“A total or partial prohibition of the use of certain words, expressions, topics, etc., esp. in social intercourse. The putting of a person or thing under prohibition or interdict, perpetual or temporary; the fact or condition of being so placed; the prohibition or interdict itself. Also, the institution or practice by which such prohibitions are recognized and enforced” (Oxford English Dictionary)
The doors to the auditorium of the main stage of the Finnish National Theatre are shut one by one, in a consistent order, simultaneously on both sides of the audience. Darkness, so absolute that I cannot see outside of myself, I’m forced to look inwards only. Still dark. Still. I wait, I’m going further inwards because I have no choice. My perception changes, I’m not present at the theatre, about to see a play. This is something different. I wait. My thoughts are loud, they rarely have this much time alone and this much of my conscious attention. Only my seating position tells me where the stage is located and directs my unseeing gaze towards it. A single match is lit and the darkness takes a breath. A candle is lit. Slowly, very slowly more light breaks and I am invited into an experience I cannot name.
Something that cannot be spoken of. In a brilliantly interwoven way, taboo is on many levels the essence of this opus. It is present in the name of the play, in the way the audience processes it, in the very way it is performed, and even in my own thoughts about it. Yet the connotations of the word are challenged because the taboo is brought out and placed right in front of us. The director Kristian Smeds breaks the rules of theatre, invents his own rules, or doesn’t even give rules a thought. Whatever he does he’s not afraid to violate conventions and he seems to be following whatever it is that leads him forward towards creating. The performance has no dialogue, the two actors (Seela Sella and Tero Jartti) don’t utter a single word, and the only line from the book the play is based on is heard through speakers: “God, you did not look towards me when I needed you. You, God, I do not wish to know, nor meet, nor love. With these words I leave my God”.
The play certainly serves as a tribute to Timo K. Mukka, the Finnish author and artist whose second book bears the same name, and who is known for writing about religion and sexuality in small village communities of Lapland. Although the tribute becomes evident through the director’s choice of providing us with a large reflection of Mukka’s name on the stage, an understanding or previous knowledge of Mukka is not crucial for an appreciation of the performance.
I interpret the play as self-scrutiny. Both of the characters on stage, but also of myself. Watching someone else delve deep into what is hidden and forbidden inside and outside of themselves and see them battle against it, win, loose, accept, works as a mirror to me. And surely self scrutiny is also what theatre means to the makers of it. The environment is safe during the performance, I feel empathy towards the characters and towards myself. It all seems like a single catharsis, acting as a reflection of being human, of shame and limitations to self-expression, both of which are beautifully questioned while surrounded by Pekka Kuusisto’s profoundly stimulating music. The stage becomes a platform for creative self-reflection, the private becomes visible through a myriad of decipherable props: an enormous cannon reflecting masculinity and its overwhelming force on the main character, squeezed oranges representing Eve’s breaking the illusion of paradise, candles in the otherwise dim space letting us see a bit of what is normally hidden, and an omnipresent cross reminding us of the religious influence behind the whole thing. The actors embrace all this with devotion, and I am easily dragged along, failing to remind myself of my forgotten reality.
I leave the theatre in a safe place and at peace, not wanting to speak and taking time to focus my inward-looking gaze towards the world again.
Tabu, Kansallisteatteri 3.1 and 6.3