Festival Freak

Kommer (Sorrow) (Festival page)

Kassys @ Space Theatre

7:00pm, Thu 13 Mar 2008

An odd one, this.

Kommer starts with the audience staring down at a sombre scene. Without knowing anything about the piece, you can sense it’s a funeral home. It's a wake. Six people gathered in mourning. Movements are slow, contemplative; there's a solemnity about proceedings that slowly begins to shatter as the characters begin to interact. Initially there's a sense of complicit duty, of keeping-up-appearances; but, gradually, the ice breaks. Ludicrous actions relieves the audiences' tension, but maintains it onstage: A fight over the CD player. The pecking order of commiserations. A ludicrous topiary demolition of the funeral home's plant life. And then, one by one, the characters drift offstage.

The audience is left looking at the messy remains of the funeral home, dirt and plant fragments strewn everywhere. And then a movie screen descends from the roof, and we're treated to (pre-recorded, not live) expressions of the actors back-stage. They celebrate another successful performance on-screen and, as they leave for the evening, they pass through The Space once again, past the audience; the transitions between screen and real-life are tightly managed, and work a treat - the illusion is wonderful.

We then follow, on-screen, each of the actors into their lives outside the theatre - one woman loathes her second job. Another is afraid of her age. One man returns home to his one-room flat to joylessly eat his processed food. One man gets mugged. Another lives out his midlife crisis. They're all terribly, terribly lonely, each painting a tragic tale of… sorrow.

And that's the real payoff from this performance; it's not in the off-beat presentation, it's not in the quirky performances. It's in the painful, tortuous lives that these people lead, laid forth bare on the screen. Even the gorgeous Esther Snelder, once the on-stage performance is over, leads a heart-breaking life on-screen. Yes, there's humour in amongst these grim depictions, but it's overwhelmed by a feeling of grim… mortality, in a way.

Now, some people may be put off by the miserably depressing tone of the piece… not me. I revel in this stuff: it's immediately identifiable and perversely uplifting. Wallowing in another's misery is almost cathartic to me - which says a lot, really. And Kommer delivered the muted, everyday, sorrow of existence in spades, reminding everyone of the pain of simply being, and presenting the opportunity to compare and contrast with one's own life. Hey, I felt uplifted as a result, though I know many who weren't.

Sadly, one of the lingering memories I have regarding Kommer is some of the crap that was written about it in the 'Tiser. It wasn't deriding the performance - heavens, no, we couldn't possibly do that; it was a statement like "they break down the fourth wall by building a fifth" (paraphrased). I think that's a completely bullshit statement, a hopelessly inaccurate attempt at a clever turn of phrase. And yet, that's the thing that will stay with me long after the memory of sweet Esther has faded, and long after the shared commiserations have been forgotten.

Posted by pete at 08:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Sacred Monsters (Festival page)

Akram Khan & Sylvie Guillem @ Festival Theatre

8:00pm, Tue 11 Mar 2008

Without knowing any of the specifics, it'd be pretty reasonable to suggest that there's been a bit of expectation leading up to Sacred Monsters; more cynical mouths might have called it hype. My first glimpse of this was at the Festival Launch last year, when the very mention of the piece brought forth many cheers and woots from the usually reserved audience. The second hint that this was highly anticipated was when booking my tickets - despite the Friends privileged booking window, the centre of Row L - L! - was the best I could manage. The third hint? Everyone I talked to at Festival shows was waxing lyrically in advance; even some Fringe-goers were giddy with the thought of seeing Khan and, most particularly, Guillem.

The first thing I noticed when the lights dropped was the singer, the band. I've yet to see a Festival show this year where the music was less than stunning, and this was no exception. Mostly Eastern in feel, with gorgeous oscillating intensities, the five musicians provided perfect backing to Khan and Guillem's movements.

Each dancer had their own solo piece(s), and during these it was their control on display. When they danced together, however, it was strength and finesse that took centre stage; Guillem wrapping her legs around Khan's torso in the piece that provided most of the promotional material for the performance, a stunning piece worth every cent of the price of admission.

In between pieces, there was some surprising humour; seemingly offhand back-and-forth chit chat, with some brilliant set pieces: Guillem raving about Christmas Trees for a minute, before Khan deadpans back to her "Sylvie, I was raised Muslim; I know nothing of Christmas Trees."

But the takeaway, for me, was Guillem's famed flexibility. More than any circus performer I've every seen, her poise and balance was incredible - with her leg extended, her foot far above her head, she stood still with nary a waver.

Khan was responsible for most of the choreography in the piece, and - quite frankly - it was stunning. If it weren't for one of Sylvie's solos that had me dozing off a little, I'd have joined everyone else in the first dozen rows in the standing ovation. As it was, this was "only" the most impressive bit of classically-influenced dance since Drumming - and, as per usual, my words have no hope of doing it justice.

Oh yes, this most definitely lived up to the hype.

Posted by pete at 12:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Glass: A Portrait of Philip in Twelve Parts (Festival page)

@ Piccadilly Cinema

11:00am, Mon 10 Mar 2008

I know dick-all about Philip Glass, which could possibly be deemed bad given the high profile of the upcoming Book of Longing. I mean yes, I know he's a minimalist composer, and did the score for all those slideshow movies with the unpronounceable names that are held in ultra-high regard by film aesthetes, and that South Park took the piss out of him one episode. But outside that… nothing.

