BACK
STAGE WEST
February
05, 1998
THE
BRECHT EFFECT
A centennial consideration of his work and his influence.
by
Rob Kendt
One
hundred years ago, two coincidentally significant births occurred--births
without which Western drama as we've known it in the century that's now almost
over would not exist. In Czarist Russia, the actor Konstantin Stanislavski and
the playwright Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko formed the Moscow Art Theatre, and
in Augsburg, Germany, Bertolt Brecht was born. Each would come to represent a
concerted effort to dismantle the conventions of 19th-century bourgeois
theatre, and each would apply a kind of methodical, "scientific"
approach to the task.
But
the legacy we inherit from each is radically disparate, perhaps even more
distinct than they ever seemed when they were in a pitched battle for the
future of the theatre--a battle between the politically invested narrative or
"epic" theatre of Brecht and the psychological naturalism of the
Muscovites, their great guru Stanislavski, and their American descendents in
the Group Theatre, who adapted Stanislavski's system into the Method. This
battle, which more or less raged from the 1930s to the early 1970s, is over,
and by most lights naturalism has won, not least because film and television command
the world entertainment market, and that market seemingly demands ever more
"realism" in its escapist fictions.
Realist
fiction? It's a contradiction Brecht, whose first play was produced in 1922,
harped on insistently: that audiences are hypnotized by the illusion of
verisimilitude, lulled into a kind of pleasant sleep by even the
"grittiest" naturalism, when what theatre and drama should do is wake
audiences up, make them witness the world anew in all its complications--in
short, to see the familiar made strange and the strange familiar. This is
roughly the translation of Brecht's notorious formulation Verfremdengseffekt, or
"V-effect," though it's more often translated as "alienation
effect" and interpreted in practice as approaching even the most emotional
scenes in Brecht's plays with cold or strident detachment. It's a pernicious
misunderstanding of Brecht's work --but try explaining all this to an actor
pounding the pavement in L.A., who's already concerned that even a stage
background in kitchen-sink domestic dramas will make him "too big" to
be considered for film roles, and you'll see how much ground Brecht has lost at
this century's end.
"Showing
life as it is" could be the motto of the naturalists and their vaunted
Method, but that was Brecht's aim, as well. The difference springs from what is
meant by "as it is," because for the Marxist Brecht, the way things
are is fundamentally a social and political reality, not a psychological or
emotional issue, as it tends to be for the naturalists.
And
what was most radical about Brecht's work was that his politics didn't just
shape the content of his theatre but its form, as well. Like the socialist Shaw
before him, Brecht openly wanted to change the minds of his audience; unlike
Shaw, though, who used the form and attitude of comedy and demanded little more
of his actors than linguistic facility and charm, and little more of his
audiences than that they keep up with his brilliant dialectical dialogue,
Brecht wanted to create a revolutionary popular theatre whose every discrete
element--performances, music, sets, lighting, dramaturgy--was transparently
designed to show not only how the world works but how it could work
differently. Brecht's theatre dramatized not universal truths but what is
changeable in human society.
From
his early 30s on, Brecht was a doctrinaire Marxist, and later a staunch
Stalinist who spent his most productive years leading the Berliner Ensemble in
postwar East Germany (though his defenders have labored to point out his
growing disillusionment with Moscow, especially in the years before his death
in 1956). The Soviets' tragic experiment in changing human society is
thankfully extinct and thoroughly discredited. But while Brecht's own
experiments in altering the practice of theatre-making have been similarly
buried or forgotten, they survive like sleeping dogs in unlikely ways to the
present: His non-realist innovations, which borrowed eclectically from Asian,
Elizabethan, and Expressionist theatre, have served as touchstones in the
crafts of dramaturgy and stage production, even for artists with few if any
political agendae.
The
American musical theatre, for one, may have benefited most from Brecht's formal
influence. No less a property than the multi-million-dollar Broadway
megamusical Ragtime incorporates so many "Brechtian" devices--slide
projections, skeletal stage pieces within a generally unchanged scenic design,
direct address to narrate swathes of third-person past-tense exposition,
political speeches, carnival tricks, even the Mother Courage image of a gypsy
pulling a wagon and a child--that one could see it as a fin-de-sicle summation
of Brechtian stagecraft. Except that all these devices are by now commonplaces
in the musical theatre--not to mention in most revivals of classical plays, as
well as in the work of a respectable handful of genre-bending non-musical
playwrights and companies.
Indeed,
Brecht's aesthetic innovations survive not only because of their innate
strengths but because of two economic ironies he might appreciate (ironically,
of course): the poverty of most theatre outside Broadway's golden circle, and
the competition for audiences from other media.
Simply
put, Brecht's emphasis on bare scenic design and uncolored lighting--on
conjuring, as did the Elizabethans, battlefields and stormy heaths with little
more than poetry and conviction--well suits the resources of many a
cash-strapped contemporary stage production. And in the increasing pressure to
draw paying audiences away from the relatively cheap diversions of film and
television, even the most staid suburban regional theatres have grasped to
provide an alternative--and in many cases this has meant producing plays and
musicals with real theatrical ambitions, in marked contrast to the comforting
living-room naturalism of TV or the mindless escapism of film.
