ing to horror. Hatley draws on Saul Friedlander's discussion of tlle 'inadequacy of any representation of lhe Shoah ' and the latter's call fOI h istor y to be reshaped as cornmen­ lary that 'disrupt[sJ the faci/e linear progression of narration, i nlrod ucelsl alternative interpretations, quest ion[sJ any partial con­ c1usions, withstandlsj the need for closu re' (Fríedla nder in Hat ley 2000: 113). Hatley is of course concerned w ith the Holocaust, h ut his suggestion about t he ways in which history ~ hould be dealt with is

History is Iittered with horrific tales of man's inhumanity to ma n, but fOF sheer shock value there's not much that can match the atrocities committed on Australian prisoners of war during World War Il's notorious death marches in Borneo. (2004: 9) Sandakal1 Threnod)' juxtaposes tbe facts and archival material (via

testimony and narration) and docum entary elements with abstracl choreographed sequences. Situating the performance within the context of the current war (on terror), Ong points 1.0 tlle ways in which 'power can be abused'; he wants to use Ihe work to attempt to 'transcend the cultural bigot ry wh ich leads to war' (2004). This approach clearly worked for same :.pectators. As Keith Gallasch in his review of Sandakan Tl1I'enod)' poinls out: the performance 'does not attempt to reproduce the death march es, rather it reflects on their consequences and poses disturh ing questlons about our ongoing relationship with war, with the maltreatment of prisoners and the clash of loyalty and mora lit y' (Gallasch, 2004).

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While the works addressed in this book provoke an experience of par­ ticipation that is for the most part antithetical to Levinas's understand­ ing of the term; because they rupture any frenzied or singular group response to representation, Salldakal1 Thrcllody adds another level of complexity to this idea. Some parts of the performance are compelling and they mobilise participation, for a range of spectators, in the sense defined in Chapter 1, as an active, complex and productive process. Other parts of the performance seem to \Vork against this participation. It is not that they generate an experience of a singular non-reflexive group reaction (in the Levinasian sense of the term); rather, they seem by virtue of their isolation or lack of connectedness with other elements of the performance, to detract fram the overall coherence of the work. This may, as 1 have suggested earlier, be a deliberate strategy, however it makes both processes of response and responsibility difficult at times. As Gallasch explains 'Sandakan Threnody is at its best \Vhen the weave is tight and the alternation of elements and shifts in patterning are rhythmically insistent. This is mostly in the first half where the totality of the hybrid is most felt as organic' (Gallasch, 2004). And as journalist Rosemary Duffy states in response to the performance: There is no denying the potency of Sal7dakan Thrcnody but at times [ felt Ong did not trust the intrinsic power of the story to speak for itself and there was a tendency to overload the dramaturgy. The kabuki scenes \Vere compelling without the overlay of music, which in that context, sounded histrionic and jarring. The twisted tortured choreography became irritating through overuse, and at times seemed quite superfluous. (2004) lt seems as if, in the desire to uncover the 'conspiracies of silence' which the stor)' contains, there is at times a lack of connectedness between the artistic vocabularies employed in the performance. These moments demonstrate that 'openness' can have its limits and that the work, at times, runs the risk of alienating its spectators rather than engaging them to reflect on, or participate ir. a process of uncovering.

The performance The performance begins ,vith a gruesome silent black-and-white documentary of soldiers being hanged . This is accompanied by the

TestimOl1), anri the Dangers o( Pol,vplwl1),

101

narrator, Lok Meng Chue's, statement that 'it's all buried somewhere inside'.1O When the footage finishes the music starts and a dancer comes on to the stage. Lok Meng Chue, seated at a wooden office table with a reading Iight, reads aloud a letter to Lieutenant Bill Sticpewich. The letter is obviously lTom an ex-japanese solider who talks about military prison and his family and life in Japan. The sol­ dier asks Sticpewich if he can introduce him to the (Australian) sol­ diers stationed in his town so that he can 'increase his customer base'.11 More footage is shown, this lime of war, soldiers, marching and bombs. Lok Meng Chue narrates the marches from Sandakan, detailing the number of miles walked per da)', the type and quantíty of rations and the numbers of PO'vVs lost along the way. Three dancers dance or writhe on thc stagc as if participating in the marches (in an abstract fashion). And the Australian dancer, Tim Harvey, says, speaking of the cast's journey to Sandakan Memorial Park, '[ slept in an extra half-hour ... the only rcason I'm travelling out to the war memorial today is because l've been told it is worth­ while ... to me it seems a dead experience. 1 just think so what'. This is followed by Lok Meng Chue's narration. She reads from documen­ tation in an emotionless tone: 'mutilated bodies astride the track'. Harvey goes on to say that when he is told that remains are buried near the spot where he is standing, he wonders 'if 1 am stepping on those remains right now.' Lok Meng Chue then narrates the story of the march to Ranau, 'first march to Ranau, 455 set off'. Harvey dances slowl)' as he talks. He goes on: 'The visual impact is ver)' strong, 1 wish ¡'d brought my camera with me because the Iight is ver)' beautiful'. For writer Richard Lord, the apparent lack of understanding exhibited by Harvcy resulted in a moment in which performance did not 'escape entircly from the slack jaws of banality: for imtance, sorne of the thoughts of the young Australian ... were decidedly trite' (2004). It is unclear why Ong chose to include documentation of the journey to Sandakan undertaken by the casto The decision to take the cast on the journey is understandable, but its function as an aesthetic, political or artistic artefact within the work is difficult to decipher. Matthew Crosby comes on and drags one of the dancers to the side of the stage, saying 'we'll put you off the road over heTeo Maybe a local \Vil 1 come for you. Susan, helio pet, what's that? Snowy your sheep, in the dunny? Snowy who put )'ou in there?' In contrast to

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Per(ort/1III1ce, Et/¡ics al/d Specfalorslrip il/ a G/o/Jal Age

