The Darkness We Know

Before I zero in on an example, I’d like to ruminate a little upon the article we read on Dark Matter last week. Andrew Sofer’s writings explored the darkness surrounding the theatrical event. He draws out empirical evidence of the phantom hidden behind the evolving product that we call theatre and shines a light into the obscurity therein. “Materially elusive though phenomenologically inescapable, dark matter is the “not there” yet “not not there” of theatre.” One of the most crucial points I gleaned from this article is the proof of the unseen accounted for by the presence of the seen. The absence of something, made almost tangible by the presence of another thing, which testified for the absence of said thing by its presence. In other words, Sofer points out that what we do not see is made all the more strikingly evident by what we see.

Taking it a step further (not sure if Sofer mentions this in his article), I would assert that theatrical dark matter is not only evidenced by the movement of bodies in response to its gravitational pull, but also by the internalization of that pull. In the same way that Foucault observes the internalization of the panopticon into the consciousness of a human being, I believe that dark matter can be ingested by the actor/performer as a part of their ritual of interaction with it. The human being on the stage consumes the very thing that he cannot see, and it simultaneously grounds him to the theatrical event, while allowing him to soar into the realm of the unknown. The dark matter of the theatre manifests itself the paradox of the performer’s experience, working as both anchor and helium balloon throughout the length of a theatrical event.

At this point I would like to point out that the dark matter of the actor differs from that of the character. An actor’s dark matter would be the “work” that goes towards the performance; a collection of exercises and training which should result in an intangible change that is solidified in a “good” performance. A character’s dark matter on the other hand, would be the world created around and within himself; no one can see the psychological landscape of this being, but it exists and influences their actions nonetheless. “But how”, you may ask, “is this dark matter definable? Isn’t dark matter by its very definition a conglomeration of the indistinguishable?” Maybe. I would say that these aspects account for at least a very small part of what we consider the dark matter of theatre. These observations are the result of a very small flashlight in a very large and constantly evolving Room of Requirement – they are glimpses of the litte-known as opposed to the unknown.

Danai Gurira’s Eclipsed follows the story of five women in a rebel camp during Liberia’s civil war. Throughout the length of the play the women speak about, lament over, express fear towards, and even respond to a number of male commandants. There is one scene in particular at the beginning of Act One, in which the commandant comes into the small room that the women share. The women stand up and freeze, not daring to make any sudden moves or ill-timed gestures. One of the women then quietly follows the man out of the room and the women are free to breathe once more.

Not a single man appears in the play.

Several other scenes refer to men who will protect, provide, assault, kill, or otherwise interact with these women, but these men are never present. Their presence looms over the action like a hammer which does not fall in one fell swoop, but rather presses down with sadistic patience, slowly crushing the women underneath. It would be no stretch of the imagination to say that the men possess the power of the unknown in this play. Their pervasive absence seeps through the atmosphere and makes every moment of short-lived laughter or privacy precious. We see them in the clothes they bring for the women, in the food that the women eat, and in the social hierarchy that the women arrange themselves in. Most importantly however, we see the men in the way the women see themselves. The dark matter of the men’s views has been so ingested by the women in this play that it sits heavy in them like a rock; they can only go as far as they can drag that weight.

In an interesting contradiction, I stumbled upon an interview with Danai Gurira during which she explained the reason why she left men out of her play action. She responded in the following paraphrased words;

“You can see when something is not right. There is something wrong about placing a male figure in a women’s play. When a man is on stage with women, all of a sudden, all eyes become fixed on the man. I decided to remove the man, because then the audience will have to look at the women. They will have nothing else to look at, but the women.”

Where the characters of the women in the play are weighed down by the looming presence of the men, the female actors are set afloat by the absence of male figures on what is often a patriarchal stage. One might say that by removing the man, Danai simply made his absence all the more felt. I would argue however, that this is where the difference can be drawn between the dark matter of the actor, and that of the character. Within the context of this play (i.e. the characters), the dark matter establishes itself as the horrors of the war, foregrounded through the pervasive weight of male influence. In the context of the world however (i.e. the actors), the play is surrounded by the dark matter of gender politics and relations. In another interview with Stephen Colbert, he jokingly asked Danai which white male actor she would like to be cast in the movie version of her play. These evasive yet prevalent ghosts haunt all productions at both levels and engender a swirling mass of interactions through which the play can be understood both inside and outside itself.

In a small tangent, there is also something to be said about the presence of that which could have otherwise been left unseen. Growing up, my parents always kept a nice long cane in the corner of their bedroom. I can attest to the fact that it’s very visible presence was instrumental in keeping me out of trouble.

P.S - The picture at the top is from Martin McDonagh's production of the same name.