When the audience laughs at something on stage that is supposed to be serious, you really—as a playwright—have no choice but to roll with it or else revise the scene. You can rail all you want about their failure to embrace a lofty concept in the direction. You can accuse them of being shallow or juvenile. You can talk about the few bad apples. But long, long after all memory of the production has faded, the echo of that inappropriate laughter will continue to haunt and reverberate.
The scene
The first time I experienced this was at a community theatre production of the musical Camelot. Lancelot is a new arrival at King Arthur’s court, applying to become one of the knights of the celebrated Round Table. His reputation for purity and piety has preceded him. In a jousting tournament at the end of the first act, he defeats his three challengers, and accidentally kills the last one, Sir Lionel. In fact, if the chorus is to be believed, Lancelot has completely run him through with a spear.
The scene, again.
Distraught and humbled, he kneels in prayer over the body, taking the dead man’s hand in his. The crowd stands silent and motionless. It’s a long, long moment for musical theatre, and then Sir Lionel gasps and sits up… It's a miracle! The entire court kneels in awe, and Queen Guinevere herself takes a knee, signalling her surrender to an adulterous love. It’s the high point of the act and a major turning point in the musical.
In the version I saw, the entire audience broke out in uproarious laughter when Sir Lionel sat up. They could not be brought round even by Guinevere. They laughed straight through the to end of the scene, ruining the act.
The second time was at a production of the opera Manon Lescaut. This is a story about a student who runs off with a young woman who is on her way to join a convent. Eventually the young woman is deported along with a group of other young women who are mostly prostitutes. Her student lover manages to get hired as one of the crew and the two sail off to the New World where the young woman will die of dehydration wandering the deserts of Louisiana.
The deserts of Louisiana
In this production, the music swells as the lovers are about to board the vessel that will carry them off to their doom. Suddenly the sails unfurl, revealing a death ship constructed of skulls and bones. The ship was so over-the-top, the audience burst into laughter that was followed up by a chorus of booing... apparently signalling displeasure at the effort to update a classic.
This is a Lego pirate ship... but you get the idea.
And the third time was just last night, when I streamed the National Theatre Live production of Anthony and Cleopatra, featuring Ralph Fiennes and Sophie Okoneda. In Act IV, Scene 14, Anthony is told (falsely, as it happens) that Cleopatra is dead. His response to the news is to command his manservant to kill him, but instead, the loyal servant kills himself. Anthony then takes his knife and attempts to stab himself. It is a clumsy attempt, and we know this, because he immediately says:
“How, not dead?/ Not dead?”
“How, not dead?/ Not dead?”
Not dead yet
[The live audience found this hilarious, as did I. It was like, “Oh, shit, I can't even do this right!”]
In the next scene, he is brought, dying, to Cleopatra. She is hiding out in some kind of monument which is going to requiring the hauling up of Anthony’s body. And she says:
"But come, come, Antony.--
Help me, my women!—We must draw thee up.--
Assist, good friends."
At which point the good friends begin lifting him. And then Anthony says:
“O, quick, or I am gone.”
[At this point, you could feel what was coming.]
In the next scene, he is brought, dying, to Cleopatra. She is hiding out in some kind of monument which is going to requiring the hauling up of Anthony’s body. And she says:
"But come, come, Antony.--
Help me, my women!—We must draw thee up.--
Assist, good friends."
At which point the good friends begin lifting him. And then Anthony says:
“O, quick, or I am gone.”
[At this point, you could feel what was coming.]
Moving the sofa
And then she says:
“Here’s sport indeed. How heavy weighs my lord!”
And audience breaks out laughing. And, in truth, the Queen of the Nile didst inflect too much. Now I’m sure Shakespeare intended to use the mechanics of the scene to inspire a disquisition on the ponderous nature of death, on the burden upon losing a great love, and on the crushing agony of defeat in warfare… But instead this Cleopatra appears to be working off the mirth of the audience, as she proceeds:
“Here’s sport indeed. How heavy weighs my lord!”
And audience breaks out laughing. And, in truth, the Queen of the Nile didst inflect too much. Now I’m sure Shakespeare intended to use the mechanics of the scene to inspire a disquisition on the ponderous nature of death, on the burden upon losing a great love, and on the crushing agony of defeat in warfare… But instead this Cleopatra appears to be working off the mirth of the audience, as she proceeds:
"Our strength is all gone into heaviness;
That makes the weight. Had I great Juno’s power,
The strong-winged Mercury should fetch thee up
And set thee by Jove’s side. Yet come a little.
Wishers were ever fools. O, come, come, come!"
All this played like the cast of Friends frantically attempting to navigate a large sofa up the hairpin turns of their apartment building’s staircase: “Pivot! Pivot!” If Shakespeare failed to see the comedic potential of his own staging, Sophie Okoneda certainly did not.
That makes the weight. Had I great Juno’s power,
The strong-winged Mercury should fetch thee up
And set thee by Jove’s side. Yet come a little.
Wishers were ever fools. O, come, come, come!"
All this played like the cast of Friends frantically attempting to navigate a large sofa up the hairpin turns of their apartment building’s staircase: “Pivot! Pivot!” If Shakespeare failed to see the comedic potential of his own staging, Sophie Okoneda certainly did not.
These are all fond memories for me. Is there any kernal of dramaturgical wisdom to be gleaned from these failures of gravitas? “Shit happens,” maybe? Or perhaps, “Never take yourself too seriously.” More to the point, “The closer a scene approaches the zenith of angst and pathos, the more it teeters on the brink of absurdity.” An audience who is not engrossed by the action on the stage, becomes a passive aggressive entity—and rightfully so.
If they can laugh at you, they will. You have been warned.
If they can laugh at you, they will. You have been warned.