So a doco about the man? Could come in handy, that. And it's quite possibly the easiest-to-get-to show for me… ever. The main cinema at the Piccadilly is packed - this event is sold out. It's also my favourite screen in Adelaide at the moment, though I reckon its life is limited (with the obscene plans for the old Le Cornu site in North Adelaide - but that's another, much grumpier, story). Surprisingly, Scott Hicks appears just prior to the film starting to give a big thank-you to all in attendance, and to talk about the financing of the movie - when funding for the movie finally eventuated, it didn't come from international sources: it came from private investors in Adelaide. Which is nice.

The movie itself is broken - very overtly - into the requisite twelve parts, and is quite grainy in parts - Hicks did much of the camera work himself using a small digital camera. The surprising thing is the amount of humour in the film - Glass (and many of his collaborators) come across as very funny people… Glass himself tells the knock-knock joke. Even his family get in on the act; Glass' sister makes some devilish swipes at "The Wives".

Whilst the film contains a lot of archival photos & footage, it often sits and focuses on the "now": which was when Glass was scoring Waiting For The Barbarians. This has the unfortunate effect of making the film, at times, feel more like a puff-piece for the opera, than a documentary of Glass' life; of course it's understandable that the movie should feature prominently - it was a major part of his life at the time - but it detracted, all the same.

Various snippets of Glass' work is used to back the film throughout, and it's thoroughly enjoyable. But for me, the highlight came when an interview with current wife Holly gets a little emotional. Holly tears up whilst talking of their diverging paths through life, and you feel the end of their relationship is near - only to be interrupted by Glass asking for her computer password. She wipes the tears away before turning to inform him of the password, then turns back to camera, dropping back into the morose mood… but suddenly she's defending herself, leaping away from the hurt by laughing "now you all know my password!" It's a standout human moment in a film that manages to create very human picture of all involved.

Posted by pete at 01:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The Age I'm In (Festival page)

Force Majeure @ Dunstan Playhouse

8:00pm, Sat 8 Mar 2008

This was great. Simple as that.

Now, I could post this blog entry off and be done with it, moving on to the next show in the queue, but I'd feel guilty about it later on and - worse - have committed to the aether a bunch of words that in no way allow me to reconstruct the performance in my head. So I shall, in my own inimitable way, elaborate.

The Age I'm In seems to address the issues of identity with respect to age. Using ten performers aged from early-teens to well-grayed, and using audio snippets from interviews of people aged 9 to 83, we're treated to a cross-discipline display that sees the performers miming to dialog one minute, dancing the next, and manipulating video screens the next.

There's contemporary dance for the young 'uns. There's ballroom dance for the oldies. There's intimate and tender physical interactions for everyone. There's moments of humour when the youngest girl mimes the vocal delivery of the oldest man… and vice versa. The hand-held video screens are fantastic - pre-recorded video plays whilst the performers move the screens by hand over other performers, creating a perverse x-ray-like effect. Naked bodies beneath clothes, emotions exposed.

Performances are ace - from the confidence of the youngest girl, to the refined restricted movements of the oldest man, everything feels personal and honest and… correct. Their miming to pre-recorded voices is almost flawless, and - humour aside - utterly believable. And the direction is stunning… there's one scene where three women track up and down each other's bodies with the video screens, exposing their naked beauty, whilst the audio imparts a feeling of fragility. Over the other side of the stage sits the youngest girl, watching the other women with a mixture of interest and trepidation.

And the ending - magnificent. The eldest of the cast, spotlight front-and-centre. A light, misting rain creates a sheet at the front of the stage… the rest of the cast join him, and you get the feeling it's a cleansing ritual. Utterly moving, it perfectly capped off a wonderful show; whilst it's not the deepest piece of dance or theatre, it is a glorious marriage of both - with a nice bit of technology wedged in. Compelling stuff, indeed.

Posted by pete at 11:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Moving Target (Festival page)

Malthouse Theatre @ Odeon Theatre

7:30pm, Fri 7 Mar 2008

I guess that I'm stepping outside my comfort zone a bit lately, because I find myself wanting to write the words "I didn't have the faintest idea what this was about… liked it, though." A lot.

Now, I don't mind being completely bewildered by a performance - as demonstrated by Conclusions: On Ice. It gives me something to think about, something to mull on during the walk home. Shows like that sit at the back of my subconscious for days, occasionally popping forth in an "aha!" moment… and sometimes not showing up at all, just remaining in a ruminative state, something for the neurons to fire on while I'm doing something else.

But Moving Target is a different kettle of fish.

Walking into the theatre, the stage is essentially a large, white room; six characters wait, apprehensive and edgy, for us to be seated. When the house lights drop, five gang up on one - it's a clinical verbal battering, sinister glares, uncomfortable for all… but the audience doesn't know why. Suddenly, a game of hide-and-seek breaks out - again, five-against-one - and the five are left to hide amongst the frugal props.

