// literary & arts //
December 2015
Wide Awake and Aware:
A Sign-Sound Rendition of Spring Awakening
A Theater Review
Hadar Tanne
I wasn’t as prepared as I usually am to go to the theater; my friend forgot which play we were going to see, so I felt uncharacteristically uninformed until the very moment when we saw the sign: “Spring Awakening.” It was on my list of shows to see, certainly, but I’d had sparse previous knowledge of the production’s storyline and background, so I immediately pored over the playbill, eager to garner as much last-minute information as possible in order to fully appreciate every nuance of the impending performance.
It turns out “Spring Awakening” was written in Germany in 1891 only to be immediately banned for its controversial exploration of adolescent sexuality, rebellion, and agitation of growing up against a backdrop of strict conventions and an authoritarian atmosphere. That was the extent of my cramming efforts. Suddenly the curtain opened, revealing actors mulling around the stage, chatting familiarly while they warmed up their voices and stretched in the audience’s full view. There was something strikingly familiar about their ease to me, and I remembered afternoons spent with fellow actors overcome by mounting excitement for our evening shows, but my friend––a theater novice––reacted with surprise, indicating that this might be unorthodox for a conventional Broadway musical. As we soon discovered, nothing about the production was conventional. This exposition set the tone for the audience to feel that the actors, and hence the characters, formed a community. These are people who care about each other: a small, tight-knit society, populating a world whose costumes and grey-scaled backdrop feel archaic from the play’s outset.
It was impossible to ignore what sets this particular production apart from most mainstream theatrical works. Assembled by Deaf West Theatre, the production incorporated deaf and hearing actors with seemingly no prejudice as to their roles. Melchior Gabor, for example, arguably the multi-plot play’s male protagonist, was represented by a hearing actor while his female counterpart, Wendla Bergmann, was portrayed by a deaf actress. In a rather striking concept, the show’s young, deaf characters communicate only in sign language, their words uttered aloud by speaking alter-egos. This element was difficult to understand as the relationship between character and alter-ego was never explicitly explained. Yet the very fact that this intimate connection between the two was implied stirred the audience in a way that an explicit interpretation perhaps could not achieve.
Wendla’s appearance and dress—like that of the rest of the cast—conformed to the late 19th century German setting but her shadow appeared in the form of a modern-clad girl, translating her signs into words, singing them when the musical called for it. The alter-ego wasn’t some unseen voice, hidden from view, but an addition affording the audience an incomparable insight into the characters’ inner personalities, as if their inner voices were projected into the physical world. As if their very souls were manifested in corporeal figures, the deaf characters looked to their speaking alter-egos for advice in difficult moments, calling the audience’s attention to their strong self-awareness. This particular relationship between youth of character and deafness implied the possibility of deeper insight and confidence, more powerful than that which could be verbally communicated.
Not only was the content of the production accommodating, but its technical execution proved sensitive to the audience, whether hearing or not. While all characters usually signed their words, when the hearing characters were over-excited and forgot or refused to sign and only spoke aloud, their words were instead projected on the back wall of the set; likewise, there was no phrase signed that the audience didn’t also hear spoken. The technicalities of the speech-translation were meticulously executed, though the deaf actors were so physically gifted that their signs were frequently sufficient to communicate the characters’ feelings. The signing itself was especially poetic: while at least part of the audience had no prior experience with sign language, the fluency and grace with which the actors––both hearing and deaf–– expressed themselves added to the production a dimension of fragile physicality, as if a dance.
The tension between voices heard and not heard also emphasized a central theme: the yearning of youths to be acknowledged and the corresponding refusal of adults to listen. The incorporation of deaf actors was not, however, a gimmick, a simplification of the problem–– there was no clear division of hearing adults and struggling deaf youths. The composition of deafness was done with absolutely no condescension to the audience, rather as a matter-of-fact amalgamation that made the incorporation of the deaf so natural, it must have struck the audience as bizarre to remember that this kind of inclusion is lacking in the real world.
