A Conspiracy Of Clowns

Phew.  This is an epic work – both in terms of scope, vision, and performance.  I’ll ‘fess up upfront: I’m not a huge fan of Jazzart’s work at the best of times.  I guess it’s just a question of taste, and a preference for the more theatrical side of dance theatre.  So a new Jazzart work didn’t inspire me with a great feeling of inspiration.  Other than the fact that it is helmed by Lara Foot, arguably the country’s top director and dramaturge.

It’s an intriguing work, unfolding from the first image of a young man entangled in, and weighed down by, the metal arms of a wheelbarrow.  A stark open theatre with no wings features a number of levels of ruined industrial decor and somehow evokes the feeling of a bombed-out cathedral (spirituality no less a victim to the violence and careless destruction of humanity).  This capped off by the omnipresent Coca-Cola sign to remind us of the reach of the capitalist western world, an ominous hanging net, and a number of blurry indistinct bodies slowly moving in the gloom, and the atmosphere of this particular dreamscape is set.

What unfolds is not one logical narrative, but a web of tangled parts which creates a heady, slightly hallucinogenic experience reflecting the very same hallucination that is present day Africa.  It’s not easy stuff.  Themes of gangsterism, violence, civil war, migration, and xenophobia play out on this wrecked dream state, and we the audience are left with a host of conflicting emotions and many uneasy thoughts even now some time after watching it.

Holding the narrative loosely together is the dreamer – either the central young man’s quest to reconcile with his father, or the boy-soldier offering some redemption to young men plagued by a history of violence and little in terms of a future.  In the role of the latter, Chuma Sopotela remains an enigmatic, constant figure – alternatively goading, soothing, and guiding the former’s journey.  I would have liked to have been able to understand more of what Chuma said, as was clearly the intention – her having a radio mike and all.  But unfortunately I didn’t, either because of my inability to understand isiXhosa, or a muddy sound mix on the night which stopped me hearing a lot of the English.  No matter, perhaps words are lost in this particular dreamscape, which maybe is the point: logical thought and speech have broken down, and we are forced into a more visceral, immediate language of survival.  The physicality of her speech gave enough to it to be effective, as did the very muscular and at times unbearably poignant musical score by the extremely talented Neo Muyanga.

The design by Craig Leo was equally muscular – at once muted, wrecked, and subdued, as well as lurid moments of colour and vibrancy.  Which is another way of saying particularly and peculiarly African.  There were some some fascinating sculptures and moving installations (it seemed) carried by various people, and I’d have loved to have had a closer look at what they were carrying.  I remember little jewellery boxes lit up somehow, and wire sculptures and the like, calling to mind the little things we keep most precious and claw to keep in a time of great displacement.  And then, like the fragile things they are, they too are gone.  And I’d have loved to see the dancers use the set more, but maybe again here was the point – spirituality and the delicate hold of religion, or the sacred, is too fragile a thing to rely on at present, so we’d better keep more rooted to the ground.

The dancers were overall pretty impressive – I unfortunately don’t have names to single people out, but there were some awesome scenes and images evoked by a whole host of choreographers under the direction of Alfred Hinkel: Ina Wichterich-Mogane, Ananda Fuchs, Sbonakaliso Ndaba, and John Linden.  Of particular eye-catching attention was the big centrepiece with the net, which called to mind the desperation of crossing fences and borders from one’s war-ravaged country into a neighbouring country which doesn’t promise anything much better.  The love duet involving the wheelbarrow and water was sensually handled. And there was one particularly disturbing scene where the young man is attacked and has his legs gaffer-taped to his wheelbarrow.  It’s an extraordinarily violent scene which, just as it gets going, is all too quickly dissolved, and the gaffer-tape summarily disposed of.  Was that intentional?  The build up of violence, the audience fairly smacking its lips in anticipation (while being slightly sickened at what’s transpiring), the slight disappointment at it being quickly glossed over…man, what does that say about us the audience?

One scene that didn’t quite feel right was the young man’s interaction, and ultimate reconciliation (I think), with his father.  The father’s speech created a curious dissonance within the work as a whole…but maybe this too was intentional – maybe the older generation is as lost as we are, and in the current maelstrom of violence and confusion, we have no historical recourse to find mediation.  Clever, tricky directors and choreographers…

But on the whole, the evening belonged to Lara Foot.  Running like a scarlet thread throughout the whole piece is a fierce intelligence, and an even fiercer passion not only for all things theatrical but the interaction between people battling out the big and small themes of our times and our precious, brittle, delicate, beautiful country.  She is a past master at creating physical restrictions for her performers to grapple with (the wheelbarrow, net, and other things reminding me of Ruth’s pile of salt or bed strapped to her back in Tshepang, or a number of other images in other plays), and in this way recalls the great dramatist Samuel Beckett who did similarly – burying Winnie under sand in Happy Days, characters in wheelchairs or bins in Endgame, or the actress reduced to a speaking mouth only in Not I.  It creates a particular tension that smacks straight into the gut and bypasses any logical understanding, instead reminding us of theatre’s incredible gift of presence and the shared moment.  Heady, crazy, beautiful, and ugly stuff.