Harvey's responses to the journey, Crosby's spoken segments are mesmerising. He is a skilled performer who manages to present frag­ ments of narrative from a range of characters through a bleak, min­ imalist performance style - the art of the blank stare is perfected - so that spectators gain sorne sense of the depth of trauma experienced in the aftermath of war. He portrays one of the six survivors, the Australian soldier William ' Bill' Moxham, both as he marches through the jungle and on his return to Australla suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Some of his most affecting scenes are those in which, as in the quota­ tion aboye, he performs sequences i nvo lving Moxham moving between the reality of the marches and the reality (or trauma) of life on his return home. For examp le, a little later in the performance he oscillates between attempting t o coax another sick POW to the next food drop, a rant about eating the ]apanese and raping their wives, and an imaginar)' discussion with his daughter Susan: 'Susan, come on, pet, daddy wants to play'. His speech is confused and unsettled. He says: 'Susan come out come out wherever you are', come on pet I'm not going to hurt you, 1'11 bloody murder ),ou'. This is delivered in a style that positions him as a pathetic and lost soul, as he moves from a calm detached almost playful call to a sharp aggressive shout 1 2 This portrayal calls to mind Agamben's discussion of the reJationship between the human and the inhuman i n Renwants of Auschwitz. Agamben explains that what testimony says is something completely different, which can be formulated in tbe following theses: 'human beings are human insofar as they are not human' or, more precisely, ' human beings are human insofar as they bear witness to the inhuman'. (Agamben, 1999: 121)

Crosby's portrayal of these points of connection or dLsconnection between the human and th e inhuman in Moxham's story continue throughout the p erformance and act as a con nective fabric to weave so me of the diverse elements together. As Dorothy Chansky remarks: Moxham is played by the extraordina ry Austra Uan actor Matthew Crosby, who man ages the physical endurance and suppleness

Te.\ til1loll,l' (/lid t/¡e ])i/I/ge rs o( PO/)'fJ/lOl1)'

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necessa ry bot b to embody his character and to convey his pain artfully as well as provtding the \Vorld-weariness suitable to aman who has packed what seem like centuries into a few decades of liv ing. (2004) The strength and signlfi ca ncc of Crosby as Moxham reciting the monologues becom es even more apparent when they are juxtaposed with the use of documenta ry footage of the 'real' "iusan Moxham talking about her fathe r. Perbaps somewba f paracloxica ll y, given the neecl lo avoio banalisa­ tion and erude empathy, a nd thc flcccssit y that work dealing with such horror engages spectators in a proccss o f response if,' then the refugee beco mes an object of spectacle and tbe audience m ember - amI, byextension playwright, director and actors - offstage voyeurs. Hoth are less secure, less able to listen and resp ond with in the cncounter. It is possible that both even disappear. (Salverson, 1999) As an experienced director Mnouchkine understands the ris ks involved in foregrounding the stories of the refugees. Nonetheless, she explains that 'theatre im't there to deal with abstract ideas or to

1Z0

Performance, EtIJics ami Spectatorship in a Glo/Jo/ ¡Igt'

defend ideologies. 1 was not in search of ideologies. 1 was in search of lives' (Mnouchkine in Héliot, 2005). lt seems, then, that for ¡Vlnouchkine the need to share these stories is so important that it outweighs any risk of voyeurism. 4

The refugee and the camp In Mean.> 'vVithout End, Giorgio Agamben talks about the need to build political philosophy anew, and to position the refugee at tlle core of this process. In fact, Agamben a rgues that the refugee poses the fundamental ethical challenge of our age. He writes: Given the by now unstoppable decline of the nation-state ami the general corrosion of traditional political-juridical categories, the refugee is perhaps the only thinkable figure for the people of our time and the only category in which one may see tod ay ... the forms and limits of a coming political community. It is even pos­ sible that, if we want to be equal to the absolutely n ew tasks ahead, \Ve will have to abandon decidedly, without reservation, the fun­ da me ntal concepts through wb ich we have so far represented the subjects of the political (Man, the Citizen ... the sovereign people, the wOrker, and so forth) and build our political philosophy anew, starting fmm the one and only figure of the refugee. (Agamben, 2000 : 15) Agamben's theorisation of the refugee as the figure of the contempor­ ary age, a figure who poses a challenge to existing notions of citizen­ ship, justice and sovereignty, is a significant one. It questions the ways in which relations among and between people might operate. W hen this theorisation is combined with his understandi n g of the refugee camp it highlights the need for spaces within which the refu­ gee crisis and the wa)'s in which it is managed and conceived by governments, societies (and more broadly) non-refugees, can be re­ imagined. Of the camp, Agamben suggests that one ought to fenect on the paradoxieal status of the camp as a spacl' of exception: the camp is a pieee of territo ry that is placed outside the normal juridical order; for all that, howeveI, it is not simply an external space. According to the ety mological meaning

'Th e Refugee', Empath)' and Participation

121

of the term exceptio/1 (e,y-capere), what is being excluded in the eamp is captured outside, that is, it is included by virtue of its ver)' exclusion. (2000: 40; original emphasis) While inhabitants of the camp are not considered to have any legit­ imate (or as yet proven) legal c1aim to eitizenship within the nation state, the)' are, as Suvendrin i Perera (following Agamben) explains, 'brought even more firmly under its control by viftue of their exclu­ sion from its laws' (Perera, 20(2). J)espite efforts by governments to tighten control over borders and to implcment zones of exclusion (as in Australia, for example) the flo w 01' human traffie across horders continues. The arrival of refugees and asylum seekers generates cornplex responses from residents and citizens of tlle destination sta tes al.>out the ways in whieh the camps are controlled and the refugees are treated. Notwithstanding the faet that many of the camps are ren­ dered invisible for reasons of political expediency or as a result of deliberate positionjng in geographical isolation, they are, as Agamben makes c1ear, positioned in an unstable space of 'exception' within nations: a space that threatens to erupt at any momento Sorne citi­ zens respond to a media-assisted (or media generated) fear of the unknown other by reinforcing stereotypes or adopting racist pos­ itions. Others experience a profound sense of unease about the act of confining or containing refugees and asylum seekers (particularly children) and the methods employed to do so. Mnouchkine and Théatre du Soleil's decision to docume nt the experiences of refugees and asylum seekers sits alongside tlle work of other artists (such as Salverson) eoncerned with the plight of those seeking refuge, and at the same time attempting to broaden tl1e parameters of debate on this crucial politica 1, social and cultura! issue. s As Agamben points out, inasmuch as the refugee u n.h inges the old trin ily of state/nation/ territory - this apparently marginal figure deserves rather to be cons,i dered the central figure of our political Ilistory. It would be well not to forget that thc first camps in Europe were built as places to control refugees, anu tllat tlle progression - internment camps, concentration eamps, cxtermination camps - represenl; a perfectly real fi Iiation. (n.d.)

