By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Nothing to do with us, you think? Well, maybe notthough you, like me, probably have no idea how many of your colleagues' jobs have been outsourced to Hyderabad lately, and, for all we know, are now bringing steady salaries to members of the All India Majlis-e-Ittehadul Muslimeen, the party that targeted Ms. Nasrin. Who says an online-help provider can't also be an extremist bigot, helping U.S. housewives unsnarl their server problems while simultaneously thinking they're devil's spawn who should never have been taught to read and write, much less be allowed near a computer? Biology, philosophy, and religion have spent centuries trying to teach us that we are all members of one another; global capitalism is making sure we get the message. Homo sum: Humani nihil a me alienum puto, and there is no way for anyone alive to dodge the fact. (The Latin tag comes from the Roman playwright Terence: "I'm a man: Nothing human is alien to me.")
Violence troubles everybody: the natural violence that causes flooded subways and tornadoes in Brooklyn; the intergroup violence that makes people throw heavy objects at a woman for writing a novel; the personal violence that makes people commit murder when they start out intending to commit simple robbery. Along with the increase in hurricanes and typhoons, global warming seems to have brought a shortening of the human temper. Everybody's solution to everything, apparently, is to pick up a gun, set off a bomb, throw something. Religion, formerly thought of as a realm of peace and dignified disputation, has become practically the world's worst area where anger management is concerned. One of the news stories that gave me pause recently concerned the booming popularity of a Christian "theme park" (its owners don't call it that) in Florida, where the big draw, every day except Sunday, is a live re-enactment of the Crucifixion. "Must then a Christ perish in every age to save those who have no imagination?" Bernard Shaw asked in Saint Joan. Not just in every age, Bernie, but six days every week. At least the makers of the medieval mystery cycles knew enough to confine the simulated crucifixions on their pageant-wagons to specific church holidays in which the whole community participated. The idea of miming the crucifixion on a daily basis, as just another item on the show-business docket, has a creepy ring. In addition to having a New York theater linkthe Christian broadcasting company that runs the place has just taken over Off-Broadway's Century Theaterthe story evokes the equally creepy image, in Suzan-Lori Parks's The America Play, of the carny-show employee who earns his living impersonating Lincoln and letting the crowds pay to play John Wilkes Booth.
We all have violent impulses. However much they may trouble us individually, they have a gratifying aspect that finds its way out when we mass together, either as imagery in entertainment orwhen pushed to the edge by the urgings of extremismin the commission of actual violent acts. However much I may dislike the violence in which certain playwrights have seemed to specialize lately (I tend to avoid their plays because the extreme gore gets on my frazzled nerves), I have to admit that its existence makes sense: A world full of violence will naturally spawn plays full of violent imagery, and it's better, surely, for the violence to appear onstage, via the sanguinary imagination of a Tracy Letts or Martin McDonagh, than to see it become all too real in the streets and schoolyards.
But the word "imaginary" offers another of those mental irritants. I see plenty of violent acts in new plays. What I don't see, especially in recent work, is any imaginative effort to go beyond the violent act, to examine not only motives but causes and consequences, let alone solutions, of the kind that Newark is now exploring in the wake of the horrific killings there. Recently, not in a reviewable context, I saw a piece of theater, essentially a love story, in which a violent act committed on the hero's true love was repaid by his committing a violent act on somebody who had nothing to do with it. This was presented as a mark of virtue on his part, leading to a sort of happy ending in which absolutely no attempt was made to perceive the events in any larger moral context. It was simply "You wrong me, I wrong somebody else." Rather like the comedy of Jack Absolute, in The Rivals, striking his servant, who strikes the errand boy, who says, "I'll go downstairs and kick the cat." Only it's not funny when perceived as heroic.