And here, Moving Target breaks with expectations - the hide-and-seek segments (and there are many of them) are impossibly funny, with characters hiding under carpets, under cushions, under tables, behind sofas, even in plain sight with a sleeping bag on their heads. These sequences are physical humour at its finest; the time where one character got tangled up in a chair, only to be helped out of his predicament by another character (who subsequently became entangled) had the audience in stitches.

In between these segments, though, there's a much more sinister plot at play. It's gradually revealed to us: in times of heightened terror responses, there's a green parcel in a bin. It was placed there by a girl. Is the parcel a bomb? Is the girl a terrorist? Do any of these characters have anything to do with the story, or are they just narrators?

Essentially, we're none the wiser until the last ten or fifteen minutes of the performance; until then, we're happily bumbling around gleaning snippets of knowledge where we could. But in a visually intense sequence - flashing lights galore, including some jarring bright red / green transitions - the terror threat is directly addressed… and all trace of humour disappears. We're clearly in Serious Mode now; and, rather than dodging around the issue, we're taken on a linear explanation of the resolution. And then backtrack to see the other side of the story. This results in a few gasps of realisation from the audience as the performance slowly dissipates, fades to black, with a snapping of inexplicable masking tape.

Now, I don't want it to sound like I disliked Moving Target, because that'd be far from the truth. I loved those first flabbergasting 75 minutes - I loved the repetitious, circuitous, twisty-turny double-back nature of them immensely. I loved the fact that I was essentially stumbling in the dark for most of the time, creating theories and counter-theories in my mind as to the meaning of every single artifact. But the conclusion - where the plot is laid bare, linearised, de-mystified - took all the rumination away from the performance. Which ended my engagement with Moving Target as soon as I started applauding the actors. Which, for some reason, makes me a little sad… I would've preferred to take a little of the performance home with me, in a little white-walled room in the back of my mind.

Posted by pete at 01:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Persian Garden Poets (Festival page)

Paul Durcan, John Kinsella, Dorothy Porter, Luke Wright @ Persian Garden

7:00pm, Thu 6 Mar 2008

After last years' successful foray into poetry (with wordfire and Sean M. Whelan and The Mime Set), I was eager to do more of the same in 2008 - but couldn't really afford the time to sit in Writer's Week gigs. So this seemed like the perfect event to feed my written-word desires.

Mike Ladd from the ABC emcees the evening, and - apart from some cheerfully lame rhymes - has minimal input. First up was Irish poet Paul Durcan, who started his spot with a massive pause… something like three breaths, which was either a mood setter for his generally morose readings or a measure of respect/contempt for the audience. It's kind of hard to tell. His downbeat poems were very elaborate and lyrical in nature, but rest assured I'm not dashing out to track down his anthologies.

John Kinsella was up next, and was almost a polar opposite from Durcan's quiet, dull delivery. He's an angry and passionate man, imparting huge amounts of energy and dynamism into his readings. He dwells mainly on rural West Australian themes - the silo story was fantastic - and really warrants further investigation.

When Dorothy Porter's name was announced, there was a large number of "woots" and other associated cheering from the assembled throng. But though she was an expressive reader (of snippets from her works El Dorado and Akhenaten), her words utterly failed to spark my imagination or conjure much of anything. The "woots" from her introduction were notable by their absence as she walked off.

After a short break, the "star" of the night appears: Luke Wright from the UK performed his Luke Wright, Poet & Man routine. And, quite frankly, this was the funniest thing I've seen so far this year - it's more of a standup routine that utilises poetry, rather than the other way around. But that's not to marginalise the quality of his verse - for it is sublime, often coarse, but always passionate. Company of Men speaks of the need for blokiness, Camping Dad paints a detailed (and highly amusing) picture of a dying breed, and Sex Butler was lewd absurdism at its best. There's more serious themes - death, his exposure to the class divide through his first girlfriend - but there's always something pants-wettingly funny around the corner, always a turn of phrase that sticks in your mind: "face of bumming" is one that springs to mind nearly a week later.

In short, Persian Garden Poets was utterly worthwhile. The only bummer for the evening was that I couldn't hang around to snaffle one of Wright's CDs…

Posted by pete at 12:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

When The Rain Stops Falling (Festival page)

Brink Productions @ Scott Theatre

1:30pm, Wed 5 Mar 2008

Wednesday matinees always bring out a special kind of crowd - namely, the senior citizens and school groups. The former arrive way too early, clogging up entry to the Scott Theatre; the latter roll up just-in-time, exploding into the venue with a self-importance that is palpable. Luckily, someone has set the thermostat in the theatre to about 21 degrees, cooling off the hotheads and lulling the oldies deeper into subdued quietness.

A man comes onstage, front and centre. As transparent screens descend from the heavens to add some semblance of depth to the set, the cast drift from wing to wing behind him. Rain starts dripping in; a fish plummets to the man's feet from above, landing with a startling thud. He picks up the fish, and we're away - telling a familial tale spanning four generations & eighty years, from Alice Springs to The Coorong to London to Adelaide.