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Performa/1ce, Ethics ll/1d Spectatorsilip i/1 a GloDal AXe

Agamben is proposing a fundamental shift in the balance of moral power in societies so that the refugee beco mes the central icon of any relationship, rather than a victim or an object to be responded to or managed. Tllli shift has implications fo r notions of responsi­ bility and for subjeetivity. If it is to work it wi ll requ i re serious reconsideration of how both response and responsibility might operate in such a changed env ironm ent. There is 00 doubt that this is exciting material, particularly when linked to Levinasian p hiloso­ phy, and my discussions about globalisation, mobility and poverty (fo llowing Bauman and Kapuscinski) in Chapter 1. It is possible to read Mnouchkine's painstaking process of interviewing and docu­ menting the experiences of refugees as one that attempts to take up Agamben's challenge and begi n the process of transforming the fig­ ure of the refugee.

The company, the objectives, the p erformance Ariane Mnouchkine and ten other artists formed Le Société Coopérative Ouvriere de Productiol1 (The Theatre of the Sun, workers' production

cooperative) in 1964. Since that time she and the collective have worked tirelessly to create large-scaJe t heatrical productions that ngage with significant political issues, to reveal hidden stories and histories, to ge nerate a speaking space for the otheI, and to stimulate reflection on the pa rt of spectators . Mnouchkine is devoutly com­ mitted to challenging injustice, and this commitment frames her life and her art. In turn, th is adds depth to any reading of Le LJemier Caravansérail because it positions the work as one that is informed by a deep ethico-political commitm ent to the subjeets and histories represen ted. ti Armelle Héliot in her interview with Mnouchkine in the pro­ gramme notes tells us that 'Ariane Mnouchkine and her collaborators employed the poetics of the theatre in order to interrogate the respon­ sibilities of a world where disadvantaged people are marginalised and ignored ' (Théatre du Soleil, 2005). In order to create this space for co nsidering 'responsibilities' the production uses 42 vignettes depict­ ing the difficulties and dangers faced by oppressed people, as they ex¡..t in homelaJ1ds in wh ich they are persecuted or ma rgioalised, as t hey all empt to flee, or as they negotiate a new place. The perform­ ance h in t wo parts. Part r 'Le fleuve cruel' (The Cruel River) 'recounts

123

the departures, the exoduses', and Part 1I - 'O rigines et destins' (O rigins and Destinies) 'explores the reasons fOI these departures' (Théatre du Soleil, 2005). As spectators enter the performance space they become aware that the campany is trying to remove the theatrical frame, to allow the audience to gain a full sense of the performance-as-process. At the },'f elbourne production the dressing rooms are in the open space of the Royal Exhibition Building, and are in full víew. 7 The actors sit and prepare as audience members casually wander around and observe. Food can be purchased and consumed and tables are set up witb information oa refugees, asylum and various support groups_ The stage resembles a grand tent with ramps on both sides and a partly see-through scrím that separates the musicians who perforro to the side of the stage. According to Judith Miller, the performance space 'englobes the produetion's dazzling paradoxes: a feeli ng of sumptuousness and emptines~, of extreme stylisation (including the balIetic qua lity of the set changes) and of almost televisioo realism' (2006: 214). Each scene takes place on a smal! platform or box (caravans, small houses, ete.). The performers either wheel themselves or are wheeled on and off lhe stage. They play multiple roles and no performer ever touches the ground while performing a scene. The fact th 3t lhey l1ever set foot 011 the stage acts as a poignant metaphor for the idea of rootlessness. There is a constant frenz y of activity in the spaee as performef'i run on an d off stage between scenes . Trolleys, props ami sets are moved at speed. When not .i n a scene, lhe pcrform ers help with the sets and effecls so the process of generating the spec tallc i~ always made visIble. The programme notes state that, 'each platform that appears is like a fragment o f lhe world, an d as Ih!: platforms appear, one after the other, they end up peopling the stage amI lra ns­ forming it into a planisphere' (Théálrc du Soleil, 2005). There is exquisite attention to de tai l in every aspect of the stagi ng. The sets are beautifuJly constructed, the mll~i c evncat ive and the costumes symbolie.

Repl'esenting testimony Tlle performance relies heavily on the testimony of those interviewed by Mnouchkine. She wr ites, 'Iitt le hy little, [ began to colleet theiI

