Cupid and Psyche

by Emily C A Snyder

  But all my Psyches have gone for it.

  On the Five Act Structure

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  It is kind of funny to be writing in five acts knowing that modern audiences will take one intermission, hence rendering the five acts effectively into two.

  Not too long ago (and perhaps still to come), theatre-going audiences were accustomed to the three act structure, which Billy Wilder accurately described as running your character up in tree, setting the tree on fire, and then getting him down again.

  Some Shakespeare Scholars assure us that Shakespeare’s audience would actually take extended intervals between each act—since theatre was an all day affair, much like binge watching TV on Netflix—where people would sell oranges, or do variety show acts inbetween. Other Scholars disagree, saying that Shakespeare’s work would be played through without intermission and at great speed—and presumably if Mother Nature called, you’d just miss something.

  Regardless, verse drama seems to fall happily into a five act structure. I haven’t quite discerned how Billy Wilder might describe each act, but I’ll take a go:

  Act One: You introduce your hero to the tree.

  Act Two: You run your hero up the tree.

  Act Three: You set the tree on fire.

  Act Four: You turn the world upside down.

  Act Five: Your hero falls to Heaven, or climbs his way to Hell.

  Take your intermission where you like.

  Getty’s Test

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  You may have heard of Bechdel’s Test, which judges how well rounded the female characters in a script are. The criteria for passing Bechdel’s test is that there must be:

  1) Two female characters

  2) With names

  3) Who talk to each other about something other than men

  By this criteria, quite a few of Shakespeare’s own plays fail. And, to my chagrin, this one (nearly) does as well (it’s saved…sort of…by Psyche and Aphrodite’s dialogue in Act I).

  However, there’s another test that’s still in development by the actress and scholar, Abigail Getty, who set out to see whether there were a female equivalent of Hamlet. Her criteria, at the time of this writing, is the search for:

  1) Soliloquies (not monologues or speeches to another person)

  2) By a female character with status

  3) Who ponders more than her own femininity or relationship with the men

  By this criteria—unless you count Psyche’s (mostly) soliloquy “And there, another voice” in Act II, this play doesn’t fare so well, either. Although, to be fair, all of Cupid’s soliloquies are about Psyche—and most of his long speeches are speeches, not soliloquies.

  Regardless, I should like to put forward Getty’s Test to other would-be verse playwrights, myself included, as we move forward in the creation of complex female characters.

  My Rival is Fat

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  Ask any American actress what it’s like to audition, and she’ll tell you there’s all too often a sense of being sized up by the people behind the table not for your talent, but for whether or not you’re f*ckable. So many actresses starve themselves (when they really look better for the eating of a cheeseburger or two), tan, bleach, inject Botox, wear two sets of Spanx and a triple-padded bustier all to get the job.

  Those who dare to look just as they are, tend to be cast only in older “character” roles. I know I spent my teens and twenties playing a variety of fifty year old disapproving mothers, as though the size of my bust were in direct correspondence to my age, like a tree. Yet, although I “look” like the cheeky maid servant type, I can’t play the cheeky maid servant for beans. Similarly, there are several actresses of my acquaintance who truly are beautiful, blonde bombshells…but would kill at the cheeky maid roles. Yet because of their looks, are consigned forever to the giggling arm candy roles.

  Interestingly, I didn’t find this sort of shallow typecasting while I was in England. As I mentioned, I was afraid that my role as Rosalind would be taken from me once my teachers saw who they had cast. Instead, they treated me (wrap your brain around this for a moment, casting directors) like a human being. Like a capable human being. And, given how I attacked my Orlando’s clavicles, like a sexual human being.

  Nor is this outlook unusual. Take a moment to look at the Twelve British Actors—I mean really look at them—and you’ll see that beyond actually allowing themselves to age, almost none of them are physical knockouts. For example, I love Dame Judi Dench. But if we were honest, she’s got no eyebrows. Who doesn’t adore Dame Maggie Smith, particularly in her recent run as Lady Violet from Downton Abbey? And yet, there’s clearly never been a smidge of silicon near her face. Emma Thompson, whom I worship, is really rather plain: her hair and skin are the same colour, and both are a touch orange. And yet, and yet the woman is luminous. And in England, no one batted an eye at Dawn French’s Vicar of Dibley tying the knot with Richard Armitage.

