THE British director Peter Brook, now in his 81st year, is something of a sage across the water. His book about directing, The Empty Space, became a bible for a younger generation and from his base in Paris he has pursued the kind of theatrical experimentation that made him the enfant terrible of British theatre in the 1960s. Now he’s back in Britain with his latest piece of “theatrical research ”.
A Brook production is the nouvelle cuisine of theatre. The ingredients are beautifully placed and chastely coloured; the composition is cleansed of excess so that the mental palate can be brushed delicately with what is held to be the essence of a thing — a disciple’s hand pressed against his teacher’s, two white-cloaked figures walking alongside each other in the night, prayer beads or a musical instrument set down reverently on the ground.
Looking beneath the appearance of a thing has long been Brook’s imperative, and what he finds in Tierno Bokar is held out to be the nature of religious tolerance. Certainly there isn’t much that’s more vital for modern man’s wellbeing, and his chosen story, based on a true account by the African writer Amadou Hampaté Bâ, suits this theme perfectly.
We are in French West Africa during the 1930s, when a dispute arose within the Sufi community as to whether a particular prayer should be recited 11 or 12 times. Similar nit-sized differences have torn other religions apart, and here it did the same.
To control the unrest the French administrators exiled the leader of the 11-ers, and Tierno Bokar, a charismatic figure from the 12-ers, is inspired to visit him, is converted, ostracised by his relatives, peaceably continues to hold to his new practice and dies. Watching such grave events presenting themselves in a slow flow is like experiencing a waking trance. I am content for a while simply to watch.
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But steadily, impatience grows — not with the paucity of events, for there are plenty of these, but with the economy of discourse. Why was this particular event shown? What isn’t being shown? There are moments of exuberance but the prevailing tone is gravity as an expression of goodness. Both Sotigui Kouyaté, in the title role, and Pitcho Womba Konga, as the man he comes to revere, beautifully present the courteous and gentle attributes of men at peace with themselves.
The stillness and sweetness, and, at a pinch, the gnomic utterances all play their part, but the sceptic must ask, to what purpose? It is as though for Brook the fact of difference is enough, not how it came about, nor why, over so tiny an issue, adhered to. At the end the two musicians lower their instruments and all is silent. It makes an exquisite closing, but to what exactly?
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