Notes from a small island

Daniel Trilling discovers a thriving literary scene between the mountains and the Caribbean

Reading his poem "The Cinnamon Peeler" at the 2007 Calabash International Literary Festival in Jamaica, the novelist Michael Ondaatje has to compete not only with a gathering tropical storm, but also with a stray dog that is insistent on taking over the podium. The slight chaos sums up Calabash's relaxed, irreverent approach to literature. Now in its eighth year, the festival is organised by three Jamaicans: the novelist Colin Channer, poet Kwame Dawes and Justine Henzell, daughter of the acclaimed film director Perry Henzell. Over three days, writers from around the globe read and debate between a backdrop of mountains on one side and the Caribbean Sea on the other.

This year, the 4,000-strong audience hear readings from Ondaatje, Caryl Phillips and Maryse Condé, a showcase of authors from the independent New York publisher Akashic Books (company motto: "reverse gentrification of the literary world"), poetry from a range of Caribbean and American writers and a tribute to V S Naipaul's comic novel The Mystic Masseur. Channer holds a provocative discussion with Mike Farrell, the former M*A*S*H star-turned-political activist, who broaches two of Jamaica's touchiest subjects: the death penalty and homophobia. Farrell's condemnation of the latter meets with enthusiastic applause from the audience.

Channer tells me that he and his co-organisers are attempting to inspire a young, fertile literary culture in Jamaica. Currently, he says, music is "the most highly evolved form of storytelling" in Jamaica and Calabash takes its ethos from the island's legendary reggae industry of the 1970s. Aside from the festival (which also features live reggae performances from Lloyd Parks, Pam Hall and Ibo Cooper), Calabash runs writers' workshops throughout the year, designed to evoke the atmosphere of creative hothouses such as the 1970s record labels Tuff Gong and Studio One. The results of the workshops are displayed in last year's excellent collection of short stories, Iron Balloons (Akashic Books).

Though there are no Jamaican writers on the bill this year (Channer says that writers only get a chance to appear "when they're ready"), there is a buzz of enthusiasm among the mainly Jamaican audience. People come from a range of age groups and social backgrounds - from teens in baggy skate jeans to rastas to smartly dressed elderly couples. This creates a lively ambience; indeed, it'll be a strange day when the audience at the Hay festival is told: "If you're going to smoke spliff, please do so outside the tent."

This year, the Calabash festival also hosts the 21st Commonwealth Writers' Prize. The winner of the Best First Book award is the Canadian writer D Y Béchard, whose novel Vandal Love follows generations of a French-Canadian family through the 20th century, as they move around Canada and the US trying to find a home. The New Zealand author Lloyd Jones wins the Overall Best Book award for his novel Mister Pip (reviewed in the NS of 4 June), whose 13-year-old narrator finds solace in Charles Dickens's Great Expectations during the bloody independence struggle on the tiny Pacific island of Bougainville. Among the runners-up are South African novels that deal with the effects of Apartheid on both the oppressed and the oppressors (All We Have Left Unsaid by Maxine Case and The Native Commissioner by Shaun Johnson) and Andrew O'Connor's Tuvalu, a bleakly comic tale of an Australian twentysomething loser.

Despite the wide scope of the Commonwealth Writers' Prize - writers from 52 countries are eligible - the literature it promotes receives little attention in Britain. It's a shame, especially given our national obsession with the search for "true" Britishness. Caryl Phillips, a former Commonwealth Writers' Prizewinner, provides the highlight of the weekend with an autobiographical essay that recounts his loneliness after emigrating from St Kitts to Leeds as a child, the solace he finds reading 19th-century novels as a teenager and the eventual "sense of purpose" as a writer that comes from reading Richard Wright's Native Son. Like many of the authors at the festival, his struggle with the psychological effects of colonialism displays a sense of identity far too fluid to fit neatly with any government-sponsored citizenship test. It's a theme that perfectly matches the cosmopolitan spirit of Calabash.

