Proverbs - Chapter 30: Verse 5

And so to the theatre. It was Harrogate Theatre to be precise, for the latest Northern Broadsides production 'A Grand Gesture'. One of the characters, a Marxist postman, declares that hyphens are more proletarian than colons, and I find that this is strangely handicapping my punctuation today.  

"Who are you calling bourgeois?"

The company were on fine form with the usual music and dancing (Irish rather than clog) and despite neither appearing in nor directing it, Rutter was holding court in the bar before and after. The play itself is an adaptation by Deborah McAndrew of Erdman's 'The Suicide' with the action transferred from the pre-war Soviet Union to a contemporary North West of England. Notwithstanding the original title it is actually an affirmation of reasons to live even when our environment and even our companions might indicate otherwise. Like any play about the choice between life and death it alludes to, and indeed directly quotes, Hamlet, but perhaps the first reference point for modern British audiences would be films set in the previous period of appalling Tory economic misrule such as The Full Monty, Brassed Off or Billy Elliot. It never fails to amaze and disgust me how the current neo-liberal orthodoxy mirrors so closely the official attitudes of Stalinist totalitarianism. In both cases human beings are regarded as having worth only if they are participating in 'productive' work and any failure to do so, even when caused by factors such as wider economic forces or even by disability , illness and the like is proclaimed as a 'fault' of which one should be ashamed and for which one should be punished. It' the rest of us that go along with this nonsense that should be ashamed of ourselves; not least for having forgotten the lessons of history.

Words fail me

The author clearly takes the view that killing oneself for exogenous, abstract reasons such as politics or love is absurd; and one can take his point. However much one admires the individuals concerned self-immolation of Buddhist monks has not made the Chinese leave Tibet and the deaths of Bobby Sands and his comrades are now merely a footnote, if remembered at all. And as for love, don't get me started. Opera - which revels in this type of thing - still can't make it work. Massenet's Werther is one of the most unsympathetic characters in the whole of the art form - no mean achievement given the competition - and, even with the advantage of better tunes on her side, I doubt anyone really thinks that Cio-cio San does the right thing.

"Women killing themselves - now that's art."

Which leaves us with despair. And whilst Erdman and McAndrew don't have originality on their side they do make the point well. If we focus treasure the small things in life - as the birds in the dawn chorus do - and don't get seduced by dreams of learning to play the tuba, then we have our answer to the question "Why live?". The play does have an ambiguous twist, but I think it is more a commentary on our collective willingness to avoid reality at all costs than undermining the main message. It made me at least think of that famous scene towards the end of 'Who Shot Liberty Valance'.