124 Performance, Etllies ({mi Speetatorship in a Global Age

. ,

.'.'I

words. Then it suddenly seemed necessary for them to tell me every­ thing. I recorded 100 hours of interviews. They all asked me to tell what had happened, to them, to their families' (Mnouchkine in Héliot, 2005). Indeed, the performance is described, in the 'Melboume International Arts Festival' brochure as a work which 'combines an intricate mosaic of voices of asylum seekers lamenting cultures and countries left behind with evocative sounds and vivid imagery to give a human face to the plight of those forced to leave their homes in search of a better life' (2005: 24). The programme notes explain that the performance is 'an ocean of odysseys, sometimes heroic, some­ times banal, but always dramatic and traumatic' (2005). The stories are told in a straightforward fashion without meta-commentary or ana­ Iysis of the polítical or social context within \vhich they take place, ami without an)' discussion about why and how the world carne to be in this terrible state. Mnouchkine points out that in her inter­ views with detainees she told them 'that l unfortunately couldn't do anything for them, that I didn't have any power, but that what 1 could do was make theatre, and that rThéátre du Soleil] wanted to tell their stories' (Mnouchkine in Héliot, 2005). During the intensive rehearsal period the cast work collaboratively to generate images and fragments that reflect the complexity of the experiences of those seeking refuge in more 'moderate' countries. The decision to tell so mally stories means that characters are symbolic rather than fully fleshed out. As Singleton explains, 'the piece is a consciously na·ive recounting of testimonies by dozens of refugees/asylum seekers' (Singleton, 2003: 227). The desire, on behalf of the company, to represent the diversity of experiences (to share the testimony) adequately and to avoid appropriating the other's pain led to this decision to represent as many stories as possible. 1n the notes for tile French production, Cixous asks, ' how can we avoid appropriating other people's anguish when we use it to make thea­ tre? ' (McEvoy, 2006: 219). This is an admirable and significant con­ cem, particularly considering the vulnerabílíty of the people in question . At this juncture it is worth reflecting on the use of testimony in th(' otiler productions addressed in this book. In The Carea Highligl1ts uf" the M/lMU (Chapter 3) the testimony (via filmed interviews with the eldcrs) worked to jolt spectators out of the intimacy and warmth of the live performance into a position where they had the potentíal

"(he /{e(ugee', Empathy and Participatíon

125

to experience the absolute alterity of the other who spoke of land, culture and loss from their 'country ', without artífice, In Sal1dakan Threnody (Chapter 4), the testimonial narrative fractured the more abstract sequen ces of the performance and facilítated an emotional connection with the children of those directly i.nvolved in war. In this production, llOwever, the testimony works and is experienced in a different way. There is no filmic documentary footage and there is very little spoken text in the performance. Each vignette is a discrete testimonial in itself. Because they are gathered from painstaking interviews the entir2 performance becomes a testimonial to the experiences of those who are fleeing. Nevertheless these are per­ formed testimonies; therefore, while Mnouchkine and iler collabor­ ators are careful to foreground the literal stories, there is an intricate layering of representations involved. The performed testimonies are combined with oral testimonies (directly recorded from the inter­ view process) that are, as Béatrice Picon-Vallin writes, present at the very heart of the performance, in their originallan­ guages, with their specific sounds and qualities, and emotions, which make the interviewees' voices break. As they are being broadcast, they are simultaneously being translated on screen . (Picon-Vallin, 2006: 86-87) The projected translations are used as a connective web throughout the work. They attest to the at times unbearable pain experienced by people fleeing or caught in the zone of excJusion, or 'captured Ollt­ side' as Agamben describes it. These testimonies are brief, symbolic, simple and almost allegorical, as they represent the mllltiplc kinds of trauma that might be experienced in the process of fleeing or attempting to flee, They pllnctuate the performance, reminding audiences of the 'lives' Mnouchkinc is sharing with llS,x

Visibility and empathy Part 1 begins with a lettcr from Mnouchkine addressed to Nadereh.. The letter is projected in beautiful cursive script onto the backdrop. It teUs stories of loss and talks abollt those who are stranded. It also celebrates the fact that the play has been written: '\Ve have finally created the play that we promised nearly ayear ago ... a few instants

.. [

126

Performance, Ethics and Spectalorsf¡ip ;n (/ GlolJal Ase

out of all tbey told us ... on the island of Lombok.'9 This first letter also reminds spectators that the performance is based on interviews and that it is attempting to enact a conversation both with the refu­ gees and the spectators about the 'real' experiences of people fleeing terror. Alison Croggo n, who was so moved by the work that she wrote her review in the form of a letter to 1\Jnouchkine, points out that this first letter signals both intention and refusa!. The intention was to expose the gen­ esis of this work, the reality of the people whose stories were turned into this work of theatre by you and your company. The refusal was of the betrayaJ of art, which so easily expJoits the suf­ fering of others to make a beautiful object. (2005) Croggon goes on to explain that her experience of the performance was oue of inclusion and emotionaJ involvement. She found empow­ ering the way in wh ich the dressing rooms were visible and the per­ formance leached into the space, rather than remai.ning contained on the stage. Jt allowed her to feel that the strict boundaries between the artwork and the spectators were bei og broken dow n . Croggon be lieves in the work, in its ability to present so many different stories of 'hum an bei ngs in exiJe' and in its ability to reflect the eomplexity of the refugee experience, by showing us that 'as well as being full of grief and love and geoerosity, human beings can be murderous, cruel, weak, ignorant and stupid' (Croggon, 2005). She goes on to explain Lhat although 'they might be cruel 01" stupid rthisJ doesn't mean that they might not be also vietims of forces beyond their con­ trol' (2005). It seem s that for Croggon the decision to present so many stories allowed Le Dernier Caravanséra il to move beyond binar­ ies and to present a rieh portrait of the difficult and competing forees that shape the experienees of the dispossessed. These competing forces begin to emerge in the spectacular and arresting opening scene of Part I as it depicts refugees attempting to eross an angry river. They are standing On the bank waiting to eross, u~ ing a flimsy boat and an overhead rope to prevent them and the boat from being washed away. Large sheets of grey fabric that billow across the entire stage represent the Jiver. Thi.s billowing effect is achieved by the performers (who are not involved in this scene) stand in g at the sides of the stage and sha ki ng the fabric. ]ean-]acques

