Blasted.
Last night I saw Blasted by Sarah Kane at the Soho Rep. I don’t think I have ever been more terrified going into a play in my life. I made sure to sit on the edge so I could leave if I had to. I have never walked out of anything in my life but I gave myself permission to do that if I had to. Why was I so scared? I shall quote from Emily’s blog about her experience seeing Blasted:
I read the play four years ago and found it disturbing but not particularly affecting. It’s a strange play, absurdist in structure. The characters and situation don’t really change, everything just gets worse. Reading it I found it more a sad commentary on the state of Sarah Kane’s worldview. It is clear in her writing that this was a woman who saw society as thin and tenuous thread, that truly believed in her heart of hearts that humans are feral and we eat our young, that love is only a lie we use to manipulate each other. Sarah Kane killed herself in 1999 and anyone who has read or seen her work would not be surprised.
So when I heard that soho reps production of Blasted was THE production to see I bought a ticket with out thinking twice. I’ve survived Requiem for a Dream. I’ve written rapes and atrocities into my work. Whatever.*
Then I read Emily’s response and I got scared. Really really scared.
And so when I saw it I very consciously tried to focus on structure and technique. As things got worse I assumed horror-movie-position: thumbs over ears and fingers spread over my face to cover my ears and eyes at a moments notice. And when things got really, really eye-ball-sucking-and-dead-baby-eating bad and did not look at all. I examined the lighting rig.
And I did not vomit and I did not faint and I did not have to leave and I stayed all the way to the depressing end. And I smiled and sent a jokey text to Emily after curtain call. And I was pleased that I had remained unaffected.
But then on the train I realized that I didn’t really remember my walk. I was in a daze. And suddenly, on the packed L, I began to weep. Well, not so much weep as leak.
You know how when you’re sick, and there is no one to take care of you and you have to make soup and buy ginger ale for yourself, and everything takes an incredible amount of energy and thought? Just paying the cashier and putting soup in a pan takes conscious effort and is ultimately exhausting. That’s how walking home and taking care of the cats felt. It was as though the joy had been sucked out of me.
Thank goodness that the trifecta of hot chocolate, kittie cuddles and old school simpsons will cure almost anything.
Its hard to argue with Sarah Kane’s world view. There are situations where people go feral, where the only response is insanity. Right now, the tenuous peace in the Congo has fallen apart. And that is what is so scary about Blasted, not the incredible make up effects, not the brutal rapes, but the fact that there is a part of me, a very very small part, that agrees with her. But unlike Sarah (and her work), I (and my work) have hope.
And adorable kitties.
Its hard to recommend the play. But I will put it like this: if you are going to see a production of Blasted in your lifetime see this one. Everything is incredibly well done. Why you would want to see Blasted… well I leave that up to you.
* I have never “seen” the sexual violence in my plays performed. Whenever the gun-in-mouth moment in BANG/whimper came up in rehearsals or the production I would close my eyes. During the rehearsal of the attempted rape in Nothing but the Truth I drew flowers on my script. And when they insisted on rehearsing it over and over I nearly fainted. Take that for what you will.
“I broke into a cold sweat about halfway through scene three. Then my vision got all blurry and I thought I was going to die, but I did not. I'm sure everyone has their own limitations, but this was the first time (and I've read the play, so I did know what I was getting myself into), but this was the first time I've ever felt truly shocked.”
I read the play four years ago and found it disturbing but not particularly affecting. It’s a strange play, absurdist in structure. The characters and situation don’t really change, everything just gets worse. Reading it I found it more a sad commentary on the state of Sarah Kane’s worldview. It is clear in her writing that this was a woman who saw society as thin and tenuous thread, that truly believed in her heart of hearts that humans are feral and we eat our young, that love is only a lie we use to manipulate each other. Sarah Kane killed herself in 1999 and anyone who has read or seen her work would not be surprised.
So when I heard that soho reps production of Blasted was THE production to see I bought a ticket with out thinking twice. I’ve survived Requiem for a Dream. I’ve written rapes and atrocities into my work. Whatever.*
Then I read Emily’s response and I got scared. Really really scared.
And so when I saw it I very consciously tried to focus on structure and technique. As things got worse I assumed horror-movie-position: thumbs over ears and fingers spread over my face to cover my ears and eyes at a moments notice. And when things got really, really eye-ball-sucking-and-dead-baby-eating bad and did not look at all. I examined the lighting rig.
And I did not vomit and I did not faint and I did not have to leave and I stayed all the way to the depressing end. And I smiled and sent a jokey text to Emily after curtain call. And I was pleased that I had remained unaffected.
But then on the train I realized that I didn’t really remember my walk. I was in a daze. And suddenly, on the packed L, I began to weep. Well, not so much weep as leak.
You know how when you’re sick, and there is no one to take care of you and you have to make soup and buy ginger ale for yourself, and everything takes an incredible amount of energy and thought? Just paying the cashier and putting soup in a pan takes conscious effort and is ultimately exhausting. That’s how walking home and taking care of the cats felt. It was as though the joy had been sucked out of me.
Thank goodness that the trifecta of hot chocolate, kittie cuddles and old school simpsons will cure almost anything.
Its hard to argue with Sarah Kane’s world view. There are situations where people go feral, where the only response is insanity. Right now, the tenuous peace in the Congo has fallen apart. And that is what is so scary about Blasted, not the incredible make up effects, not the brutal rapes, but the fact that there is a part of me, a very very small part, that agrees with her. But unlike Sarah (and her work), I (and my work) have hope.
And adorable kitties.
Its hard to recommend the play. But I will put it like this: if you are going to see a production of Blasted in your lifetime see this one. Everything is incredibly well done. Why you would want to see Blasted… well I leave that up to you.
* I have never “seen” the sexual violence in my plays performed. Whenever the gun-in-mouth moment in BANG/whimper came up in rehearsals or the production I would close my eyes. During the rehearsal of the attempted rape in Nothing but the Truth I drew flowers on my script. And when they insisted on rehearsing it over and over I nearly fainted. Take that for what you will.
posted by Lark(e) at 10:03 AM
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