And that’s a fairly apt description for the whole evening.  It’s not an easy work.  It grapples with BIG ISSUES and doesn’t offer any easy answers.  The impact is left with us to figure out, discard (like we shouldn’t), or grapple with (which we should).  Powerful?  Yes.  Entertaining?  In a disturbing way, yes.  Above all, it’s a reflection, a meditation, on our current situation, with all the ambiguities and multiple perspectives that that entails.  And that’s what great theatre…nay, that’s what great art should do.

I hope it has a long and healthy life.  I hope it’s seen by thousands of people.  I hope it travels abroad, and beats the crap out of some of the other tat that gets held up as “South African theatre”.  It’s not gonna bring scores of tourists flocking to our peaceful green lands, that’s for sure.  But it’s a document of the times, and in this way must play its part in the continuing dialogue of progression.

So, ultimately, an intriguing night out.  See it if you can.  I have to admit a slight revision for Jazzart – I must admit to feeling pretty damn impressed by them, particularly as 23 of the 33 dancers were trainees.  Yes, trainees.  That’s flippen inspirational.  May they continue to grow and surprise all of us a little bit more each time.

For another view, read Zane Henry’s review in The Argus here.

I’d been hearing a lot of good things about …miskien and am really glad I got to see it last night ‘cos they all true.   Performed by Gideon Lombard and Albert Pretorius and directed by Tara Notcutt, and created by the three, it’s a really beautiful piece on friendship and loneliness and trying to bridge the gap between what we want to say to significant people and what they don’t want to hear.

Ostensibly it’s the story of two guy friends Cormack (Pretorius) and Leighton (Lombard) stuck in dead end jobs and dealing with a strong feminine absence – either in the form of a nagging girlfriend or an array of sexual conquests.  This quickly becomes suspected of being a bit of chest-thumping and covering up for a deep-seated loneliness that the two feel.  There are other things at play, and feelings that will alter the course of friendship, and we are set for a collision course with the inevitable confrontation of these.

This makes for an enthralling journey, and the pace and tension is mostly kept on a sharp edge as we veer between the outwardly bravado and the inwardly intimate.  Pretorius is all bullish, making a meal of the former, while Lombard embodies the latter with delicacy and restraint.  Sure, there are moments when the show careens towards the stereotype line, and sometimes the plight of the two (particularly the ennui of the relationship and job) sits awkwardly on two fresh-faced actors, but for the most part they’re a great stage partnership and the story keeps us enthralled.  Notcutt shows a decisive directorial hand – concise, clear, controlled, but most importantly empowering her performers to let rip with the material, and this they do with aplomb.  It’s beautiful work, perhaps reaching its heartbreaking pinnacle in the final scene, where the words have broken down and the final few minutes relish in the theatre’s great gift of time and presence.  Lekker stuff.  And hopefully we’ll see lots more from them.

This is fresh independent theatre with balls, a great display of young up and coming talent.  Check it at The Intimate ‘til Saturday, but I reckon you’d better book soon – the house was practically sold out and has been for most of the season.  Do it.

And keep an eye on these guys.  If …miskien is anything to go by, they have a great career ahead.  Awesome.

Phew.  I managed to catch the last show of Sarah Kane’s Blasted last night, as part of The Mechanicals’ British Lines Season.  It’s pretty intense stuff – this heady meditation on desolation, loss, despair, and yet, ultimately, love.  In the first part, we find Ian (Langley Kirkwood) and Katie (Gina Pauling) ensconced in a hotel suite while outside there are stirrings of war.  Their domestic sparring, and failed attempts at connection, get interrupted by the entry of a Soldier (Adrian Collins) who invades their room.  What the hotel suite will come to represent, in all its perfect symmetry and paean to modern living, is the thin lie of disguise or facade of humanity, civilisation, and security.  The suite, and the play, literally get blasted apart by a bomb, and the second half degenerates into a bleak look at survival at any cost.  But in between the beginning and the end are all manner of atrocities, large and small, private and impersonal, from the domestic violence playing out between the two old lovers, to the atrocities of war, rape, suicide, cannibalism, and ultra-violence.

