Every now and then the theatre world gets its knickers in a twist over acts of alleged immorality or political transgression – placards come out, factions form and everyone finds themselves feeling more Brechtian than they’d like to admit. But it never lasts. The cries of ‘truth’ and ‘freedom’ soon turn to whispers and apologies and we all shake hands and go back to pretending that the theatre is a nice safe environment, the bright pupil in the front row; think Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti’s play Bezhti in 2005, condemned by the Sikh community as an act of blasphemy and stopped in mid-run at the Birmingham Rep; think the Peter Handke ‘affair’ in 2006, whereby a misinformed newspaper article sent shock waves of demonisation through Europe’s cultural nerve centres, with stories of Handke delivering a pro-Milosovic speech at the latter leader’s funeral – he was even supposed to have ‘caressed’ the coffin! Whatever actually happened, the media story at the time was enough for the Comedie Francaise to ban his work from its repertoire…so it goes; and now most recently the media has turned to a less likely source for its dose of controversy, less likely but perhaps one that has long been overdue: the English National Ballet.
This time it’s the story of Simone Clarke, a ballet dancer by day and BNP supporter by…by weekend? And so the witch hunt begins: the ENB is blamed for political insensitivity and possibly for harboring extremism; audiences feel disillusioned after paying ‘hard-earned’ cash only to find out they’ve been ‘goose-stepped’ to romance, and perhaps most uncanny of all, 30-odd members of the BNP don airs of high-culture and sit in support of the ballerina, making for one of the most radical ballet audiences ever. Then the curtain falls and the dust settles. Time to put thinking caps on, make grand gestures in the air and set about formulating an analysis: that’s the worst part, hearing the cogs grind to the tune of: “hold on a minute, isn’t she entitled to her own beliefs?” Or better yet: “She’s not racist – she’s going out with someone who is not of her own race.” (Source.) And soon we begin to work our way beyond the froth, down towards the murky depths, and we realise that a taboo is beginning to surface, that ballet might not be a political vacuum after all, that its old persona of leotards and tutus is precisely that, an old persona; that it too, like the theatre, like any other cultural body has a political edge, a blunt one perhaps, but cutting nevertheless and sooner or later someone is going to want to wield that sword.
So I’ve got my thinking cap on and I’ve just completed a grand gesture and I’m feeling sort of serene, then a thought bursts my bubble: what do I really know about Simone Clarke? And the answer of course is nothing. Once again, I’ve taken the bait of a media-initiated meme and I’m transmitting it now to whoever had the courage to read this far. But what troubles me most, is that this, like the other incidents of its kind, will be swept under the great carpet of theatre history and we’ll have missed the chance for a little revolution. Now give me another slice of that trifle!
