Theremin
is a kind of objet d'art, a curio of the stage that you imagine belongs
in the dusty but well-loved collection of a purple-haired professor.
Theremin recounts the life and times of Russian physicist and
inventor Leon Theremin (1896-1993), who invented the first prototype
for the television, and who was apparently the first man to create an
electronic musical instrument. Known simply as the theremin, this device
produces sounds from the interference created between electric waves
when its player manipulates his or her hands around an electrode. This
is the inventor's own account of how the theremin works:
Based on the same principles of interference between high-frequency
waves I developed a musical instrument with a range of sound that
varied from three to four octaves, depending on the distance of the
hands from the electrode. In such a way, sound is produced on an invisible
string by varying the distance of the hand from 10 to 50 centimetres
for each octave, or by moving wrist and fingers. A movement reminiscent
of that of the conductor when conducting an orchestra.
Hotel Pro Forma's production opens with a strong hand by virtue of
the very exoticism and rarity of its subject. Leon Theremin, a forgotten
genius, led an extraordinary life punctuated by milestones of history.
He met Lenin and showed Lenin the theremin, was interned in Stalin's
gulag, worked for the KGB, and out-lived three wives and a fiancée
(who threw herself out of the window, rendering Theremin an 80-year-old
widower). Theremin is, in many ways, an elegy for this man's
life of genius and curiosity, and it illuminates the inventor's aims
of understanding science and creating art, the logical and the inexplicable.
Not content to ride on subject matter, however, director Kirsten Dehlholm
employs an eclectic mix of narrative, music, tableaux and movement to
weave a modern, avant-garde spirit into the story of Leon Theremin.
The result is generally well-turned out, with a slight edge that balances
the glaze of euphoric optimism about science and humanity. The preciseness
of Dehlholm's staging - from lighting to facial expression - is commendable.
The stage is lit by fluorescent light emanating from the floor panels,
creating an eerie, otherworldly feel. Alternately warm and brilliantly
harsh, the light paints a monochromatic mood to set off the carefully
neutral expressions of the performers. Any variation in lighting is
delivered with neat lasers. The linear placement of stage objects is
clinically exact, matching the gleaming laboratory coats worn by the
performers.
However, the true strength of Theremin is not in its early
Soviet Union romanticism, geek science obsession or experimental staging.
The core of Theremin is in the stark, sparkling "libretto"
or vignettes, written by Michael Valeur. Through the rhythmic, deliberate
narrative of Sarah Boberg (she is spared the lab coats, and wears an
electric blue dress with elbow-high gloves of the same shade), snippets
of Theremin's life are revealed from the perspectives of those who were
once near him.
The story begins with an adult period account from star theremin virtuoso
(player) Clara Rockmore, who sensuously describes herself as the female
counterpart of Theremin. Her voice is clear but drawling, distorted
into shimmery metallic notes, each syllable a jangled chord. There is
an undertone of desire but it is divorced from emotion. Rockmore's desire
is not fleshly, but scientific.
Moving back in time, we are told of Theremin's childhood by the voice
of his mother, whose electronically-produced quaver describes a boy
who loved electricity from a tender age. The tender, elegiac tone could
almost be cloying when his sister declares that "nothing will ever be
the same for (her) again" after she hears the theremin produce "the
voice of the empty air itself". But the wonder of new Russia is established
when Theremin's first wife describes the time as one "full of fear and
promises", with "futuristic landscapes, where the whisper of the sine
curve runs through new corridors".
As the momentum of history takes over Theremin's life, the bitter reality
of Stalin's regime is beautifully captured by Theremin's second wife,
Grace Lavinia Poole Williams, when her husband is taken away in the
middle of the night:
I catch his gaze through the window before he disappears. He takes
everything with him in a single black suitcase. All our intimate conversations
in the night, all our unborn children, all the years we should have
had together. He sails away and I exchange everything I own for memories.
I never see him again.