The Re(ugee', El11fJeithy anc/ Participatiul/

127

Lemetre's musical composition is loud and evocative; it crea tes intensity in th e space as spectators strain to hear the negotiations taking place betweffi the refugees and the smugglers. Even though sorne of the negot iations are explained via the su rtitJ es, from the action takiog place, t he desperation of the people altempting to make it to the other side of the treacherous river is obvious. The combination of loud m usic and the vivid portrayal of the 'angry' river as well as tbe deep anx iety of those attempting to eross is, as Owen Riehardson writes, p oi gnant, and it captures our attention im mediately: The sound of w ind and wale r al moSI drowning out the actors' voices, the tra nsitioo fro nl low Iight to bright, Lhe realistie physic­ ality of the performers, all these combine to thrilling effect. Straight away you are on the edge of your seat, for the fírst of many times over the next three hours. (RiehardsoIl, 2005: 30) There is somethin g about this dramatic opening that generates a deep emotion al engagement in audiences. The speetacle is captivating. As a spectator, 1find that the visual renderi ng of t h15 story - a story I know well - has the ability to provoke in ways that simple re-telling does noto J w ish for the safe return of the fer ryman, and like Richardson, I too am moved by the drama of the scene. Croggon's responses also reflect this experience. She sees the work as gene[at ing ,>tories of the refugees and the traffickers, which acknowledge, through the depic­ tion of the interactions between the 'vulnerable' refugees and t he 'ruthless' traffickers, the ways in whích gTeed, power, desperation and money can impact on and perhaps curtail o ne's hu manity. Tl1js facili­ tates, for Croggon, via the generation of empathy, an engagement wíth the work. She believes that the performance allows spectators to reflect on the experiences of the ot ber and she points ou t, q uoting John Berger, 'that it affirm s the idea that 'tlle naming o f the intolerable is itself the hope' (2005). In fact. she gües to great lengths to argue against reading Le Dernier Cm'avansémil as a sen timental work that 'exploits t h e suffering of other to make a beauti ful objeet that is nothing more than a p laything of the privileged' (20 05) . These responses are deta iled a n d they interrogate the ways in wh ich tl1e performance engenders more than empathy in any singular or uncritical sense vla a co nsideration of how it reaches

128

Performallce, Et/¡ics

(//1(/

Spectatorshíp in a Global Age

'into the intimate and complex spaces of our own lives' as Croggon describes it. There is, however, the potential that this level of emo­ tional investment might, for sorne spectators, alter the focus of responses away from the other and towards the self - to recip rocity instead of 'being for' - as Levinasian ethics demands. This view is expressed by Ong Keng Sen who remarks that: Perhaps, I feel that it's [Le Vernier Caravé1nséraíl] still concerned too much with human stories. Part of my problem with it is that it is very manipulative emotionally. Jt 's very French-humanistic - very, very human stories. Working with or talking with a lot of French directors, 1 have found that they are not concerned about politics; they feel that that's another thing. They say, ' 1 want to tal),: about the human stories; I want to talk abollt the stories of individuals.' I feel that the piece contained very little socIal-political discussion; it was reaIJy stories of individuals who were in ver y dire circum­ stances. (Leverett, 2007: 56) For Ong the work may not have been open enough. It elicited par­ ticular kinds of emotional responses, instead of raising questions. Of course it could be argued that the scenes generate empathy for a re a­ son. And th al empathy is necessary in the context of a world where the refugee and the camp are often isolated, excluded or vilified. And obviously des pite (or perhaps because of) her emotional involvement Croggon's responses were both rich and nuanced. The risk, however, that such a heavy reliance on emotional reactions will return the focus to spectators, instead of hearing and responding to the call of the other, remains. Kalina Stefanova's experience makes this clear, she explains that: 'After the end of Mnoushkin's show one feels like one has experienced the other people's pain with one's own body, having wept the other people's sorrows with one's own tears' (Stefanova, 2004). Such a response deconstructs or has the potential to deconstruct Agamben's call to position the refugee at the centre of a new phiIosophy as well as the potential for a Levinasian ethics. As the work unfolds spectators are confronted with myriad scenes of hardship and pain and these scenes result in a range of at times contradictory responses from spectators and critics. In 'An Afghan Love' a story is told in three parts that are subtitled 'The Bird', 'Starry Night' and 'The End'. It depicts two young innocents

'The Re(t/8ee', fmpath)' alld ParticipaOoll

129

attempting to share their love without attracting th e oppressive gaze (and associated pun ishment) of the Taliban. In the first of these th ree scenes, 'The Bi rd', we see the lovers giggling, talking and the boy's attempt to kiss tbe girl as they sit outside a little house. A member of the Taliban arrives aod the girl hides. The Taliban soldier demands American cigarettes amI when he is asked to pay for these h e snows his weapon ominously. When he leaves the girl emerges from her hiding spot and is visibly traumatised by th e close call. Tlle Talibao soldier returns and he demands tea; tlle girl , who is fully covered in a burka, sits nervously behind him as he drinks his tea. The boy tries to pretend that she L· his sister. Th e soldiers h arass the young man for his lack of beard and they forcibly cut his hair and hold it up to h is face. Then they give him a present oW hen he unwraps it the body of a smashed bi rd is revealed . In 'Starry Night ' l be yaung cOllple a re in a cabin embracing; they appear very nervous. T he cabi n is rotatcd on the stage and we see the Taliban soldiers peering in. They strike and the man is beaten. The young woman is taken away; he is beaten some more and spat on. A voiceover states 'it is decreed that all non­ Islamic statues be destroyed. AlIah is th e only true sanctuary. (The Ministry for the Promotion of Virtue and the Rejection of Vice).' In 'The End', th e young man arrives clandestinely to see his love. She is locked up and barricaded in a cabin. He sobs. The Taliban come out. Someone in a burka is taken to tlle front and beaten but it is not the girl, it is a man in disguise. The cabin is rotated and we see her hang­ ing by the neck, dead . These three scenes reflect the issues of brlltal ­ ity and manipulation that the work reveals. They are shocking and, in their simplicity, provide sorne idea of the kinds of torture and trauma faced by Afgha n i people under the Tatiban regime. As well as the story of the Afghan lovers there are several scenes set on the rail tracks of the cavernous I urotunnel. Mnollch kine con­ ducted many intervi ews at the Sangatte refugee ca rnp near Ca lai s, and these interviews and the stories she gathered are rcflected in the Eurotunnel scenes. JO These stories of des perate people who pass through a hole in the chain-link fence deep inside the tunnel and then attempt to cling on to moving trains are harrowing. They also depict the ruthlessness of the smugglers and the way in which a desire for monetary gain overrides any interest in, or compassion for, the physical or emotional well being of asylum seekers. In her review, Marilyn Stasio suggests that the scenes set in the Eurotunnel with its

