Monthly Archives: September 2017

Who becomes a ghost? Nobody!


You can’t beat a ghost, literally. You can try, but since a ghost is an NCB (Non Corporeal Being), it has no physical body and does not respond to being whacked with weapons. Now if people come back from the dead in their own body, that is a different matter. It is also a different thing, not a ghost but a… any guesses? No? You know me too well!

If you have come back from your grave it may well be that you were buried alive. With the dubious medical practices of the past, live burial was not entirely uncommon. To offer a last chance to those who were not only at Death’s door but had been neatly nailed in a box and delivered to his lobby, it was standard practice to place a string in the deceased’s hand and attach the end to a bell on a stand above the grave. In this manner, if you did come round in a wooden overcoat under several feet of earth, it was possible to be “saved by the bell” and become a “dead ringer”. It also made you a “revenant”. A revenant is someone who has “come back”, from the French “revenir”: “to come back”, and was particularly used for those who had come back from the dead. A significant feature of a revenant is that they have come back to life; they are alive, unlike vampires.

Far from being handsome or sparkly, the original folkloric vampire of eastern Europe was a fat, fetid, dead person with matted hair and dark or purple skin, wearing a shroud, that rose from the graveyard to feed on the living. These it seems, were largely the result of hysterical fear of the dead combined with confusion over the stages of decomposition. Someone would have a bad dream or a fevered vision and the most recently deceased person would get the blame. On being exhumed to see if they were leaving their grave in the night, their body would be found plumper than when they died, possibly gurgling, and with fresh blood dripping from their mouth. Clear signs that they were wandering about and drinking blood! That these symptoms are pretty much what one would expect as bacteria fill the dead body with gasses and this forces “purge fluids” from any openings, wasn’t well known to your rural communities at the time. The classic methods of dispatching these foul creatures, A stake in the chest or decapitation, are both good ways to deflate a gaseous, bloated corpse.

In 1819 a bloke called John Polidori wrote his book “The Vampyre”, a while later Bram Stoker nicked his ideas and wrote a slightly more famous book. Thus the newly pale, cultured, attractive and un-dead vampires put on evening wear and took over stately homes, conveniently leaving an empty space in our graveyards, and our fears of walking corpses, for the zombies to move in. Zombies (you knew they’d turn up eventually) entered our language, and our imagination, from Africa and the Caribbean in the 19th century. These post life perambulators are corpses re-animated by witchcraft, a meat puppet, and as such are still technically dead. A zombie is in some ways the exact opposite of a ghost, in that it is a body with no spirit.

Revenants are rarely heard of these days, Vampires are getting ever more glamorous and even the zombie-come-latelies are not the shambling foot draggers they used to be. Ghosts, however, remain ghosts. Unchanged by the years, the disembodied spirits of the dead still float around the sites of their demise, moaning and groaning, or unwittingly repeating some long-finished task, unable or unwilling to pass over to the other side. In these uncertain times it’s nice to know there is someone you can rely on, even if there is actually no body there.

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Special effects


Special effects in movies have reached a point where it is hard to tell where they begin and any real pictures end. Soon they will all be in 3D as well. At this point the only thing that will distinguish it from real life is your knowledge and experience of how reality behaves and what creatures are found here. Sometime after that cinema might finally catch up with storytelling.

When cinema first arrived it barely mattered what was shown since the sheer marvel of moving pictures was enough to bring in the crowds. But it has had to constantly improve itself to prevent boredom from stealing its lovers away. Like an abusive spouse we have demanded more and more from it. First it didn’t talk to us, then it wasn’t colourful enough. Now that it can make us believe a man can fly, bring dinosaurs back from extinction and take us in to outer space, we are telling it it is too flat, you know, just a bit two dimensional.

Theatre hasn’t suffered quite the same difficulties. Oh, it will pull out all the stops and go to great lengths with costume and set but it knows we will be kind. We had a talk with theatre a long time ago and agreed to ignore it’s shortcomings with respect to reality in return for immediacy, interaction and inventiveness. We don’t mind that we can see the puppeteers animating a life size horse frame if they are dressed as World War One groomsmen and the puppet tries to nibble an audience member’s hat.

The accommodation we have with theatre goes by the term “The willing suspension of disbelief”. We accept that the castle is a painting of stone like shapes on a wobbly bit of canvas; the sea is some completely dry bits of blue silk being waved up and down by stage hands in the wings, however unlike fortress or ocean they may be.

