They Beg You for Help. And You Say, Get Them Away From Me
Fever by Wallace Shawn
Directed by Mark Burgess
By Catherine MacLennan
I tried to get someone to accompany me to the play Fever, which the actor Stanley Katz was performing in his apartment, but moments before we were going to head out to his place, my friend suddenly, and mysteriously, felt ill, and had to go home. Earlier in the week I tried to persuade someone else to go to but when I disclosed the location of the play I was met with silence, and a horrified look. I did think it was a little strange to perform a play in one's apartment, but I also thought it might be interesting or amusing, and certainly a one-of-a-kind experience!
I did feel a tiny bit anxious (now unaccompanied) as I waited for the apartment door to be opened. The anxiety immediately dissipated when Stanley, the star of the show, greeted me and took my coat. A few others, who arrived seconds before me headed towards the living room, where the audience would sit, facing the kitchen (the "stage"). Four people enthusiastically squeezed into the couch at the back of the room, and everyone else sat on the assorted chairs that comprised the rest of the seating. One red-haired member of the audience was dressed in green, in celebration of Saint Patrick's Day. (I attended the March 17th performance). The people in the audience, who obviously overcame the "weird" reflex in regards to the location, were happily anticipatory and wholeheartedly supportive of the project: in the pre-show chatter I heard "What a great idea" "Yeah, this is great," and "Guerilla Theatre!!"
Before the show started, Stanley asked a couple of audience members to unplug a phone and some lights in the audience area, assuring us that there wouldn't be any other audience participation. Of course, once the play began, the material and the performance were compelling enough that you quickly forgot that you were in someone's apartment.
Fever opens with an upper-middle class Western tourist (he'd probably prefer the word "traveler"), probably American, in a Third World country, which he refers to as "a poor country where my language isn't spoken." He is shivering, the lamp by his bed doesn't work, the vomits and looks at the big bug by the toilet. He thinks instead about a birthday party in "the fancy restaurant... with the table with its sweet and pretty decorations." In this country with political murder, torture, and rape-torture his thoughts turn to intricately wrapped Christmas presents, enormous roses, soft socks, cake, beautiful bath oils, his love of the violin and dance performances. These are the cherished details that he clings to in the face of the Other, in their homes with the "sticky smell," their country where the "smells are sharp and upsetting."
His monologue changes from wistful, to defensive, to callousness, to self-loathing, to moments of understanding of the socio-economic political reality, to avoidance that reality. He goes from self-justifying "there's a reason why I'm the one who has the money in the first place, and that's why I'm not going to give it away. In other words, I worked for that money. I worked hard. I worked." Then: "Why is the old woman sick and dying? Why doesn't she have money? Didn't she ever work? You idiot, you pathetic idiot, of course, she worked. She worked sixteen hours a day in a field, in a factory. She worked. - You say you work. Why does your work bring you so much money, while their work brings practically nothing." His internal dialogue goes in a number of directions. But in the end he is thinking of home and his "beautiful bed.' ...but instead he pictures a "piece of a human brain - a severed hand" on the night table instead of a lamp and clock and ribbons left over from birthday presents.
Educated comfortable people in the West, people who regard themselves as "so happy, cute and funny" live in the knowledge that life is very different for others, and respond to that with self-justifications or fear or simply avoidance. In the play this gap is discussed as not only in North-South term but also mentions the rich-poor divide in his own country as well, the "bad neighbourhoods" which he has been taught to avoid. He expresses an array of perspectives but in the end longs for personal comfort, despite knowing that others are suffering. The impression that what he longs for and is always comforted by is always described in the imagery of the desires of a pampered child, (cakes, soft underwear laid out, the right kind of socks, pretty decorations, birthday parties, etc) suggests that one is not fully mature if one is not engaged in society.
Stanley Katz's performance captures the audience for the entire length of the play - amazing since it is just one long speech! Rather than just sitting in a chair, Katz walks around, sits, or stands which not only breaks up the play visually but aids in capturing some of the monologue's rise and fall - the constant repositioning of his argument and emotions. Director Mark Burgess and Katz have also set up the lighting system in a way that is controlled in an unobtrusive matter yet also adds to the varied, changing moods. Katz pulls off an excellent performance in a play that makes one think.