The storyline happily skips through the multiple timelines, returning to certain periods when it suits the unfolding story. This isn't as disconcerting as it may sound; the plot is pretty straightforward, and certainly linear in its telling. We essentially just track the characters as their interactions beget the following generations; boy meets girl, marriage, kids, etc. There's a few twists to the story that are gradually revealed, and interest is maintained throughout.

"But Pete," I hear no-one but the voices in my head say, "you're being very vague. Even vaguer than usual. What are you not telling us? Did you like it or not?"

Did I like it? Well… it was certainly engaging, and wonderfully performed; not a dud actor onstage. But - at the risk of letting loose with a rather big spoiler - there was one aspect of the story that I had massive problems with: the paedophilia. Now, I understand that it's utterly crucial to the plot, but it still felt like a cheap emotive device - the easiest way to generate the maelstrom of emotions. Base; lazy, even. It just didn't work for me.

Direction was also a little flawed. Most of the time the set was beautifully realised: simple tables and chairs, those lovely translucent screens separating timelines and receiving frugal titling projections. But sometimes critical moments at the rear of the stage were obscured (I had to infer the pouring away of ashes), and there was an odd total dropping of stage lights prior to the end of the performance - which brought forth loud and uncomfortable applause as the next scene was started.

But did I like it? Let's just say I didn't hate it; but I won't be recommending it in any future conversations. But I'll admit a perverse pleasure was obtained in reading the reviews for When The Rain Stops Falling that were proudly pinned up outside the theatre - because they were universally awful. Not the opinions; the actual writing. I can only assume that there's some editors out there who are ruling with an iron fist and are above the law - but they're making their writers look shocking.

Says I.

Posted by pete at 02:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

A Midsummer Night's Dream (Festival page)

Dash Arts @ Her Majesty's Theatre

6:30pm, Tue 4 Mar 2008

As I try to type every year (it bumps up the word count… not that anyone's counting the words, but more words on the page looks impressive, at least), I love me a bit of Shakespeare. So, every Festival and/or Fringe, I try to squeeze in a bit of The Bard's work; this year, the Festival presented A Midsummer Night's Dream - as performed by an Indian / Sri Lankan cast - and I was instantly sold.

It wasn't until a few days before the show, when I was chatting with another Festival patron, that it was revealed to me that most of the dialogue wasn't in English.

Ummmm… shit. The thought hadn't even occurred to me that Shakespeare could even be delivered in another tongue. But, after the initial shock, I figured it'd be fine - I have a pretty thorough knowledge of Midsummer.

Except that I mixed that up, too - every time I'd read "A Midsummer Night's Dream", some little babelfish daemon in my brain had been substituting "Much Ado About Nothing" instead. In actual fact, I knew bugger all about Midsummer, having only seen one production and never having read it. Of course, I only realised this after I started reading the programme and noticed no familiar names in the list of characters. And being totally bewildered by the plot.

So… ummmm. Whoopsee-doodle. But off to the theatre we toddle, only to find myself sitting behind The Tallest Man in the World. No joke, he was ginormous - I was craning to see anything of the centre of the stage. I felt sorry for the chap behind me.

Initial thoughts were of worry. Already caught off-guard by the programme, I was totally thrown when the first lines of all the initial characters were in English - only to be rapidly followed by lines that were most definitely not English - and not a surtitle in sight. At that point, I gave up all hope of following the plot, biding my time until the interval.

But help was at hand - most of the female lines, and some of the male characters, were in English, and a lot of the intent was easily recognisable in the gestures and postures of the cast. Egeus' angry rabble probably benefited from the Hindi translation, in fact -this was one of the times that the language barrier was truly transcended.

As for the rest of the performance… well, there are two real standouts. Puck was absolutely brilliantly portrayed, constantly onstage either in-character, or in the guise of a rigger - tweaking the set as the need arises. His presence was a joy, his mischievous peeks through the fourth wall - eyes full of impish knowing - were delightful. Bottom was also played purely for laughs - and he plays it damn well, with a big expressive voice and eyes that matched.

Direction was a real mixed bag. Some characters were quite clearly facing backstage when delivering lines, or deep on the stage facing the wings… and it's clear that few of the performers have experience in large theatrical settings, because their voices (with the exception of Bottom) just didn’t carry. The set was gorgeous - a massive latticed backdrop covered with paper constituted Athens, with the fairies punching through the paper to create the forest.

But the interval left me confused… wasn't it halfway through Act IV? This left a very lightweight and thin post-interval section, which I can only assume provided the opportunity to insert a Bollywood-style sing-along ending. And whilst that certainly raised the spirits of the audience at the end of the performance, I'm not convinced it was necessary.

Yes, it was enjoyable. But there's still something itching away at me, suggesting that something wasn't quite right about this production. Perhaps it was the feeling that, beneath the lavish production and cheeky idea, depth was lacking; it just didn't feel like the quirky idea had been followed through. I have no idea why, though.

As a bonus, this performance was preceded by a half-hour Q&A session with Director Tim Supple which was really quite interesting. All the obvious questions popped up - language barriers, et al - and, in some ways, I found this little session more enjoyable than the pre-interval portion of the performance.

