Translating Lorca

The difficult line of transforming a play from one language to another continues to challenge and so

Bringing the work of legendary Spanish playwright Federico García Lorca to the stage is much more than simply making appropriate lexical choices, but how do we translate Lorca?

In short, it’s not an easy task. Much of Lorca’s work is saturated by strong imagery. For the translator, the cultural resonances associated with such imagery may seem completely unfathomable to foreign audiences. This was demonstrated when the first ever translation, Blood Wedding, Lorca’s arguably most translated (and so his most famous) work, was virtually laughed off stage.

In the cultural setting of 1930s America, José Weissberger’s attempts to translate the play’s floral imagery were caustically derided as ‘verbal gardening’― the language was awkward and stilted and the audience certainly weren’t buying it.

David Johnston, Professor of Hispanic Studies at Queen’s University Belfast and renowned Spanish expert and theatre translator, recently translated two of Lorca’s plays: The House of Bernarda Alba, commissioned by the Belgrade and Play Without a Title for Fail Better Productions.

For Johnston, theatre translation is a lengthy process involving much drafting, redrafting, discussion― and debate ― between the translator, director and the actors, to strike the right balance. For Bernarda Alba Johnston and director Gadi Roll went through nine or ten drafts ‘…of different Bernarda Albas and it was a case of picking and choosing what worked on stage for this particular performance.’ The final production is very stylised. Yet rather than departing from his original vision and Lorca’s original text, Johnston considers that he and Roll created a production which works well because it avoids falling into the trap of trying to localise or foreignise the performance. Instead, they ensure that ‘The spectator’s imagination is located precisely where it should be … in the theatre.’

Jonathan Heron, director of Johnston’s new translation of the rarely translated (and so rarely performed) Play Without a Title, described bringing a translation to life in the theatre as “a process of thinking about what a work of performance can do for a text and allowing the text to breathe.”

The production, performed superbly by students from Warwick University, illustrates a keen awareness of the themes and concerns which are inherent within the play, those of revolution, reality and illusion and the desire to create living and breathing theatre which really resonates with el pueblo. Aided by the innovative staging, the audience witnesses the action from the side as Jay Saighal, who plays The Director, continues to waver between the stage and backstage, effectively highlighting his character’s sense of frustration and predicament.

In The House of Bernarda Alba, the stark austerity of the metallic walls creates a barren, clinical and hostile environment. Hostility exudes from the staging and the girls’ charged dialogue generates an atmosphere of resentment and frustration which really oozes out of the performance. Chairs, as in Johnston’s 2003 production of Blood Wedding with Belfast’s Bruiser Theatre Company, are innovatively used to stage the action and become an integral part of the chorographical framework. Here the actresses are forced to perch on them awkwardly, awaiting Bernarda’s next command. This is not a production for the fainthearted, says Johnston, but ought to be ‘… a difficult night in the theatre’, with the audience duly assimilating the characters’ sense of discomfort. Yet as the first scene expertly demonstrates, the chairs can also be used to provide a sense of catharsis. There is something undeniably humorous about the awkward silence at the beginning of the play, as eighteen women dressed in black sit in rigidly formed rows, facing the audience, one by one whipping out their fans in the quintessential Spanish fashion. Johnston indicates that these points of catharsis show the strength of Lorca’s writing and heighten the emotional intensity of the performance for the audience, enabling them ‘to blend out of the tension and then go back into it and really take it on board.’

So have we learnt how to translate Lorca for the stage? In one sense, a stage production of a translated work can be described as creating, not simply a translation, but a version of a play. Irish poet Brendan Kennelly, who also brought a production of Blood Wedding to Newcastle Playhouse in 1996, avidly favoured the term ‘version-maker’ to translator. And certainly, these productions have undoubtedly succeeded in creating compelling versions of Lorca’s plays. Yet these are only two interpretations, many others are possible and many translators and practitioners will continue to try and bring the playwright’s words viscerally and vividly into the realm of performance. So, what will they try next? The Public anyone?

