Life Is Unexpected (Post Berlin Word Vomit)

It’s been 4 days since I’ve returned from Berlin. I’m so jelly that I wasn’t there when Germany won it’s match against Portugal. Maxim Gorki Theater’s company had an open viewing party of the game. It would have been a good opportunity to hang out with them. They’re definitely my favorite company. 

So incredibly jelly. Can't even.

____

The night before my morning flight back to Newark, I decided to pull an all-nighter so I was guaranteed that I wouldn’t sleep in and miss my flight (#connieproblems). 

You would think, after spending three weeks in Berlin, that I would know that the sun rises really early. No, I mean really early. The sun rises in Jersey at this time of the season at around 5 in the morning. In Berlin, the crack of dawn happens before 4 in the morning. By 4:30, the sky becomes that shade of light blue—almost white—color right before changing into sky blue. No way in my struggle of staying awake did I expect that. 

Then again, I didn’t expect a lot of things to happen in Berlin. If you want to take it a few steps further…

I never expected to study abroad in Berlin—or even any part of Germany for that matter. My original plan for the summer was to either find research on campus or get an internship. I only heard about this from Christopher sometime when Global Theater II started. Even then, I did not expect to take Global Theater II. I did not expect that I would have enjoyed Global Theater I so much that I wanted to continue on. I did not expect that Global Theater I would impact me so much that I went from minoring in theater to majoring in it. I only took the class because it would have satisfied one of my theater minor requirements and my 21st Century Challenges requirement. 

That was the biggest turn around for me actually, declaring my theater major. When I told my mom I was even considering minoring in theater, she began freaking out. “What are you even going to do after college?” was the soundtrack she put on loop. So I knew majoring was not an option. But after Global Theater I…I just knew I would regret it if I didn’t do it.

But I blab and digress.

Here is my point: everything that has lead up to the end of my time in Berlin since the beginning to the Fall 2013 semester was unexpected. Life is unexpected. It’s a somewhat cliche lesson, but cliches come from some place of truth. You don’t know what’s going to happen next, or where you will be taken. You don’t know what you will experience. You don’t know what you will learn. You just…go for the ride. You do what you need to do. 

It’s kind of like what Tomas was telling us during our movement workshop; you focus on just accomplishing the task in front of you and then go along with what your body tells you to do. Don’t anticipate what your body will do.

____

1.1 Dealing with a Problem in my Own Culture

One of my biggest take aways from Berlin—which was the last thing I would ever, ever, ever expect to come out of this trip—actually had to do with my own culture. If I wanted to do something related to the Greek experience or whatnot, I would have just gone to Greece like I do every time I set foot in Europe. I came to Berlin to experience Berlin. Berlin =/= Greece. You know? 

There were just so many parallels between certain attitudes of Berliners and Greeks, primarily in the way they view Turks. There is a huge population of Turks in Berlin, and they are more or less viewed as second-class citizens here. Before even going to Berlin, my dad warned me not to associate with any Turks because they are “truly bad people.” 

If you don’t know anything about Greek-Turkish relations, long story short, Greece was occupied by the Ottoman Turks for over 400 years. Less than 200 years since Greece gained its independence in 1832, there is still this hatred towards them. My dad is one of MILLIONS of Greeks who are still convinced that anyone of Turkish descent is out to get us. He’s not the first person to tell me that Turks are bad and they should feel bad. 

And I should probably add this note: a lot of Greeks are just flat out ethnocentric and racist, whether they show it or not. I could probably write a whole book the size of A Game of Thrones on things that I’ve heard from relatives, family friends, or just fellow Greeks that were just flat out wrong.

There were times that I would be walking around Berlin and I would just hear those comments on loop in my head. I was going to Mauerpark one day to go to their flea market, and I got lost on the way there. I ended up roaming into the Turkish quarter of Berlin. The area was quiet, but I just kept hearing my dad saying “[The Turks] are truly bad people” over, and over, and over again. 

I find it hard to believe that the group of four-year-olds playing in front of the shops are out to get my head. 

The two gentlemen working behind the counter at one of the bakeries I visited to ask for directions did not guide me away from the park nor did they feed me something poisonous. 

There was one lady at another cafe that left her post and walked with me towards the end of the street just to tell me which road I would have to take from that point on. She didn’t scream at me to get out.

I felt safe walking around. I was completely fine. There was nothing wrong with the people around me. Sure you can argue that they didn’t know I was Greek, but any “truly bad person” would just…be a bad person period. They weren’t bad people. Maybe their ancestors did bad things during the reign of the Ottoman Empire. That was their ancestors, not them. This is not the same generation that occupied us. Yet, Greek people feel the need to reprimand anyone of Turkish descent because of what their ancestors did. I’m not saying don’t forget what happened during that time in history; I’m saying don’t look at someone who happens to be Turkish, who was born in the past 50 years or so, and think they are the spawn of Satan. 

