Body language: Raimund Hoghe and Lorenzo De Brabandere in Sacre - The Rite Of Spring. Photograph: Tristram Kenton
A few years back, I saw a brilliant production of Romeo and Juliet - so often such a dreary play - directed by Alan Lyddiard in Newcastle. Influenced strongly by the work of Fellini and Alain Platel, it took a steely and totally unromantic approach to Shakespeare's play, right down to the casting. The young actors playing the title roles were not the sylphlike beauties who normally get to play the lovers. In fact, they were very ordinary looking and - like most of us - a bit on the podgy side. It was a wonderful piece of casting and absolutely right for the production; not to have mentioned their physical appearance in the review would, I think, have been a dereliction of duty.
But when should reviewers comment on the physical appearance of actors and when do such comments become offensive? After all, no mention of Simon Russell Beale seems complete without reference to his weight; when he played Hamlet, the wits had a field day with their "tubby or not tubby" headlines. I ask the question because Jenny Gilbert's recent Independent on Sunday review of Raimunde Hoghe's Sacre - The Rite of Spring, which was in London as part of the Spill festival, has caused consternation and disquiet in performance circles. For many years the dramaturge for Pina Bausch's Tanztheater Wuppertal, Hoghe views his body as the starting point for his practice which explores notions of beauty. He suggests that "to see bodies on stage that do not comply with the norm is important - not only with regard to history but also with regard to present developments, which are leading humans towards the status of design objects". Hoghe's physique is certainly not the conventional body beautiful of so many dancers. He places his body up there on the stage for all to see. So is it offensive when Gilbert refers to his "hump"?
Many have found it so, and perhaps we need to consider the way in which physical appearances are considered fair game by both reviewers and audiences, particularly when those actors' bodies do not conform to the norm or if they have a physical impairment. For many years now, we have had colour-blind casting and both critics and audiences have no difficulty with that whatsoever, although perhaps it wasn't always the case. I recall another production of Romeo and Juliet a decade or more ago where a critic mused endlessly on the genetic permutations that might have led a white-skinned Lord and Lady Capulet to produce a black Juliet. Thankfully, those times are over.
But when disabled actors are cast, their appearance is often seen as a target. I was at a recent performance of Whiter Than Snow, produced by disabled-led theatre company Graeae, where a party of schoolchildren laughed uproariously and commented long and loud on the stature of some of the actors in the company. Even professional critics seem to have more difficulty when it comes to casting actors with physical impairments than they do with casting that cuts across race or gender. When Graeae joined forces with Paines Plough and Frantic Assembly to produce On Blindness, one reviewer expressed astonishment that the role of a portrait painter was taken by "a Thalidomide victim with truncated arms. This seems odd, considering his occupation." My own experiences of Graeae's work have often been very different. Kiruna Stamell's performance in Whiter Than Snow, as a young woman who longs to play Snow White but because of her stature is always cast as a dwarf, is up there with the very best I've seen this year.
The right to comment on physical appearance extends beyond disabled actors. Whenever a woman stands up on stage, she is immediately fair game for comment to be passed about her physical appearance, the size of her hips and the shape of her nose. However, as Alan Lyddiard's production of Romeo and Juliet proved, casting against type can pay dividends, move us out of our comfort zone and make us reassess well-known plays. Over the years, some of my best nights at the theatre have come courtesy of Complicite, a company that since its very inception has always recognised the beauty in physical oddity. I think of Kathryn Hunter's limp, utilised in The Visit, or the wild Mick Barnfather and diminutive Lilo Baur in The Three Lives of Lucie Cabrol. Hollywood may be fixated on air-brushed perfection but when I go to the theatre I want to see a mix of body shapes and levels of prettiness that reflect the world around us. It is the fact that they don't conform to conventional ideals of beauty that makes some of my favourite actors all the more interesting to watch.
