A Monster Calls was a children’s story. It is about a child. It was conceived and written for children (at least in its book form). But the Old Vic’s current production, directed by Sally Cookson, involves no children, and the audience, at least in my memory of it, consisted mostly of adults. This is not necessarily a criticism, simply an observation. I’ve been grappling with how to talk about this play – which I really enjoyed – and its power, and I keep coming back to thinking about children’s stories. Art, particularly theater, created for children is generally thought of as simplistic and sentimental. Examples I can think of are Disney adaptations such as The Lion King or The Little Mermaid, or British pantomime. While these works all have their own value, they also entail a degree of capitalistic spectacle that reinforces theatrical convention and thematic safety. A Monster Calls certainly does not fall into this category. Its embrace of its own theatricality and its willingness to engage with violence, elements of horror, pain, and shame make it something stranger and lovelier.
Western childhood is arguably a relatively recent construct within the arc of human history. As child labor laws began to take effect after the Industrial Revolution, the “value” of children shifted from the economic realm to the emotional realm, and was cemented there by sentimentalism. I point this out to illustrate that the way we conceive of children’s fragility and capacity is not fixed. There is no reason that complex art cannot be made for children, and yet particularly in the theater, it is a rarity.
However, A Monster Calls isn’t necessarily for children. On the Old Vic’s website there is a warning which reads “A Monster Calls is a wonderful story which, although there is a strong magical element, is primarily for a young adult and adult audience due to some themes that younger audiences may find upsetting.” But, through out the play, there were moments of explicit exposition and dialogue, such as the “morals” of the first two tales, which felt geared towards a younger audience. It is easy to say these moments detract from the flow of the whole of the performance, and I initially found them aesthetically off-putting. But upon reflection, this commitment to clarity ultimately resulted in the most powerful moment of the play: when the monster tells Connor very gently and simply that the truth of his thoughts cannot be bad, and he must speak them in order to be free.
Which brings me back to the theater full of adults. I suppose the question I’ve been wrestling with is whether or not Sally Cookson’s production remains a children’s story. And if it does, what the purpose is in telling a children’s story for adults. Why is it important for older people to bear witness to these worst moments of a thirteen year old’s life? Is there some harm done by taking this story away from the children for whom it was conceived? I’m not really sure, but the best answer I have at the moment has to do with that commitment to clarity. Despite years of cultivating an appreciation for a message that is ‘shown’, I started to sob only when the monster told me something, like a child. There is a power in directness that children’s stories don’t shy away from. My (mostly) adult self found it incredibly meaningful.
I still have many questions about the feasibility and ethics of telling a children’s story for adults, and children’s place in the theatre. But I am so grateful to have seen this production that honors childhood’s complexities and makes beauty of its language.
