Best of 2012-2013: The audience comes alive

Two things... #1-- I am often that introverted person guilty of attending performances with minimal human interaction. I buy my ticket, watch at a safe distance (and without making prolonged eye contact with my seat mate), applaud, maybe wave at a buddy across the room, and then go home to Facebook my congratulations. #2-- I am wary of audience participation, especially anything resembling the kind I’ve seen in televised magic shows. Also: anything involving improvisation. That said, I’d like to recognize two performances that wouldn’t let me phone-in my role as an audience member, and which reminded me that I’m really grateful for the (sometimes unpredictable) experience of seeing performance live. Both of these shows insisted I commit to actively engaging with the performance. This resulted in a richer, more immersive experience for me, full of you-just-had-to-be-there moments. And it resulted in stronger work: work that left space to be changed by an audience in unforeseeable and delightful ways. Annie Katsura Rollins: There’s Nothing To Tell (Heart of the Beast Theatre) At the beginning of There’s Nothing To Tell, my fellow audience members and I were encouraged to grab tea and snacks and view the piece in the round, moving throughout the performance space as we liked. From the front I watched the main action: shadow puppetry performed by four puppeteers, and narrated with intricate vocal detail by Rollins – like the best version of story hour you remember from childhood. I was quickly pulled in by the intricate images and lovable characters. The plot of There’s Nothing To Tell revolves around the autobiography of a shadow puppeteer during China’s dynastic era through the Cultural Revolution, as told to his Chinese American granddaughter. Rollins is clever, and teaches the history of shadow puppetry through the grandfather’s story, while illustrating the art in the process. But the shadow puppet show was just part of the performance. Moving to the side of the playing space, I watched a different perspective of There’s Nothing To Tell: wide-eyed kids seated in the very front of the space on cushions, whispering to their parents about the story, and other audience members rotating the space, each at their own pace. Behind the screens projecting the shadows, the puppeteers moved with carefully choreographed precision and knowledge of light and scale. A musician underscored each action. Viewing each of the pieces – light, motion, hand cut leather figures, sound, text – as they came together animated their careful architecture. At the end of the piece I stood in line to examine the puppets and attempt my own puppeteering. While waiting my turn, I watched many a kid and adult throw images on the screen. We all seemed to equally like the blurry place between audience and performer, entertainment and lesson. I loved how the choose-your-own-adventure approach to viewing the piece let me find just the right balance. Andy Kraft, Joshua Scrimshaw, Levi Weinhagen: Calories Vs. Comedy: Fight (Minnesota Fringe Festival) In Comedy Suitcase’s latest Fringe show, three men eat a bunch of fast food, and then attempt to burn off the consumed calories by the end of the show. The rules are simple: at least one person must be exercising on stage at all times. While exercising it is permissible to recount personal stories, like Weinhagen’s monologue about his fascination with The Biggest Loser after a childhood struggling with obesity. In between honestly delivered stories and dialogue on exercise bikes, there is time for a dance break, a dodge-ball game, and running out to the house to hug the audience. How can most things compete with a premise like that? It was Fringe; I had few set expectations. I thought it was going to be the kind of show where I could limit my participation to polite smiles and applause, but the rest of the audience couldn’t have disagreed more with me, starting with their reactions at the top of the show. You see, it turns out that the only thing grosser-slash-more-engaging than watching three men each battle a Happy Meal in thirty seconds (and then promptly start exercising) is watching an audience of other people watch this. All around me stomachs were clutched, faces were made, and I’m sure I would have been vicariously nauseous if I wasn’t already feeling a bit that way myself. But honestly? I was immediately smitten with the audience and their energy, and the way the performers met our enthusiasm with their own. The stakes were high! Will they burn the calories? I don’t know! Who’s winning at dodge ball? I don’t know! Will there be an exercise-related casualty? Probably. I realized that watching people get smacked around with a big ball is really fun. So is watching a bunch of kids alternate between uncensored laughter and eager participation (after this show I decided that we all need at least a handful of kids in our audiences). I loved this show, partially because I didn’t even see the fun coming for me when I walked in that door. I even loved the parts that broke my 4th-wall safety, like when Joshua Scrimshaw gave me a sweaty hug and horrified me a little by saying I looked lonely. The flurry of energy and child shrieks pulled me in for the ride. The total ridiculousness of the constant exercising and motion somehow helped me pay close attention during the quiet, honest moments. It continually felt unpredictable, in the best way. Both of these performances challenged me to think more about my audiences when creating work. What do I want from my audience? How do I find ways to immerse them in the experience? How can they change the work? And as a viewer, I feel more open to the idea of taking a few risks. Maybe there’s more satisfaction to be found in leaving the safely of my seat occasionally, or even raising my hand to play some on-stage dodge ball.