Life in Stalin's death camps is starkly distilled in the words of Jelizaveta
Aleksandrova, a prisoner:
In Burtyrka, where will and fingers are broken and the words are
shaped through crushed lips, behind doors of forgotten screams. Rooms
where time stands still, and hope peels off in flakes.
As if to tease, the narrator reveals the notes of the theremin reluctantly
and only partially at first, with a quick sweep of hands over the antenna.
The three children who have been lining the back of the stage activate
their theremins, each possessing an antenna like a metallic blade of
grass. A peculiar combined theremin performance by the children and
the old man ensues, and everyone plays earnestly as if they are members
of a traditional orchestra.
Disappointingly, the voice of the theremin, that must have once been
brimming with the hopes of scientific progress, is no longer exotic
to current ears. Having been used for sound effects in old B-grade horror
movies, its squeals and slides merely sound hackneyed today. The sound
produced by the theremin is less "mellow yet piquant", as the director
claims, and is more reminiscent of the flat-but-echoey wail of a windy
instrument. While the theremin's tone may be some people's cup of tea,
its one-time brilliance has long been surpassed by greater inventions
of our century.
Perhaps this also marks a failure of the director's objective to elevate
the status of the theremin from an original creation to a watershed
invention - perhaps she promised more than the outdated theremin could
deliver. The juxtaposition of the amateurish technique of the child
string players against the syrupy prerecorded Rachmaninoff and the theremin
virtuoso Lydia Kavina surely did not capture accurately the musical
landscape of Theremin's life. Delholm's post-show explanation was that
the children and the old man served to show the passage of time through
Theremin's life, and the Rachmaninoff reflected the artistic environment
of the period. Nonetheless, the hint of "protectionism" towards the
theremin seemed more like a vote of no confidence. The finale performance
by Kavina tried a little too hard to valorise the theremin. The emotionalism
of Kavina's playing was slightly embarrassing and awkward. Her use of
the theremin to play "covers" of popular classical tunes, mimicking
orchestral string instruments, resounded with the desperation of trying
to match up to something greater than itself.
Agendas aside, perhaps a clean focus on narration and atmosphere would
made allowed Theremin to have come off better. The intended
effects of Dehlholm's elaborately orchestrated tableaux, in particular,
were probably lost on the audience. In one scene, the lights go off
and the performers wave green light sabres in unison, producing whirling
green lights. In another, the three children gaze, goggle-eyed, at a
projector that produces blinding light. While not damaging to the production,
it contributed a certain amount of drag to the pacing.
When artistic direction disregards conventional structures for new
gestures, questions of why, when and what arise, as change needs to
justify its existence. Unfortunately, the web of elements never quite
comes together to form one cogent whole. "Inspired by the sheer curiosity
that led to the creation of the instrument", Dehlholm's Theremin
tells a fascinating story with beauty and originality. Now, if only
it did not try to attribute too grandiose a significance to an object
that does not deserve it.
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"Theremin tells a fascinating story with beauty and originality.
Now, if only it did not try to attribute too grandiose a significance
to an object that does not deserve it"
Credits
Concept and Direction: Kirsten Dehlholm and Willie
Flindt
Sound Imagery: Gert Sørensen
Libretto: Michael Valeur
Light Design and Video: Steffen Aarfing
Costume Designer: Anne Mette Sørensen
Sound Engineer/AV Technician: Mogens Laursen
Stage Manager/Lighting Engineer: Adalsteinn Stefansson
Performance Manager: Eva Præstiin
Assistant: Britt Westermann
Performers: Sarah Boberg, Bo Madvig and Laurie Grundt
Cello: Frederik Orth Kølbel
Violin: Magnus Torpp Larsson, Nanna Treu and Johannes
Emme Jørgensen
Theremin Virtuoso: Lydia Kavina
Men’s Voices: Per V. Brüel, Dimitri Golovanov,
and Vladimir Illych Lenin
Child’s Voice: Karl Becker
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