When I was younger, I loved hyperbole. Not in an adolescent ‘I hate my life’ way (I didn’t), but more in a ‘what can language do’ way. Even before my oestrogen levels took a hike, I had a tendency to get a bit passionate in conversation, and swing between outright worship or mistrustful indignation and anger. It got other people to react and it was fun to see what language could do.
But lately, in conversation, I've noticed another, more generalised use of hyperbole. I use it the same way I rub invisible bits of dirt in the corner of my eye: to put painful, laborious emphasis on something that wasn't there in the first place.
It’s a tendency I dislike in others and myself - ‘it was the worst night of my life’ about a fairly routine Friday evening; 'I'm dying here' on a slightly fatigued Monday morning in the office. Being 'ok' is not enough, we have to be 'great' or 'on the edge'. A linguistic muddle where the mundane has become the startlingly extreme.
On the Guardian's football homepage this weekend, there was this article on a similar phenomenon: the desperately hyperbolic football punditry of Jamie Redknapp and his categorisation of 'top top top top' players.
(Jamie Redknapp this is not personal; you were an affable Liverpool captain and pretty good player, but it is difficult impossible to understand your habit of making terrible adverts and inability to buy a pair of trousers that fit...just one size up, and you’ll be able to stay seated without wincing. Imagine the freedom!)
'top top top top' is an example of hyperbole that remains mostly within the football punditry world; a world without a clear, common consensus by which to judge quality. But what about Jamie's love of 'literally'? Redknapp uses it all the time. The video link in the previous sentence is just one case in point. Commenting on the difficulty of defending against the Gunners in 2009, tells us- "you literally have to have your head on a swivel as a defender".
Aside from the fact that now it’s possible to survive the Arsenal defence with severe whiplash, there’s something more troubling – and recognisable - going on with Jamie’s turn of phrase.
‘literally’ here makes the real unreal, spinning us into a realm where footballers, like owl-ish marionettes, are all swivelling their heads in contentment to stop Cesc Fabregas. Instead of taking us to the concrete, it refers to some imagined, virtual playground of sorry metaphors that we're all assumed to have in common.
And that’s the scary thing. Jamie's punditry is symptomatic of a widespread anxiety of communication. We use ‘literally’ all the time, without even hearing it, to say things we don’t – can’t - think or feel.
‘I was literally on fire’
‘It was a nightmare....literally.’
We even use it to emphasise things we would do –
‘I literally want to take all my clothes off.’
- but we'll never do them, of course, because we can just say it really, really, like, strongly...
The result isn’t just a weird hiccup of meaning. It's a crisis: a rift in social communication and subjective experience.
The tendency to say we 'love' things when we don't, or describe anything as the 'most x experience of my entire life' masks an insecurity about how we experience, understand and communicate our feelings. They're flourishes of social storytelling which happens most acutely with groups of three or more people. We feel some invisible pressure to present ourselves, and our lives, as sensational.
But what does that mean for those big, sensational experiences when a hyperbolic, ‘unreal’ figure of speech, would usually have been used. Linguistic hyperbole, a collection of wildly exaggerated empty phrases, is used by me, and the Sky Sports pundits, and lots of our friends, to refer to nothing but other figures of speech. How can we get closer to the truth when the adverbs denoting 'the real' or the true have been hijacked? Can we understand how we feel if we can’t rightly express it?
The first time I saw Hofesh Shechter's Political Mother, on July 15th 2010, I emerged from the auditorium flapping and crunching and convulsing inside (I did convulse outside too- in the toilet though; Sadlers Wells audiences are polite). It was an almost religious experience. And trying to communicate that, it wasn't even like I wanted to use big words or extravagant speech; but like I had a massive phrase inside me, in my nerves and my blood. The only way to communicate...whatever it was...was in shapes, movement, shouts.
I saw the show twice last week, 'The Choreographer's Cut', on its return to Sadlers Wells. And as I left, that feeling came back again: like I needed to bounce around everyone; like I had devoured language; hyperbole was pointless.
Political Mother is so loud, so visually frantic and so powerfully manipulated that you can barely think, only feel its argument, the frustration and fury, recognise the enslavement of all these brothers and sisters in humanity, fighting against their own bodies, having their movements and freedoms released and absorbed and appended by all manner of shifting lofty powers - the band; rhythm itself; the lights; the military dictator, the politician, the rock god persona screaming and contorting atop the stage.
It shows us how power shapes and squeezes the way humans communicate. How we share the same human impulse to commune, to express and share with others. And how the rhetoric of power, of the state, orders and organizes physical movement; and how the very shape and organisation of these movements dictates the impulses and shapes of the rebellions against them.
But it isn’t a simple case of institution=bad, individual=good. Rather, Political Mother literalises hyperbole. It shoves political exaggeration down into the body and its synapses, then let’s it play out amongst a group of people. How this squeezing and organising of impulses shoots off in new directions - new dances – but also how the same shapes come back around.
All these recurring themes: raised arms and bowed heads of the dancers, which arises again and again; lined up facing the audience, overseen by a man in a gorilla mask; backs to the audience, sat down obediently, arms raised to the rock bad above. And their faces – either downcast, chins to their chests, heads bowed; or reverently upwards, the tilt of a worshipper, be it of a late night rave or a military dictator; or both at the same time, headbanging in what seems like the smoothest, most cohesive wave.
It’s dance as an argument, made all the more true, and apt when text intervenes at the very end, coyly illuminating LEDS in pairs of words:
WHERE THERE IS PRESSURE THERE IS FOLKDANCE
The text is both a dictum and a joke; a statement made tautological when you actually see the bodies DOING it.
And when this phrase flashes up, with some titters of laughter, you realise just how profoundly you have been sucked into the argument too.
We are another group, crowd, that is being exercised upon by the rhetoric of power. The dancers, for the most part, face the same way as us. They see what we see. We see their backs, as they too stare up at the flashing lights; we look the same way, up at the figures of power, with a mixture of fear, disbelief, excitement and, at times, reticence. (The wonderful moment when one by one the worshippers turn away as their buttoned up politician does some dancing of his own.)
For me the show is not a straight criticism of structures of all power, but of believing too much, of giving up totally to the 'logic' of the rhetoric, the logic of the system. Losing your grip on reality - and in turn losing your grip on your body, and how you express the most simple of impulses and feelings. Which is why audiences leave so energised, so hyped: because they have been pumped full of this message and set back onto the world, suddenly released from the darkness of the auditorium into the drizzly greylight of the street.
And ultimately that argument doesn’t just take place on stage: it takes place in the spectator, in the feelings and assaults on the senses. Does it just make us another appended body, another absorber of rhetoric? Probably.
But experiencing Political Mother is experiencing why language is so muddled at the moment...it makes real and tangible the rhetorical desperation, the trying to pin down security, meaning, of life. It makes expressing yourself, physical expression, a crisis. Just because we don’t believe extreme language anymore doesn’t mean that extremity and its consequences have gone away. Hyperbole itself has become irrelevant in language, but desperate in feeling.
No comments:
Post a Comment