  Now take a look at any of the Pretty Young Things who played the panting arm candy in any given summer’s superhero blockbusters. Can you discern a difference between one and another? With all respect to Jessica Beal and Jessica Alba, it took me years to sort out who was whom.

  This is not to disparage those American actresses who have been fortunate enough to be cast in anything at all. Given that there are so few roles for women (let alone roles of worth), and yet there are four times as many actresses as roles, any actress you see actually working has already beaten the odds.

  Sometimes, the Pretty Young Thing is able—after many years—to make her role her own. For example, Kaley Cuoco has parlayed what was supposed to just be the “dumb blonde next door” on The Big Bang Theory to a fully rounded character. Sarah Michelle Gellar who began her acting career as a vamp on various teen soaps, found her tragi-comedic mojo poking fun at expectations by killing vampires on Buffy. And Mindy Kaling and Melissa McCarthy are leading the charge for leading women of girth (although currently both are still relegated to comedic variations thereof).

  The effect of typecasting on the psyches of young actresses cannot be overstated.

  I myself really began to believe that I was an unwanted nothing because I kept being shoved into “fat girl” roles, and being given “fat girl” costumes. I found an escape through playing male roles—Feste the Jester was a revelation to me—but that only convinced me that I had no place as a Pretty Young Thing on-stage or off.

  That is, until Rosalind.

  I remember, I had cozied up to the hotel bar after performing catty-corner from Shakespeare’s birthplace, when I was suddenly joined by my teacher, Vivien.

  “That was good work tonight,” she said.

  I thanked her.

  “Yes,” she said, wafting one hand to signal the bartender for a drink. “Grounded, funny, smart, sexy.”

  I blushed and ducked my head. “Sexy?” I asked. “Really?”

  (I had done the scene with Orlando when Rosalind’s dressed as a boy, remember. Although, as mentioned, I had one glorious moment of [wo]manhandling his clavicles.)

  Vivien laughed and accepted her drink like it was a magic wand. “Yes,” she said. “You. Sexy.” She sipped her drink. “Did you hear what they were saying earlier?”

  I shook my head. Most of our party—which was made up of incredibly wealthy financiers who travelled every year to England to take in the season, and had seen the Twelve British Actors in their original star-making turns—actually had the audacity to walk out of the RSC’s (admittedly atrocious) As You Like It the night before. After only half an hour.

  “Well,” Vivien continued, raising her eyebrows at me as she murmured over the lip of her glass, “let’s just say they liked you so much better.”

  As one might discern, this little conversation had a profound effect on me. And I have attempted to pay it forward particularly to my actresses, whether casting or writing for them. It’s been a particular joy of mine to cast those women who are forever
put into “dumply” or “strict” or “awkward best friend” roles as the heroines instead. And to dress them fantastically.

  Similarly, I have been horrified to see a parade of young women coming through to audition for Psyche who, although in real life are grounded, powerful individuals, immediately slip into a higher vocal register, physically shy away from touch, and generally “act girly”…because that’s the behaviour that’s always gotten them the job.

  However Psyche, we’ve discovered, is unapologetic. Tall, thin, short, fat, dark, light, busty or flat—it doesn’t matter. Psyche is unapologetically who she is: and the only actresses who can play her are those who willing to be vulnerably, unapologetically themselves.

  Not “f*ckable,” but fascinating.

  Which, I dare say, is fucking awesome.

  Now I Am Invisible!

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  I’ve had the pleasure of directing A Midsummer Night’s Dream twice, and one line that always gets me giggling is Oberon’s “Now I am invisible and will overhear their conference.”

  In part I giggle, because invariably in rehearsal I go all Eddie Izzard and make “wiggily-wee” Star Trek transporter noises after the line. In part, I giggle because of the sheer audacity of the line. Shakespeare up and wrote: “EVERYBODY SUSPEND THEIR DISBELIEF…NOW!” And we do.

