An insidious form of censorship
Dominic Cooke on why we must guard against a self-perpetuating climate of fear and timidity
Forty years ago, the Theatres Bill removed from the Lord Chamberlain his centuriesold power to censor the British stage. Under a law unchanged since 1843, every work intended for production in British theatres had first to be submitted to, and approved by, his office. Each work came back with a report from one of the censors, who became renowned for their hypersensitive ability to read sex and subversion into the most innocent of dialogue. Kenneth Tynan quotes some choice reports in his famous 1965 polemic The Royal SmutHound: the phrase ‘balls of the Medici’ is banned, for example (although the report does give the helpful suggestion that ‘testicles of the Medici’ would be acceptable’). Another personal favourite, also quoted by Tynan, is the following masterpiece of straight-faced absurdity: ‘Page 14: Omit “the perversions of rubber”. Substitute “the kreurpels and blinges of the rubber”. Omit the chamber pot under the bed.’ As well as Tynan, the Royal Court Theatre, under its artistic director William Gaskill, fought bitterly against the Lord Chamberlain’s office, even, on occasion, openly flouting the censor’s demands. At performances of Edward Bond’s Early Morning, Royal Court patrons were charged a ‘membership fee’ on the door, rather than being sold a ticket, thereby exploiting a loophole which exempted private theatre clubs from censorship.
Aside from the more comical aberrations of the censor’s pencil, there is, of course, a sinister side to the limiting of freedom of speech by a government-appointed official. Peter Hall has written wisely about the function of censorship as ‘a means of exerting power, preventing debate and discouraging challenge’. It is a despicable form of bullying, made all the more hurtful and infuriating when legitimised by the state, or other institutions.
At last, in September 1968, common sense prevailed and the law was changed. The single biggest limit on the freedom of expression in British theatre was abolished, and new worlds of possibilities opened up to writers and directors.
But censorship remains. A whole generation of playwrights has grown old without the amendments of the blue pencil, but the limits placed on our speech now come not from the government, but from our own fear of repercussion in the face of religious extremism. Artists have a right — and sometimes a duty — to offend their audience. And audiences have a right — and sometimes a duty — to be offended by what they see or hear. But when it is generally assumed that an audience has a right not to be offended, then the restrictions imposed upon an artist are just as stifling as the Lord Chamberlain’s.
I say this because Terence Koh’s recent exhibition, which includes a statue of Christ with an erection, has re-inflamed the debate about the rights and wrongs of art which offends. I have not seen the exhibition, but I support the Baltic Centre in presenting it. The ongoing battle against the suppression of free expression will not be won by fearing to cause offence. Nevertheless, it is true that sometimes the reaction to a piece will deny it the chance of a fair appraisal, necessitating a painful act of self-censorship on the part of arts programmers.
One does not need an encyclopaedic knowledge of British culture to be able to name an example of modern attempts at censorship. The fatwa against Salman Rushdie, the pickets outside Jerry Springer — The Opera, the violent protests against Behzti at the Birmingham Repertory Theatre. In all these cases, religious fundamentalists have attempted and, in the example of Birmingham, won their attempt to deny freedom of expression to artists, and to audiences the opportunity to make up their own minds.
Of course, the claims are specious. To fear that a centuries-old faith might be endangered by one play, or that a person’s strongly held beliefs may be devalued by somebody else disagreeing, or even satirising them, reveals a hatred of plurality that is common to all fascist ideologies. However, it is made more complex by the fact that many liberals, out of a fear of appearing racist, and with shared sympathy for many of the political causes that also motivate those with a fundamentalist agenda turn a blind eye to such intolerance.
Examples such as the ones above are rare. And the groups that cause them are small, and led by literalists rather than the majority of religious believers. Nevertheless, such actions, especially when successful, foster fear in artistic organisations of the possible ramifications of producing work that criticises religion. This is a profoundly insidious form of censorship, unspoken and therefore hard to criticise.
Sometimes this is a result of a genuine safety threat posed to arts organisations. The management of Birmingham Rep, faced with credible threats of violence against their staff, and without adequate protection from the police, had no choice but to pull Behzti. I do not blame them for that. But I believe we are in danger of reaching a situation where a fear of offending has become so internalised and automatic that it isn’t even noticed. It may appear well intentioned, but it is no less harmful to free speech than the Lord Chamberlain. The only way we can establish our boundaries is by testing them, and the overly sensitive suppression of anything that even brushes against those boundaries creates a self-perpetuating climate of fear and timidity.
For once arts organisations cease to present work that might offend, artists will cease to create it. Then the small-minded, the bigoted, and the self-righteous can celebrate their victory, and the arts world can only count its losses.
But every morning when I arrive at work, I long to find in that day’s post good plays that are not hampered by fear of what they can and can’t say, or by fear of causing offence. Plays like Christopher Shinn’s Now or Later, which is accurate in its analysis of the complex question of the limits of pluralism and its conflict with fundamentalism. The theatre I run exists to produce exactly those plays. They’re out there. They’ve probably already been written, and I am convinced that there are hundreds of people who could yet write them, even if they have never considered doing so. I want that play, and I want the Royal Court to produce it. And when we do, we may fear the consequences, but if we feel the play can bear it, that certainly wouldn’t stop us. ❑ Now or Later, directed by Dominic Cooke, runs until 1 November at the Royal Court Theatre.
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