[2014054] Now We Can Talk
Lukus Robbins [creative producer] @ Adina Grand Treasury Adelaide
5:00pm, Mon 24 Feb 2014
The précis for Now We Can Talk promised an “[interactive] journey throughout the city”, and hinted at creative uses of theatre and technology; whispers led me to believe that there were very limited tickets – only five per show! – and, sure enough, when I went to snaffle my tickets there were only a few evenings still available. Luckily, one of them fit in perfectly with my schedule; I purchased it, and suddenly that performance was Sold Out.
Arriving a few minutes early, I sat in the sun in the Adina’s courtyard in front of a lectern featuring the show’s name; a couple sitting at a table nearby, tickets proudly on display, were analysing the Fringe Guide, loudly wondering what the précis meant. Another couple entered the courtyard, guardedly looking around; then a man in a sharp suit arrived, took our names, and handed us tiny LED torches. Then down into the tunnels beneath the Adina Grand Treasury (last visited two years ago) we went, casting our torches left and right; some of us were more comfortable with the darkness and confined spaces than others.
Soon we’re in a space: flashlights indicate it’s a small room. I cast my torchlight to the floor and discover five bodies laying their quietly; eventually, slowly, they start to move, like blind earth-dwellers sensing the light on their faces (speaking of which: why did my fellow audience members need to direct their torches directly at performers’ faces?). After a little squirming, the torches are taken away… and, to the complaints of some in the audience, we were blindfolded.
I heard the audience being separated, voices going off in different directions; I’m carefully guided through some corridors until my guide stops me and removes my blindfold. I was in a little nook, clearly (by the sloping roof) beneath the stairs; my guide, a friendly chap, sat across from me, a table stacked with old books in the corner of the nook, a tatty chair next to it. He offers me a seat; I decline, and – after a slightly awkward start – we begin chatting about… stuff. Me, mostly. His questions were gentle enough, and I’m always happy to talk about myself, and he made the mistake (big mistake) about asking me about my job. In return, he offered his own employment: he was a photographer, pursuing noble causes, and his description of his job seems to fit his appearance.
We amiably chat for awhile until, after a short pause, he bluntly asks: “Do you ever lie in your job?”
The change of tone in the conversation makes me laugh. “Ah – back on script,” I smile. There’s a hint of something in his eyes, and the conversation wraps up quickly thereafter. He gives me a book from the nearby pile, and instructs me to head back upstairs; there, the book is exchanged for a pair of headphones, an iPhone, and a map. The phone is locked, but displays a map with my location and my destination; I’m ushered out into the streets, listening to ambient street noise in the headphones. I feel like I’m being followed… and, when the voice of my previous guide comes into my ears, I suspect that he’s watching me head to my destination.
So: down the block and around the corner I go, and I’m soon at the corner of Wakefield St & Gawler Place. The voice instructs me to take a seat; there’s a bench nearby. The voice goes on to tell me that he’s sorry, but everything he told me previously was wrong: he’s a chronic fuck-up, a disappointment, a habitual liar. And as I watch people head home from work on a Monday evening, I don’t really connect with this voice at all… less so when I idly turn the iPhone over in my hand and see the word “Lier” [sic] emblazoned on tape on on the back.
The voice in my ears stops; the ambient street noise mixes with the street noise sneaking past the headphones. I walk back to the Adina and hand in my equipment to the suited chap; “that’s it?” I ask, trying desperately hard not to sound underwhelmed. He brightly replies in the affirmative and bids me a good evening; I head off for an early dinner.
I can see – or, rather, sense – what the team behind Now We Can Talk were trying to do here; the physical and emotional contrasts (tight tunnels versus wide streets, alienating bodies versus friendly conversations) seem very deliberate. But the production – or, at least, the part of the production that I experienced – failed to really do much with those contrasts, and those characters; when my Friend was revealed to be a decrepit cheat, I didn’t really care… I hadn’t formed a connection with him.
I read a few pieces online that lauded Now We Can Talk for its ability to isolate the audience, to give each member their own unique experience… and I suppose that’s a relatively accurate description. But I’ve been lucky enough to experience the works of Ontroerend Goed before… and, compared to the (amazing) Internal, this production doesn’t conjure anywhere near the same levels of intimacy.
(54) Now We Can Talk: contrasting tight spaces and roaming that fails to approach the intimacy of Ontroerend Goed. #ff2014 #ADLfringe
— Pete Muller (@festivalfreakAU) February 24, 2014