Like I said, intense stuff.  And the cast manage to pull it off pretty well.  The first half is emphasised by Pauling’s restraint in playing the soiled innocent, while the second half is dominated by the looser, almost sardonic, nonchalance of Collins.  Caught between the two is Kirkwood who manages to successfully bridge the almost petulant racist and sadist hack journo with the shell of a man he becomes.  Emotionally and vocally the three work very well, and physically too…though for me I’d have liked to have seen a much higher focus on tension – not necessarily the tension of the piece or the scene (which was maintained fairly well) but more an inner tension in the character.  Where we see the character not emoting 100% but physically see them wrestle with what’s going on.  At times it felt too loose, too languid; though this made the ensuing violence and action pretty disturbing in its almost casualness, it also allowed one to disconnect slightly, so you look on a little more objectively.  Maybe that’s the point.

And the set and other stuff is pretty cool, though I did wonder at the fairy wings and iPod earphones of the Soldier (and his air rifle with a scope gaffer taped on…at one point the soldier asks for a smoke and Ian why, so the Soldier says ‘cos I got a gun and you don’t.  It’s not a threatening enough image waving an air gun at a guy – what you gonna do?  Shoot his eye out…oh, hang on…).  Maybe it was the point, that all this meant nothing at all to him, which is pretty grim and disturbing, but ultimately shallow.  Like it’s a comment on the materialism of life or something and not the absolute fragility of it all.  Also I was thinking if the interval was needed…sure, they needed to move stuff around so that it looked like a bombsite, but how awesome would it be if it all happened while we were still in the theatre?  Even if it took a few minutes…picture flickering lights, snatches of action, boots clumping up and down…and then the lights come back up and we’re right there inside the hotel now.  Harrowing.  It was weird to have experienced the blast, then trot outside for a drink and a quick chat and talk about arb stuff while trying to hold onto the feeling and the thread of the story, then back in…ah, it’s changed, lights go down, we see the actors move into position…and off we go again.  The atmosphere after the show was a lot tenser and wired…imagine if that was jacked up even more?

Anyway, these are all carping about what was a really rewarding night out, and so maybe not necessary to mention.  I think what The Mechanicals are doing is awesome.  They are brave, committed, passionate, and very talented theatre makers.  The idea of setting up rep theatre in Cape Town is awesome, their camaraderie is a pleasure to see, and their bravado in staging favourite classics, and controversial contemporary work is exemplary.

Through it all though, the greatest star of the night was Sarah Kane – man, that woman could write!  Blasted has stayed with me through the night, restless dreams, quiet retroflection on life in this country, and all manner of scales of emotion.  That speaks volumes for a playwright (who was so young when she wrote it!) of craft and professionalism, not just sensationalism.  She wrote something that really connected to me (and many many others I’m sure) and has made me think more after a theatre show than I have for a long long time.  Wow.  I think the last time something like this happened was watching Lara Foot Newton’s Tshepang. Like that work, it’s harrowing, it’s haunting, and disturbingly human.

Finally got to see Noah of Cape Town, currently playing at the Baxter Theatre ‘til 1st August.  It’s big, it’s bold, it’s beautiful, and it’s a tribute to the collective vision and will of Graham Weir, Megan Choritz, musical director and arranger Amanda Tiffin, and executive producer Simon Cooper.  OK OK and many awesome singers, directors, designers and the people doing the little jobs behind the scenes.  It’s grand in vision and scope and that’s a cool thing to see on Cape Town stages.  Kudos to all involved!

So why did I feel slightly unmoved?  Why did I battle to connect emotionally?  I mean, the singing is really really stunning, the kind of stuff you go all warm and fuzzy and time slips away and you just sit in the combined sound of many people and enjoy yourself.  And yet, in between, you jerk out.  And so begins a continual struggle of connecting and disconnecting, all of which leaves one slightly…cold.  Like at a distance, watching, but not allowed to take part in what is going on. 

Maybe that’s the point.  Maybe the makers want us to leave all ponderous and reflective and realign our own lives and do our bit to stave off the impending apocalypse.  Maybe it’s just the musical vibe that doesn’t allow one to connect fully – it is a musical, after all, it’s not meant to be a rollercoaster drama that captures one emotionally. 

But musicals do that, don’t they?   Aren’t they supposed to?

So I think that Noah would be truly great by looking at the bits in between the songs – the narrative script, the event narrative and a greater emotional arc for the characters.  Allowing us to connect and go on a truly amazing journey where the songs are a natural highpoint of the action that is unfolding and not being told to us.  You could feel the audience wanting to laugh, ready to connect, which is why Gys got so much audience support – he’s the closest that comes to the characters being a little more human and warm and we want to feel that.  For the most part it’s a strange intellectual distance we keep, where we watch the ebb and flow of a generally interesting set design (though I’d love the actual ark itself to be more spectacular), and listen to great singing, and chuckle occasionally at a joke that’s being told funny, or is vaguely topical to spark an intellectual laugh.  But it would be really great to guffaw and connect to something more boisterous.  To really feel with these humans and not look on at them like they were ethereal aliens.