Daniel Trilling is the Editor of New Humanist magazine. He was formerly an Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 18 June 2007 issue of the New Statesman, New Britain - The country Brown inherits

Almeida Theatre
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Rupert Goold: “A director always has to be more of a listener”

The artistic director of the Almeida Theatre on working with Patrick Stewart, the inaccessibility of the arts, and directing his wife in Medea.

Eight years ago Rupert Goold’s Macbeth made his name. The critics were unanimous in their praise, with one calling it the “Macbeth of a lifetime”. Goold’s first Olivier Award soon followed (Enron won him a second in 2009, King Charles III nearly won him a third last year). It was a family triumph; Lady Macbeth was played by Goold’s wife, Kate Fleetwood.

Now the pair has finally reunited and Fleetwood is his undisputed lead. She is playing Medea in the Almeida’s latest and final play of its Greek season. Directing your wife is one thing. Directing her in a play about a woman who murders her children because her husband abandons her is another. And it’s been harder than Goold expected.

“You live with someone every day, and they don’t age because the change is so incremental, and then you do something together and you realise how much you’ve changed. It’s like playing tennis with someone after eight years: you’re completely different players.”

As it is, Goold thinks the director-actor relationship is inevitably fraught. “There is an essential slave-master, sadomasochistic, relationship,” he says. “The incredibly complicated thing about being an actor is you’re constantly being told what to do. And one of the most damaging things about being a director – and why most of them are complete arseholes – is because they get off at telling people what to do.”

Goold doesn’t. He’s as amicable in person as the pictures – bountiful hair, loose jacket, wide grin – suggest. And when we meet in the Almedia’s crowded rehearsal rooms, tucked away on Upper Street, 100 yards from the theatre, he’s surprisingly serene given his play is about to open.

He once said that directing a play is like running towards a wall and hoping it becomes a door just before the curtain goes up. Has the door appeared? “It’s always a funny moment [at the end of rehearsal]. Sometimes you do a show and it’s a bit dead and the costumes and set transform it. Then sometimes it’s perfect and the design kills it.”

We meet shortly before last Thursday’s press night, and he can’t tell how good it is. But it “certainly feels quite private. The idea that loads of people are going to come and watch it now feels a bit weird. You bring a lot of your sense of relationships and parenting into it.”

Goold has always argued that the classics wither without intervention. So in this revival of Euripides’ 2,446-year-old play, Medea is a writer and her husband, Jason (of Argonauts fame), is an actor. “But it’s not really about that… it’s more about divorce, about what it means to separate.”

“It’s about the impact of a long-term relationship when it collapses. I don’t know whether there is a rich tradition of drama like that, and yet for most people, those kind of separations are far more profound and complicated and have greater ramifications than first love; and we have millions of plays about first love!”

Every generation discovers their own time in the Greek plays. Goold thinks he and playwright Rachel Cusk were shaped by the aftermath of the 1970s in interpreting Medea; “That’s the period when the idea of the family began to get tainted.” And when critics praised Oresteia, the Almeida’s first Greek play and a surprise West End transfer, they compared it to the Sopranos.

Yet there is something eternal about these plays. Goold says it’s the way they “stare at these problems that are totally perennial, like death,” and then offer answers that aren’t easy. Medea kills the kids and a mother rips her son to shreds in the Bakkhai (the Almeida’s predecessor to Medea). Where’s the moral compass in that?

Except there is a twist in Goold’s Medea, and it’s not one every critic has taken kindly to. It was enough to stop the Telegraph’s Dominic Cavendish, otherwise lavish in his praise, from calling it “a Medea for our times”. Nevertheless, the reviews have been kind, as they often are for Goold; although The Times’ Ann Treneman was vitriolic in her dislike (“Everyone is ghastly. The men are beyond irritating. The women even worse.”).

In theory, Goold welcomes the criticism. “I’d rather our audience hated something and talked about it than was passively pleased,” he tells me ahead of reviews.