The technical intricacies of the production were not the only food for thought. Without revealing the plotline, suffice it to say that the innocent discovery and exploration of sexuality set against a traditional 19th century background beg a jarring consideration of the treatment of the topic in our world today. There were no full sexual relations on the stage, and yet all things implied as much––the showing of a girl’s breast, the song conveying the excitement and novelty of self-exploration––not less controversial to audiences even today. It is remarkable to think that “Spring Awakening” was written–– and censored––over a century ago and yet still today audiences balk at its themes and the overt sexuality depicted. In a scene which certainly resonates with parents and children alike, the naive Wendla begs her mother to explain the technicality of conception; her mother, mortified, and completely morally opposed to even the acknowledgement of the topic, dances around the subject to comical yet grave effect.
That the play is timeless is clear by the echo of its themes in contemporary times. People still make mistakes, miscommunications continue to have harsh results, and the delineations of parent-child relationships are always subject to blurriness. My friend’s parents sent us to see “Spring Awakening.” It was an enlightened decision on their part, yet in the aftermath, we all acknowledged with an awkward smile that it was wise we two didn’t see it with them. Maybe the human mind is simply more comfortable with a clear boundary between parents and sexuality; maybe it’s just all too confusing to consider that hidden layer in the people we love when we’re still struggling to define it for ourselves.
Slightly overshadowed by the direct focus on the deaf population in the production was the inclusion of an actress bound to a wheelchair, and another actress who happened to be black. These casting choices illustrated just how negligent the factors of race and disability were in the show: they just happened to be, just as one actress happened to be blonde and one happened to be skinny. These individual physical characteristics did not detract from the poignancy of the stories told in the play, and the natural inclusion of these diverse actors should serve as a shining example of theater done right, as it always should be: bringing together people from all walks of life to explore humans, our minds, souls, relationships, and universal similarities.
//HADAR TANNE is a Freshman in Barnard College. She can be reached at ht2355@barnard.edu. Photo courtesy of Kevin Parry for www. springawakeningthemusical.com.
December 2015
Wide Awake and Aware:
A Sign-Sound Rendition of Spring Awakening
A Theater Review
Hadar Tanne
I wasn’t as prepared as I usually am to go to the theater; my friend forgot which play we were going to see, so I felt uncharacteristically uninformed until the very moment when we saw the sign: “Spring Awakening.” It was on my list of shows to see, certainly, but I’d had sparse previous knowledge of the production’s storyline and background, so I immediately pored over the playbill, eager to garner as much last-minute information as possible in order to fully appreciate every nuance of the impending performance.
It turns out “Spring Awakening” was written in Germany in 1891 only to be immediately banned for its controversial exploration of adolescent sexuality, rebellion, and agitation of growing up against a backdrop of strict conventions and an authoritarian atmosphere. That was the extent of my cramming efforts. Suddenly the curtain opened, revealing actors mulling around the stage, chatting familiarly while they warmed up their voices and stretched in the audience’s full view. There was something strikingly familiar about their ease to me, and I remembered afternoons spent with fellow actors overcome by mounting excitement for our evening shows, but my friend––a theater novice––reacted with surprise, indicating that this might be unorthodox for a conventional Broadway musical. As we soon discovered, nothing about the production was conventional. This exposition set the tone for the audience to feel that the actors, and hence the characters, formed a community. These are people who care about each other: a small, tight-knit society, populating a world whose costumes and grey-scaled backdrop feel archaic from the play’s outset.
It was impossible to ignore what sets this particular production apart from most mainstream theatrical works. Assembled by Deaf West Theatre, the production incorporated deaf and hearing actors with seemingly no prejudice as to their roles. Melchior Gabor, for example, arguably the multi-plot play’s male protagonist, was represented by a hearing actor while his female counterpart, Wendla Bergmann, was portrayed by a deaf actress. In a rather striking concept, the show’s young, deaf characters communicate only in sign language, their words uttered aloud by speaking alter-egos. This element was difficult to understand as the relationship between character and alter-ego was never explicitly explained. Yet the very fact that this intimate connection between the two was implied stirred the audience in a way that an explicit interpretation perhaps could not achieve.
