Out with a bang

At the Egyptian premiere of the American musical Grease, Nehad Selaiha discerns mournful chimes behind the rollicking music
A few weeks ago a friend of mine, noting my distress as we watched Israeli bulldozers on television razing Palestinian homes and dazed women and children sifting through the rubble for anything they could salvage, said by way of comforting both of us: "At least no one was killed. Thank God for that. Houses can be rebuilt." She was right no doubt, but her last sentence bugged me. Can houses really be rebuilt? We can replace them with new buildings, of course, and strive to make them a replica of the old ones; but will they be the same houses? Aren't houses, and all cherished buildings for that matter, just like people? -- quite replaceable in terms of function but irrecoverable when it comes to the quality and feel of their presence? Though we rarely admit it, one of the most painful experiences in life is the disappearance of old buildings one has loved -- buildings that talked to one like a friend, that could embrace and comfort.
Last week, I visited the Wallace for the last time to say goodbye. I had already been told a couple of months ago that soon, in May to be precise, its brilliant career as a prestigious theatrical venue, launched in 1969 with a production of Othello, would come to a close. What would become of it, I asked Frank Bradley, head of the Department of Performing and Visual Arts at the AUC. Hearing it would be turned over to the library or some other department, I thought of the long procession of motley characters that trod its boards for over 30 years and hoped, in a sudden fit of malice, that their ghosts would haunt the place and force the new occupants out. But if the occupants were American, the outcome could be doubtful: in a funny ghost story I once read (I am almost sure it was by Oscar Wilde), an American family move into a haunted house in the English countryside and prove more than a match for the poor ghost, who finally flees in despair. In the programme of Grease, the Wallace farewell production, a fittingly nostalgic show, Bradley says: "The sadness with which we leave The Wallace is tempered by the thrill we feel as we see constructed before our eyes one of the finest theatres in the Middle East," namely, " The Falaki Theatres (main stage and studio) in the new Falaki Academic Centre." I confess to a similar thrill, but for the regular clientele of the Wallace, myself included, the question remains: why should the building of a new theatre, however fine, put an older one, highly equipped, with a lovely versatile space, out of circulation? I could think of a hundred artists willing to rent it; but if the AUC does not want outsiders, I could think off hand of a dozen of its graduates running independent theatre groups and desperate for rehearsal and performance spaces.
But whatever becomes of the Wallace in the future, when it has finally retired from the limelight and hustle and bustle of theatrical activity, the memory of its rousing farewell will linger there for a long time after the party is over; and who knows if, one night, perhaps years from now, I may chance to pass beside it, when the streets are quiet and empty, and hear sounds of singing, music and laughter echoing within and floating out on the night air?
For a farewell production, Jim Jacob's and Warren Casey's Grease was a happy choice -- not only on account of its palpable nostalgic mood, perfectly in tune with the occasion, but also because its boisterous atmosphere, rock'n'roll tunes, and the explosive energy of its (save for Miss Lynch and Mr Vince Fontaine) exclusively young cast were guaranteed to dispel any shadows of gloom and drown out, at least for the duration of the show, the feelings of loss and despondency that inevitably accompany last farewells. Set in the late 1950s, at a -- typical? -- American high school, it presents a community of teenagers that seems self-contained, self-sufficient, and almost completely cut off from the world of adults. Strangely, though one does not notice it during the actual performance, these greasy teenagers do not seem to have any parents, social background, or belong anywhere except in Rydell High. You can scour the lyrics and dialogue as thoroughly as you like for any references to home, family or any life outside Rydell and its environs, but you will come up empty-handed; such references are prominent by their absence. This makes Rydell High something of a fairy land which knows neither time nor mortality and where the inhabitants enjoy eternal youth.