Posted by pete at 11:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Children's Cheering Carpet - Japanese Garden (Festival page)

TPO @ Space Theatre

11:00am, Tue 4 Mar 2008

As with my first Cheering Carpet (and in contrast to the second), the children in the queue for this performance were quiet and subdued heading into the performance. The raked seating that had been in The Space to support Glow had been removed overnight, leaving much more sparse seating; I took to the balcony, leaving the seats for parents & children, and offering a better view of proceedings.

The thing is, the increased physical distance from The Carpet also seemed to distance it from me emotionally, as well - I found this Japanese Garden to be far less engaging than the previous two. This may have been exacerbated by the inclusion of a more traditionally acted opening, delivered by a third performer. This opening failed to convey any significance in the overall piece, and only served to delay the time before the first audience interaction with The Carpet. But once the interactive bits started, they came thick and fast.

The visual art for the Japanese Garden was, sadly, less impressive than previous efforts; colours in the same subtle groups used together, muted, little to catch the eye. The imagination was left to feed on small iconic glyphs used to indicate walking paths, with zooming used to reasonable effect. But, overall, I found the Japanese Garden to be disappointing; the elaborate ending, with the three performers carefully laying out small small rock, glass, and sand gardens on the mat (precluding any further audience play) felt overwrought, contrived. But no matter - I'll always hold Children's Cheering Carpet in high regard for that glorious Kurdish rendition.

Posted by pete at 12:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Children's Cheering Carpet - Italian Garden (Festival page)

TPO @ Space Theatre

2:00pm, Mon 3 Mar 2008

In the queue for this, the second of the Children's Cheering Carpet variations, I knew that it would be a substantially different show; the children were in line in principle only. More explicitly, they were jumping all over the shop. Methinks some parents decided to IV their kids pixie sticks for lunch.

Although the general concepts for this Carpet were the same, the visuals for this Italian Garden were much more organic (as compared to the abstract nature of the Kurdish Garden). Flowers and leaves were everywhere; images were much more subtle. Sadly, it also felt like there was less interaction with the audience - or opportunities to interact, anyway. One child, apparently whacked off his dial on sugar and with springs in his shoes, jumped on anything and everything at every available opportunity. That he was controlled by the dancers at all speaks volumes of their control - which, again, was a delight to watch.

In short - less interaction, more delicate visuals. Which was a bit of a shame, since I preferred the boldness of the first iteration.

Posted by pete at 12:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Children's Cheering Carpet - Kurdish Garden (Festival page)

TPO @ Space Theatre

11:00am, Mon 3 Mar 2008

It's unfortunate that Children's Cheering Carpet will inevitably be compared to Glow - after all, they share the same space (pun intended) and a similar layout. The titular Carpet is a large white dance mat onto which images are projected, and - again - there's a level of interactivity between physical actions on the mat and the images projected onto it. This time, however, the mat itself is pressure sensitive… it would appear that the pressure pads were spaced about every two feet square.

There are three different renditions of Children's Cheering Carpet, each with their own art and music style. This first session was the Kurdish Garden, based on the art of Rebwar, had big, bold, abstract shapes; lots of fish and rocks and sand. The two performers are certainly attractive and agile; the action is slow, with exaggerated movements of discovery as they roam the mat; stepping on projected stones triggers the next stone in the path to appear, or standing on a horizontal strip may cause it to scroll across the mat. And the gestures and movements are exaggerated for a reason; about ten minutes into the performance, the dancers start pulling children out of the audience into the Garden, onto The Carpet, onto the mat.

And this is where the performance takes a turn for the sublime, for the joyous… and on multiple levels. In managing children on and off The Carpet, the dancers show the most beautiful poise and understanding - open arms being a friendly request that's never refused. And the children… initially shy and self-conscious, they soon discover the freedom within the rule-set they've been offered and begin to play. Leaping on stones, swishing fish away, following a constantly changing path… they laughed and played with joy, instinctively co-operating where necessary. One young fella was anxiously crawling onto the Carpet almost as soon as the performance began.

Like I said, I found this a joy to behold… it was like the blackness of The Space - and the brightness of The Carpet - banished all the children's preconceptions of what it is to explore, to play. Even better was the scene on exiting the performance; the children were running amok in the little carpet amphitheatre in exactly the same way they had been playing on The Carpet, their parents desperately trying to calm them down. For some reason, I took perverse delight in that.

Sure, the technology isn't as clever or responsive as that in Glow - but this production feels more substantial. It could be the fact that the audience gets involved, it could be the fact that the dancers feel more "connected" to the piece, it could have been the neat canopy that was dragged between the children on The Carpet and the projector (creating a fascinating cloud effect) - but mostly, I think, it's because I loved watching the interactions between the dancers and the children. The open and friendly manner in which they managed the children was a joy, as were the responses they got in return. Delightful.

Posted by pete at 12:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Glow (Festival page)

Chunky Move @ Space Theatre

8:00pm, Sun 2 Mar 2008

Clocking in at a refreshingly short - and honest - 28 minutes, Glow is less a dance piece than an interaction with technology. A small dance space is covered by a white mat, onto which a live video feed is projected. Infra-red sensors detect heat (as they are wont to do), allowing the position of dancers on the mat to be detected in real time; the video projection is modified on that basis.

