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.
The City of Cape Town has invited Arts and Culture-based organisations to attend an information session – the purpose of which is to provide information on current programmes and future plans.
