The Green Man & Regular Fellows: In The Thicket Of It

It will soon become clear why our Regular Fellows like to come back time and time again.

Reactor’s The Green Man & Regular Fellows opened its doors at twelve noon on the dot, not a second too late. The Landlord runs a tight ship. Despite promises of a warm and friendly welcome, I crossed the threshold harbouring a certain amount of trepidation. Three hours later I’m leaving in high spirits wearing a neck brace. This might take some explaining.

Reactor is an established contemporary collective that makes immersive artworks with a strong emphasis on social dynamics and in which audience members become active participants. In Reactor’s work, installation and performance combine in exciting and new ways. Answers are not readily apparent. Sometimes even the questions are elusive.

Among Reactor's many past projects, Total GHAOS (2005) was an event in which participants became members of an imagined ideological regime informed by the double-think of past communist and dictatorial states. The Green Man & Regular Fellows appears to follow similar, albeit much less politically revolutionary, lines. In this project “the nature of membership as a social construct manifests itself in a series of temporary groups and levels of fellowship”, taking place in the juxtaposition of a traditional public house and a private members’ club.

The idea of membership extends across many platforms, from the banal - the sports or social club -, to the important - the party political or local community. I hesitantly applied for membership for this particularly shadowy organisation. Early adherents were rewarded with regular electronic newsletter updates. Two weeks prior to the pub’s mysterious appearance, a membership letter arrived in the post, complete with membership card, an extensive list of house rules, and a free drink token.  These I brandish at the doorman, who duly ticked off my name, crossed off one of the four blank boxes on the card, and directed me towards the 'Members Only' door. I am already nonplussed. This place is indeed a contradiction in terms, a 'public house' accepting entry only to listed patrons.

I was inn. Trade Gallery at One Thoresby Street has been transformed into a wholly convincing period pub bar: sawdust is spread across the floor; jugs of drink and generous mounds of nuts and grapes rest on wooden tables like still life scenes; crude toilet graffiti is scribbled in the stalls. Are you regular? Wanton seed wanted? Call me on... The nuanced attention to detail added a profound level of authenticity. Beneath this tangible surface stretched an invisible social network, branching at the periphery into twigs of transient rapport.

Invited to play one of the pub games in The Games Room, it was from then on that the crux of the experience began to unfold, a gentle but revealing beginning. A table top cross between billiards, croquet and The Green Man knows what else, the game demonstrated the underlying machinery behind this many layered live relational artwork. Here was a set of objects, temporary teams of players, a playing field, and a constant revision of the stakes, the game version shifting nominal location from Nottingham to Birmingham via Leicester. I even christened a demolition-goaled version of the rules: Derby.

Where nothing was what it seemed, the very regular fellows of The Green Man dispensed different versions of the facts, fabricated narrative and evaded probing questions, all confined within a rigid fellowship hierarchy: Regulars and Irregulars, and members and non-members, presided over by The Landlord, who, lest we forget, 'may terminate any membership with immediate effect’. (Rule No. 14). Arbitrary rules were adhered to under threat of arbitrary recrimination. Burst a balloon with a throw of a dart to get your round of drinks in. Always knock before passing through a door. And on no occasion forget to leave a door open, The Landlord doesn't like that.

Beckons the door marked 'Private'.

There is the conventional pub quiz, in which 29% of previous players answered question two in round three correctly. The prize is a harvest hamper. Given time to reflect, the quiz contained a litany of subtle clues, questions referencing James George Frazer's "The Golden Bough" and carved capitals. For this fellow, the meaning of dwile flunking, if that is indeed the right term, remains a mystery. Learning the coded jargon was a vital means of progression.

Play acting operated both ways: between those in the know and the less informed participants. Social exchange was skilfully handled. Unsettlingly so. Unawares, I advanced further into the fraternal fray, gleaning information on a drip-fed-need-to-know-wink-wink basis. The brotherhood was about to turn sinister.

Would I like to make a beard? I accept. Marking the first bestowal of responsibility, I and another fellow are shown the production chain for the making of felt facial hair and entrusted with passing the knowledge on. This takes place in The Pan-Tree, one of the many backrooms concealed behind the 'Private' door. Behind the scenes, we're offered tea or coffee. We see where the food is assembled and the drinks mixed. We're in a staged backstage. I've moved up a level. Singing and laughter filtered through wall. For he's a jolly good fellow...

With activities themed around the iconography of the foliate head and the associated mythology, the day dips its foot in the folkloric. The video installation in The Function Room, The Guild, detailed the dark side of the establishment, objects used on screen in strange rituals reappearing physically in some of the pub games. From this, I develop a heightened awareness of the cultish aspects of many forms of membership.

Would I like a facial? An innocent enough proposal. Events rapidly descend into mayhem. The Barber's Surgery adjoins The Pan-Tree. On entry, a man is having his head shaved by said barber and a woman is tied to a bed, a mad doctor, The Quack, shouting curative words over her. Having provided a seat and professionally administered a damp towel doused in eucalyptus oil, the facial expert worries for the health of my neck after a prolonged period at an unnatural angle. A neck brace is prescribed, which must remain on for the rest of my stay. This isn't a joke. I acquiesce.

Meanwhile a bizarre Guild play, involving a goat, a fainting lady and a clucking animal, and other more outlandish performances were taking place in the bar. The convivial atmosphere has become frenzied and feverish. At one point, I autonomously invite and escort another participant to meet The Quack, mimicking the actions of a fully-fledged fellow. I'm gaining status. Not long after, the proverbial rug is unceremoniously pulled and I'm largely dehumanised, the bottom of the ranks. For starters, I've earned the moniker 'Neck Brace'.

Music pipes up, a large piece of paper is placed in my hands and I'm instructed to stand up on the bench. So there I am, an elevated human post holding up a sheet of song lyrics. How did I end up in this situation? Green Man, King of the Wood. Green Man, Wild One, Wise One. Do pieces of human furniture sing? I ventured a few mumbled syllables. Was I the nominated village idiot or was this the next humiliating phase in an unspoken initiation?  At the risk of sounding like a corny paranormal TV show presenter, I was very much entrapped in the Reactor zone. Ensnared but willingly implicated. Both inwardly grinning and cringing.

During my time at The Green Man & Regular Fellows, I'd been unwittingly led through a series of dislocated behaviours, sometimes uncomfortable, like a row of kinks in the otherwise ordered vertebrae of the neck.  And, in spite of the painful simile, it was a positive and transformational experience. In fact, I wait impatiently for the pub's reappearance. Where did it come from, and who is it for?  I'm all too aware that I only scratched its barky surface, peering through gaps in dense foliage. I hold uneasy doubts about some of the things I said and the ways in which I behaved. Nonetheless, I'd repeat similar follies to re-enter this maze of closed doors and reach at last, as if part of a twisted fairytale, The Lodge in The Woods with The Beard Tree.

Reactor, you've done what you do best; pulling me in hook, line and sinker, you’ve created a space that impacted on and subtly altered my perception of the outside world.

I'll remember to close the door.

The Green Man & Regular Fellows took place between 30th September - 2nd October 2011 at Trade Gallery, One Thoresby Street