Persian gulf, by Jane Frere
As we touched down in Tehran, the woman next to me donned a headscarf to
conceal her beautiful dark hair. It was the first time she had been home since
the Islamic revolution, but she knew it was impossible not to conform.
I followed suit ensuring my own hair was well covered. As we passed through
passport control, a scrap of paper in the window bore the words scribbled in
Biro: "The hejab is a shell for a beautiful pearl." I immediately felt a
camaraderie with the women of Iran.
It was my second visit to Tehran’s Fadjr Festival, established the year after
the Islamic revolution in 1979. It has opened up to western visitors only in
the last few years, so I was keen to see if I could identify any shift in the
social centre of gravity in the 12 months since I was last there. Little by
little, since the election of the "reformist" president Mohammad Khatami in
1997, subtle but discernible changes have begun to filter through to the social
and cultural life of Iran.
My personal commitment is to a theatre not only focused on contemporary issues
but also offering a greater understanding of international culture and
tradition. Since the fateful 9/11, my focus has been on the Middle East. An
independent theatre producer, I travelled as a member of a Visiting Arts
theatre delegation last year to Tehran, where I met Iranian actor-director
Attila Pessyani. I brought his avant garde Bazi Theatre to the Edinburgh Fringe
last year with the enigmatic and wordless piece, The Mute Who Was Dreamed.
Invited to return by Majid Sharifkhodaei, the director of the Fadjr Festival,
(Fadjr means dawn), I was delighted to find that Dundee Rep was going to
perform The Winter’s Tale. I was intrigued to see how they would adapt to local
customs and restrictions.
The audience seemed bemused by the company’s efforts to conform to the strict
rules and regulations on what is permitted on stage under Islamic law. Although
the company were given an enthusiastic reception, some Iranians told me they
felt the production was too long and wordy to sustain their attention. The
Winter’s Tale is not often performed in this country, let alone Iran, where
many speak modern English well but, like most of us, can find Shakespeare
sometimes an unfamiliar challenge. So body language and heightened
theatricality are essential to break up the monotony of an incomprehensible
language.
Most noticeable was the way the hejab was imposed on the actors. It seemed
contrived and clumsy - this cultural and religious symbol clashed
unconvincingly with Shakespearean dress and invited a few slightly derogatory
remarks from some well-known theatre veterans. Foreign performers, who feel
obliged to make alterations to their productions, do need to be careful not to
compromise the artistic integrity of their work.
After the performance, one irate woman journalist from Tehran confronted me.
"How could these actresses wear the costumes in such a way? The hejabs looked
ridiculous," she complained. "They are artists, they should have refused. It’s
not only anti-theatrical and dishonest but conforming to such a degree is
almost insulting. Don’t they know anything about Iran?"
Probably not much. Indeed, the poor old Dundee Rep team had little time to
prepare themselves for the clash of cultures. "I think they wanted to ensure
that the performance happened and that they didn’t offend the authorities," I
apologised lamely.
"Offend the authorities? Don’t you understand that by being here you are giving
the impression that everything has changed and all is well, you are colluding
with the government," the angry journalist continued.
I was used to this argument. I had been challenged by some of the Iranian
diaspora in Britain for bringing over Bazi Theatre not only at a time when some
of them felt unsafe at the thought of returning to their home country but when
President Bush had put the "Axis of Evil" stamp on the US foreign policy file
marked Iran. Yet, I felt proud that my fellow countrymen were the first from
the UK to grace the Iranian stage after so long and I let her know that I was
slightly irritated by her remarks.
"Listen, I understand where you are coming from, but I think isolation is more
damaging. I think cultural exchange is essential if only to dispel some of the
myths that surround your country. You should understand many people are afraid
to come here at all. Why? Because they associate Iran only with black veils and
terrorism."
"That was a long time ago" she insisted. "No," I said, "it’s since 11
September. In the parochial minds of too many, the danger is that all Muslims
can be tarnished with the terrorist brush and if we are to try and confront
such ignorance and bigotry, we have to bring people together and eradicate
stereotyping. It’s our only hope, so please forgive the actors for not making
more of a statement and thank God we are here."
