Laughter is essential and therapeutic

Have you heard of the Purim Spiel? Perhaps you’ve seen the herpetic crop of advertising boards that re-appear every February around Caulfield. Or noticed the cringingly punny titles that twist popular culture through the pretzel eye view-finder of Yiddish word-play.

But if you’ve never wedged yourself into seat E14 between Mrs Goldberg and Mr Finklestein at the Phoenix Theatre, you don’t know what you’re missing. Because in many ways it defies description.

But let me try.

The Purim Spiel is a joyful project I was privileged to resurrect from my family history sixteen years ago, having grown up watching my late Grandma Elaine Bloch at the helm. Founded in the 1950s by a handful of people gathering for a witty play in a suburban living room, the Spiel grew into an eagerly anticipated annual theatrical and social experience for the Melbourne Jewish Community, running for over 30 years until the early 1990s under Grandma’s steady leadership. In 2009 I took on the task of resuscitating the Spiel, and it has been hugely gratifying to coax it into its current iteration: an irreverent and original live musical comedy show that is equal parts theatre and inclusive celebration of Jewish life.

I’ve always loved the theatre. Deeply and superficially and – due to an unfortunate lack of talent – unrequitedly. I love the music and costumes and choreography. And oh, the escapism. So the minute I got to high school – we’re talking a solid few decades ago – of course I tried out for the musical. And was promptly and resoundingly rejected. Because acting nearly always has an inbuilt barrier; it’s called an audition, and it’s inherently exclusive. On Broadway, that’s fair enough. But right from the start I wanted the Purim Spiel to be open to anyone who wanted to get involved. I understood instinctively that what could light up a stage better than a Fresnel or a Par Can or a Follow Spot – excuse me flexing my showbiz cred – was pure enthusiasm.

To me, inclusion is just saying yes. Yes, let’s make it work. Yes, tell me what you need. Yes, you have something of value to contribute. Yes, I’m not an expert but I can be a friend.

In Leviticus we are commanded to ‘love your neighbour as yourself’. According to Rambam it is the 206th mitzvah, and according to Anglican theologists it is the Golden Rule. In the Talmud, Hillel famously inverted the concept, turning it into a negative injunction: ‘That which you despise, do not do unto your neighbour. This is the whole Torah; the rest is commentary.’

But theory alone is really not enough. In 1973, John Darley and Daniel Batson, a pair of Princeton social psychologists, devised an infamous experiment to try and figure out what makes people put this concept into practice. Theology students were recruited and asked to prepare a talk – some on the topic of becoming a minister, and some on the Good Samaritan parable from the New Testament. The well-known parable tells the story of two holy men who failed to stop and help a roadside traveller who had been robbed and injured – but a Samaritan did. The theology students were told to go and deliver their talks in a nearby building where an audience was waiting. Some were told that they were late and needed to hurry, and some were told there was no rush. On the way, each student met an actor slumped in a doorway moaning and coughing – replicating the circumstances of the Good Samaritan tale. Of course, having prepared a lecture on the Good Samaritan had no effect at all on whether the student actually stopped to help the victim. What made a difference was whether the student had been told to hurry. Their altruism was entirely situational, and not based on disposition or values.

We all understand this pressure of time. Busy lives make it difficult to practice what we preach; to pause and be kind.

The beauty of putting on a show is that it forces you to slow down. It takes an enormous amount of time – hours upon hours upon hours. And it only works when everyone helps each other. So almost without realising it, when the curtain goes up on opening night you find that you have created not only a piece of theatre but also a family.

In 1995, Harvard sociologist Robert Putnam shot to fame with his book Bowling Alone, in which he described the decline of social capital in modern life. He explained that social capital is a type of societal wealth that has nothing to do with money and everything to do with cooperation, connection and trust. In other words, loving your neighbour as yourself.

The Purim Spiel has become a community, a tribe, that is filthy rich in social capital.

Alongside the perfectly imperfect creativity and artistry, there is a foundational ethos of generosity, contribution and goodwill. We are proud Zionist Jews at a point in history where that has a new and terrible resonance, and all profits from the Purim Spiel are sent to Emunah in Israel, a truly amazing social welfare organisation that provides lifesaving services to more than 12,000 children and families at risk.

But in many ways I believe the impact of the Spiel is greatest right here. Because even with no expectation of reciprocity, any volunteer will tell you that they gain more than they give. Because there is meaning in connection and kindness. Because saying yes to organic, uncontrived inclusion brings the most wonderful people together. And because laughter is essential and therapeutic.

Talia Boltin is the writer and producer of the Purim Spiel.

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