The upshot of this is that the dancer is directly interacting with the video content. She may be surrounded by a halo of light, or emitting trickles of colour; at times, her movements are stored and delayed, creating the impression that she is being chased by her own shadow. The visuals are often startlingly effective, and I remember thinking that any performer would love to be able to interact with a system like this. After all, it provides the opportunity for the performer to project themselves in an almost infinite variety of ways.

After this performance, my companion asked me whether I thought the dancer was any good. And I honestly had to say that I didn't know - not because of my usual "don't know shit about dance" excuse, but because I barely noticed she was there. And the quality of her performance is largely immaterial; I'm guessing that this technology has the potential to make poor dancers look good (not that I'm saying she was bad - I simply don't know).

And - let's face it - when I clapped at the end of this performance, I wasn't applauding the dancer… I was congratulating the creation of the software, the programmers and technologists. And even then, it wasn't a hearty clap - because Glow didn't feel like a complete performance. Sure, to the technological neophytes that make up the bulk of the Festival audiences, Glow would have appeared to be approaching magic, a new frontier; but to the savvy amongst us, it felt more like a tech demo.

Yes, it looked pretty, and yes, it was entertaining - but I would rather see the evolution of this technology, see what a wider application will bring. I want to see tomorrow, not today.

Posted by pete at 02:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Emanuel Gat Dance Company (Festival page)

Emanuel Gat Dance Company @ The Playhouse

6:00pm, Sun 2 Mar 2008

I was really looking forward to this. No idea why, I just was. And the initial signs were good - the first piece, Winter Voyage, features Emanuel Gat and Roy Assaf strolling, running, jumping across the stage in straight lines, often intersecting each others paths and avoiding contact with a deft flick of the arm or leg. Then closer, mimicking each other's moves, in a beautifully trance-like exploration of the space. Though set to two pieces of Schubert's Winterreise, the music was separated on all sides by periods of silence (delightful - I love hearing the thumping of the floors and the dancer's panting). A great start to the performance.

The second piece, however, was seven shades of self-indulgent suck. Gat - solo this time - roams fore and aft of a line of light at the front of the stage. The music - John Coltrane's version of the titular My Favourite Things - could have been fifteen minutes of radio static for all the connection it had to the performance, and the dance didn't engage me in the slightest. Boooooring.

The final piece, The Rite of Spring, was equal parts delight and meh. Assaf rejoins Gat onstage with three female dancers, and the periods where the women were lined up parallel to the stagefront and the men moved between them, engaging each in more intricate movements. These moments were genuinely exciting, and were repeated many times during The Rite of Spring; however, the bits inbetween were - again - intolerably dull.

Sadly, the Emanuel Gat Dance Company didn't live up to my expectations. There was just way too much stuff that I couldn't recognise as dance in there.

Posted by pete at 02:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

DBR & The Mission (Festival page)

DBR & The Mission @ Festival Theatre

7:00pm, Fri 29 Feb 2008

I don't know the first fucking thing about DBR & The Mission, but - just two pieces into the performance - I was weeping from the imperious rhythmic majesty of it. Now, maybe that's just a side-effect of my fucked-up and fragile emotional state, but I've got a feeling there was more to it than that; they delivered an epiphany, a musical moment that was so damned near transcendence that it begs religious fervor.

But my words are far too uneducated, ill-informed, and blunt to adequately describe it.

The Mission are essentially a string quartet (two electric violins, cello (bliss!) and viola) backed by a rhythm section (drums, bass, keyboards, turntables & beatboxing). Daniel Bernard Roumain (DBR) himself also plugs along on the electric violin, and - barring the cello (Jessie Reagen, a subject of fawning lust) - all the string chaps had huge banks of guitar pedals with which they modified their strings.

And by "modified", I mean "reconstructed". The viola sounded like dirty underwater guitar solos; violins emulated guitars from tinny lead to chunky rhythm. Earl Maneein, in particular, conjured filthy chugs of rock goodness from his violins, which seemed to resonate with the audience that - if I had to guess - had sneered at ROCK for most of their adult lives.

But I think they're converts now. And I think that the kids that reluctantly attended gained a new-found appreciation for the strings. And maybe that's is where the attraction to this performance came from; it was a bridge between genres, between generations.

And, truth be told, I didn't think that DBR was that great a musician; in fact, I'd go as far as to say that he was the least compelling player on the stage. But he had presence, and wrote most of the pieces on offer, and commanded the respect of the band and the audience alike. But I'll be damned if I regard his solo re-interpretation of "Waltzing Matilda" (used as the second encore) as God's Gift, as many of the audience did.

But every other piece in the performance more than made up for it. The conventional pieces, the academically constructed pieces - all seemed to deliver passion and rhythm and bloody awesome music and… I wept. And that welling up of emotion is more than you can hope for.

Posted by pete at 12:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Ainadamar (Festival page)

State Opera of South Australia @ Festival Theatre

7:00pm, Fri 29 Feb 2008

It amused me no end that the first name I spied when opening the programme for Ainadamar was Peter Sellars - the man responsible for the blight that was the 2002 Festival. Thankfully, it appears that his self-indulgent touch of death had nothing to do with this production.