130 Perform a/l ce, Etilies a/ld Spectatorsilip ill a Glubal Age

ominous black fence represe nt 'a kind of purgatory for desperate people at the merey of smugglers who rab them blind, or exact harshe.r terms of sexual slavery of pretty young women ... who dare the perilous journey alone' (2005). The \York does not shy away from melodrama and contains scenes of brutal.ity, gore and violence. While the scenes are simple they still manage to illustrate the mul­ tiple and at times conflicting roles people play. This means that, for Narelle Sullivan, at least, Mnoushkine is careful to offer a humanity that is complex and contradictory: the sin ister, leather cIad people smuggler is also a father who sings lullabies to his young child via his mobile phone; not all refugees are simply presented as victims - many take advan­ tage of others to make their wa)'. (Sullivan , 2006) In contrast to this response Helen Gilbert and Jacqueline Lo express concern about the use of stark and evocative images or 'snapshots' and they argue that: The show's visual appeal, much lauded by critics, turns on a col­ locati.on of images that infuse the barro\Ying traumas communi­ cated by the refugee stories with the aesthetic pleasUIes of orieuta lism. Particularly resonant in this respect are the snapshots of Afghanistan: elusive women in full, pale-blue burgas; a starkly beautiful burnt-out hut; the cruel Taliban, both mysterious and immediately recognizable beneath black beards and turbans. (Gilbert and Lo, 2007: 205) The question of orientalism is a difficult one. If the work evokes orientalist 'pleasures' then its focus rests primarily with the subject and not with the other, and therefore it again calls the ideas of both Agamben and Levinas into question. If, however, as Brian Singleton argues, Mnouchkine 'circumve nted the charge of Orienta Usm in a range of ways' (2007: 29) then the reJationship can be read as one in which t he refugee .is central and the call of the other is responded too Singletnn explains tbat this circumvention occurs because, 'subjects were on ly represented momentarily. The effect of this was t hat \Ve were un ablc to identify with them and therefore challenge their represcntat iotl by others' (2007: 30). He goes on to suggest that 'by

The Refllgee', E/1/fJathy ami ParticipaUolI

13 1

far the greatest means of escape fram representing otherness in an objectified way was to be found in the text of the play' (Singleton, 2007: 30). This is a cogent point and it seems that the content of the stories, their impact and the fact that they are based on 'real' experi­ ences (and that these are cardully threaded through the perform­ ance via the voiceoveIs) counterbalances, for sorne spectators, the 'aesthetic pleasures of orientalism' that Gilbert and Lo see operating in the work. Yet concern remains that thc repctition of stories of hardship, bru­ talit y and loss resu lt in, or have thc potential to result in, a f1attening out of the stories (¡¡ nd those the)' represent) so that an)' detail ed understanding of the experienccs af refugees amI asylum seekers on an emotional physical or even geagraphical Ievel becomes almost impossible. for Gilbert and Lo this results in a situation whereb)': the audience as collective witness to the verbatim testimonies ­ often prajected in exguisite (foreign) handwriting - thus rece des from visibility while the conditions of ethical responsiveness are subordinated to the imperatives of voyeurism. (Gilbert and Lo, 2007: 205)

While the audience, at ti mes, rece des from visibility, tbere is also a risk that the other will recede, as spectators beco me conceroed with consumption and not with the 'ethical responsive ness' that, as Gilbert and Lo make clear, i5 'subordinated'. This is the danger (out­ lined earlier) involved in attempting to balance the need to give refu­ gees a voice and at the same time to create a performance work t bat actively engages spectators. Given these diverse and contradictory readings of I·he work it is necessary to returo to a consideration of the idea of participation. 15 the performance, by virtue of its posilirming of the audience (at times) as voyeurs gt.'nerating the l l1 ~w s pa pe r head­ lines, reports from an nouncers and o nlookcrs , ami 'sense of connection' actually mean, and ho\'l m ight it he made ma nifest between and among spectators in technologic­ ally advanced societies? lf, on the other hand societies are becoming more atomised, what might be done about this? My focus is not on prov iding answers but on thinking ahout the limíts and the poten­ tial of pract ical respoosibilit)' both wUhin and beyond the perform­ ance space. This hook has explored the kinds of ethical questions perform­ ance might raise for spectators. It has reflected on what spectators might do with those questions, which often emerge in the form of provocations, anxieties or a sen se of amhivalence once spectators !cave the theatre. The)' may experience a desire to act in response to t he ideas raised and the polítical and social issues discussed within a work but, apart from engaging in dialogue about them or changing their attitudes towards a particular concept or event, they are often u nc lear about wh at, if any, other practical action they m ight take. Pe rhaps it is through dehating and sharing responses and reactions wit h othe rs th3t spectators actually do intervene and, as a result, 172