  However, I’ve been dismayed with many productions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that have more or less gone out of their way to make the actors actually invisible, whether by “hiding” Oberon and Puck upstage or in the audience or otherwise removing them altogether. As an audience, we’ve already agreed to suspend our disbelief. So, why shout out: “NOW I AM INVISIBLE!” and then go skulk in the corners?

  Fortunately, in middle school my parents brought me to the New York Renaissance Faire in Tuxedo, NY, where at that time, they put on a full Shakespeare show in the middle of the day. The first year I convinced my parents to stay and watch, the show was Midsummer and I swear, to this day, I have yet to see a better rendition. Helena’s “spaniel” speech was so touching, it made me weep; the blocking was imaginative and acrobatic; Snug as Lion made an art of incapability—and best of all was Oberon who almost never left the stage.

  Whomever played him was perfectly cast: tall, regal, blonde, elfin looking. I swear his ears were naturally pointy. And the moment after he said, “I am invisible and will overhear their conference,” he graciously took a knee and instantly became a tree stump. I could see it.

  And even better (bless the director and her talented actors!), on ran Demetrius followed by Helena who tripped on the “tree root” (Oberon’s outstretched leg) and then draped herself in prayer over the stump (Oberon’s crooked knee). The scene continued, swirling around the Faerie-Tree Stump, and when Demetrius finally left Helena alone, she slumped her posterior onto Oberon’s knee—much to his surprise.

  The joy of the theatre is that the audience is constantly seeing double: we see Joe Schmoe whom we’ve known all our lives, at the same time as we see these mythic characters come to life. We’re sitting in (typically) uncomfortable seats as the same time as we fully believe we’re all in a magic forest. With the “invisible” actor present, we saw triple: what is in our reality; what is in Helena’s reality; and what is in Oberon’s reality. Layer upon layer upon layer.

  “No, no. I’m as ugly as a bear!” Helena wailed, leaning disconsolately against the tree.

  Who was surprised to find himself suddenly “treed” again (Oberon had been about to get up). The Faery King looked at the girl who thought herself so alone—who was so very, very alone.

  And then cautiously, awkwardly—as Oberon had never been awkward in his life—he raised his branch-arm and patted the sad, hopeless girl on her shoulder.

  She sighed and nuzzled into the tree. Before perking up, encouraged by…something…something Other, something More.

  Heartened, that poor, battered girl dried her tears, shook out her hair, and declared:

  HELENA.

  I’ll follow thee and make a Heaven of Hell,

  To die upon the hand I love so well.

  I’m telling you, this show was great.

  As you can tell, this Midsummer has stayed with me in a number of ways, and I had to pay it homage with this scene.

  And highly physical trees.

  Trilogizing

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  Cupid and Psyche, as the clever scholar will no doubt discern from Persephone’s speech, is actually the third of a trilogy: which begins with the (as yet unwritten) Rape of Persephone, followed by The Seduction of Adonis, and concluding with Cupid and Psyche.

  Naturally, one tends to draw parallels to George Lucas’ Star Wars sexology…except that bodes ill for Jar-Jar Binks-type horrors to creep into the script. Dear friends have pointed out that perhaps the way Shakespeare wrote the awkward Henry VI trilogy first, and then followed it with the excellent Henry V might be a more appropriate trajectory. We’ll hope for Henry, at least!

  It should be noted that when I first sat down to write Cupid and Psyche, though, I had no thought of it being part of a larger cycle. It was (and I still believe, is) a complete story in itself. However, once the first production concluded, I had the opportunity to deconstruct the show with my dear friend Kate—who, by the way, was nearly done at the time with her Ph.D. in Old Norse(!), and reads Latin and Greek like a champion.

  We were in the middle of discussing Persephone and Adonis—two characters whom Kate felt passionate about—and all of a sudden Kate jumps up and grabs her Ovid. In the Latin.

