Anyone who's tried to get the rights to a play by Samuel Beckett has undoubtedly run into one of the most fundamental power struggles in the theatrical world since the development of the modern director. Beckett's works are famous for their exacting stage directions, and since his death his estate has become famous for demanding that all productions follow these directions to the letter. The demands of Beckett's estate are an extreme example of a call for authorial authority but not an abnormal one. The Dramatists Guild, the only national union of dramatic writers, encourages its members to stipulate a strict adherence to stage directions whenever they sign a contract for a new production. And more than one major playwright in recent memory has disavowed connection to a particular performance because of a disregard for their written directions, Robert Anderson's criticisms of the London run of his famous Tea and Sympathy being among the most notable.

What lies at the heart of these disputes over seemingly trivial details (does Mrs. Smith in The Bald Soprano hurl the socks across the stage and show her teeth as Ionesco's stage directions indicate, or does she keep her mouth closed and merely toss the socks as in Nicolas Bataille's original Paris production?) is a question about the seat of power in theatrical productions-and ultimately a question about the very nature of theater. Does the playwright, as the creator of the story being told, have the first and last word over how that story is to be staged? Or does that power fall to the director, the man or woman who is to bring the playwright's story to life? Is the theater a cousin of literature, where the text retains the right of ultimate authority, or does it exist in a different realm, one where the particulars of visual experience can take precidence over the sacredness of words?

This playwright-director dialectic may in fact be fundamental to the nature of modern theater as an artform which focuses on the depiction of conflict. But that hardly stops theater practitioners from debating the issue. And, unfortunately, the contentions about personal priviledge so often heard in this debate would seem to do more harm than good for all involved. "A production belongs to its director," I've been told. "He or she has the right to make whatever changes are necessary to create a unified vision." Or from the other side of the battlefield: "Only the playwright really knows his or her own work so his or her staging choices must be respected." Such arguments turn one of the most profound questions one can ask about theater into a simple power struggle between individuals, a war of egos rather than a war of critical ideologies.

A more interesting approach can be found in some of theater's most famous theoretical literature. French playwright and critic Antonin Artaud argues in his seminal work The Theater and its Double that the theater has too long been dominated by text, the director has too long been slave to the author. Theater is not literature, he argues, and it should not pay undue homage to the authority of written words. Theater is a unique set of experiences based fundamentally in space rather than letters. As such it has a visual language all its own, a language which cannot be notated ahead of time by an author sitting at a desk. The author is the genesis point of a play in Artaud's vision, if a play is to be written ahead of time at all, but the director is the one who turns the script into a piece of theater.

The problem with Artaud's argumentation lies in his decision to ignore the playwright's role as storyteller. Regardless of whether or not one wishes to tell a story with a given piece of theater, it is impossible to put anything on a stage without telling a story on some level. Narrative, in its most basic form, is simply a direct and inevitable byproduct of time. And unlike artforms such as painting or sculpture which work only with space, both space and time are the fundamental media of theater. Artaud condemns the overemphasis on dialogue in modern theater as a means of conveying narrative, opting instead for a more visual form of storytelling. But at the same time, he would have the playwright be little more than a writer of spoken lines, as would any director who chose to disregard a playwright's stage directions.

For better or worse, playwrights can never avoid telling a story when they put pen to paper, and if their realm of authority extends only so far as spoken dialogue, then they will have no choice but to tell entire stories through dialogue alone. On top of this a director will then add his or her own visual story in the visual language that Artaud holds so dear. Combining these distinct layers of narrative-one conceived in words by a person at a desk, the other conceived in images by a person in a theater-into a single performance has the potential to be beautiful should the two layers work in harmony with one another. Far more likely, however, is that the performance will find itself in conflict with itself. The visual story will at best be an appendage to the spoken one; it will be a determined enemy at worst.

Drama is about conflict, yes, but I wonder how well conflict can be portrayed by a medium already in conflict with itself. To strip the playwright of authority over the visual aspects of his or her own show is essentially to strip him or her of half the storytelling capacity of theater. The result will inevitably be a half-story all told in words. And I wonder what director would even care to try bringing a half-story to life.

STAGE

DIRECTION

issues in and around the theater

THIS WEEKEND

IN THEATER

Convinced that you were born too late to have any real fun? Then take a stroll to the Leverett Old Library for an adaptation of Gish Jen's Mona in the Promised Land. The play combines the exclusivity of suburbia with the funky oddness of the 70s and layers a coming-of-age story with issues of race relations and religion, depicting the trials and travails of an Asian-American female who must cope with the pressure of growing up in an all-white suburb. Performances are Thursday through Saturday at 8 p.m. and Saturday at 2 p.m.

Afraid to admit you actually like Saturday Night Live because it's not highbrow enough? Then head over to the Loeb Experimental Theater for Picasso at the Lapin Agile by famous funnyman Steve Martin. The time is 1904, and the place is a more-than-slightly offbeat Parisian tavern called the Lapin Agile. Einstein and Picasso spend their time arguing about who is going to be a greater genuis and whether science or art is superior, as well as interacting with a host of comical characters. Performances are Thursday through Saturday at 7:30 p.m., Friday and Saturday at 9:30 p.m.

For those of you who like your comedy with a more socially-minded edge, make your way to the Loker Coffeehouse for Snatch by Frankie Petrosino '02. When Brendan Diggs' mother finds a nudie magazine in his bedroom, she decides to teach her son a lesson in respect for women-Brendan will be spending his last year of high school at the Farnesworth School for Girls. Performances are Thursday through Saturday at 8 p.m.

Continuing from last weekend:

House of Blue Leaves, Loeb Mainstage

Ruddigore, Agassiz Theater