Romola Garai in The Writer.
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The Writer at the Almeida: a drama which tries to have its meaning-cake and eat it

This isn’t a boring, safe three-star play: you’re either Team Five or Team One.

God, the Almeida’s new production knows how to push my buttons. “Don’t you know how hard it is to write a play?” one character shouts at another, two-thirds of the way through. Every fibre of my being wanted to scream back: “Try working down a mine!”

The Writer is an endlessly tricksy piece, trying to have its meaning-cake and eat it, showing you scenes and then immediately undercutting them with meta-narrative. What is it about? Good question. Impossible question. It begins with a young black woman (Lara Rossi) who has left her bag behind in the theatre. On her way out, she is cross-questioned by an older, effortlessly middle-class white man (Samuel West) about the play she’s just seen.

Her criticisms of the state of modern theatre are brutal: women are there to be judged on their looks, while we wait to hear what men will say and do. Girls in hotpants present themselves like animals on heat; actresses are encouraged to get naked on the thinnest of pretexts, when it’s very hard to be both topless and truly empowered. Even worse, the director “added a rape” because that’s seen as being both titillating and “edgy”.

I agreed with all this checklist of chauvinism, and I even recognised the lazy, patronising indulgence of the powerful man trotting out the usual defences in response. Surely, he says, you don’t want to ban people being sexy? The woman points out that she was talking about rape, not sex. Also, doesn’t he recognise her? She knows he directed the play she just watched. He once told her that her anger was impressive six years ago, when she was a student, and that she could have a career in the theatre. (Yes, apparently anger is a proxy for creative ability, which is why the YouTube comments section swept the board at the Oliviers.) Then he tried to kiss her. She didn’t want to accept a job on such compromised terms.

And – scene. Ho ho ho, what we’ve just been watching was, of course, a workshop of a new play. Perched on a folding chair in the middle of the stage, as if taking part in a post-show talk, The Writer (Romola Garai) is chided by another older white man (Michael Gould) that it’s too angry, too lacking in nuance. The problem is: while he is patronising, he is also right. It might have been entirely correct in its sentiments, but as drama, it only had one gear. If I wanted to watch people identify genuine problems with thumping earnestness and zero self-awareness . . . well, there are plenty of left-wing op-ed columnists for that.

This self-referentiality persists throughout. We get a scene with The Writer and her boyfriend, where he wants her to take a film job and she is too principled to do it. They have bad sex on the sofa he has just bought for her. The first scene had mentioned the cheapness of bringing a real baby on stage (a clear dig at The Ferryman), so a real baby is brought on stage. The audience coos appreciatively, because it’s impossible to resist millennia of genetic programming, even when you want to look cool and self-aware.

Then Romola Garai’s character monologues about having a contraceptive coil fitted, which then slips into a story of her swimming through a lake to a lost world where she has lesbian sex outdoors and feels happy for the first time not to experience the male gaze. (I don’t remember there being an obvious segue between the coil and the alfresco cunnilingus.) This "tribal shit" is no way to end a play, says Michael Gould’s Director, who has turned up stage-right. It’s not as good as your angry first scene. Again: the annoying man has a point.

Then he tells the Writer he’s only giving her these notes because he thinks she’s brilliant, which feels like incredible chutzpah in a drama which will inevitably be read as thinly veiled autobiography. (There's another moment like this, when The Director tells her that you can't write a play where the protagonist is endlessly self-involved, and she shoots back: "Hamlet!" It's a great joke, but it does also set the bar quite high for how good the rest of the writing has to be.)

The final scene also features The Writer, this time with her girlfriend, in a smart apartment, eating curry. She’s just handed in a project and wants to relax by going to her girlfriend’s bar to do something “manual” and switch her brain off. Her girlfriend gives her the same unimpressed look at this Marie Antoinette dilettantism that half the audience do.