1/J

have the potentia l lO expcricl1ce the connectedness to which Phelan rders. To explore th is jS~lI e a little furth e r I consider a recent incident, which d id not occ ur within the context of ' whic.h 0ne is jili.!ged Moral < y~telll s inc1uue th~ jvstice syste rl1, tite legal .~ystem (ele.). Ethtcs, 011 rhe o \h l"f hallo, is Ihe pro('('~s hy \', hich in d i~' idual subj l'r ts "'_lJ.:C s e ns~ of th ese ~?~te ms and how Ihey i!ppl~' them to their own Uv es . I follow Ra llma n's unde rs tilllding of these IprrES. F(J r mOle information. :;pe ]'o.;;mod!:ftl E/h ics (1993). 3 , Jusl!r: e h IlI!t1er~l(lod h el e as deflned b~' l.cvina~, 'Justice I~ necessary, that Is, ~:ompar~ol1 , coe xlsten ce. eontemporaneousness, assembling, order, l h~ ll1 at lzati(}n, the I ¡s ibilil r of faces, alld thl1~ i rllf'n tir)ll a lit y and th e ¡nlel· Ipel, amI in inlcntlonalily and the intellc r('{~:ent, rnnre iike a spcaking oiJnrJi than a spcaklllg lo tir e o llw['iI999: 1-14; urigillall:lIlplla,;~) . 6 . I\s J.1'11'eJ iJl tllr: theJlrt', ¡md 1 ~Iill want sGmdhillg more suh3t¡¡nt-ive t!J :m m}' t'!~w¡¡or!~ tn he engaeC0 . .. , I stlll want t( : profe" ¡ hOl! il is wor!h\':h¡"~ Ir, link ¡¡,thlie cxpcrk nn: tI) tite poHtlcal alld ethkal l.. ~ ue5 of O\lf time. (Re ill cH, 201)3: 391-392)

17ó

lTi

7. For él de!ailed diseu,sioll of 'the Ibjrd parIr' s ~e Otllerwise tllull Reil1,'í, pp. IS6·- 6Z. 8 . In faLt, it is the [l~ '!itic.1! ,~Pm~lHi(m d ethiLs which f.e'.'¡n~s's ;Jloj cct (',,-,m otes (hat mah:s il more approp:i.'1ie tu rny ()\v1l themisJtiolJ oí Ihe subject Ihan Derric.la's decon~lructial1. As Si'lltnr! Crilchley point, Otlt 'Dcrrirlj~n oC("('Il:;lructicn Ita ~ a hmizGIl of re .~p()mih¡li:y or dhi(~1 siR' nificance, f1.· m'iderl 1171/1 etl1ies is understood in !h.e Levin, too Illallr participati()nall"!~tiOi1~hip), tCiO rnanv illidge s, not eno1Jgh objcclivity' (S a¡ II l' , 200(): :;7.). 17. As Fdith Wy;;cbogrod ]I'~~ues: Tlle IlIIkil >lllng of:¡ !lnnd of im'lgi's m:ry learl In exprc~sion." o( fren­ zicd afft'ct that ror Levlnas are maltlíestc.d as Jl,j¡.:ani~rn, ;¡ If'rm he ¡,s"; o..J~~t(' ."i

,,,tll! t\

'~ "g(! nf nU'lon t ng'l (ru'l1 tite f",(., [~ :'tloil

"r P :lttlt'(~

a~

ff-c\llldity whic:h :'" id " i1ljfi.~s ": il ll tkidr·g.l\l'''·' "Il'.-d­ og,· ... to tir ;> p;¡rt~cll::lt i O¡ 1 in m)'~ tie ,:! Il'a lii y i!C' ;lt l rl~ ' ul': 5 !'.'l Ilor, ­ literate \ori c ti('s ~s clepil: tlCd by I.l!v}'· lI rl\!lL (20 rJZ ·. t': 8) jr.¡p.~r~o,.al

178

Notes

Notes

179

18. Lcvinas's fear of art links to a bwader iear oí rclaxation. T bL~ fear of relaxation is a lso discuS5ed in te mu of the café: '!Jl the café, there are no thrilles .... You relax completel)' to the point 01' nol being obligated to anyone or any thing: and it is becallse it ls po ssible to go and relax in a café that one tolerates the horrors and injll stices oí ti world without a soul' (1990: ll 2).

This is an app roach that has !leen takcn by theorists such as Joe Kelleher (2002. 20(6) for exa mple. 13. [n fact, Caste llu eci has stated that Genesi 'eonstitutes tIJe background' to the 11 ep isodcs of Tragedia (Peter EckersaIl, see note 7). 14. 1 attend ed a performance of this work at th e r.,4dbourne Internati o nal Arts Festival in October 2006.

Cbapter 2

Chapter 3

1. Sodetas Raffaello San7io was founded in Cesena, Elllilia-Romag na, Italy in 198 1 by Romeo C aste llucci, Claudia Castellucci, Paolo Guidi and Chíara Guidi. 2. Ada pted hOll Gabriel1a Gian na chi ami Nick Kaye, 2002 . 3. The core member~ 01' Societas Raffaello Sanz io are Romeo Castellucci, director, Claudia Castellucci, writer, and Clliara Guidi, dramaturgo 4. Levinas doe ~ not exte nd the concept of th e faee to anirna ls: Tbe face can oIlly be human in his phi)osophy. This is a probleml exp lore in detail in Chapter 6. 5. Gcnesi: (rol1J thc l11!/s cum o(slcep tourcd intcrnational festivals in nU illN ­ ous Emopean cities, including Amsterdam, Zurie 11 , Berlin, 5trasbourg, Paris and Orléa m as well as to Australia for The Perth Internacional Arls Festival in 2003. 6. I am lIs ing the term spectacle h e.re to denote something more dramatic th an the aet of pedortll in g/perforrnance itself. Tha t is it is related to the idea 01' the spec tacula r: something that is lav!sh ane! amazing. This Í5 the killd of spectacle u Uli secl by Castellucci in Genes;. 7. Unpubli shed n ü tes ta ken by Peter Eckersall at a forurn with Romeo Castcllucci in Mel bourne, Oc tober 2006. 8. The most detailed d is cussion about the 'influence of Artaud on Societas Raffaello San l.io'S'work (apan from com mcnts by Castellucci) can, I believe, be found in Glanllach l and Kaye's wr iting. 9. Masaccio (Tommaso di Ser Giovannl di Simone Guidi Cassai, 1401 - 1428) was a very significant ear ly Renaissance pa inter. He wo rked with Masoli ni d a l'allkale (13 83-1440) on fresco es in the Bra ncacci Ch apel in F1orence. His frescoes are conside.red master pieces and they demo nstra te his skill wit h perspective, the use of light, and an ability to generate a psycho­ logical intemity in the figures he painted. 10. See a[so Usa Vinebaul11, wllo eite ~ Ma rianoe Hirsch on the idea of 'post­ mel11ory' ' to charactC' rise tlle experiences oCchildren of Ho locaust sur­ vivors, whose memor.iéS and experiences are shaped by traumatic events t hat they did not experiencc, and which cannot be undcrstood' (Vinl'haum , 2001). 11. Sce Vinc baulTl for lJ10re informati.on on this Lssuc (20 01). 12. 1l h ¡¡[so ro s~Jb le to use Georgio Agamben's wo rk RCl1l11al'/ts o(Ausclnvitz: T I/(' Witll(,.~S lIIulthe Archive (1999) to help frame a respon se to the work of Sucielas Rat faelloSanzio and particularly Gencs i and Tragedia El7dogonídia.

