That which must be done - on Art and Ritual in a time of lockdown

March 2020 saw the shock of locking down. The confinement to our homes. The discovery for many, of Zoom. The fear of touching surfaces, door handles, people. Breath and voice became dangerous. The great separation and then the great confinement.

Gatherings were quite suddenly forbidden. Shops closed. Panic buying signalled the full horror of the situation before being displaced by the full horror of what was happening in hospitals - and then in care homes. All this came before we had knowledge, data, vaccine. 

Everything stopped. 

Then online social hyperactivity started. The quiz. The sea shanty. The kitchen disco. The desperate search for a way for musicians to play together in the same time but not in the same place (the Stones got there first I think). 

Now… nearly 20 months later, I'm still asking the same question that has haunted me throughout - is there anything Theatre can do to help? Behind the question lurks an anxiety - is there any need for theatre now? 

There's been time to read. Right now I'm two thirds of the way through Art and Ritual by Jane Harrison. First published in 1913 - finger on the pulse as ever, Peth - she's tracking where it all came from and looks at three concepts and the order in which they arrived. The Dromenon (from which we the word drama comes), the Theatron (theatre) and the Orkestra (you can work that one out yourself). 

The ‘Orchestra’ is the area on which the chorus performs, and this came first - it’s the centre, the kernel of it all. Originally in the Agor or market place, the ‘Orchestra/Orkestra’ was a round flat area where Rituals took place - where dance and chanting was done to celebrate the important moments of the year and of life. 

The ‘Theatron’ originally denoted the place of seeing - where the audience sits, and this only comes along later - when Ritual turns to Dromenon/Drama. Jane makes much of the word Dromenon - she translates it as 'that which must be done'. 

I'm fascinated by the point at which the audience were added. When the doers were joined by the gawpers. Or some of the doers, chose to sit it out and gawp. Or maybe some people weren't allowed to do and had to watch - the children, the womenfolk, those who weren't initiated. 

As she says there wasn't originally an auditorium, then as more people watched raked benches had to be built in the agora so the gawpers could all see the ritual. Then the seating collapsed. So some bright spark worked out that the hill beside the Acropolis offered a less rickety seating arrangement and the Festival of Dionysus was re-sited and that arrangement became the basis of what we call a Theatre. But we did it before we watched it.

But what was it that was performed? Well, the ‘thing that must be done’ were Rituals either heralding the approach or celebrating the arrival of the meaningful events of life - Summer, Spring, deep Winter. Death, Birth, Fertility.  

The Orchestra was occupied by the chorus. Jane uses a lovely description of the chorus - “doddering and pottering old men, moralising on an action in which they are too feeble to join". This appeals to me because I seem to find myself in the company of potential chorus members quite a lot at the moment. And they are feeble, but they are also principled, angry, experienced and loving - with occasional episode of doddering thrown in.  

This doddering chimes with my question about theatre. Is theatre doddering and pottering - or does the societal hesitancy I see currently suggest that 'the thing that needs doing' might be of higher priority than 'the thing that needs gawping at'. 

The thing that needs doing might well be just gathering and sitting/standing/gawping and breathing together. Or perhaps the gathering might be more active - moving/singing/speaking/chanting - but done together, as a chorus. But if this a ritual to celebrate the thing, what is the thing we feel compelled to celebrate? Is it actually the gathering itself?

In these days of zooms, emails, texts and tweets perhaps gathering to gather is a radical and required action. Perhaps this is the function theatre needs to take on and to be explicit about. 

Where were you when England won the World Cup?

Where were you when England won the World Cup? 

In July 1966 I was 11. It was Antony who mentioned the World Cup. He suggested we might be able to get tickets. He was right.

We'd recently to Hatch End. I was an only child (not my parents choice). I was quite used to my own company but my parents worried that needed friends. 

In one week I was taken along to the local scout troop and enlisted in the church choir - neither of which were in my or my family’s normal experience.  At neither did I make any friends. But two other boys lived nearby. Across the road was Peter - also an only child - and along the road a slightly older boy, Anthony. 