Wendla’s appearance and dress—like that of the rest of the cast—conformed to the late 19th century German setting but her shadow appeared in the form of a modern-clad girl, translating her signs into words, singing them when the musical called for it. The alter-ego wasn’t some unseen voice, hidden from view, but an addition affording the audience an incomparable insight into the characters’ inner personalities, as if their inner voices were projected into the physical world. As if their very souls were manifested in corporeal figures, the deaf characters looked to their speaking alter-egos for advice in difficult moments, calling the audience’s attention to their strong self-awareness. This particular relationship between youth of character and deafness implied the possibility of deeper insight and confidence, more powerful than that which could be verbally communicated.
Not only was the content of the production accommodating, but its technical execution proved sensitive to the audience, whether hearing or not. While all characters usually signed their words, when the hearing characters were over-excited and forgot or refused to sign and only spoke aloud, their words were instead projected on the back wall of the set; likewise, there was no phrase signed that the audience didn’t also hear spoken. The technicalities of the speech-translation were meticulously executed, though the deaf actors were so physically gifted that their signs were frequently sufficient to communicate the characters’ feelings. The signing itself was especially poetic: while at least part of the audience had no prior experience with sign language, the fluency and grace with which the actors––both hearing and deaf–– expressed themselves added to the production a dimension of fragile physicality, as if a dance.
The tension between voices heard and not heard also emphasized a central theme: the yearning of youths to be acknowledged and the corresponding refusal of adults to listen. The incorporation of deaf actors was not, however, a gimmick, a simplification of the problem–– there was no clear division of hearing adults and struggling deaf youths. The composition of deafness was done with absolutely no condescension to the audience, rather as a matter-of-fact amalgamation that made the incorporation of the deaf so natural, it must have struck the audience as bizarre to remember that this kind of inclusion is lacking in the real world.
The technical intricacies of the production were not the only food for thought. Without revealing the plotline, suffice it to say that the innocent discovery and exploration of sexuality set against a traditional 19th century background beg a jarring consideration of the treatment of the topic in our world today. There were no full sexual relations on the stage, and yet all things implied as much––the showing of a girl’s breast, the song conveying the excitement and novelty of self-exploration––not less controversial to audiences even today. It is remarkable to think that “Spring Awakening” was written–– and censored––over a century ago and yet still today audiences balk at its themes and the overt sexuality depicted. In a scene which certainly resonates with parents and children alike, the naive Wendla begs her mother to explain the technicality of conception; her mother, mortified, and completely morally opposed to even the acknowledgement of the topic, dances around the subject to comical yet grave effect.
That the play is timeless is clear by the echo of its themes in contemporary times. People still make mistakes, miscommunications continue to have harsh results, and the delineations of parent-child relationships are always subject to blurriness. My friend’s parents sent us to see “Spring Awakening.” It was an enlightened decision on their part, yet in the aftermath, we all acknowledged with an awkward smile that it was wise we two didn’t see it with them. Maybe the human mind is simply more comfortable with a clear boundary between parents and sexuality; maybe it’s just all too confusing to consider that hidden layer in the people we love when we’re still struggling to define it for ourselves.
Slightly overshadowed by the direct focus on the deaf population in the production was the inclusion of an actress bound to a wheelchair, and another actress who happened to be black. These casting choices illustrated just how negligent the factors of race and disability were in the show: they just happened to be, just as one actress happened to be blonde and one happened to be skinny. These individual physical characteristics did not detract from the poignancy of the stories told in the play, and the natural inclusion of these diverse actors should serve as a shining example of theater done right, as it always should be: bringing together people from all walks of life to explore humans, our minds, souls, relationships, and universal similarities.
//HADAR TANNE is a Freshman in Barnard College. She can be reached at ht2355@barnard.edu. Photo courtesy of Kevin Parry for www. springawakeningthemusical.com.