Selina Mills

Back in the 1990s, if you were disabled in the UK or US, and you believed that being disabled was more about self-determination and less about being left in care homes, you might have protested with banners declaring 'Nihil de Nobis, sine Nobis' ('Nothing about us without us').  The call – allegedly first used by a 15th-century Polish political party – was taken up by disability activists who wanted the non-disabled world to consider how the material world was rarely designed or included disabled people. This fact itself was 'disabling'.  Thus, they asked, why not build a ramp, instead of a staircase, so we can all use it? Or make print readable for everyone, as we all will need glasses at some point?

A few years ago, I was sitting in the London Library researching a book about blind people across the ages. As a semi-blind person myself, I sighed at the lack of women, other than the endlessly chipper Helen Keller, who never had a bad day. Ever. My sister, however, drew my attention to a two-line wiki entry for the 18th-century composer, singer and professor — and darling of the Viennese musical court — Maria Theresia von Paradis (1759–1824). Ten years passed, and after many hours of research in libraries and chats with music scholars, we now find ourselves — to our utter amazement — co-writing a chamber opera about her life.

Okay, I admit it. I have a girl crush on Juliet Stevenson. Ever since I first saw her in the 1990 film Truly, Madly, Deeply with Alan Rickman, I have loved her sexy, round and intelligent tones. Imagine how excited I was to discover, therefore, that you can have Juliet in your ear for a whole hour and 15 minutes while you sit through a so-called ‘sound installation’ — or rather an audio staging — of Blindness, the current offering at the Donmar Warehouse and the first opening since lockdown. Sitting in a darkened theatre studio, with strobe lighting and headphones, you are seated in your own space, and socially distanced from 40 other people.

Audio description, or AD, as it is fondly called, is coming of age. Once consigned to the utility room of grey voices reading boring cues to inform blind people what was going on on stage or screen, AD is now a dynamic narrative form that is findinga presence in almost all the arts (from opera, theatre and film to art galleries and museums). It is so widespread and well done that many consider it an art form in itself. For the uninitiated, audio description simply provides a listener, through headphones or a TV speaker, with the essential details of the action and events in a film or play during a convenient pause. When done well, it does not intrude on an audience’s experience of the play, the acting or the director’s intention, but instead shapes and enhances it.

Here we go again. Partridges in pear trees. Lovely big Christmas turkey. The Queen’s speech. And then, at some point during the Yuletide season, some version or other of Dickens’s ghost story A Christmas Carol. This year’s glut of Scrooge stories includes the Old Vic’s major production starring Rhys Ifans (reviewed by Lloyd Evans in last week’s Spectator) and Michael Rosen’s retelling of the tale, Bah! Humbug! There is a new film, The Man Who Invented Christmas, featuring Christopher Plummer as Scrooge and Dan Stevens, he of Downton Abbey fame, as Mr Dickens himself. It plots the months running up to the publication of A Christmas Carol in Yuletide 1843.

The moment you invite friends to some new ‘cutting-edge’ disability theatre or film, most swallow paroxysms of social anxiety. What if it’s dull? Am I allowed to yawn? What if I hate it? How interminably politically correct will it be? Do I want to think about ‘disability’ on a fun night out? While most objections can be overcome by a convincing performance, it is interesting to ask whether disability makes a difference to art, or does art transcend disability? If the current crop of plays and films, not to mention disability production companies, is anything to go by, the answer is yes to both, and we should want more of them.

I did not mean to snort so loudly. There I was watching the amazing Simon Russell Beale in King Lear at the National Theatre and things were all getting a bit nasty — what with daughters scheming and people having their eyes gouged out. And then, through a small earpiece, which no one else could hear, I heard the immortal words, said in a deep and quiet voice: ‘Lear enters to find Goneril clenched in tight embrace with Edgar. He clasps her tightly.’ At my snort, a very serious man behind me tapped me on the shoulder and ‘shushed’ me. He had no idea that I was tuned into the wonderful world of audio description, or AD as the industry refers to it. For the uninitiated, AD has been around for some time.