Suspending disbelief and Sondheim

The Playhouse Theatre, Covent Garden

I once worked with an editor who hated live theatre.

She had an Arts degree in Literature —she loved reading fiction, running an imagined narrative through her mind. But she loathed theatre.

She was fine with watching a ten-metre-face in a cinema, or a flat-screen human being — she adored movies. But she couldn’t abide plays.

She said it was just not in her to suspend disbelief that much.

A person pretending to be someone else on stage was ridiculous to her.

I never understood.

I’ve always found the theatre magical and romantic and totally absorbing. Being in a state of suspended disbelief is one of my favourite ways of being — nothing else exists, nothing else matters. It’s like a protective bubble where emotion and human connectedness is everything and everywhere. 

Even when shock or outrage or horror exist inside the bubble, they are deep feelings in a safe space. I clearly remember, as a pre-teen audience member, being conflicted by Nancy’s heartbreak in Oliver! and distressed by the rape of Aldonza in The Man of La Mancha. 

 The Ferryman is my fave play so far.

And bewildered might best describe my response to the first penis I ever saw. Although, to be fair, that may not have been suspended disbelief. That might just have been plain old unadulterated unadorned complete and utter disbelief. It was 1969. I was 11 and we’d driven from Melbourne to Sydney to see Hair. My parents believed it was a ground-breaking show that I needed to experience. Very freethinking 1960s of them don’t you think?

Anyway, lately, I’ve noticed something very disturbing about my theatre-going self that has sent me on a long walk in the hall of mirrors.

There’s a production of Sondheim’s Company opening soon and I’ve never seen it done professionally. So, usually, my virtual self would have been lined up at that cyber-booking-counter, Paypal in pocket, at the earliest possible opportunity.

Only this time I wasn’t.

I hesitated.

In this production, Bobby (the role made famous by Larry Kent and Neil Patrick Harris) becomes Bobbi —female, and Amy becomes Jamie— not female.

So, all of Robert’s songs will be in a female voice, and Amy’s manic (Not) Getting Married Today will be Jamie panicking about his impending gay wedding.

Why was I disappointed to read that?

The Globe

I understand that Western literature and theatre is dominated by dead white males.  And I totally get that gender-blind casting gives women a chance to play some of the greatest roles. Indeed, it was as far back as 1899 when Sarah Bernhardt first played Hamlet. But I felt let down when it was announced that the recent production of Hamlet at The Globe — I’d bought tickets well before the season opened — would have a female in the lead, and that Ophelia was to be played by an extremely handsome bearded and be-gowned young man.

Oscar Wilde, National Portrait Gallery

I wasn’t deterred at all by the colour-blind casting of the recent production of The Importance of Being Earnest. The personality and nature of a character isn’t determined by the skin they’re in. But I didn’t understand why the director needed to begin the show with Algy kissing a handsome young man goodbye, and I was disappointed when this was followed-up by the oh-so unsubtle suggestion that he also enjoyed a sexual relationship with his butler, Lane.

And I was positively confused as to why it was necessary for a huge homoerotic painting to be hanging in the sitting room where Algy entertained Lady Bracknell.

I’m pretty sure everyone in the audience understood how Oscar Wilde was persecuted. Camping up one of his masterpieces and stripping out its satirical subtleties doesn’t help balance the ledger.

Does it?

I’m far from prudish.

And I’m in no way homophobic.

But am I sexist?

It really is taking me some time to adjust to gender-switching in shows I know and love.

London Coliseum, St Martins Lane

My hesitations about Hamlet were unfounded. I thoroughly enjoyed the gender-equal production. But it didn’t prompt me to any new understanding of the poetry.

And I couldn’t help but worry about all those young audience members, studying the play in their A-levels, who were completely bamboozled.I have bought tickets for Company.

But I confess I was not swayed by belief in the value of — or even a healthy curiosity about—the gender-switching. It was my faith in the director, Marianne Elliott ( War Horse and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time). Well, that and the fact that Broadway legend Patti LuPone will be reprising her role as the caustic Joanne. Delicious.

So I’m still pacing the hall of mirrors.

And wondering.

At heart, am I sexist?

Do I actually suck at suspending disbelief?

Or am I just a bit of an old-fart who’s resistant to change?

I’d love to know what you think about gender-blind casting.  

But not about me. Please don’t tell me what you really think of me.

I'm already feeling a tad exposed and uncomfortable here, staring at myself in all these mirrors!