Thinking about that, on top of watching Angst essen Seele auf and referencing Dirt in our discussions, I just felt so angry at my own people. Disgusted even. 

Now going back to the fact that Greeks are ethnocentric and racist: even when I was walking through the Typography of Terror and the Holocaust Memorial, I could hear the inappropriate comments made by my fellow Greeks. “Everyone learns about the Jewish Holocaust” “Why do the Jews get all the attention…what about the Greek genocide [by the Ottoman Turks]?” “The Jews just want the attention and for the entire world to pity them…"

To that I say, and I agree wholeheartedly with the monologue from Third Generation to which I pull this from, “…you can’t compare [the genocides].” You can’t compare the Holocaust to the genocide conducted by the Ottoman Turks.

But what Christopher showed us right after our trip there was my breaking point:

http://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/jun/07/greece-golden-dawn-fascism-threat-to-democracy

Never had I truly, sincerely wished I was not Greek until I read that article. 

This way of thinking that has polluted my people is changing for the worst and spreading at an unimaginable rate. My biggest fear is seeing the next generation think this way. I’m already fearing for my nieces and nephews on my father’s side of the family because they have this mentality that Greeks are just better than everyone else.

Berlin, in its own way, made me realize that there’s something that I need to address. I need to take my stand and confront my family and my people. And the only way I know how to do it is to write a piece and pray to God that it sees the light of day before Hell breaks loose.

Again, who would have thought this came from spending some time in Germany of all places.

____

1.2 Connie, Stop Worrying

If you made it this far, you deserve a high five. Or just self-five yourself. That’s good enough, right? I promise this part won’t be as heavy as 1.1. And it won’t be as long. If anything, this is a reflection of my own character.

If you know me, then you know that I tend to worry. I tend to worry a lot. I even look as if I am on edge, even when I am relatively not. 

Probably the thing I worry more than anything else is my future. What’s going to happen after college? Will I be able to get a job? Do I even have the credentials to get an internship? I don’t even have enough experience in either theater or computer science to land me anything. My GPA is horrible—who is even going to hire me? Let’s be real, nobody ever even hired me for anything despite the number of work applications I’ve sent. Will grad school even be an option? Again, my GPA sucks and experience is nothing that will really make me stand out. I really want my MFA but look at what they’re asking of me and I can’t even give them crumbs. How am I even going to explain to my family that I even want an MFA—just getting my BA on the down low is hard enough. 

I came to Berlin right after what I considered to be the worst semester I’ve had at Rutgers. I had just failed my first class ever, and as overdramatic as it sounds, it really did feel like there was no hope for me. There’s a big fat F on my transcript, who’s going to want me now? To make matters worse, it was a class that counted towards my computer science degree. My parents began to worry about whether this was even the right path for me, and they wanted to know what other plans I had if compsci didn’t work out. The thing is though, compsci is the only major in my family’s list of “respectable” majors that I personally enjoy. If that doesn’t work out, I don’t really have anything to act as my crutch to allow me to pursue theater without strangling myself. 

And ultimately, if I don’t know what I’m doing after college, what’s the point in even going to college? What is the point in investing all this time, energy, and money, if you don’t know what kind of job you want right after? I need to know what I am doing; I need my life listed out.

Throughout our time in Berlin, I spent a lot of time talking with Christopher, and I got to share with him spurts of my future ambitions and worries. It wasn’t until the last few minutes before he sent me off to Tegel Airport that I really opened up all these sentiments (in a nutshell).

To which he responded, “…but you don’t know what’s going to happen.”

And he’s right. I really don’t know what’s going to happen. 

I just spend like…how much time writing down the things I did not expect to happen in my life but it did?

It’s not new knowledge; this is something I kind of keep as a manta that I just say it in vain and it never really had an any effect. But this time though, hearing Christopher say that and having the past few days to just reflect on that with my time in Berlin and my overall Global Theater experience, it sunk in a little bit more for me. Worrying is just part of my nature, but there was definitely something about this entire experience that now I feel like I can move forward and even if I lapse and worry, I have more proof in my life that everything will be okay. 

Look what kind of doors opened up despite the ones that closed.

Me being where I am now, despite not knowing what I’ll be doing down the road, is not a waste of what I am doing now. 

Because…who knows?

ONE DIRECTOR. 3 DIFFERENT SHOWS.

THOMAS OSTERMEIER. In the past two weeks, I’ve seen three of his productions. Tonight Jase & I rushed tickets for Die kleinen Fuchse (The Little Foxes”) by Lillian Hellman. After seeing two Ostermeier productions, I was pretty sure I knew what I was getting myself into— modern & re-interpreted text; live video projections; fourth wall shattered to pieces; nudity…

I’ve seen two of his shows—I know his shtick—

Whilst Hellman’s play takes place in the all-American south circa early 1900’s, Ostermeier’s production, adapted by Florian Borchmeyer takes place in modern day bourgeois Berlin. The fourth-wall is upheld with no video cameras in sight. The stage setting was smart and sleek—dark leather furniture, a grand piano and an ominous metal staircase. The upstage wall opens and reveals the brightly lit dining room. Everything onstage had a purpose and supported the action and conflict onstage.