Controversial and bracing theatre is what Goold wants to keep directing and producing; as the Almeida’s artistic director he is in charge of more than just his own shows. But how does he do it? I put a question to him: if I had to direct Medea instead of him, what advice would he have given me?

He pauses. “You’ve got to love words,” he begins. “There’s no point doing it unless you have a real delight in language. And you have to have vision. But probably the most important thing is, you’ve got to know how to manage a room.”

“It’s people management. So often I have assistants, or directors I produce, and I think ‘God, they’re just not listening to what that person is trying to say, what they’re trying to give.’ They’re either shutting them down or forcing them into a box.”

“Most people in a creative process have to focus on what they want to say, but a director always has to be more of a listener. People do it different ways. Some people spin one plate incredibly fast and vibrantly in the middle of the room, and hope all the others get sucked in. It’s about thriving off of one person – the director, the lead performer, whomever.”

“I’m more about the lowest common denominator: the person you’re most aware of is the least engaged. You have to keep lifting them up, then you get more creativity coming in.”

It’s not always simple. When actors and directors disagree, the director can only demand so much, especially if the actor is far more famous than them. When Goold directed Macbeth, Patrick Stewart was his lead. Stewart was a movie star and twice his age.

“Patrick’s take on Macbeth… I didn’t think it should be played that way. I’d played him as a student and I had an idea of what he was.”

“But then you think, ‘Ok, you’re never going to be what I want you to be, but actually let me get rid of that, and just focus on what’s good about what you want to be, and get rid of some of the crap.’”

Goold doesn’t think he’s ever really struggled to win an actor’s respect (“touch wood”). The key thing, he says, is that “they just feel you’re trying to make legible their intention”.

And then you must work around your lead. In Macbeth, Stewart was “a big deep river of energy… when normally you get two people frenetically going ‘Uhgh! Is this a dagger I see before me! Uhgh!’ and there’s lots of hysteria.”

“So we threw all sorts of other shit at the production to compensate, to provide all the adrenalin which Patrick was taking away to provide clarity and humanity.”

Many people want to be theatre directors, and yet so few are successful. The writers, actors and playwrights who sell shows can be counted on a few hands. Depressingly, Goold thinks it’s becoming harder to break in. It’s difficult to be discovered. “God, I don’t know, what I worry – wonder – most is: ‘Are there just loads of great directors who don’t make it?’”

 The assisting route is just not a good way to find great new directors. “The kind of people who make good assistants don’t make good directors, it’s almost diametrically opposite.” As for regional directors, newspaper budgets have collapsed, so they can no longer rely on a visit from a handful of national critics, as Goold did when he was based in Salisbury and Northampton. And audiences for touring shows have, by some measures, halved in the past twenty years.

Theatre has also evolved. When Goold was coming through, “There were not a lot of directors who felt they were outside the library, so for me to whack on some techno was radical! Now it’d be more commonplace.” New directors have to find new ways to capture our attention – or at least the critics’.

But the critics have changed too. A nod from a critic can still be vital in the right circles, but the days when critics “made” directors is long over. “I remember Nick de Jongh saying, ‘Oh Rupert Goold, I made him.’ Because he’d put Macbeth on the front page of the Standard. I owed my career to him, and in some ways I did! But it's an absurd idea, that would not happen now.”

“It’s all changed so much in literally the past three years. There was a time, for better or worse, when you had a big group of establishment critics: de Jongh, Michael Billington, Michael Coveney, Charlie Spencer – they were mostly men – Susannah Clapp. And if they all liked your show, you were a hit.” (“They could be horrible,” he adds.)

“Now I get more of a sense of a show by being on Twitter than reading the reviews.” It’s “probably a good thing”, Goold thinks, and it certainly beats New York, where a single review – the New York Times' – makes or breaks plays. But it’s another problem for aspiring directors, who can no longer be so easily plucked from the crowd.

It’s no longer a problem Goold needs to overcome. His star could wane, but he seems likely to be among the leading voices in British theatre for a while yet.

Harry Lambert is a staff writer and editor of May2015, the New Statesman's election website.