at the Kennedy Center
by Dorothy Chansky
Indian director Rathan Thiyam claims to “create his own tradition” in his theatre. Far from being arrogant or naive, this statement is a straightforward assesment and an invitation to look closely at the work of his ensemble, Chorus Repertory Theatre, now on a monthlong tour of the U.S.
It would, after all, be easy to regard Uttar Priyadarshi (The Final Beatitude), Thiyam’s company’s ensemble telling of a hero’s journey from arrogance to inner peace, in vague terms like “traditional Indian theatre.” The piece does draw on Buddhism, an Indian color palette, and precise movement, but it is also much more. Extended voice, a Kodak moment in hell, Grand Guignol, mummy-like mourners, and a dance very like clogging all show up and all serve well.
Thiyam’s style of reworking, invention, and letting his company improvise, inspired observation visits from Peter Brook, Tadashi Suzuki, and Eugenio Barba. These artists made the journey to Manipur, Thiyam’s home state in northeast India that has been in political turmoil and under various levels of military siege since the 1960s. On a rare trip away from home, Thiyam’s communal company (they run their own farm as well as all handling their own technical and public relations needs) opened at Washington’s Kennedy Center on September 22 and will conclude at the Brooklyn Academy of Music October 23-28.
Uttar Priyadarshi begins with a chorus of monks performing a made-up Buddhist ritual. Eight of the twelve men do protean duty in a host of roles; the other four serve as a kind of Greek chorus, shifting functions and locales throughout the piece, but always pushing the story along.
The hero, Priyadarshi (R.K. Bhogen) first appears as a little boy. When Buddha comes to him begging alms, the boy gives him the only thing he has -- a handful of dirt. For this Buddha blesses him. The scene ends with the boy circled by a the ensemble holding up a huge length of fabric. The spinning cloth is the Wheel of Time, and when it disappears, the boy emerges as a man.
Priyadarshi is not just any man, he is a military hero, and the slender text (supposedly only eight pages long) is based on the life of an actual third century B.C. Indian ruler and warrior. Here he enters on a huge elephant, rendered as a massive puppet head, and handled to suggest exactly the movement of an elephant and rider.
The hero is in for a rude surprise, however, for while he expects his countrymen to sing him a welcome, they mock him instead. The cost of war is too great. War widows, wrapped in white and writhing on the floor, sob and chant their distress at Priyadarshi’s bloody victory. The faceless widows (they are completely wrapped) move slowly enough to be a snippet from a Robert Wilson work. They are followed by men pulling rivers of (fabric) blood across the stage. Eventually these will be used to wrap the mocked hero, as the men circle him like a maypole and turn him into a bloody mirror of the widows.
Priyadarshi’s rage and dismay yield a vindictive act. He appoints the evil Lord Ghor (Ibomcha Sorok) to rule hell. Ghor enters as a human monster held in a kind of harness, straining as two handlers try to hold him back. He calls to mind both Tamberlaine in his cage and the medieval devils who, though sinfulness incarnate, had tremendous theatrical appeal.
Ghor’s female attendants are dressed in black (again, with faces completely covered) and sport white hair down to their thighs. They wail like banshees; they also take care of providing body parts for an endless ghoulish feast. Their supply comes from an in-house electric chair, guillotine, garrot, and gallows. At one point two of them pause after performing a beheading to pose for the camera as another of their group snaps a photo. The bare-chested male attendants wear culottes and bands around their heads. Their ankles are festooned with fringe, they wear clunky necklaces of beads, and their low clogs and stomping dance call to mind both tribal rituals and the image of satyr choruses.
Into this nightmarish hell come the four monks of the chorus, pole-vaulting across a river in response to the siren calls of the female attendants. Bad move. The monks escape finally, but not without some serious abuse. A mendicant monk (Robindro) enters hell solo. Will he survive? He barely seems aware of his surroundings, much less any danger. But it is precisely his beatitude that makes him safe from Ghor’s ranting as he serenely ensconces himself to meditate and pray.
The final visitor to hell is Priyadarshi himself. Following the monk’s example of prayer and self-examination, he is able to recognize Ghor as a part of himself and casts him out.
The storyline is projected in English supertitles. The spoken sections are still long enough that more translation would enrich the non-Manipuri speaking audience’s grasp of this verbal layer of the work. Still, the vocal variety, cries from hell, deep-throated praying, over-the-top costumes from the underworld, and the rivers of blood tell the story in the multi-tracked language of the theatre.
For all of the physical and vocal training these players have, there remains a refreshingly rough quality to the performance that forces one to think about the fine line between “trained” and “slick.” When the male and female ensembles or the chorus of four work together, they often execute the same steps, yet they never become a machine of clones. Not all the feet hit the floor at the same instant. Individual voices stand out within the ensemble. Rather than feeling “wrong,” this effect creates a sense that groups still comprise individuals. In a story about individual redemption, this is subtly powerful.
Other stops on the tour are Oct. 2-4, the Walker Arts Center in Minneapolis; Oct. 6-8, Cal Performances at U.C. Berkeley; Oct. 10-14, UCLA Performing Arts in Los Angeles; Oct. 16-18, UA Presents at the University of Arizona in Tuscon; Oct. 20-22 at the Institute for the Arts at Duke University, Raliegh, N.C.; and Oct. 23-28 at the Asia Society and BAM in New York City. [Chansky]
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