Ainadamar centres on a performance of Mariana Pineda, penned by Federico García Lorca in 1927. Pineda was a martyr for the Spanish Revolution in 1831 and, likewise, Lorca is also persecuted in 1930's Granada. As Ainadamar opens, leading lady Margarita waits in the wings for her entrance; she begins telling the story of her first meeting with Lorca (in a Madrid bar some 40 years earlier) to her student, Nuria. She conveys the passion that inspired the Spanish Republic, we flash back to the Grenadan massacres, before returning to the play-in-progress - in time to see Margarita die in the wings, with the knowledge and desire for freedom passed on to Nuria.

First things first: the music in Ainadamar is incredible. Really, truly, amazing. Argentinian composer Osvaldo Golijov has created a score which is beautiful, powerful, sublime. The opening, alone, is worth the squillions of dollars I paid for these tickets. Yes, it was really that good.

The staging for the piece consisted of a series of curved walls, easily moved and rotated by the cast to create the illusions of the wings of the theatre, backstage, or even the wall against which people were shot. These blank white walls also served as a surface for projected media, and here's where my major complaint with Ainadamar comes in: the styles used for projected information were a mish-mash, often clashing with each other and at odds with the mood of the piece. It's not a huge complaint, mind you, but there was something quite jarring about the transition between beautifully scripted handwriting to puffy white clouds to gushes of bright-red blood and cartoonish bullet-holes.

Performances were fine - once I'd got over the girlish presentation of Lorca - and the chorus of the play-within-an-opera was just magnificent; every time the ballad of Mariana Pineda struck up, I'd get chills. But the thing that really sticks out in my mind about Ainadamar is the ending; as after a beautifully weighted build-up, Margarita dies, and the baton is passed to Nuria, who takes to the stage (within a stage) to a thunderous crescendo.

"Great place for this to end," thunk I.

Except, with the mood and pace of the music dropped to a whimper, the chorus took to the stage again, leading me to instinctively think that Ainadamar was jumping the shark.

Oh how wrong I was.

Another ascension, this time even more cunningly judged, rises up and up and up with Nuria in the leading role until the curtain is dropped - only to be caught by Nuria two metres from ground, allowing the chorus to well up again, sending the curtain to the heavens and the causing the titular Fountain of Tears (which I've neglected to mention before) rain down on the stage as the dancer representing the voice of Freedom emerges through the fountain and…

Fuck me, I've just welled up with tears again. Suffice to say, this was - without a doubt - one of the most beautiful, liberating endings to a performance I've ever seen - chock to the brim with stunning music and song and imagery and… passion. And to think that I'd almost written it off! Nice little life lesson there for me.

In short - Ainadamar was stunning; I only wish I could have seen more of it. My now-necessary pre-show naps seem to keep getting interrupted, meaning the I missed most of the surtitles in the first third, as I viewed the action through glazed and foggy eyes.

Posted by pete at 04:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Don't Look Back (Festival page)

dreamthinkspeak @ Torrens Building

7:55pm, Thu 28 Feb 2008

Don't Look Back is loosely based on the myth of Orpheus in the Underworld, attempting to bring his wife Eurydice back from the dead. The rulers of the Underworld are softened by Orpheus' plight, and agree that Eurydice may return to the surface with him - as long as he walks in front of her, and doesn't turn back to see her while before she reaches the surface. Naturally, he fails to do so, losing Eurydice forever.

So - it's pretty obvious where the name of the piece comes from; but what about the performance itself?

Punters gather in a little ante-room in the Torrens Building, waiting for admittance to the Experience. People make their way through the performance in groups of three - an odd number, perhaps deliberately so: my SO and I were in separate groups, and the pseudo-isolation of that was… interesting. Engaging in such an experience as the odd-man-out with an older couple certainly put a social spin on the situation that I wasn't expecting; trying to engage in thoughtful conversation about what we were experiencing was alien, what with their invisible couple-communication.

We're led through corridors and up stairs to a dark room; "wait here," says a Festival volunteer, "someone will be here to collect you shortly." She leaves - the room is black. Pitch black. Eyes still adjusting, aural senses heightened, there's the noise of someone snoring in the room and, with a splutter, a desk lamp flicks on to reveal a grizzled old man eying us with suspicion. He queries our names, fails to find them in his ledger; issues us tickets, and sends us on our way. "Take as much time as you like," he says.

We push through the black cloth holding back the light, and encounter our first usher. Pale, withdrawn, top-hat-and-tails, she tells us all we need to know with a simple gesture - which also carries with it a tinge of tolerant distaste. We walk down this nondescript corridor in a government building and discover an open door; we peek inside, where we see a scene from a wedding-gone-wrong; the bridal table lies in ruin, a bride corpse strewn atop it. We three stare; after a minute or two, I try to start a conversation: "so - what happened here?" The fallen chandelier, the ruined cake, and the pristine bride herself begged discussion. I got none.

