Behind all its many forms and conventions, there are three things a piece of theatre can be: a story, a spectacle and a ritual. Most shows mix at least two of these elements. What defines experimental theatre is that it concentrates almost exclusively on one. In the case of Operating Theatre's new show, Chair, what we get is pure ritual.
Rituals do not, in any straightforward way, make sense. A Catholic doesn't go to Mass, for example, or a devil-worshipper to the Sabbath, expecting a coherent narrative. Likewise, anyone looking for either a story or an argument in the dream-like form of Chair will be disappointed. If you can't bear art that doesn't make sense, stay away.
Being at this show is like wandering into the enactment of the sacred rites of an ancient but unknown sect. It is gripping, not because you have any immediate notion of what is going on, but because of the conviction and precision with which the ceremony is performed.
With this kind of work, everything depends on trust. The audience has to believe they are in good hands. Part of that trust is based on past record. The composer, Roger Doyle, and the performer, Olwen Fouere, have been working for two decades on the borderlands between music and theatre and have earned the right to a suspension of scepticism.
More importantly, however, there is Fouere's unique presence. At once feral and sphinx-like, exotic and serene, she is one of the few Irish performers who can command complete attention while remaining utterly mysterious.
Here, she is both the high priestess and the sacrifice on the raised white dais that suggests a kind of altar. Along one wall is an opening that represents the entrance to a prison cell. Within the dais itself are five lit panels. The whole grid is reflected from above on four small TV screens at each corner. A larger screen against the wall carries a succession of images. The central one is Andy Warhol's iconic image of Old Sparky, the infamous electric chair at Sing Sing prison.
At the most literal level, then, Chair is a meditation on the strange, almost holy, place of Death Row in modern culture. Execution is enacted as the last great ritual of a disjointed culture. Beyond this paradox, Chair also contemplates the allure of those moments that are poised between life and death. Images from Shelley's Prometheus Unbound, Carl Jung's theory of shadows and archetypes and the schlock-horror fascination of serial killers evoke the mythology of horror, death and retribution.
The piece exerts its grip because in Johnny Hanrahan's production the disparate elements are seamlessly fused. The technology - the ghostly video images and the processing of Fouere's voice through Doyle's electronic score - gives concrete form to the underlying exploration of what it means to be disembodied. Paul Keogan's lighting design functions as a dynamic element in concert with the sound, vision and movement. Above all, Fouere's compelling presence roots all the apparent abstractions in a performance as dangerously electric as the chair itself.
