By Henrietta Foster
I went to Turkey to attend Istanbul’s TheatreIST Showcase the day after I learned my ninety-year-old mother was probably dying.
I did not know what to do. Should I stay by her hospital bedside or try to write again?
I had lost confidence in my writing as a result of being seriously ill myself since Christmas, so before my mother’s admission into the hospital, this trip seemed like a godsend to get me putting pen to paper again.
The programme looked excellent, and the organisers were enthusiastic and full of energy.
On the day of my flight, I went to the hospital with my baggage but was still uncertain about what to do. My mother seemed a bit brighter and more alert. The situation was less fraught and dramatic than we thought twenty-four hours earlier.
We all decided that I should go and write about the theatre on offer in one of the most spectacular cities I know. I made the impossible decision to go to Istanbul and try to conquer my writer’s block.
Just before landing, the pilot reminded us that it was Ramadan (from 10 March to 9 April this year) and that we should not walk through the streets eating or talking too loudly.
This seemed like an odd warning from British Airways, and all the passengers looked at one another, more than a little puzzled.
Arriving at the vast airport, I felt strangely free and ready for a new challenge. We were picked up by what would become our regular bus for all our trips to theatres and cultural centres. The vehicle was deep purple, with disco lights playing across the ceiling and groovy white plastic modular seating.
It was as though we were about to take part in a return to Saturday Night Fever or Xanadu but had somewhat carelessly forgotten our spangles and sequins.
Somehow, that crazy, anachronistic bus brought us great joy, and we relished our times on it. What better way to enjoy theatre when your carriage was so extravagant and endlessly diverting.
It seemed incongruous to visit such a beautiful and varied city and spend most of my time indoors in the dark with the distant prospect of only one excursion along the Bosphorus on a stormy, dull grey day. But I had been to Istanbul before, so I did not feel deprived of not being able to do all the usual tourist stuff.
On the first morning, after a substantial breakfast at our wonderful hotel, I managed to walk to Taksim and then onto the Bosphorus. I enjoyed the warm sun on my back and the bright light sparkling off the river. There were many people eating in the street who were not tourists like us.
A theatre showcase is designed to exhibit the finest theatre on offer and allow critics and festivals to pick their favourites as invited productions or worthy of note.
I had only been to one such event before, and it did not do any of that. But this time, there was so much to choose from and so many colleagues to discuss the plays that it became a wholly different experience for me, albeit with a darker and more poignant personal subtext.
The plays we saw were cleverly curated into various types and subjects. There were ones on topical issues like climate change and gay life, and the lot of women. There were the productions of classics, and there were knockout works of wonder. Around all of that drama were workshops and lectures.
It was a packed week against the background of increasingly poor news from London about my mother. I have rarely felt so completely conflicted and, at the same time, so alive.
Our purple disco bus awaited us for our first play – a production of Carlo Goldoni’s A Servant of Two Masters at the Cihangir Atolye Sahnesi or CAS (Cihangir Atelier Stage).
A decade or so ago, I saw the well-known Royal National Theatre production, which featured James Corden in the Arlecchino role. It was directed by Sir Nicholas Hytner and set in a rundown south coast seaside resort just after the war.
I remember it well partly because I went with my eldest niece, and just as the lights went down, Dame Shirley Porter slipped into the seat right in front of us.
Porter was the ex-leader of Westminster City Council and masterminded the outrageous sale of three Westminster cemeteries and the Homes for Votes scandal.
I told my niece how much I despised her and that a different person would have done something about that feeling. Luckily, the production was so good that any temptation to set fire to her overly sprayed and backcombed hair was soon forgotten.
The CAS production was much more traditional, along the lines of the only other production I have seen, at the Comedie Francaise. It was set in Istanbul at the end of the Ottoman Empire’s last period.
Director Muhammet Uzuner called it an “a la Turca comedy” because he adapted it using Turkish full of word games and puns. This production’s great energy came from an ensemble cast and imaginative company I greatly respected by the end of my time in Istanbul.
Housed in central Istanbul under a coffee shop and a modest hotel, CAS is a remarkable private drama school and theatre run by two well-known actors who wanted to offer budding actors different training from the more traditional one they would receive at the State Conservatoire or a university.
The students at CAS all live and study together in their subterranean setting. The only thing they don’t do at the school is sleep, but everything else is communal.
The course can last up to three years, and in between classes, they learn how to cook, make costumes or props and discuss future projects in depth. It was incredibly inspiring to meet both the staff and the students at this exceptional place.
One young woman I met was the granddaughter of Turks who had left for Germany many years ago. Turkish was her second language, and she felt the need to understand more fully where she came from.
I do not understand Turkish, but I did understand the excitement and energy of these quite considerable young actors and their teachers. It was a heady and intoxicating atmosphere.
I was invited to observe a rehearsal of Sam Shepard’s True West and a movement rehearsal of Macbeth. Both were full of the verve of the Goldoni. If anyone needed assurance that all was well in Turkish theatre, they need only visit CAS.
One of the funniest plays on offer was Events Of History That Never Took Place at the Kadikoy Boa Sahne, written by Ulku Tamer. It had something of the spirit of the Goldoni and was just as high-octane.
As its starting point, the drama presented a catalogue of historical episodes that never happened and the unsettling idea that the history we learn is never the real history – the one that actually happened. A versatile young cast had enormous fun, making the impossible possible for ensemble players.
The following morning, we went on foot to see In Vain, performed and written by Onur Karaoglu. It was the first of two plays or performance pieces that dealt with climate change.
In Vain was set in an old late 19th-century office building with a majestic view over the Bosphorus, complete with white stucco mouldings and columns. The room was divided into quarters, each representing a different aspect of Mahzuni Serif’s well-known poem.
The recorded poem was interrupted by Onur Karaoglu, who told the story of the marine mucilage that floated on the Marmara Sea. It represented the death of marine life and prompted a nationwide crisis.
The quarter I sat through was from the perspective of the “snot and slime,” leading us to believe that hope does not work, but maybe poetry could help with the looming crisis.
The voice of the mucilage claimed that “God has given a life to me in vain, a soul has entered my body in vain…” It was a sobering and upsetting performance.
From 2014 to 2019, Onur Karaoglu was the director of Orhan Pamuk’s Museum of Innocence, which inspired the novel of the same name. It was the one museum I could visit on our morning off.
The novel tells the story of Kemal Basmati and his unrequited love for his distant cousin Fusan, a shop assistant. After her marriage, Kemal visits her in the building that is now the museum and takes away an object that reminds him of her.
These objects showcase everyday life in Istanbul in the late 20th century, from scent bottles to clothes to postcards to 4213 cigarette stubs and film clips.
Kemal lived on the top floor from 2000 to 2007, while Pamuk created the museum around him. It is a treasure trove of memories and emotions.
The second play on climate change was Single Use Story by Volkan Cikintoglu, directed by Gulhan Kadim. It was an entirely different approach, with a frantic, comedic trio of actors responding to the crisis in a local neighbourhood of Istanbul.
Single Use Story asks whether climate change is as bad as people say, especially compared to insignificant personal problems. Seeing two pertinent plays about such a heavy topic in one week is incredible and entertaining.
Photograph courtesy of Jürgen Luger. Published under a Creative Commons license.