Ostermeier’s an amazing director. He creates theatre that’s honest—to both the writer and the text. What’s at the heart of the play? He strives to illuminate the dark and desperate truth—a universal truth that needs no language.

So then what is Ostermeier’s trademark? The illumination of humanity? Can that even define his style? DO I need to categorize his work? I have so many questions…

CLAP CLAP CLAP

Clips from the FRAU LUNA curtain call

A psychedelic alien dance party on a rotating stage with a balloon-drop grande finale.

...awesome.

The Final Four

Michael Thalheimer's production of TARTUFFE at Schaubühne (with Lars Eidinger as Tartuffe)

 Maxim Gorki's CHILDREN OF THE SUN at Maxim Gorki.

She She Pop (with their mothers) in RITE OF SPRING at Hebbel am Ufer (HAU 1).

THE THIRD GENERATION at Schaubühne.

All Good Things Come to an End

We just saw our last show in our Berlin adventure at Schaubuhne--a space that has a special place in my (and I think its safe to say everyone else's) heart. In a matter of 19 days, we have seen 14 shows.

14/19 = 0.73684211
0.73684211 x 100 = 73.684211% which you can just round to 73.7%

73.7% of the days we have spent together in Berlin were days in which we have experienced theater.

That's a lot of theater.

Let's add the fact that we have been experiencing German theater. So if you have been following this blog, or if you just stumbled upon it and are going through the posts, you know that German theater is like that one relative at family parties that just shoves all this food on your plate and expects you to finish it.

Going to see so many shows has been overwhelming, but I don't feel like I'm satisfied in terms of having my fill of theater performances. If it were possible, I feel like I could watch another 13 shows here in Berlin. Provided there are still one day breaks to digest some heavy experiences.

This has probably been the only time in which I was able to fully immerse myself in theater. I don't have to worry about any SAS core classes. I don't have to worry about computer science classes. I can just focus on learning theater. To be able to have such an opportunity to just focus on theater, only theater, and nothing else besides theater...it's so refreshing. And to do it with the BFA students--peers around my age who are passionate about theater--that's a God send.

Even despite the challenges of being the only BA here, I've come to learn a lot from them--and Christopher of course. These people--this trip--really helped me grow as an artist and just...made me realize some things about life too.

Which is why the Global Theater experience is awesome because there hasn't been a semester (or in this case a session) in which that didn't happen.

It saddens me that I won't be able to do this back home--that I have to wait another two months or so until I come back to Rutgers and continue learning and working aside fellow theater makers, whether it be during classes or at Cabaret Theatre. It also saddens me that I'm going back to a place in which nobody really sees theater as this powerful force that it is. In some cases, I'm going to have to censor some of my experiences because it will only open a can of worms. I mean, I still have my writing. I have a project that I need to get working on and I want to get done before school starts again. There's also another piece I've started writing midway through our time in Berlin that has been on my heart for awhile to do, and being here was the impetus I needed to start it (even though the piece as of now takes place in Queens, and there's a reason for it).

Still... I don't want to only write. I want to keep doing this. I don't want this to stop.

Please don't make me leave Berlin.

Movement Workshop

The closest thing to movement I got before coming to Berlin is doing an exercise in my basic acting class called "The Grid" in which we just walk around a space in different ways for about fifteen minutes.

I know that a class solely based on movement for a whole school year is no joke...or just the importance of movement in the actor's skill set is not something to take lightly.

I knew this movement workshop we were going into would be intensive.

I can't speak for anyone else but intensive is an understatement.

I haven't felt this sore in a long, long time.

The struggle to get out of bed this morning was so real.

(This post will be shorter than my previous two, I promise.)

I'm not entirely sure why I've liked the shows we've seen at Gorki. I really enjoyed the music of Angst Essen Seele Auf, the suitcase full of oranges broke my heart, and while I genuinely enjoyed it, I recognized the sentimentality of it. Some of my classmates made comments about the story being trite, or overdone, or even not particularly innovative (though I'm not sure I would agree with that particular claim). Admittedly, part of the reason I enjoyed it was because I understood so much of what was being said, even without subtitles. But I'm not sure that's all of it.

Kinder der Sonne, particularly with subtitles, had moments of (contrived) poetry. I think much of the poetry is lost in its translation, given we can only understand the words as they are written on the screen (and these were vastly different from what was being said on stage, just based on what spoken dialogue was missing from the supertitles). Yet the philosophical nature of it rang true, or wishfully true at any rate. The grandiosity could be interpreted as trite, but then you could suggest the same of a large part of the Western canon, or even beyond that. The characters of Kinder der Sonne were literally discussing what the point of human existence is.

