I’m a convert to no-frills rural touring – it deserves our respect

Rural touring is often considered the poor relation of London’s theatre scene, but what it lacks in glamour it makes up for in community spirit – and it might be theatre’s way out of lockdown, says Lost Dog’s Ben Duke

The performing arts industry is organised by a well-established hierarchy. At the top of that hierarchy are London-based venues such as the Royal Opera House, and at the bottom sits the village hall: the home of Sunday school, amateur dramatics and, for many of us, the place where it all began as an extra in a nativity play. So when Lyn Gardner, in her recent article in The Stage, suggested that rural touring could be a way out of lockdown for touring theatre in both the short and long term, many a performer will have felt a profound sense of dread: “Please Lyn, don’t send me back there.”

I recognise that dread. I felt it when the Place suggested I apply to the Rural Touring Dance Initiative. But I hid it– from them and from myself – and as a result have now done four rural tours, taking Paradise Lost (Lies Unopened Beside Me) and Juliet and Romeo to over 50 rural venues. Even though I live in the countryside, I initially justified this endeavour in those familiar urban-centric terms: I was going to bring cultural opportunities to people in rural communities; I was going to heat up these cultural cold spots with my incredibly hot art.

It started well. I felt like a modern-day travelling player, journeying from village to village with nothing but talent, some old costumes and an inordinate amount of heavy stuff. My optimism carried me through the delights of our first venue (the unforgettable Tolmen Centre in Falmouth) but came crashing down as we arrived in Somerset for our next show. Good people of West Coker – your hospitality was exceptional, but your village hall, as even the most loyal of you must admit, is average.

It is a classic example of that architectural movement defined by kitchens with hatches and ceilings too low for ambition and any kind of leaping. I’m supposed to be playing God for God’s sake. God is a fan of high ceilings – he knows they help us transcend our mediocre lives. As I look at this polystyrene roof, I know that our chances of transcending anything this evening are slim to none.

We get to work. In each village we ask for a group of volunteers to help unload the car and, depending on their age and ailments, they help us carry in objects ranging from a 2kg stuffed dog to a 50kg lighting stand. Next we set up the lights and sound equipment, tripping the fuses numerous times as we work out which sockets we can plug into without exploding the tea urn. Then we build the set. It’s 7pm, we have been working for nine hours and it’s time to warm up. But it’s also time for the audience to arrive.

I am happy to see them, I really am. A one-man contemporary dance version of Paradise Lost and a sequel to Shakespeare’s already complete Romeo and Juliet are not, on the surface, unmissable cultural events, and yet here are 50 people from this tiny village giving up their Friday night to come and watch. It is humbling. But there is only one room and suddenly we’re all too close for comfort. I need space, I need a dimly lit dressing room in which I can hide until I’m good and ready, but I’m here, under the strip lights, talking about car journeys, lasagne and which beer I’d like to try after the show.

Their hospitality wrong-foots me. This isn’t how audience and performer are supposed to interact. Aren’t I supposed to be mysterious and separate? Aren’t we supposed to meet like clandestine lovers in a luxury hotel of my choosing? Instead, it feels like I’m on a first date at their house and all the family are round.

In a ‘proper’ theatre, the rules of engagement are clear:  audience and performers lead separate lives until curtain-up.  In 2019, we performed Juliet and Romeo at the Royal Opera House’s Linbury Theatre. Here, there are key-coded doors that lead to a completely audience-free realm. Performers could live back here for years without ever needing to go outside – in fact, I think some have. The boundaries between the two worlds aren’t porous.

Even in our designated moment of meeting I’ve got the stage to elevate me, the proscenium arch to frame me and the lights to illuminate me. This is not a meeting of equals. Everything is tilted in my favour and, if I’m honest, isn’t that what I’m really missing? It is not the dressing room itself, but it is what that key-coded door allows me to feel: separate, special and – the darkness I must not name – superior.

It’s 9pm in Drimpton and superior is not the word for my current feeling. This is usually the moment in Paradise Lost when it rains on me. I can hear the pump clicking backstage, but no rain is falling. Our DIY rain machine is an ingenious system that relies on a bilge pump, the kind you’d have in a canal boat to pump water out if you were sinking. I am sinking, but the pump is not pumping. I look at Tal, the technician; she shrugs. I look at the audience – they are all looking up. Even the least observant members have noticed the massive shower head hanging from the ceiling and are thinking to themselves: “At some point, water is going to fall out of that.” Now is that moment, but nothing happens.

I take it personally, this failure, because in my head this piece of theatrical ingenuity is my last prop, the thread that holds me to the world of ‘proper’ theatre and, without it, I’m free-falling into an identity crisis. Luckily the crisis is short-lived, mostly imperceptible, and on the other side of it, I’m a complete convert to rural touring.

Theatre is what happens between the audience and the performer. But what rural touring makes so abundantly clear is that the audience is not a half-lit, abstract concept – it is a very real and particular group of individuals, who have devoted countless hours to make this evening happen, who have welcomed me, helped me, fed me, chatted to me and who are now giving me their wholehearted attention. Dressing rooms and bilge pumps are the trimmings, theatre doesn’t need any of it. Theatre just needs these 50 people and for me to get over myself and carry on. 

Like all converts, I now feel evangelical about rural touring.  I know it cannot solve all our problems; I know rural touring schemes are struggling even with the support of their tireless volunteers, and I know there are many companies and shows that can’t even contemplate such small-scale touring. But rural touring isn’t a slide down a fabricated theatrical hierarchy – it is an overdue visit to the source. So, I’m with Gardner, and if they’ll have us, let’s get down to Drimpton. Not for their sake, but for ours.

This article originally appeared in The Stage on 30 Jun 2020.