Peter’s parents were Austrian. His mother cooked schnitzel and noodle soup. He had a snooker table and the run of a large garden in which we would play football. He had an Arsenal shirt and a leather ball. I liked facing penalties, diving spectacularly in the mud to push the ball round the imaginary post. 

I have few memories of Anthony but he and I went to watch Watford, then languishing in the third division with Pat Jennings in goal and it was on the train back from a match that he mentioned this thing called the World Cup.

We definitely saw the opening game at the old Wembley, a boring 0-0 draw with Uruguay. I don’t remember an opening ceremony but there was an air of excitement. We came back for England’s 2-0 victory over Mexico. I can’t remember whether we saw their next win, 2-0 again, against France - I think we did. 

Seared into my memory is watching Englands quarter final against Argentina. A horrible dirty and broken game which saw the Argentinian captain Rattin sent off - but refusing to leave the pitch - England sneaked a late winner. This was a Saturday afternoon, a heatwave, we stood high up in the stand (in all the other games we had been close to the pitch, and most were night matches). We could hardly see but there was definitely a different atmosphere now - a tension, a sense that England could be in with a chance of winning the tournament.

I was now getting more interested. I read the sports pages in my father’s paper. In the other groups North Korea were the surprise package until they came up against Eusebio’s Portugal team. Germany started with an imperious 5-0 thrashing of Switzerland. Then Brazil failed to beat Portugal and went out. It was getting interesting. How much of this was on tele? 

England met Portugal in the semi’s on the Tuesday evening. They won 2-1. Were Antony and I there? I have a feeling we couldn’t get tickets - bear in mind there was no buying online - did you just roll up and pay at the turnstile? I don’t know, he was the one who got the tickets, I just tagged along. What we did know was there was absolutely no chance we would get tickets for the final. But it was ok, it was going to be live on tele. We even had colour now. 

But... my Dad had a friend - Uncle Ronnie (not a real Uncle). He was a referee in the Manchester Central League. Apparently he had two tickets going spare. Uncle Ronnie later gave me his autograph book. He watched Manchester United and Lancashire Cricket Club. Not only does it have the Busby Babes and Charlton and Best, it has Benfica, Brian Statham, Puskas - but why did I end up with it? It may have been a sympathy gift - given to salve my disappointment.

When my mother heard about the tickets she reminded me that I had a prior commitment. The scout troop I had been forced into, were going on their annual camping expedition. I was signed up. My parent had paid the subs. I had to go.

So on the morning of Saturday 30th July 1966 about 20 boys and the various leaders, boarded a coach. I tried to take my transistor radio - it wasn’t allowed - no radios were permitted, and of course there were no mobile phones. We were driven out to somewhere in the home counties - Oxfordshire I think.  We put up tents - slept 6 to a tent. I hated it.

Over the next two days there was no news. No-one knew the result. Or if they did they kept it from us. On the Tuesday there was a break in one of the long marches we were subjected to. We stopped in a village where I sneaked into the paper shop and managed to get a look at the back pages. 

What had I missed? England had scored a disputed goal to snatch a draw. Then they’d strolled on to beat West Germany - but it had been in the balance until the last moment of extra time. Clearly I had missed a tense, skilful, dramatic and unique match. 

55 years later I realise I’d missed being part of a historical moment. Clearly I was robbed, and the anger and sadness actually gets worse as time goes on. Today - on Sunday 11th July 2021 it’s a few hours to England taking on Italy in the final of the European Championship. The media call it the most significant game since 1966. They keep going on about it. Wall to wall coverage provokes me to write this. 

This used to be a story I enjoyed sharing and laughing about but the passage of time (and England’s poor performance) have turned the story into something crueller. 

I want to go back and speak up for the 11 year-old me - to argue with the grown-ups, to refuse to go, to feign illness or just find a place to hide until the coach has pulled away.

I’m sure I don’t have to ask parents today to watch the game with your children - enjoy whatever emotions it throws up. Cheer and cry together. These events don’t come along every day. You might be lucky to see two in a life time. Or one.