With both, sometimes I found the acting to be... acting. At other times (particularly with the female lead in Angst Essen Seele Auf) I believed that these were just people who had wandered onto the stage, and were completely true to life rather than artificially articulated. Neither could claim the title that Ostermeier's Hamlet has of being mind-blowing, completely innovative, and real. But I don't think that a "sentimental" story loses all value simply by being sentimental, or by lacking a distinctly new perspective (which I'm not sure whether either did, but at least one classmate criticized Gorki for this). There's a reason that subject matter labeled "sentimental" does make us feel a certain way. I wouldn't say I walked out of either show at Gorki feeling warm and fuzzy and as though everything were resolved- but I left feeling lighter, with some sense of confidence in humanity, rather than a drastic change in my life and work as an artist.

I don't think it's valid to completely dismiss something because it's not innovative enough. My father's love of Dutch and Flemish painting from the 17th century (and the countless hours I've spent following him through museums- there's a reason I have to read every sign in a museum, and he's worse than I am) has taught me that art doesn't always have to be new to still be art. We still value a well executed painting that has some effect on us whether its subject matter is new or not- there's a reason portraits and landscapes and still lives are repeated over and over and over again. And my visit to Hamburger Bahnhof proves, at least to me, that "avant-garde" doesn't necessarily mean good. "New" and "different" don't necessarily mean good or valuable. And once again, another understanding has developed in my consciousness- I'm not sure I can dismiss some of the theater I once did (primarily because of my experience in my hometown in which it seemed to me most people thought theater consisted entirely of Broadway musicals, preferably happy and shiny ones, and nothing else). Art doesn't have to be dark, or completely scramble your brain to accomplish something. Sometimes it's enough to simply affirm (or re-affirm) humanity, and remind us of something within ourselves and life, and maybe of our hopes and dreams and aspirations. Or even just give us a place to lose ourselves in someone else's story for an hour or two.

A Tale of Two Gorkys

So I'll cut out all the BS with the first show since we all saw it. We know what happens so there is no point in rehashing it. What I will talk about, however, is the feeling I left with after the show: bitter. I was not a fan of (blank). Now I'm talking mostly about the play here, not necessarily the production. I felt the quality of most of the acting, the use of the space (including that wonderful lift from under the stage), and of course the constant ashen snowfall was wonderful to watch, even awe inspiring at times. Yes; the spectacle was there, but behind it... The play itself felt hollow and trite, and worst of all, sentimentalized. This play, would have definitely been at the forefront for an Obie... and that's not meant as a complement.
Young Turkish guy likes mature German woman, who, in turn likes him back. The age thing. The race thing. Young guy doesn't know what he has in the mature older women so he screws up. Oranges. They end up together in the end, and whether it's a dream or not, it doesn't matter. Why? Because we've been told it's ok. Like I said, whether it's a dream or not the ending allows us to sentimentalize what we've seen, and maybe even to forget the almighty race card, which this play spent so much time waving around incessantly. To put it all simply: the play was not challenging, not even in the slightest. This was a new play but it certainly didn't feel like it. I'm sure somewhere Bertolt Brecht was rolling over in his socialist grave.

I was disappointed in this theater which had promoted itself as hip and edgy, but with Angst had been anything but those two words. What is so upsetting and really had me better was I could see the talent and the possibilities in the space, the company, and even the audience, but instead we got tropes that ask all questions with a presupposed answer. Still, we got to be at a German premier, and that was pretty damn cool. That being said, I guess everyone deserves a second chance, right?

So...... I went on whim to see Der Kirschgarten, or The Cherry Orchard last night and... Holy Heffenweissen! The experience I had in that theater was one of the most exhilarating and challenging pieces of theatre I have ever seen. Truly jaw dropping (not Hamlet but damn close). The play could've been an Ostermeier/Schaubühne concoction at first glance with its innovation, style and hair raising moments.
The space was used dynamically, including both theatre, practical and house lights (that's right house lights). The acting was superb (ironically many of the same actors from Angst, plus a few newbies). And, most importantly, the play was thought provoking.
The play was updated and brought to present day Germany, all the servants were played by Turkish actors, Charlotta by a transvestite. The play didn't make a big deal about it... Until it got personal. And by personal I mean in the midst of speaking text the actors would often speak as themselves and to their struggles as actors which parallel their characters struggles at the estate. The actor playing Lopakhin for example, in a brilliant scene, once he owns the orchard and speaks of his new position in society, he has trouble saying his name as owner, repeating, shouting it several times. At that moment he took off his pencil mustache and addressed both the audience and cast retelling what he was told as a young actor in a new country. Both Lopahkin and blank in that moment could honestly say, "no one believed but look at me now". And that was only one! The actor who played Firs, this little old man, who for most of the play is babbling (which is not in surtitle or even in German), breaks into this story about when the Turkish army occupied the national theater in Istanbul, and on punishment of death forced the actors to leave.