1.

The Mamu is the l'itjantjatjan word for abad sp.irit o.r an evil shaclow. When the clder< saw the black smoke from the south loweüng above them, they thought it was the Mamll, angry and powerful. From th en o.n the ritjan t jat jara Aborigines ca lled this place Maralinga, mean ing 'field of thunder'. (Blac k Swan Theatre, 2002).

Hercafter I will rder to the productio.n as MA MU.

2. Reviewers foeussed on the humollT of th e wo rk. its abilit y to generate laughter and its authentieity. MAMU was reviewed in I-Iamhlllger Abendblatt, Hamhurger (26 August 2002), Morgenpost (26 August 2002), Die Tageszeitul/g (26 August 2(02), Die vl-'elt (26 and 27 August 2002), and Kie/er Nachrichlw (27 August 2(02). 3. See (NACCHO and Ox fam, 2007). 4. For info rrnat ion on the history wars or the culture wars as this period is variousl y knüwn see fol' exa mple: Keith Win dsehutt le, 2002, Robert Ma nne, 2003, Henry ReynoJds, 2001, Rai mond Ga ita, 1999. lt must be noted that the first aet of the newly elected l.abo r go ve rnment in 2008 was to make a formal apology in parliament to Indigenous !¡ustrallilm. 5. l he te rm 'stolen generations' rders to those Indigen ous Australians who were forcibly removed froOl tl'¡ei r fam.ilies by gove rnm ental offit"i a ls, welfare or reJigious organi sat'ions between 1909 and 1969 when the pr (accessed 25 May 20(5). flutlcr, Samue l. (1965). Erew//(J/1 or Over the Rallge. Jonathan Cape: London. Buzaco tt , Ma rt in. (2004). ' Voices oi the ()ead Overwhelm the Drama.' Th e I I ustralian , 20 September: 9. Cane, Scott. (2 002). Pila N..iillru: The Spinifex People. I~' remantle Arts Ce ntre Prcss: Fremantle. Ca rut h, Cat h y. (1996). Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narralive (accessed 26 May 20(7). Hardt, Michael and Antonio Negri. (2001). Empire. Harvard Unive rsity I'ress: Harvard. - - (200-}). Multitllde. The I'enguin I'rcss: New York. Harris , Samela. (2002). 'The Career Highlights of the l'v[amu: Advertiser (Adelaidc), 4 March: np. Hartman, Geoffrey. (1996). The LOllgest Sharlow: 1/1 the Atíem/(/tll uf the }-JolocaL/si. Indiana University !'ress: 13100mington. - - (2001 ). 'Tele-Suffering ami -restimony in the Dot Com Era.' In ViS /UfI Clllture 17m! lhe Huloca/lsL ELI. Barbie ZelizeL Rutgers Univcrsity l'ress: Ncw Brunswick, New Jersey, pp. 111- 124. Ha tley. jamcs. (2000). SI/ftáing Witness: Tt-Ie Qu(/ndr)' ofRespo/lSilJility after th e IrreparalJle. State University of New York Press: Albany. Hayles, Katherinc N. (1999). How \\"e Became l'ostllLll1l(f1/: Virtudl Bodies In CylJerneties, LitemU/re (lnd Jn(orlllatics. University of Ch icago ['ress: Chicago. Héliot, Arme Ile. (2005). ' In Search of LiVl's: Ariane M nouchkine Intc rviewed: Théatre du Soleil. 'I'rogram Notes Le iJernier Caramnsérail. ' Melbourne 1ntcrnational Arts Festival. Hilberg, Raul. (1992). Perpetrators, Victi/l1s, B)'stOl/ders: Tlu: fewish Catastroplle 1933-1945. HarperCollins: New York. HlI.ghes-d'¡\eth, Tony. (2002). 'Which Rabbit-Proof Fence 7 Empathy, sSimilatlon, Hollywood: Al/stmli(/II l1ulllanities RevielV. (accessed 12 rv[arch 2008). Huyssen, Andreas. (1995). 711'iligllt Mel1lories: Marking Time in a CI/lture of A nlllesirt. Routledge: London. - - (2000). 'Present Pasts: Media, Politics, Amnesia: l'u/Jlic Culture, 12.1: 2J-3H. 19arashi, Yoshikuni. (2000). Rorlies o( Memory: Narratil'es of \Nar in Postwar fapanese Culture, 1945-1970. I'rinceton University Press: Princeton. Ignatieff, MichaeL (2004). T17e Lesser Ellit. l'rinceton Oniversity Press: l'rinceton. Irigaray, Luce. (1991). 'Questions to Emmanucl Levinas: On the LJivinity of Love.' In Re-ReadillS Levinas. Eds. Robert Hcrnasconi and Simon CrHeh ley. Athlone Press: London, pp. 109-118. Isherwood, Charles. (2005). 'Lincoln Center l'estiva l Review: Never Touching the Ground in a Constant Search for Rcfugc.' T/¡e New York Times. (accessed 15 August 2(07). Nussbau m , Ma rtha. (2003). 'Compassion & Terror.' Di/eelalus, 132.1: 10-26. Oliver, Ke.lIy. (2001). Wit7lessing: Beyond [~ecognition. University of Mi nnesota Press: Minncapoli.