The couple then have bad sex on the sofa. The Writer, who is clearly now rich and successful, is just as inattentive to her partner’s enjoyment as her boyfriend was before – edging towards the point made by Naomi Alderman’s The Power that it’s not some innate property of the Y chromosome which creates sex inequality, and therefore gender roles could plausibly flip one day. Give a woman a financially dependent, less outwardly successful partner and she can play all the subtle, controlling tricks we associate with rich old men.

I watched The Writer twice; once in previews, and the leaner, tighter version displayed on press night. I enjoyed it more the second time, because - whatever else you can say about this play - it elicits a strong response. Knowing that it would provoke me, not always intentionally, cleared my mind to notice the pacy direction and mostly strong performances by the cast.

In a way, I’m grateful. The Writer has made me think as much as any play I’ve seen this year. It’s prompted a series of searching conversations with the handful of other people I know who’ve seen it. (It also prompted eye-rolls at all the male critics who clearly felt boxed into being nice about it on pain of being identified as Lead Patriarchal Oppressor of British Theatre.) This isn’t a boring, safe three-star play: you’re either Team Five or Team One.

That said, I do resent the meta-theatricality, usurping my right to my own responses by telling me constantly how to feel about what I’ve just seen. The text tries to pre-empt criticisms by voicing them within the play - this is boring, this is too angry, this doesn’t have an ending - when it could work harder to rebut them instead. Are we meant to see The Writer’s complaints about the difficulty of creative work as heartfelt sentiments, expressed with refreshing candour? Most writers I know, male and female, feel similarly, self-indulgently wronged by a world where reality TV is more popular than whatever they’ve slaved over for months. They are just clever enough not to say these things in public, where you might end up talking to, say, an intensive care nurse. Yes, there are flicks of knowingness here and there, but how much ironic distance is there between The Writer’s view of herself and the text’s, in the end? (The play's author, Ella Hickson, has spoken of her dismay at hearing the audience laugh when the female character says at the start that she wants to "dismantle capitalism and overturn the patriarchy", as if that's evidence that we have lost confidence in the transformative power of theatre. But there's a difference between a character expressing ambition and one with a messiah complex. Put it this way: I've written some fairly scorching thinkpieces, but I don't think any of them will stop Brexit. And the closest theatre has recently come to making me want to smash capitalism is when I realised how much I'd spent on tickets to see the binbag-themed Macbeth at the National.)

The Writer invites us to hold it to a terrifyingly high standard, by presenting itself as dangerous – a vivid j’accuse to hidebound theatrical traditions and smug audiences. It elides criticisms of West End celebrity-driven flam and the lazy, highbrow male gaze merchants of the subsidised sector. Its few identifiable targets are not always the most obviously deserving of scorn. (I didn't much like The Ferryman, but there was a proper play hidden under the Riverdance and haunted grandmas.) In the first scene, there’s a glancing reference to Laura Wade’s play Posh, directed by Lyndsey Turner at the Royal Court. It was watched and enjoyed, says the young woman, by exactly the same establishment it sought to satirise. The choice of example sits oddly in a jeremiad against patriarchy, because this was a rare new-ish play both written by a woman and directed by one. Is The Writer on the side of these women struggling to be heard in a male-dominated industry? It doesn’t feel like it. Perhaps Posh should have featured a scene where we were told that the Bullingdon Club is bad, as is capitalism generally, just to hammer the point home? But that’s absurd, because there is no way that play left the audience in any doubt that they were meant to despise the Oxbridge window-smashers. Perhaps some people are simply beyond the reach of theatrical guilt-trips.

The Almeida has had an astonishing run over the last year, with awards and West End transfers raining from the heavens. But the Writer – inevitably – suggests on stage that her play has only been programmed because it would have been too awkward for a white middle-class male artistic director to reject it, in the era of Time’s Up and #MeToo. I didn’t like the audience’s knowing, indulgent laughter in that moment. It felt like the joke was on us, and we didn’t know it.

The Writer runs at the Almeida, London, until 26 May

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She regularly appears on BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and the News Quiz, and BBC1’s Sunday Politics.