Brecht's
plays themselves are another matter. They are seldom produced anymore, at least
in the U.S., apart from the beloved perennial The Threepenny Opera, and that more for Kurt
Weill's popular score than for Brecht's gritty, parodic book. There are at
least two reasons for this near-neglect: the ossification of Brecht's theories
into a ridiculous orthodoxy which has confused and alienated far more people
than it has enlightened, and the strident leftist politics not only bound into
the majority of his plays but, rather more sadly, associated with all his work
as a general reddish taint. There are other reasons that can be cited--the
disarray of many of his plays in their various translations and revisions, the
large casts required--but the centrally forbidding challenges that have kept
Brecht at the margins of the repertory have to do with style and politics.
These
fears are not easily dispelled, despite the noble efforts of many Brecht
scholars, visionary directors, and brave actors. But on the style point, it is
perhaps most instructive to note that Brecht was without a regular stage or
company with which to try out his ideas during his self-imposed exile from Nazi
Germany (roughly 1933-1947, the last six years of which he spent in Santa
Monica, Calif.), and that he therefore spent this time writing plays and
developing theatrical theories in a kind of vacuum--but that once he came home
to a working ensemble in East Berlin, he did not only his most extraordinary
work as a director and theatrical creator but, in rehearsals, tinkered
endlessly with every element of a production without consulting or referencing
his large and evolving body of theories. In short, he and his work thrived in
experimental practice, and it has been pointed out that to follow any hidebound
orthodoxy with Brecht's plays is essentially anti-Brechtian. The best clues on
how to do his plays are in the plays themselves, not in the theories.
His
politics are a tougher nut. Clearly, his openly didactic, pro-Soviet plays (The
Mother,
The Measures Taken) are of historical and literary interest only, but even his
towering masterpieces--Mother Courage, The Caucasian Chalk Circle, The Good Person of
Setzuan--can
ring hollow to contemporary ears in their insistently Marxian view of a social
hierarchy in which the underclass is as debased as the gangsterish bosses and
bureaucrats by the cruel Darwinian logic of market capitalism. These plays are
infinitely more complex and, yes, universal than that, but their didactic
overtones remain unmistakable and integral.
The
answer for many contemporary artists has been to rediscover Brecht's early,
pre-Marxist plays--the fascinating, quasi-metaphysical fables Drums in the
Night, The
Jungle of Cities, Baal, A Man's a Man. Another impulse not inconsistent with Brecht's
intentions is to mount free adaptations with contemporary references--Tony
Kushner's Good Person of Setzuan and Lynn Manning's The Central Avenue Chalk
Circle
are recent examples.
But
there is no good reason that Mother Courage, which has been
compared favorably to the tragedies of Shakespeare, or Galileo, with its
complicated skepticism about scientific progress, do not get more
productions--no good reason except time. Though the era of Brecht's trendiness
ended with the radical political ferment of the 1960s, and the impact of his
own productions is more distant still, it is perhaps too soon since the fall of
communism for a reconsideration of Brecht's politics as they function in his
plays.
Not
to be glib about it, but to stage a Greek play these days, one need not worry
that the audience doesn't believe in Greek gods and their oracles, nor is one
required to share Shakespeare's militaristic patriotism to appreciate his
histories. The Oresteia and Henry V don't survive for their eloquent defenses of
these faiths; they persist as theatre of human struggle and striving, albeit
with reference to larger forces and fates.
So
should Brecht's, once we can hear about the "workers" and the
"bosses" without rolling our eyes. For while Marxist revolutionary
prescriptions as carried out by Lenin, Stalin, Mao, and Castro have proven a
disaster, Marx's analysis of unfettered capitalism remains a valid critical
model, and as such still functions brilliantly in Brecht's plays. As history
bears out this distinction, and distills Marx's value from the evil done in his
name, we may glimpse the forest of Brecht's larger insight past the trees of
his wrongheaded political allegiance.
It
is possible, though, that U.S. audiences will never embrace Brecht as they
could, absent a strong tradition of political theatre--indeed, absent a
coherent Left. It would not have much bothered Brecht, who wrote his plays in
the midst of economic depression, war, and upheaval, that they continue to find
their most receptive audiences in parts of the world more openly riven by class
war, outright war, and scarcity than our own privileged, complacent consumer
democracy.
Yes,
Brecht staged the first premiere of his mature period, Galileo, at the Coronet Theatre
in Beverly Hills with Charles Laughton in the lead--but American audiences
didn't get it then, and despite his posthumous chic among students and the
avant-garde, Americans still largely don't get Brecht.
It
is our loss. For as we hurtle to the end of another century with that great
invalid, the theatre, showing few signs either of dying or of reclaiming the
center of our popular arts, there is much theatre artists could learn about the
unique potential of their medium, not to mention about the unfolding drama of
the human condition, from the poet/dramatist born in Augsburg a hundred years
ago this week. Not universal truths, perhaps, but universal quandaries played
out on a minimal stage with consummate poetry and conviction.