Sarah Kane – In-yer-face theatre
London, January 1995. A cold rain slicks the streets of Sloane Square as theatergoers file into the tiny upstairs auditorium of the Royal Court Theatre. They don’t know quite what they’re in for, but rumors have been swirling: a new play by a 23-year-old woman that is supposed to be shocking beyond belief. The lights dim, and Blasted begins. On stage, a hotel room is meticulously realized: floral bedspread, room service tray, the soft buzz of a TV in the background. A middle-aged man, heavyset and rough around the edges, enters with a young woman, nervous and wary. The first scene proceeds almost like a conventional drama—an uneasy seduction-cum-power-struggle between Ian, a foul-mouthed tabloid journalist, and Cate, a frail, childlike woman in her twenties. The audience settles in, thinking perhaps this will be an intense but familiar chamber piece about abuse or love gone wrong. Indeed, Ian’s crass jokes and Cate’s panic attacks create tension. Then suddenly, about halfway through, reality rips open—literally. An explosion rocks the theatre; the stage goes dark. When lights return, the hotel room’s wall has been blown apart. Rubble is everywhere. And in through the gaping hole steps a soldier with an assault rifle, eyes burning with fury. The play shifts in an instant from personal horror to war nightmare. Over the next brutal scenes, that soldier will terrorize Ian and Cate. At one point, in one of the most notorious moments in modern theatre, the Soldier pins Ian down and gouges out his eyes. Gasps fill the audience; a woman in the third row vomits into her handbag. Some people stand abruptly, stumbling for the exit—one man mutters “This is filth!” as he leaves. But others are frozen in their seats, faces pale, unable to look away from the relentless unfolding of violence and despair on stage.
