Meditation: On Standing Ovations

In the record-breaking, multi-award-winning, hip-hop musical Hamilton, the protagonist offers the line: “If you stand for nothing, Burr, what’ll you fall for?”.

A line that riffs on - the more than likely misattributed - quote from Alexander Hamilton: “Those who stand for nothing fall for anything.”

However, if you happen to be in attendance at this show - or any other show - you’ll find that, in fact, people will stand for anything.

Case in point: the most recent addition to Netflix’s archive of trauma porn, Blonde, received a 14-minute standing ovation at the Venice Film Festival.

Personally, I can’t imagine anything after which I would clap my hands continuously for a quarter of an hour.

My lens, though, is not on the cultural bourgeois and their inability to maintain a seated position for fear of being the naysayer who misjudged the next starlet’s ascendance.

What I’m talking about is a mid-week matinee performance of a show in its ninth year receiving a standing ovation from a crowd that rustled Malteser packets; had to be reminded to turn their phones off; and sang along to their favourite numbers throughout.

Neither is this a comment on class and audience behaviour. I secretly long for a return to 18th-century theatre in which a bar remained open throughout performances and actors had to work hard for the attention of their disorderly and distracted audiences.

In those days, people were at the theatre to have a good time. It was fun and, more importantly, it was affordable. You could get cheaper tickets to see just the second half because a large portion of the audience would have inevitably staggered off elsewhere throughout the first act.

We still go to the theatre for a good time but the stakes are higher now. There are “must-see” shows with “big names” charging over £100 a ticket - if you want to be able to see for sure it isn’t the understudy - and nobody wants to risk seeing a dud.

Childcare, travel, dinner and tickets put the West End experience into the weekend away price bracket and we put the same amount of pressure on the event. It has to be perfect. We must have a good time. We cannot afford to be discerning.

In their desperation to cement the good time, audiences leap up from their chairs as soon as the curtain falls. Those hoping to retain a little integrity are soon swept along by the mob mentality and find themselves standing united, mindlessly thumping their palms together. The actors graciously lap up the praise and saunter off back to their dressing rooms safe in the knowledge that they are special and talented and exist as an incredible light in a dark, dark world.

But the ovation is not for them. It is for Tracey who sits at the desk opposite and will have to hear about how incredible the theatre trip was whilst snaffling her second bag of Snack-A-Jacks.

Another sad phenomenon, in the new age of audienceship, is the insatiable need to heighten the experience or take even more from the artist. Something I witnessed quite recently at a live talk with the incredible Charlie Mackesy (author/illustrator of The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse) in which he offered profound insight and beautiful demonstrations of his craft. For an hour he captivated and moved his audience and fully deserved a standing ovation but, instead, as the host announced the end, attendees left early to secure a place in the book signing queue. In their desperation to suck out an even more immediate experience; closer proximity; and a more personal story to relay, they had neglected to show the proper appreciation and respect due to the person they apparently held in such high regard.

By the way, I am completely aware of how scathing this mediation sounds. I promise I’m not this much of a Grinch in reality. Ok, maybe a little. I just believe strongly in the power and responsibility of the modern audience to demand a higher standard - of art and of ourselves.

We should take the time to really appreciate the position and privilege of being in an audience. Not constantly end-gaining about how this will be shared with our own audience. We should allow ourselves to be immersed in the transcendent experience of storytelling and if we are not then we should withhold our ovations as clear feedback that the work did not hit the mark. We should not attempt to tell another story by acting out a moment of imitation exultation.

This is the giant cultural snake eating its tail.