The set you see below you moved back and forth utilizing the whole space, but then the wall is literally ripped apart at the moment of Lopahkin's ascension revealing past photos, and Hebrew writing, then ripped apart again to reveal an old German dance hall and then again to reveal the cherry orchard, which is then kicked over onto a turntable on which the rest of the play is performed.

Throw in some reciting of Kant, Nietzsche, Hitler, Susskind (the world is a hologram guy), candlelight, and Aretha Franklin (yes Aretha), and you got yourself one of the most innovative productions I've ever seen. And through it all, it somehow manages to honor Chekhov's beautiful play in a way that many "naturalist" productions could only dream at. Might I also add the play was just as hilarious as it was heartbreaking (I mean... Chekhov did call it a "comedy").

I was so moved I bought the actors a round of drinks to express my gratitude after the show. They responded in kind, were very appreciative and nice to talk to. Wonderful tight knit group they have there, truly a company. Both a young and old audience tonight... Don't know what that means but worth a mention.

Well... Next up is Kinder Der Sohn. This is for all the marbles folks, so let's hope it stands up.

Todd in Venice

Der Tod in Venig

In the words of the immortal Marty Macfly, after realizing he may have just made his mother fall for him instead of his father before he was born, thus risking erasing himself from existence "this is heavy, doc".
Heavy... Beautiful, heart wrenching. This play literally ached with the most beautiful pain of human desire. A beautiful picture of the untenable and the unfulfilled longing for youth and companionship, destroyed by death. The use of the camera was phenomenal. Mixed media done at its absolute best. That shot through the plate while he's eating was one of the coolest things I've ever seen. A simple black set with lights so true to the Venice sun you actually felt this simmering summer the day taking place out on the patio (which we never actually see). The use of sound was breathtaking. The use of movement... that dance amid the ashes of plague and death was jaw dropping.

That mans voice was beautiful. I felt the heartache of old age and loneliness. Yes; he loved a young boy, but it was a pure love that could never be. The desire, in and of itself, was pure, and it's very core so intrinsically human. I was on the verge of a breakdown for the rest of the evening. There was script, mostly reading, but no words were necessary. Ironically, the most "important" lines of the play were in English...

Oh did I mention there was female nudity, wonderful female nudity? Well there was and amongst those raining ashes and that lit scrim, the visuals were haunting, like a terrifying yet beautiful painting.

The Spanish Fly (or "The one with the midget")

Let's face facts midgets are fun and we love them for the... small... bit of humor they can sometimes provide.

The Spanish Fly
This was a wacky one directed by a pretty wacky guy. Show was funny and I had a good time but as Christopher pointed out, it all felt a bit rehearsed. Great set which lent to the action well, especially our aforementioned midget. Read an article or review where Ostermeir talks of the rug being used because of the "shit we hide under the rug" euphamism. I was way off on that, thought he wanted to make the actors as miniscule as flies, but I digress. Curtain call was staged really well, best I've seen so far since it fed the humor of the play. What was really frustrating  in this one, was seeing everyone laughing and having no idea why. We saw the physical comedy of the production, but missed out on a lot of jokes and plot. One could get it, but it took a lot of focus. Focus that was being spent just witnessing the physical comedy and midget taking place on stage. This one felt like not being outside a window looking in on a really great birthday party that you're not invited to. Although we didn't get to taste the cake we could still see the frosting, and I guess that something.

Jumps on wall
slides down wall
jumps on wall
slides down wall
*stretches calfs*
jumps on wall
slides down wall
jumps on wall...
slides down wall.

The Shiny Boob Show

Elektra
Flat and incongruous. Nothing worked. Seemed like a male director trying at feminism and missing the mark completely. Shiny boob. They were uncomfortable in heels and we were uncomfortable in our chairs. The music was awful and lent nothing to the story. Shiny Boob. The men were just... Just awful. The set and graphics looked like a duck shooting game at carnival had sex with lopsided birthday cake at a WWF event. Shiny. Boob.

They... They sang Charles Manson... They. Sang. Charles. Manson.

Yeah; they failed, miserably. But dammit if you're gonna fail might as well make it as hilariously awful as possible, because then at least it's not boring. It was so gruesome I couldn't look away. Plus I was in the middle of the row and couldn't get out, so there's that.

Hamlet

Shakespeare... Lars... Ostermeier...

"These are a few of my faaaaavorite things!"

Well what can I say that hasn't been said. The show was without a doubt one of, if not the greatest thing, I have ever seen. Not a day has gone by that I haven't thought about it. It was so good that it even challenges me when I'm in the midst of seeing other shows. That kind of work is life changing. If I talk about it too much I might try to quantify something that doesn't need to be quantified since you all were there, so this is where I stop.