And so we progress through the Torrens Building, following the relatively linear path made available to us. Along the way, open doors and lit areas attract your interest, whether it be to a tiny diorama or an elaborately staged reconstruction of events. Films projected onto the end of long tunnels; entire rooms full of very deliberate actors, slow and studied in every detail. Up and down stairs we traveled, through office hallways and subterranean tunnels, carpets and dirt floors. A bizarre sequence involving an elevator and the bride falling away from us. A violin in a waiting room. A pitch black passage with an apparition shimmering in from the dark.

And always - always - questions: Why did the bride die? Why the tracks in the snow? What was behind the other doors?

OK, I admit it - I looked back. Curiousity got the better of me; I had to know what was behind a door that was ever-so-slightly ajar. A very, very stern usher appeared from nowhere, startling me, and pointed me in another direction.

I didn't look back after that.

Don't Look Back is more like an art gallery than a performance piece, though I should be careful to note that the performances within the piece itself are perfect; slow, deliberate actions as befit a public service like the Department of Births, Deaths, and Marriages. The scene where you happen upon a young woman guillotining names is glorious; she ever-so-carefully-and-slowly lines up the paper - it's almost torture to watch - before whipping the blade down with a thunk. As you explore the subsequent rooms, you're still hearing this *thunk* in the background… it's chilling, threatening, and you have to keep reminding yourself it's benign.

It really is a wonderful experience, with experience being the operative word.

Posted by pete at 04:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

The Angel and The Red Priest (Festival page)

Oddbodies Theatre @ ACA (Main Theatre)

7:00pm, Wed 27 Feb 2008

I'll be honest, here - I dozed off more than once during the first half of this production. I maintain that it's not entirely my fault, given the sleepy lighting and lulling music used in the performance. And, let's face it, what's on offer early on - at least, what I saw - was pretty missable.

We're observing Vivaldi on the cusp of his rise in greatness. In search of a soprano, he finds instead a confidante, a muse, in a disfigured cleaning girl - his Angel. Despite his training as a priest, they fall in love - only for Vivaldi's ambition and opportunity to tear them apart.

The angular set is really attractive, and a quintet of musicians - harpsichord, oboe, cello, violin, viola - line one "side". Musical and theatrical performances are fine - nothing to complain about, anyway - but, as a whole, it's all rather pedestrian and lifeless…

…until the last five minutes. Vivaldi indicates to his Angel that he's leaving Venice; she is heartbroken. Those moments between them are beautifully weighted, full of import - and the finale is, likewise, a thoroughly enjoyable, emotive piece of work, wonderfully staged. Such a shame, then, that the earlier part of the show - when it managed to keep my eyes open - was so unemotional.

Posted by pete at 11:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Township Stories (Festival page)

The State Theatre of South Africa @ Royalty Theatre

9:30pm, Tue 26 Feb 2008

"Contains graphic scenes of sex and violence" says the postcard précis. Woohoo, said I.

Of course, I had a feeling that this depiction of life in a South African township would lean heavily on the violence side of that statement, but I wasn't really prepared for the brutality that was to unfold. And the opening scene featured the rape and murder of a schoolgirl whore which, even though she was the only person onstage, was utterly chilling.

The rest of the production is a somewhat predictable thriller; with a serial killer on the loose, we're privy to life of a number of families in a South African township. There's the cop leading the investigation into the serial killer and his son; the girl who acts as a narrator for some of the story, her drunken father, unfaithful mother, and the criminal to whom she falls pregnant when she runs away from home. The bodies start to pile up, indicated by tokens on the washing-line above the stage, and the story steadily progresses towards its inevitable conclusion.

The production and direction of the piece is wonderful - set scenery is whisked on, off, and back-of-stage by the cast, accompanied by song, between scenes. At times, dialog can be utterly unintelligible - but I'm still unsure whether that was because of accent or language. I suspect the latter, because long dialogues would appear to snap into English about halfway through. There's no real issue with that though, since the themes are pretty obvious - and universal.

But, let's face it, Township Stories won't be remembered for its story, nor its performances - it will be remembered for its sheer, unadulterated brutality. We witness the rape and murder of multiple young girls. We see a schoolgirl gleefully accept her place in life as a whore, before being impregnated in an imaginatively explicit scene. We see a young boy raped by his father, the audience uncomfortably mute as their bed is dragged offstage, the boy whimpering in violation. There's a girl performing an abortion upon herself. There's multiple stranglings and gunshots (including one which had the chap sitting in front of me diving for the floor). There's a completely bizarre zombie-like Zulu hitman who staggers through the streets, machete at his side. The start of the second Act, featuring the beating of a pregnant woman, is brilliantly staged - which feels like an awful thing to say :}

Needless to say, this is a pretty bleak and vicious piece of work. The final scene, featuring the brilliantly-played drunk Dan (Molefi Monaisa) stumbling home in bliss - while his daughter lies raped, dead, at the front & centre of the stage - is chillingly poignant. The massive cast all put in powerful performances in a show which runs about two-and-a-half hours (plus interval).

This was my first Festival show of the year. I certainly hope the rest are a little more positive in nature; whilst an undeniably great piece of work, Township Stories joins the list of shows that are terribly difficult to recommend, such is the nature of its brutality.

Posted by pete at 10:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)