In 2002, I saw a production of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream in Lyon, France. The production, performed at one of the city's massive open-air Roman amphitheaters, was quirky and ludic–an embodiment of Puck's mischievousness. The dialogue (in French) was largely lost on me, but the creative splashes (the mirror-surfaced stage, Bottom's costume after his transformation into a donkey, the eccentric interpretation of the play within the play, Puck's miniature bicycle that he used to catapult himself across the stage...) translated across linguistic barriers. The production was, for me, accessible as a form of live art despite my inability to comprehend the nuances of the dialogue. And isn't this the essence of theatrical creativity,–that even if the dialogue is incomprehensible to certain audience members, the art of the performance and production translate to everyone in the audience.
I think that A Midsummer Night's Dream in particular lends itself to idiosyncratic artistic interpretations and creative licensing, but the beauty of all live theater is the potential for the singularity of its creation, its transitivity and temporality, and–as Shakespeare's title professes–its capacity to be like a dream.
The reason that I am recalling my experience in Lyon is that I recently attended a theater production in Sri Lanka, and like the production in France, the language barrier (this time Sinhala) resulted in me struggling to follow the dialogue. Despite my confusion about characters and plot, the overall experience was one of great cultural and artistic appreciation.
Last week, the University of Peradeniya theater festival brought acting troupes from all throughout Sri Lanka to perform at its Sarachchandra Open Air Theater (named for a former Peradeniya professor who is considered to be the father of Sinhalese drama). The theater seats somewhere between 3,000 to 3,500 people, as there are about 30 - 35 rows with room for at least a hundred people in each. It's clear that the amphitheater's architect made an effort to accommodate the natural environment when the theater was built, as is evident in the steepness of the arena seating (built directly into the natural hillside) and the massive tree that grows undisturbed about half-way up and half-way into the half-moon radial of the stone seats. On campus, the open-air theater is referred to as the "wala" or the "hole."
The theater may seat 3,000 to 3,500 people, but for a popular play – like the one that we went to – the rows fill long before the play begins. So as to avoid the last minute scramble for seats, we arrived an hour early for the production of Charandas (a subaltern Indian classic; written first in Hindi, then translated to English, and then translated from English into Sinhala). We settled down and munched on fresh peanuts as we waited. By the time the show began, all 3,500 seats had been filled. The monks in the audience were the last to arrive. Because the monks have two rows reserved for them, they don't need to arrive early and avoid the crowds. Our seats were located directly behind the musicians: two drummers, a serpinaa player, and a violinist who played his instrument backwards–making chords with his right hand and holding the bow with his left (maybe it was the Sri Lankan equivalent of Jimi Hendrix's upside down guitar?)
The title character of the play, Charandas, is essentially a South Asian Robin Hood; he's a lovable rogue who steals from the rich and gives to the poor. The play begins with Charadas swiping gold trinkets from the local monarch and distributing the stolen goods to the townspeople. Soon thereafter, he is caught and exposed as a thief. In the midst of Charandas' capture, however, the King discovers that his Queen has been having an affair with his chief minister... I'm still quite mixed up about the rest of it, but mayhem, hilarity, and dramatic denouement ensue.
The outlandish plot twists were sometimes difficult to keep up with, but the actors gave excellent comedic performances that negated the need to understand the subtleties of Sinhala. My favorite scenes capitalized on the slap-stick brilliance of Charandas (the thief) and the maladroit (yet lovable) constable. The audience validated their exaggerated exchanges and zany gesticulations with eruptions of laughter.
The evening was wonderful. Magical. (And when I think about the production, I taste freshly roasted peanuts.)
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