ONE DIRECTOR. 3 DIFFERENT SHOWS.

THOMAS OSTERMEIER. In the past two weeks, I’ve seen three of his productions. Tonight Jase & I rushed tickets for Die kleinen Fuchse ("The Little Foxes”) by Lillian Hellman. After seeing two Ostermeier productions, I was pretty sure I knew what I was getting myself into— modern & re-interpreted text; live video projections; fourth wall shattered to pieces; nudity…

I’ve seen two of his shows—I know his shtick—

Whilst Hellman’s play takes place in the all-American south circa early 1900’s, Ostermeier’s production, takes place in modern day bourgeois Berlin. The fourth-wall is upheld with no video cameras in sight. The stage setting was smart and sleek—dark leather furniture, a grand piano and an ominous metal staircase. The upstage wall opens and reveals the brightly lit dining room. Everything onstage had a purpose and supported the action and conflict onstage.

Ostermeier’s an amazing director. He creates theatre that’s honest—to both the writer and the text. What’s at the heart of the play? He strives to illuminate the dark and desperate truth—a universal truth that needs no language.

So then what is Ostermeier’s trademark? The illumination of humanity? Can that even define his style? DO I need to categorize his work? I have so many questions…

Instead of sleeping...

...I write. Today was the oddest of days. This morning I had my usual fight with my body about functioning (I say I need to do things, my body says no), and then we walked from the S-bahn station to Topographie des Terrors, a documentation of Nazi war crimes. Or, as I think is perhaps a better way to phrase it, a documentation of the absolute horror and mess Germany was in the period after WWI through at least the construction and destruction of the Berlin Wall and the reunification of Germany. I have always had a strange relationship to my German heritage. I'm simultaneously proud and full of guilt, because I love being German, and because a friend of mine "forgave me" for the Holocaust (I won't touch that one too much, but even as an American whose German great-grandparents emigrated before the war, there's always been some implication of guilt).

I picked up a ring at a flea market which has "Vaterland's Dank 1914" on it. Whether or not it's from 1914 or not is debatable, but the rings were given to the women who gave up their jewelry during World War I to the war effort. They received this simple silver band in exchange, and it became incredibly fashionable to wear one as a sign of patriotism. This ring, among others, was on my finger walking into the Topographie des Terrors. Internally, I had a debate. Was it right to wear an emblem of German patriotism into a museum detailing the very worst of German "patriotism"? But I decided: if I was claiming my own German heritage, and not just kidding about some day wanting to live here, I should face exactly what contemporary German society faces, and not romanticize a German identity.

I read nearly every sign. Had I read every sign it would have taken me closer to three hours to get through the whole museum, and given everyone else had finished, I felt some obligation to hurry up at least a little. Before getting even a third of the way through, I was angry. Justice was absent here. A man who helped plan thousands of murders, known to have done so, gets seven years in prison. Another, ten. Another, perhaps a year as a prisoner of war. Declared "permanently unfit to stand trial." Some are executed, and I, one who can't stand even fictional violence, who was even discomfited by the celebration at Osama bin Laden's death because we as Americans were celebrating the end of a human life no matter how terrible, had a single thought: "good." Far worse was confronting the fact that not only did a large number of those culpable escape severe punishment or punishment all together, many actually held continued positions in government. Somehow more heinous than this was the fact that one high-ranking Nazi official went untried-- and finished out his days as a real estate agent. Nothing could be more absurd. The detailing of the murder of psychiatric patients, especially children, only served to further my disgust and anger. I claimed my American-ness more than I ever have before.

And this was followed by the beautiful and upsetting Holocaust memorial. Walking there, I was disgusted with the Berlin I loved before I walked into the museum. Once there, I wandered, almost feeling like I was in a meditation labyrinth. And then I crossed paths with one person after another, who were taking pictures and smiling, or running through the rows. I was pushed over the edge by parents with two children- on scooters. Rattle rattle rattle went the scooters over the cobblestone-like pavement. It was clearly a happy outing, and I wanted to say in my s--- German, "this isn't a playground!" I felt like these parents hadn't said anything to their (albeit young) children about what this place meant, or stood for, and to them it was merely a very cool place to ride their scooters. I ran into Kristen, we talked quietly, and I told her this story. Tears started to run down my cheeks, and I wasn't entirely sure why or whether they were justified or whether my anger was justified or where I belonged. I was hot, dehydrated, and disoriented. All I could do was walk back to the S-bahn station and wipe the tears from my cheeks.

I ate. Worked on a script for my summer camp job, mindlessly retyping a script so I can edit it. Wondered if it would somehow be inappropriate to go to the pool as I had planned, since today would likely be the last day I could. I met my classmates in the lobby, and no one wanted to come, which was expected, and fine. I went back to my room, debated, and then decided to go. 