Stanley Katz, star of The Fever answers a few questions from The Lamp's Catherine MacLennan
Catherine MacLennan: What made you think of putting on a play in your apartment?
Stanley Katz: For a long time I had an idea for putting on a play in my apartment, and... well, two things (well, more than two things probably)... One: One of the problems I find with Canadian theatre, maybe theatre in the world... Is that we do a play, let's say you work for one of the theatre companies, like at the Playhouse or the Arts Club, you know, one of the big regional theatres in the country - you do a play and it runs for three weeks. An average run is three weeks, if you're lucky you rehearse for three weeks before that, so you've worked on it for six weeks, but theatre takes place in front of an audience, that's where the creative process starts to grow and then you know, you do it for three weeks if you're lucky, then it's like ok, it's over - bye.
You never really get a run at it, whereas Europeans, and you could even say some of the Broadway plays... they take it out and they work the play. Our theatre is not awful, I think it's mediocre... it's better than mediocre... I think Canadian actors and directors are great because what they put up in such a short amount of time is pretty phenomenal. But again, it only reaches a certain ceiling because of the structure around it.
One of the reasons that I've put this play up in my house is because I really want to do it again. I think it is a fabulous play and as an actor I think I'm just scratching the surface. So I've done it for three weeks now, so I will have done 15 performances, right, which is amazing in Canada. So you go, 'wow, you did 15 performances,' well, if you think about New York, man, they're doing a show for a year... I once did a show - 102 performances of a show - and I was still finding stuff out, I mean, to me, that is where the craft is, the fun is. To go through the wall of like 'ok, this is boring, I hate it,' then you know, at show 85 it's like, my god, I just rediscovered the entire play again. So you need to work something. I think we cut ourselves short. We cut the audience short, and the craftspeople - the actors, directors, designers, when it's, oh yeah, three weeks and, boom, now it's gone.
I guess the other reason is: people produce show for themselves in order to have an acting experience, it happens all the time... But what happens is you have to put up all the money, not even a lot, but you need to have at least three grand and you need to put up some publicity and you do all of that just to have an acting experience. Then the producing kind of takes over because it's all the business stuff and those that produce are not always the best actors in their own show. And they went through all of this work, which is great - Amen, you did the show, two thumbs up, but for what? To have a little acting experience. I wanted to minimize... This is a corny thing to say, but I really wanted to concentrate on this immense piece of text and not have to worry about me being the producer. I've produced before and I know what it is about. It's stressful enough producing in your own home let alone in a theatre...
One other thing to that question is that I like the idea that I think theatre can be made anywhere you want and the idea that it has to be in a certain building with certain things around it is lame.
In the last five years, as an actor I have been inspired by the "digital revolution" in film - where you're just making films. I've got a digital camera, I've got a little edit suite on my computer - let's do it, and everyone gets to work their stuff. Just because Hollywood isn't buying it or it wasn't in a theatre, doesn't mean it isn't valid and people didn't see it and grow from it.
So I thought: Why not do it in my house? And I guess I like to be a little... not confrontational, a little reactionary in the sense that we're so precious about our homes in this country, I would say North America, we're so uptight about our homes. We won't let anyone into our home until it's all perfect. Come over when we have everything done. You walk into people's homes, what's the first thing they do? Apologize - 'Sorry, my place is a mess.' Having spent time in third world countries - it's like a dirt floor - they're giving you tea, everything they have. You go to their homes - Please come into my home, I know it's only a tin shack with dirt on the floor, come to my how and feel comfortable. And we're so uptight. And I'm like, yeah, come over, it's my place.
CM: Why did you choose this particular play?
SK: Well a couple of things... One, I went to Nicaragua in the early 90s. I went with a NGO called Trucks to Nicaragua and we donated a bus and a pickup truck to a university and a farm collective. At the time I knew nothing about Central American politics. I'd been in some third world countries in the Middle East and I've travelled in Eastern Europe... So I went on this trip and we drove from Toronto to Nicaragua and that was a pretty phenomenal experience for me, a pretty big eye-opener. And I was there for quite a while, and I came back, of course, like everybody who comes back after they've spent more than like two or three months away in a third world country... I wasn't shell-shocked, but I sort of came back kind of looking at the world I lived in. I was living in Toronto at the time... I was like, Wow, what an interesting world we live in... Basically I was thinking why do we have so much and they have so little - what is the difference?
