Katie Mitchell this week gave the annual lecture at the Goethe-Institut in London. Drawing on her experiences of working in both German and UK theatre, she explored the profound differences between them and, over the course of an hour, including audience questions, was crisp, witty and candid.
Mitchell highlighted the contrasting hierarchies in the two theatres. In Britain, she said the writer came first, followed by the actor, with the director last. In Germany, however, the director was top with the actor second and the writer third. Having directed more than 20 productions in Germany since 2008, Mitchell was clearly liberated by the experience. She talked of introducing the concept of “live cinema”, whereby the stage action is tracked and magnified by cameras, for a production of Franz Xaver Kroetz’s wordless play, Request Programme, in Cologne. Later at the Berlin Schaubühne, she directed Miss Julie, cutting 60% of Strindberg’s text and allowing the cameras to see the action from the point of view of the heroine’s maidservant, Kristin. “In Britain,” said Mitchell, “I was always told to honour the text. In Germany, I was expected to challenge it.”
Relishing the appetite for experimentation and the generous subsidy of German theatre, Mitchell made a strong case for director’s theatre. But while I respect her experience, I found myself registering a few caveats. For a start, director’s theatre depends heavily on the quality of the director: while Mitchell herself and German colleagues such as Karin Beier and Thomas Ostermeier have an imaginative power that forces us to re-examine classic texts, lesser talents often diminish the plays by imposing on them dubious “concepts”.
From a feminist standpoint, Mitchell also argued that “if the author is a misogynist, there is no point in following the author’s wishes”. But, while you can undoubtedly find elements of misogyny in Shakespeare, Ibsen, Strindberg or any number of classic authors, isn’t it better to examine those elements rather than simply eliminate them? There is also a double standard in director’s theatre: Mitchell readily admitted she would treat a new work by a living writer very carefully but don’t the dead also sometimes deserve our respect?
To be fair, Mitchell was very honest about the difficulties of working in two distinct cultures. “In Britain,” she said, “I am criticised for being too German. In Germany, I am often accused of being too cautious.” She told a funny story about Ostermeier, the Schaubühne boss, coming to a run-through of her Miss Julie and saying he felt physically sick: asked why, he said it was because he had never before seen period costumes on any of his stages.
Responding to audience questions, Mitchell was also forthright about her experience of directing opera. “In opera,” she said, “there is a repertory of about 35 standard works which positively invites a conceptual approach. Yet you are asked to do something which the audience doesn’t want to see: if you try to put lived experience, such as a miscarriage, on stage, you get vilified. Frankly, with opera, I am out of there for good – it’s too misogynistic.”
I must not, however, make Mitchell sound dogmatic. She was optimistic about the idea of cross-cultural events such as her production of Ophelias Zimmer jointly staged in Germany and at the Royal Court in London. Having dwelt on the differences between German and British theatre, she suggested that “a perfect culture” would be one that united the best of both worlds.
I have always assumed that the German elevation of the director is connected to the nation’s relative dearth of postwar playwrights which encouraged the director to become a surrogate author. Britain’s strength, however, has always lain in its respect for a writer’s text and its belief in the director as an ideal interpreter. Those cultural distinctions may be less absolute than they once were but I suspect, and even hope, that they will never be totally eradicated.