Allegra walked in just as I was about to leave. We went together, and had a pretty darn good time. I went to dinner by myself, and sat outside, facing the street, watching. Absentmindedly I ran my fingers around the stem of my glass, and felt immensely at peace and grateful that I could sit and have dinner, and a drink, and a beautiful day at the pool with a friend.

At the museum, I was reading the backstory of all of the various men who were profiled. It said where they were born, and where they went to school, and what level they reached, their professions, how they joined the party, etc. Hitler was a failed artist, and there are those who claim that if somebody had just let him be a painter, he would never have become a politician and thus none of the atrocities would have happened. This, I think, is largely wishful thinking and apocryphal storytelling. But I looked for art and education in the lives of these men. Many had little more than a high school education, but others were doctors. One was the son of an opera singer. My theory about how art and education could have prevented these men from becoming what they did (and the women who also participated, because I won't exclude them) went out the window. As an artist, certainly I like to think art has a great deal of power. It's why an actor was one of the many brought in for questioning and imprisonment by the Gestapo--because he was an actor. Because political regimes suppress art and artists because artists like Ai Wei Wei among so many others make statements about things too big to ignore, things that the governments would prefer to push under the rug. But in the face of such utter collapse of humanity (in the traditional sense, since I also noted that only humans have the capability and do torture and systematically eliminate each other), how does art stand up? How does anything have meaning in the face of this?

I'm directing Anouilh's Antigone this summer with kids, and part of that process will entail talking about what it means, and the historical context of the play (Anouilh got it past Nazi censors in occupied France in 1943, despite the fact that it's fairly clearly a challenge to authoritarian governments...). And just today I was re-reading a conversation between Antigone and Creon in which Antigone acknowledges how pointless her actions are, and Creon asks her to be practical, since clearly she can't accomplish anything any way. One person can't independently overturn an entire culture. And yet Antigone tries, just as the small numbers of people in the various Resistance movements fought against those with power. And sometimes each action is just an act of preserving some sense of humanity. Art, to me, preserves our sense of humanity, even if it doesn't have the power to change anything. It is not unlike being aware of the glass under my fingers at the restaurant, and tasting the liquid and feeling being alive. Perhaps this makes no sense at all, but theater in particular is an expression of what it is to be alive, and like that moment at the restaurant outside, is fleeting and only serves to open one's eyes, and does little more than that.

But that can make all the difference.

INDIGNANT!

What an emotion roller coaster the past few days has been. Between the Ai Wei Wei's Evidence exhibit and the Topography of Terror, it is a wonder how people remain apathetic to the horrors this city (and the world) has experienced and are experiencing.

I am tired of seeing people take selfies on a gravesite. Smiling in front of gates at a fucking concentration camp. Perhaps it is the preciousness that our culture tends to endow specific events (and art) that we've talked about. And I understand the argument of moving forward from a shitty past (putting it mildly). However, there is a difference between respect and ignorance. 

It makes me wonder if the experimental and confrontational theater they have here is a result of the history in this city. The unresolved (abrupt) ending of Tartuffe had me hungover for the night. I find that the theater culture here has caused me to confront my thoughts about theater, religion, morals, madness and so much. 

Screwing with the Text

Tartuffe...
Tartuffe...

Where do I even begin?

It was definitely not like how I imagined it when I first read the play.

But then again, when the set is a moving box that revolves standing up and everybody is just flying everywhere, then you know you are not in for the typical, 17th-century depiction.

While the play had its comedic moments, this take on Tartuffe was not comedy. It was a lot darker in just...everything really. I'm still so hooked on the fact that Tartuffe was portrayed as this cult-like, not-Antichrist-but-some-form-of-alternative-Jesus-like-figure rockstar (he had the long hair, and at some point he was posed as if he were crucified)...which was something I could bet Moliere did not imagine Tartuffe to be such a character.

Michael Thalheimer also decided to include an alternative ending; he ends the play right when the bailiff comes in and evicts Orgon and his family. It is also implied in the end that Elmire leaves Orgon for Tartuffe.

We've seen a lot of performances here in Berlin--especially at Schaubuhne--that do not stick to the text one hundred percent. In Ostermeier's Hamlet, Ostermeier included a lot of modern-day profanity and fourth wall-breaking. He also moved the "To be" speech to the beginning, took out the first scene with the guards and the ghost of Hamlet's father, and replaced it with the king's funeral. In Death in Venice, half of the story was not even said--it was basically performed as an interpretive dance. Additionally, Ostermeier had the actors stop halfway through to reevaluate the direction of the performance. Now with Tartuffe, we see "screwing the play" in a whole new level--the characters look like they came out of a Tim Burton movie, psalms are inserted into the performance, and the ending had been completely changed.

As someone who has done playwriting more than anything else, I feel like I should be insulted. Someone put so much effort into creating a piece for you to use...and all of a sudden you decided to do a one-eighty and change things drastically. I wouldn't mind you, as the director, adding some lines or changing some things to illuminate the scenes and the emotion behind said scenes, but don't do anything besides that. Anything beyond that is not my work.

