Revolutionary Act-in

Press, Volume CIX, Issue 32052, 29 July 1969, Page 9

Revolutionary Act-in

(By JILL TWEEDIE in the "Guardian.” Reprinted by arrangement) Over the road a notice in the supermarket window says: “Check-out operators wanted.” Inside the Westminster Ballroom, SW 1,

embryo check-out operators—--140 of them from 11 London schools—jump up and down in the huge hall and bellow. “Society is a load of crap.” “I don’t want to go to work, I’m scared, I’m scared.” “What do you want me to do about It? I can’t change things.” “All I’m saying,” shouts a tall, red-haired boy, his face flushed with emotion, “is for people to think for themselves. You say you can’t change things. The French students bloody changed things. Student grants—who pays them? Yeah, society. So you’ve got to use it to beat them.”

A stolid, sceptical boy hammers a fist on his knee and shouts back. “You’re just going to sponge off the collar-and-tie blokes, eh? If you can’t do nothing about society, why not make the best of it?”

“Oh belt up,” screams a small girl, black hair streaming round her distorted face. In the crowd two boys sway and endlessly chant “we love you, we love you, we love you.” Outside, perched on a shelf of roof, 10 kids circle round, hand in hand, straightening and bending.

“You’re supposed to be a concrete mixer,” says a woman in black fish-net stockings. “Let’s hear concrete mixing sounds.” The kids raise their voices and shshsh and glonk and giggle. Below them, other kids pile dustbins on buckets on planks to make a minotaur; one of them bangs two dustbin lids together and a fine layer of ash settles over him. Inside, another group huddle together, surrounded by perspiring, slogan-scream-ing adolescents. “That’s supposed to be the' sort of liberal element inside,” explains someone. “The ones shouting slogans are society, trying to suppress them.” Anarchy and joy reigns on this, the second day of this year’s Royal Court theatre schools scheme. Two months ago Jane Howell, assistant director, wrote to the 2500 London schools on her mailing list, setting out her plan for a fortnight’s “act-in” on the theme of Revolution, to culminate in a performance at the Royal Court on July 27. Seventeen schools expressed interest, 11 finally provided groups of children, chosen—as one teacher from Southgate explained—not for their acting ability but because they were judged in need of this kind of experience. The schools scheme has broader aims than the eventual performance itself —at the least it provides a circle, each outside experience dovetailing back into the eventual plays. The kids have already been taken to the Biafra exhibition, to Harrods, to the National Gallery, to watch the arrival of the Finnish Prime Minister. They were told to talk to everyone and act it out on their return. Today, after rehearsals, they get a lesson in revolutionary tactics and a blueprint of the power structure from Roland Muldoon of CAST; the archetypal theatre group who act out aspects of society and encourage publie debate afterwards. Tomorrow—“you must

point this out, we are trying to get some balance In”—a National Front spokesman has been invited. Future plans include speakers from London School of Economics, the Squatters’ Association, the Schools Action Committeer a drug expert, and a representative of the South African Embassy—“if we can find one.” „ Roland Muldoon, thin, bearded, long hair corkscrewing upwards, sits inside an arc of kids. “Anyone here

who thinks they’re going to get on should just read the statistics,” he says, looking around the earnest faces. “Eighty-seven per cent of the wealth of this country is owned by 13 per cent of the people. Those who work for the wealth must have some control of their destiny. It’s very simple really. All it needs is for the Ford workers, the dockers, to tum round to their employers and say off.” “But they’ll set up the same system afterwards,” says one kid, leaning forward anxiously. "I thoroughly agree with you but you’ll never change things in England.”

A blond boy, his face working with effort, asks Mr Muldoon why he has a beard and long hair. “You want to talk to ordinary people, get them to listen to your ideas. My mum and dad are ordinary people but if you walk in there like that—well, it wouldn’t work, would it? I wish people like you would wear ties and bowler hats.”

One of the school groups set up a gibbet, nooses round the necks of two whooping girls. A “judge,” gestering at the two, harangues the audience in throbbing tones. “Shall we hang them or shall it be life imprisonment It's up to you, the jury.” “Hang ’em, kill ’em, death—yeah,” shout the jury with great gusto. A drama teacher hovers anxiously, interrupting, “Why don’t you ask why they murdered?” A boy shouts, “It’s not our fault, is it? The harder the deterrent, the less likely people are to break the law.” Loud applause and cheers. The drama teacher’s face crumples. Jane Howell says Its the most difficult, the most frightening, the most enjoyable thing she’s ever done and she’s got £4OO to do it with. “I didn’t want to impose any text on them, just to find a subject that would arouse conflicting views. I wanted to understand them, just understand them. And in return, show them some of our techniques.” During rehearsals the kids cripple themselves with laughter, they shout and crash about Their reactions are quick, cynical, pragmatic —it is easy to see the comic side: adults full of ideals, children disillusioned and cautious. In the discussion groups later they are more thoughtful and desperate to be informed, to understand. Their faces strain with it, their eyes never leave the speakers. They are very touching, very honest, very scared. Is it really possible to change the inexorable pattern of their lives? “You’ll all be married in a couple of years, hung round with kids. You'll settle

ror a two-up, two-down in Dagenham and a week’s holiday by the sea. Is that what you want?” shouts Mr Muldoon. The kids—rough, tough, nearly adult—look

down at their hands, in silence.