Dominic Dromgoole of The Globe theatre forgets what itrsquo;s there for
March 28th, 2008, 4:15 pm Hobbies Ideas
One of the weirdest parts of the recent Arts Council fandango, when it somehow
managed to turn a rise in overall funding into a spectacular own goal, was
its attack on the Northcott theatre, in Exeter. This place has long been
treasured by its own audience, by the artists who work there and by the
touring companies who visit. Capacity houses fill it, and the audience has
been nurtured by a diverse and intriguing body of work into being one of the
most shrewd, catholic and generous congregations any company could wish to
play to.
Yet the theatre was told by the Arts Council that its audience was too
static (a not very discreet code for middle-class - a sub-human species,
according to the burly stevedores of the Arts Council). It was a grisly
example of an attitude emanating from a central ideology that had absolutely
nothing to do with the circumstances on the ground. Allied to that idiocy -
which, thankfully, has been recanted - was a directive from on high that
British theatre should concern itself less with texts and story and acting
(the three crafts our tradition is built on), and concentrate more on
circus skills, street theatre and training. Was this a response to the
clamour of the good people from Barnstaple to Berwick that the streets be
filled with jugglers uncovering their inner clown to enliven a day%26rsquo;s
shopping? Was it hell. It was the prejudice of a doctrinaire sect - the
theatre should be more theatrical brigade - who, at present, have a
disproportionate degree of cultural influence.
At the same time as the Arts Council was holding the dress rehearsal of its
own death throes, I attended a theatre awards ceremony in central London.
Thankfully, they have stopped televising these affairs, which may have a
direct correlation to the improved esteem in which theatre has recently been
held. Television isn%26rsquo;t kind to sweaty, slurring figures getting tearful
about the creative contribution of the co-star they have been trying to
poison for the past year. These things are fairly ghoulish cocktails of
insecurity and insincerity at the best of times. But wine and warmth usually
settle a rosy glow on the event. At this do, however, someone had turned off
the heating. A chill settled on proceedings, which slowed down the drinking,
and the combination of little alcohol and a lightly frozen room blew a cold
wind of cynicism through, to hideous effect.
Without the benefits of booze and bonhomie, all the egoism, self-celebration
and fake concern were on display in a cold and clear light. And it wasn%26rsquo;t
pretty. I and a few friends left at speed, wondering what had happened to
the profession we loved.
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