No, it is still your work. The text they used was your text after all. But let's be real--nobody is obligated to stick to the playwright's work word by word. If that were the case, our experiences would be exactly the same every time we go see different productions of the same play.

There's something beautiful about giving directors and other theater makers that freedom though. You learn something about the piece that you never thought of before; you see it in a completely different light.

<personal story>

My director for Cabaret Theatre's Original Play Festival changed a lot of what I had originally written in my play for the festival. There was a lot that had been cut out in terms of the text (but that was actually for time constraint purposes so...). Instead of having the set be a little girl's room, she had only five chairs onstage. Instead of having my main character shout in anger in the last monologue, she made her cry and had the other actresses go and hug her. These were things that I never intended, but because I gave my director the freedom to do as she thought fit, I experienced my own work in a new light and gained something from it. I remember listening to the conversations my director would have with the actresses (each actress represented my main character at a different point in her life), and just hearing about what they thought about the character...they each brought something to my attention that I would have never thought of before.

I felt a certain way that I had never felt even when I was writing the show.

</personal story>

You can't get that sort of enlightening experience if you have a stick up your butt about text--whether it means adding more to the text, adjusting certain scenes, changing the set/setting contrary to the play's original idea, etc.

And just as I learned something from my director's take of my piece, I got something from each of the shows we have seen at Schaubuhne because these directors were daring enough to change things around. I saw the characters that I have been familiar with since high school in ways that I did not know were possible.

Day 6 Spanish Midget Fly

It is absolutely incredible how ridiculous the shows are here.  And there is no exaggeration in my tone whatsoever.

The German sense of play was obvious in the show tonight.  The actors have a wonderful time catching moments with the audience.  When laughter is heard, the actor uses it.  This, all in all, creates an energy in the room that continues to move the show forward.  It is possible then to sit in a room for 2 hours and 45 minutes without dying!  (No sarcasm)

I sat in the theater tonight, and I had to rub my eyes from time to time to make sure what was actually happening on stage was real.  But I am still struck by the silliness and absurdity that is Spanish Midget Fly.

Day 7 Elektra

Today, I was reminded that bad theater exists...everywhere.

Day 8 Death in Venice

Schaubühne ceases to amaze me.

The Moment After

I am always curious by the moment after the show is done.

How does the audience feel?
What is the audience talking about?
How did everyone interpret the show?
What is everyone walking away with?
Did the audience like it? hate it? why?
What did the audience learn?
Etc...

I watched Tartuffe last night at Schaubühne Theater.

The lights bumped out.
Silence.
The lights turned on.
Applause.

After watching a disturbing, chilling, mind-blowing, thought-provoking, and emotional work of art, I didn't know what to do.
I sat in the chair and clapped because it was the "right" thing to do.

So I sit on my bed now and realize how abrupt German theater can be.
I say abrupt because no matter how powerful/hilarious/ridiculous any piece of work they transform becomes, the audience always has something to sit with at the end.
I have to wonder if this is because the audience here is fully engaged and open or because the shows are roughly 2+ hours long without an intermission.
Either way, theater here continues to surprise me.

Yesterday I fulfilled a lifelong dream! I toured the Flackturm at
Humboldthian Park. What had once been a  231x231 foot wide and 128 foot
tall concrete flack tower is now only a ruin (half of the building was
blown up by the French).  It is only partly visible because 80% of the
building is buried by rubble.  And yet it was one of the most impressive
structures I have ever seen. The building was (and still is) practically
bomb proof. Three towers in total were commissioned and designed by Hitler
himself in 1940 to protect Berlin from the increasing Allied air raids
during WWII. Each tower was built in only 6 months - all 550 million tons
of concrete and steel rebar of it. Back in 1942, when the tower I explored
finally was finished, the tower could put up a cloud of anti-aircraft
shrapnel constantly due to its ability to fire approximately 8000 rounds
of ammunition per minute.

Exploring the bunker was an incredible experience for me.  It took me back
to a world of chaos and war.  I couldn't help but be struck by the
incredible scale of it all. The enormous scale of what a group of people
were able to accomplish  in only six months was mind blowing. I couldn't
help having the hair on the back of my neck stand on end when seeing the
marked concrete walls where Russian T-39 tanks had blasted them and
knowing that real people fought and died in this incredibly massive
concrete box. As a WWII history enthusiast, I have always wanted to
explore a WWII bunker.  As a theater artist, I have also very much looked
forward to exploring Berlin and its many theaters.  I am struck by the
similarities I found in exploring the bunker and exploring Berlin and its
theaters. I am impressed at the scale of it all. I am amazed at the
ingenuity it took to build the bunker, the city and the many shows I have
seen. This City's theater is as solid as its bunkers and equally as
mysterious.