We agreed to differ and parted amiably,but her remarks had disturbed me. It was
an issue that came up repeatedly during my visit, not only amongst the
theatrical elite and intellectuals, but also the students.
I still get the sense that many of the international companies at the Fadjr
Festival are chosen not on the artistic merit of their work, but as part of the
political manoeuvring between government bodies. Careful consideration should
be given to how a production will travel. What may work for a native audience
may not for the host, especially if so many compromises are required.
Last year, director Greg Thompson and his company AandBC were invited by the
Fadjr Festival to stage The Tempest, a Fringe hit performed in the University
Quad in both 2001 and 2002. Due to events surrounding 9/11 their trip was
cancelled.
Combining traditional elements in a modern way, the director created an
intimate production sitting the audience on turned-up logs under a vast white
helium balloon, the only source of light, while the actors performed with great
physical dexterity between and around the seated spectators. Such fresh and
imaginative staging, although it was smaller in scale, would have been far more
dynamic than the epic Winter’s Tale.
The accusation of bending the knee to any insalubrious government also needs to
be addressed by all artists whose duty is always to question and to seek the
truth. But I believe in the positive aspects of maintaining dialogue through
culture, and that bridging the gaps so often created by rash politicians and an
irresponsible media far outweighs any negative argument.
Cultural embargo is counter productive and unacceptable. The globalisation of
trade and industry needs to be counterbalanced by the free flow of arts and
culture, which arguably affect people more directly. The possibilities for
educational and artistic exchange help strengthen resolve and offer potential
for vital cross fertilisation between cultures as part of an essential
evolutionary process. My contribution was to teach a group of enthusiastic
theatre students from the Faculty of Cinema and Theatre at the Arts University
of Tehran. As they gained confidence during our three-hour morning session, one
of the students opened up about the frustration of having foreigners offering
them kind words. It wasn’t helpful, she said. She asked me to be frank, to say
what I really felt about the quality of their work - only then could they make
progress.
Always in favour of the truth, I tried to answer as succinctly as possible.
"To put it in a nutshell, when a muscle is not used because of some illness it
becomes withered and weak, we call this condition atrophy. I get the sense that
over the past 20 or so years theatre here has atrophied. But the muscle is
still alive and it can be developed again.
"You have very skilled actors as good as any on the world stage, but directing,
dramaturgy and design has been left behind and perhaps what is particularly
disappointing for me as a producer looking for new work to take to Britain is
that I can’t find a production that has a truly Iranian feel about it.
"You seem to be obsessed with the West, leaving behind your own rich exotic
culture which has so much to offer us. In cinema and fine art you take pride in
your culture, but strangely in theatre it’s as though you have lost the way."
I told them that my aim would be to help the students find a universal
theatrical language but with a very strong Iranian accent. I was surprised when
they asked me to come back to lead an extended course. Only war with
neighbouring Iraq could jeopardise my visit, and not because of hostility from
any Iranian. Quite simply, the social and economic effect on Iran will be
devastating.
Two days before leaving, I was invited to have lunch with Dr Sami Azar, the
director of the Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art - their Tate Modern.
Outside its entrance stands a huge Henry Moore sculpture - inherited,
ironically, from the days of the Shah. I decided after eight days of
religiously wearing my hejab that it was time to relax. In overheated buildings
it was too hot to wear, I could hardly hear what people were saying and at
times - the ultimate taboo - it simply kept sliding off. I am not especially
vain, but the worst aspect of all was that I felt frumpish. So I ventured to my
rendezvous with the Tehran’s equivalent of Sir Timothy Clifford deciding it was
time for my own small act of defiance. I swapped my hejab for a suede hat
trimmed with fur, which permitted a glimpse of my blonde hair. I knew it was a
risk, but the effect was remarkable. I received nothing but compliments and not
a single complaint. A sign of the times, perhaps.
Jane Frere is currently planning to bring theatre from Iraq to the 2003
Edinburgh Fringe.