  “Yes, yes! I thought so,” she exclaimed. “Listen here: your story goes much further back than you’ve started it.”

  Kate then proceeded to translate on the fly to me the Rape of Persephone, which begins with Venus (Aphrodite) saying to her son:

  “Cupid, my child, my warrior, my power, take those sure shafts with which you conquer all, and shoot your speedy arrows to the heart of the great god to whom the last lot fell when the three realms were drawn. Your majesty subdues the gods of heaven [and sea]… Why should Tartara [Hell] lag behind? Why not there, too, extend your mother’s empire and your own? The third part of the world’s at stake, while we in heaven (so long-suffering!) are despised—my power grows less, and less the power of Amore. Do you not see how Pallas [Athena] and Diana [Artemis], queen of the chase, have both deserted me? And Ceres’ daughter [Persephone], if we suffer it, will stay a virgin too—her hope’s the same. So for the sake of our joint sovereignty, if that can touch your pride, unite in love that goddess and her uncle [Hades].”

  “Don’t you see?” Kate continued, snapping closed the book. “You’re not chronicling a single incident; you’re chronicling the last stage of a war.”

  (I did mention that Kate’s specialty involves women with impressively designed breastplates and a yen for decorative horns?)

  Well, needless to say the remainder of the evening and much of the wee hours of the morning were spent mapping out what those two plays might look like—soon drawing in the Three Fates, and the myth of Orpheus—and it wasn’t too long after that this bloodless speech:

  [Alternate Speech] “To gaze upon her mortal cheek”

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  CUPID.

  Persephone, enough. Why have you come?

  PERSEPHONE.

  The same as thee. To gaze upon her mortal form

  While there’s still bloom within her mortal cheek,

  Breath for laughter upon her mortal lips,

  A steady beat within her mortal heart.

  One must not grow too fond of these autumn leaves:

  They bud, they bloom, they flame, they fall, they die.

  If we were to sorrow for each moral bloom

  Watery Poseidon could not hold our tears.

  ‘Tis pity she must die, as thou and I cannot.

  Was replaced by the current monologue.

  I’m not saying the monologue is easy—it’s another info-dump—but thus far audiences ha
ve responded with Psyche in beginning to recoil from what Lust Unbound can be, rather than dully wondering why Persephone showed up to stare at a mortal when she can do that every day of her life.

  To be honest, though, I’m kind of thrilled at the idea of writing a play cycle. It’s an old and honourable tradition, stemming back to those crazy Greeks themselves. And more, there’s an inherent thrill for live audiences to see a show in rep. We binge-watch sitcoms on Netflix, the complex mythologies of Lost are not lost upon its viewers—why shouldn’t theatre reclaim some of the grandiose fun?

  How to Kill a Vampire

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  In DARE Lab, there are quite a few playwrights working on speculative shows: ones that aren’t set in the here and now, ones with a touch of fantasy to them. The constant refrain in the feedback, then, is: “What are the rules? Tell us about your world.”

  Or, to put it another way, a recent Cupid who worked on some of the early readings once asked me:

  “How do you kill a vampire?”

  “Well,” I said, “you can use holy water, cut off its head, exposure to sunlight—and of course, the classic stake.”

  He shook his head. “No, Emily,” he smiled. “You’ve forgotten one thing.”

  “Oh! Garlic!” I cried.

  “Not garlic. You’ve forgotten: Vampires aren’t real.”

  The moral, of course, is that because vampires don’t actually exist, you can kill a vampire however you want. (Or, apparently Make Them Sparkle. She wrote without a hint of sarcasm.)

  To put it another way: if, like me, you’ve listened to the Star Wars commentary track from George Lucas on whichever version came out in the early 2000’s, you’ll remember that Lucas comments on how the first film (that is, Star Wars: Episode IV, A New Hope) actually starts off slow, exploring the world of a long time ago in a galaxy far away. However, the reviews that came in at the time of its release commented on how quickly the first movie seemed to fly by—because, although the world of Tatooine and the Death Star are cultural icons to us now, they were virgin territory to viewers then.