As storytellers we expect far more of our audience. There is no set, wobbly or otherwise. There are no costumes, or even any actors to wear them. There may be sound effects but even they are few and far between. It is necessary for the storyteller to offer up the narrative in such a way that the audience create the wet salt waves, the cold stone castle, the playful chestnut horse, terrifying lizards and supermen for themselves. We require so much more than willing suspension of disbelief, the tacit postponement of cynicism. For storytelling to work the audience have to actively imagine the preposterous!

And this is our secret weapon. Instead of trying to satisfy your senses that here is a vast and bottomless ocean, we tell you “here is a vast and bottomless ocean” and your mind produces one. You do not have to overcome the lack of moisture on stage or the small waves and unnatural blue of a tank at Pinewood Studios. It is exactly as you imagine a vast and bottomless ocean would be. It is the exact colour of the sea, the waves are the perfect height, it has the necessary amount of foam but no more. No part of you has to willingly suspend anything, you do not have to overlook any tricks or fuzzy edges. Your reality filters, evolved over millennia to alert you to any small thing that is out of place, to point out erratic movement in flora and fauna, to nag you about shadows that are too deep or still, to tell you when things are not quite right, are completely by-passed.

Having slipped past the guards we are free to play with reality as much as we like, and the special effects are as amazing and perfect as you can possibly imagine.

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All Pull Together


Before I start the blog, just a quick apology that this wasn’t up in August but I suffered a catastrophic disc failure, lost all my archives and everything I was working on including the publicity for the autumn tour. Amazingly I managed to fix the crashed disc and I have now recovered the data so there will be a couple of blogs in short order before normal service is resumed.

Here’s the first one:

An old fella planted some turnip seeds. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, it’s a very old story, so you may well have done, though I expect you have forgotten some of the details, sometimes it’s good to be reminded of the things we already know. Anyhow, while we’ve been talking the turnips have been growing and the old fella decided it was time to pull them up.

He went along the row gathering them in until he came to the last turnip. This one was a little different. The green leafy fronds at the top were as tall as he was! “I expect there’ll be an even smaller turnip than usual on the end of that lot” he laughed. He took hold of the turnip top and pulled. It didn’t move an inch. He cleared away a bit of the earth and could now see that it was an enormous turnip, every bit as big as the overgrown top should indicate. “Well I never!” he said, “I’m going to need a bit of help with this”. So he went and asked his wife. Out she came and she took hold of him and he took hold of the turnip top and they pulled and pulled but the turnip stayed firmly in the ground.

Now I expect, even if you haven’t heard the story before, you have a pretty good idea what happens next. This is where a good storyteller, seeing the “yeah, yeah, we know this” expression in the eyes of the audience will keep you engaged by asking what it is that you know happens next? It’s a win-win question of course: if you get it wrong you now want to know what could possibly be coming up instead of what you thought was obvious, and if you get it right you are equally keen to stay and be right some more. A brilliant, Norfolk storyteller I work with occasionally, called Mike Dodsworth, does a version of this five minute tale that lasts for half an hour. He starts off asking the audience what they had for lunch, or if they like vegetables. After ten minutes he eventually brings the conversation round to turnips, everyone joins in with the “and they pulled, and they pulled” bits and the whole thing is enormous fun! Nearly as enormous as that turnip which is still stuck in the ground.

So the old lady goes and gets their granddaughter and the girl holds on to the old lady and the old lady hangs on to the old man and the old man holds on to the turnip, and they pulled and they pulled and they puuuuuulled… but still the humungous turnip wouldn’t move.

One of the great things about this point of the story is that it is almost infinitely extendable. If you want to stretch it out you can add all sorts of relatives, neighbours… I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it with a postie getting involved. In the straight forward version, after the magical three family members it’s time to shift gear a bit. Who’s up next? Well, he is often considered a family member but not being human can make him a mildly comic surprise: it’s the dog. The dog takes hold of the girl etc. and they pu… well you can do that bit, you know how it goes, but whether Jack Russell or great Dane the result is still a static turnip.

More help is needed. After the dog it may seem a cliched step to add the cat but it is an important one. The inclusion of these age old rivals demonstrates the need to put aside our differences for the good of all. (The cat holds on to the dog…).

When the turnip still doesn’t move, the mouse demonstrates the infection of co-operation by volunteering. The mouse holds the cat, the cat holds the dog, the dog holds the girl, the girl holds granny, granny holds the old gaffer, and they all pulled, and they pulled, and they puuuuuuuuuulled… and out came the enormous turnip!
Which goes to show that even the smallest has value when we all pull together.

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