At the same time, a close friend of mine said 'Hey, you've got to read this play, I think you'd really dig it,' so he gave me a copy of The Fever and I was like, Oh my god, I could have written this play. And then I did a little research and I found out that Wallace Shawn was actually in Nicaragua, though the play is non-country specific. So I've been sitting on this play for years and years and years and I've always loved it and I've always been terrified of doing it, and I used to read it when I got really depressed going, 'oh, you know what, I should really do this play.' It was like the big sort of thing: one day I'm going to do that play. And finally sometime, I guess late last summer/early fall, I just decided I was going to do it. I thought: Fuck it; I'm going to do this play. I don't know how, or when or how it's going to go, but I'll just do it. So that's the first thing.
The second thing is: I really love the play. The reason I love the play is, I think it's an 'ethical cacophony' in the sense that there are no answers. There are a lot of questions, which I thoroughly enjoy - I'm a bit of a question-asker myself. I like the intensity. I used to say the play was overwritten, but I think the overwritten-ness is part of the intensity. It's kind of like Crime and Punishment - part of the overwritten-ness of Crime and Punishment is the intensity in which this guy is looking at the world. He sees everything, the crack in the wall... There are pages and pages about his room and the cracks on the ceiling and I think this is sort or the same thing. It's the intensity in which he is looking at the world and looking at himself.
When the play was first done in '94, it was ripped apart by that liberal press in New York - they hated it. I mean Wallace Shawn did it differently than I did it here, but they hated it. They were like: 'You can't ask all of these questions without giving answers... ' They ripped it apart... but the same year it won a few Obie awards, too. I just like the play because as an actor, he's saying great things. Why do people love Shakespeare? Because you get to say beautiful lines, you get to say really smart things that you never say. I like The Fever because it's provocative, thought-provoking and profound all at the same time. Here's a guy who's ruminating about not only his own life, but also the society he lives in - and I guess I connect with that.
CM: Are there any challenges in performing a one-man show as opposed to an ensemble piece?
SK: Oh, my god, yes - it's difficult and it's terrifying, and frightening. It's fun but there's no rest and it's really... It's taken me a while... I'm just starting to get into the groove of it because there's no time when you get to sit back and go 'oh, ok, so this your scene.' As an actor when you're doing a play, there's always like, oh yeah, ok this is your little bit, and this is where I do my shtick and it's not that you're not participating, it's someone else's monologue, someone's little scene. You're listening, 'active listening,' as we say in theatre. It becomes quite easy to do once you figure out what to do. And also when you 'mess up,' there is always someone there to save you. You screw up a line, you look to your partner - you give them that look - and they're like, 'Oh my god, you fucked up.'... 'Yeah, I know, oh my god... aarrgh!' And you help each other because you're all drowning; you're all swimming together. And I guess the great thing with a one-man show is you're swimming alone, and you're way out in the ocean and there's no one there. The great thing is when it's done and you get to the other side, you did it all by yourself. Well, you and your director. Mark Burgess, who helped me immensely, without him it wouldn't have happened.
It's lonely in the sense that there's no one to play with, there's no camaraderie of like, you know, before the show starts, or after the show. There's no one I can tell... A lot of actors go out after the show and they laugh at all the in-jokes that happen. It's like work, the customer or client doesn't know what happened, and they don't need to know because what happened was so minutely insignificant but in the office it was a big thing and it's no different in the theatre, where you get to kind of go and share in the in-jokes of how you messed up. So it's a bit lonely in some ways - there's no one to play with.
CM: Do you have any upcoming projects?
SK: I'm working on something right now, a film, an independent film. It's very bizarre... a kind of David Lynch-ian soap-opera thing. It's funny because I am playing something completely different - a Mossad agent. It's exciting.