For the adult, cognizant of the fetters of time and conscious of its ravages, the trip into the imaginary, carefree world of Grease stirs wistful memories; one remembers the thrills and pangs of first love, the startling swings of mood between ecstasy and depression, the harrowing, obsessive doubts about one's looks, the involuntary urge to show off coupled with a pathetic need to be accepted by one' peers, the brash display of toughness to cover up one's sense of vulnerability and, above all, the secret feelings of curiosity, guilt and fear about sex and the anxious groping for what is right among many conflicting models and images. Grease may seem an escapist piece on the surface, and has indeed been described as such. But underneath the surface gaiety, doesn't the play sound a serious note? Can one fail to discern in the initial juxtaposition of Sandy and Rizzo and their final confrontation a kind of questioning of the sexual morality which underlies such widely circulated iconic images as that of the romantic, virginal sweetheart and its opposite, the trashy 'broad'? Indeed, while the majority of ordinary Egyptian young men and women may find it difficult to identify with the life-style of the Rydell crowd, they cannot but recognise in the Sandy/Rizzo musical debate over sexual conduct some of their own perplexing doubts and pressing dilemmas. No wonder the character of Rizzo (rightly interpreted and effectively rendered by Zynab Yaseen) and her crucial song, "That's Not the Worst Thing I Could Do", which acts as the turning point in the Danny/Sandy central love affair, made such a tremendous impact on the young Egyptian audience at the Wallace.
But Grease could not have touched such a chord or proved as relevant to its audience had not Paul Mitri wisely decided to stick to the original 1972 Broadway musical and ignore the more famous 1977 film version. In the former, the burden of this demanding performance is shared by the whole cast while in the latter it is squarely placed on the shoulders of the Danny/Sandy couple; and though Omar Yaseen and Seher Mir (as Danny and Sandy) are reasonably attractive and competent performers, I doubt if they could have taken responsibility for the whole show and emerged safely. In Mitri's production they provide a central thread round which other themes and characters are woven; but they are by no means a hero and a heroine in the traditional sense. This allowed the other actors plenty of space to display their talents; and though most of them played well, with obvious zip and relish, and executed the difficult songs and elaborate dances accurately, with graceful ease and passionate enthusiasm, one particular performance stood out, towering above the rest. This was Ramsi Lehner as the clumsy, bungling, fulsomely assiduous and thoroughly ungainly bespectacled Eugene. All through the performance I had kept wondering who this brilliant actor was, and was quite bowled over when I discovered it was Lehner. I had seen him in at least half a dozen performances, and yet he was able to fool me and transform himself completely into another man as if by magic. I do not know of another actor in his age group who could manage such a feat and firmly believe that with Eugene, Lehner has made a great leap forward as an actor.
Those who have seen Mitri's The Miser and Twelfth Night know that, as director, he tends to use his sets as active, meaningful and even metaphoric components of the show. Grease was no exception. The prominent position of the live band at the back, high up on a platform towering above the stage, was a reflection, in physical terms, of the place music occupies in the lives of the characters, while the two huge, mobile steel towers, with their many bars and two cage-like compartments, suggested several meanings. As representations of buildings they looked intolerably austere, with not one soft line or one protective wall in sight, and vividly evoked the slogan of 'functionalism', popular in the 1950s, and the rude, grim and soulless architecture one associates with it. The world of these youngsters seemed infested with monstrous steel skeletons (the creation of stage-designer Stancil Campbell) that could provide neither shelter, protection, privacy nor warmth. Yet their shape, adaptability and spatial mobility suggested many of the paradoxes the characters displayed and felt: toughness and vulnerability; openness and restriction; airiness and solidity; variety in content and severe conformity in outward form. Besides, the fact that, though ponderous and unwieldy, they could be easily moved and smoothly reshaped by the actors implied in a subtle way that however confused in their feelings, these young people were in control of their environment -- even though it may be only a fairy-tale one -- and had in their favour that most invaluable of assets: a sense of solidarity and a spirit of real camaraderie. There are many ways of saying good-bye to a theatre but Mitri's production, with amateur actors, which harks back to the first 1971 performance of Grease in a disused tram shed, with an all amateur cast and newspapers for seats, was perhaps the best.
Recommend this page
© Copyright Al-Ahram Weekly. All rights reserved
Send a letter to the Editor