By Damian Flanagan

One of the memorable highlights for me last year was that moment in the New Zealand parliament when a Maori MP suddenly transformed from giving a reasoned opinion on a contentious bill into a full-scale haka, furiously gesticulating and fulminating in the type of war dance we more usually associate with the commencement of major All Blacks rugby matches.

The MP, Hana-Rawhiti Maipi-Clarke, dramatically tore up the bill and descended the stairs of the parliament as her haka continued and she was joined by other Maori MPs. I must confess that when I first saw this, it appeared almost comical in the setting, but as I reflected on it more, I really came to appreciate it. It was as if a rather staid parliamentary session was suddenly elevated to electrifying theatre.

Was it not inappropriate to act this way in a parliament? I don't think it was, because a parliament is about expressing how you feel about something and quite often you can't express that in a monotone rational discourse -- or at least if you do, nobody will be listening. (I was reminded of the old British joke, "If you want to keep something a secret, give a speech about it in the House of Commons".)

There are all kinds of theatrical techniques to grab the listeners' attention, to move them emotionally and suddenly connect with them in a visceral way. Too often we convince ourselves that "democracy" equates to extremely boring speeches being passed back and forward between besuited technocrats. But we would do well to remember that the original creators of democracy, the ancient Athenians, were also the original creators of Western theatre, and that drama and philosophical and political thought were all profoundly interconnected in the Greek mind. The art of rhetoric -- the ability to speak and perform in front of a crowd -- was one of the most prized of classical arts. The theatre and the parliament are after all children of the same parent.

When I looked at the Maori MP, however, it wasn't Greece, but another theatrical tradition that immediately floated into my mind. I was struck by the similarities between Maipi-Clarke's performance and the Japanese Kabuki stage. There is a moment of heightened tension in Kabuki theatre when an actor suddenly strikes a mie pose, an exaggerated outer display of inner emotion or turmoil, and holds it for an unnaturally long period of time that has the effect of intensifying the drama, often prompting shouts and emotional outbursts from the audience. Only when I saw Maipi-Clarke perform did I realize that the haka and the Kabuki mie are at heart the same theatrical technique.

I began to think how much more interesting the Japanese parliamentary sessions might be if occasionally one of their MPs suddenly adopted a mie pose to electrify the session. Over the years, I have occasionally tried to follow Japanese parliamentary proceedings, but have long since given up because of the brute tedium of watching soul-less politicians' formalistic tos and fros. This dull derivative of a European original does not to me represent "democracy", but misconstrues what "democracy" is to begin with. Just as modern theatre needs to engage at some level with modern politics, modern parliaments need to engage with a sense of theatre if they wish to engage a wider interest in the democratic process.

My mind ran to a fantasy of parliaments around the world that could engage more fully with their native theatrical traditions. In the Italian parliament, a speech maker after boring his audience with an hour-long torrent of words might suddenly break into an operatic aria to more fully communicate what he has to say, and is rejoined by a soprano in fierce opposition from the other side of the chamber.

Many parliaments around the world are based on the model of the British parliament, the House of Commons, but seem to have extracted from it the most tedious aspects of its debating procedures. Yet the House of Commons is still in some distant communication with British theatrical traditions, most notably those of the Music Hall. The highlight of the parliamentary week is Prime Minister Questions, when the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition trade carefully scripted jokes about each other and their parties.

In Britain, the new Tory Party leader Kemi Badenoch recently attempted to establish her credentials, and gain public interest, by making various biscuit-related puns in connection with the parent company of a famous biscuit manufacturer showing reluctance to invest in the U.K. This also allowed the opportunity to refer to the deputy prime minister as a "ginger nut".

"While the PM has been hobnobbing in Brazil, businesses have been struggling to digest his budget," referring to not one but two popular types of British biscuit in a single sentence -- Hobnobs and digestives. She punningly continued: "Isn't it the case the Employment Rights Bill shows that it is not only the ginger nut that is causing him problems?"

In this world, real and imagined, of a politician trying to emulate the actions of a theatre performer, I began to think what the American politicians would do to enliven their sessions. What native theatrical tradition would they feed into?

Not the haka, not the Kabuki, not the opera, not the Music Hall. What could it be? And then, right on cue, at stage right, Donald Trump provided the answer by doing the memorable little dance routine that became one of the defining images of his whole extraordinary re-election campaign. Of course. The Americans would dance to rock and roll.

When U.S. Congressional sessions get so dull that we can barely keep our eyes open, one of the Congressmen or -women will finally recall the theatrical origins of it all, stand up in the aisle and dance in happiness or sorrow, in jubilation or despair, to more fully express whatever it is that is on their mind. And so Socrates will doff his cap to the art of Dionysus and the ancient rituals of Democracy will be renewed once more.

@DamianFlanagan

(This is Part 56 of a series)

In this column, Damian Flanagan, a researcher in Japanese literature, ponders about Japanese culture as he travels back and forth between Japan and Britain.

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Damian Flanagan is an author and critic born in Britain in 1969. He studied in Tokyo and Kyoto between 1989 and 1990 while a student at Cambridge University. He was engaged in research activities at Kobe University from 1993 through 1999. After taking the master's and doctoral courses in Japanese literature, he earned a Ph.D. in 2000. He is now based in both Nishinomiya, Hyogo Prefecture, and Manchester. He is the author of "Natsume Soseki: Superstar of World Literature" (Sekai Bungaku no superstar Natsume Soseki).