It was interesting to read somewhere the thinking behind the use of a cappella singing for the show – that it brought a focus back to the human, and the body, and what it can achieve by itself, not with the aid of technology.  And that it does – it’s a real triumph of what voices can do.  Get the in-between script and acting sides of it likewise connected and grounded and human, and I think that the great Noah of Cape Town would be truly awesome.

Yee-ha!  We went to Angels on Horseback on Friday at On Broadway, and it rocked the house.

Angels is an original South African-tinged country and western cabaret fronted by the foxy ladies Candice D’Arcy and Fiona du Plooy, and backed up by Jamie Jupiter and Gene Kierman.  Peter Hayes has his hands firmly on the directorial reins and has carved out a tight little show that soon has your toes a-tappin’ and thighs a-slappin’. Tales of heartbreak and regret might point the way to a gloomy evening, but the order of the night is emancipation and celebration. With tongues firmly planted in their cheeks, the gals let rip at species male and the results are hilarious, sardonic, camp, cheesy, and an all round jol!

This wasn’t my first time watching them, but man oh man have they stepped up a gear in terms of slickness, entertainment, and all round fun.  Not that they sucked before, but they were testing out their stuff at Intimate Theatre and then at National Arts Festival. Now they are maturing, as one does during a sustained run, and they are transitioning from cult favourite to more of a mainstream success and I think it’s great.

All the classic songs are there - including Ode to Ryk Neetling and Oh Johannes and (what Brent Meersman calls the “sardonic almost southern spiritual”) Blood on my Hands.  Personally I’d dig to see Goodbye Johnny You’re a Racist back in their set, but I know they’ve been juggling stuff around for the On Broadway run.  This includes more covers (maybe to cater for the OB crowd?) - but luckily the covers include a rollicking barnstorming version of Texas Annie (AKAYou can’t buy a dildo in Texas) by The Wet Spots. I’d personally love the guys to cover Ween’s Piss Up a Rope, but hey - maybe there are boundaries after all.

Check out Megan’s review on Meganshead here, or Zane Henry’s Argus review here.

Rock on for the last week, gals and guys!

This is always sad - it seems that the Knysna Playhouse has been forced to close its doors.  This was quite a new venue on the scene, and just starting to establish itself, so it’s very sad that it can’t continue.  We had been trying to get a number of our shows up there since last year, and I know that Fresco took Jutro there last year some time.  And I remember there were some murmurs about financial difficulties earlier this year.

But now it seems, it’s closing.  It’s very sad.  I hate it when this happens to theatres.

What they are doing is selling off equipment and stuff.  So if you interested, you can offer on the following at bargain prices:

• Jester ZERO programmable lighting control unit with two separate beta dimmer 3-pack units (12 x 15amp plugs in each) (their cost was R53 000)
• 23 x various working theatre lights (old)
• Ultra 800 watt rack mountable power amplifier with two large speakers (1000mm x 600mm x 450mm) plus four smaller speakers (500mm x 350mm x 400mm)
• Ultra 400 watt rack mountable power amplifier
• Bst Activ 40 audio mixing desk (8 channel)
• Oslo SX 240 mixing box (with pan pots, levels and 12 x RCAs)
• Gemini CDM-500 mixer (2 CDs DJ-type)
• Sansui San 400 professional power amplifier
• 2 x Behringer 1C ultra compact 100 watt monitor speakers with metal brackets (good quality units)

Any interest or offers? Call Don 082 374 0654 or e-mail donlaw@yebo.co.za

No luck, Knysna Playhouse.  We feel for you guys.

Found this while nosing around the other day – this is Gaëtan Schmid’s latest creation, Rumpsteak, about the goings-on behind the scenes at a busy French restaurant.  Gaëtan is a very funny guy, eccentric as all hell, with a wonderfully bizarre sense of humour.  We had such a jol working on The Dog’s Bollocks together since 2006.

In Rumpsteak he plays all the characters, and mimes all actions, on a 1×1 metre stage.  Sound effects are also mostly by him, but not live.  James Webb, that crazed sound guerrilla, has spliced them all together.

The result is a dazzling virtuosic display of skill, imagination, and timing.   I saw it at Kalk Bay Theatre last year, and it’s impressive stuff.  I think if he pushed it more strongly towards an emotional narrative it could be a phenomenal piece of theatre.

But as it stands, it’s an exhilarating exhibition of talent.

Check out Megan’s take on it here and another post on Peak Performances here.