Category: ff2009

Redhead

Redhead @ The Spiegeltent

7:00pm, Tue 10 Mar 2009

There was no way I could not go to this; the timing, after having seen a redhead from my past the same day, was impeccable. There’s a tip for performers: if you want me to come to your show, make them (1) a matinee, or (b) weirdly coincident with some other aspect of my life.

Having said that, I walked into this performance not having the first clue about what to expect. I didn’t know Susie Keynes, I had no idea about her history through (the critically lauded) Fruit and, aside from the odd reference to “guitar” and “rock”, I had no inkling of what was in store. But, after Susie laconically strolled onstage, heavy cyan eyeshadow matching the colour of her initial guitar, and launched into a solid pop-rocky number, I was pretty impressed. The boisterous rock goodness of “Cherish” was bloody great, but it was a tad unfortunate that the good intentions behind “Peace” didn’t make it a better tune. The closing track, “Wild Angel”, more than made up for it though, a thumpingly decent end to a mostly great show.

Throughout, CJ Rhodes’ understated bass rumbled away in the background; solid bedrock, rarely coming to the fore. Ex-Fruit-mate Yanya Boston’s drumming was also… well, there, in the background, part of the foundation.

Solid.

That’s the one-word review of this show. The songs were (mostly) above-average in appeal, on the heavier side of pop-rock, and the performance was as committed as you’d like, but at the end of the show it didn’t take much to talk myself out of buying a CD. I’d certainly see Redhead again, though.

Mark

Catie Morrison @ St. John’s Church

11:00am, Tue 10 Mar 2009

This is a tough one to write about, really. Not only because I know jack about the Book of Mark – when has a lack of knowledge ever stopped me before? – but because… ummm… Catie Morrison and I have a bit of history.

Many, many moons ago – all the way back in 1990 – I met Cate quite by chance in a Physics lecture at Uni, drawn together by my Matt Johnson t-shirt. The resulting relationship was, at times, as fiery as her gorgeous red hair, and its impact was felt well beyond the 18 months that we were together. She was always a performer – a great guitar player and singer – and very active in her church. But, after she broke my heart we broke up, we only saw each other infrequently around campus, and not at all after she finished her degree.

But I have to admit to being a little stunned when I was flicking through the Fringe Guide for the first time and coming upon page 63. It’s like the words leapt off the page and punched me in the face: “Presented by Catie Morrison”. Freaked out slightly, there was a flurry of Googling that led me to confirm that, indeed, this was the same girl that muddled my mind in the early nineties.

Except it’s not the same girl. Cate’s a deacon with the Anglican Church now, and we’re both older and heavier, and her beautiful red hair… well, it’s neatly tied back, but it’s definitely not the glorious shade of red I cherish in memory. And, as she starts her one-woman interpretative reading of the Book of Mark, her voice is also much softer than I remember – not necessarily in volume, but in tone. The first half of the performance starts out relatively dry – much like a sermon, Cate relies heavily on her book whilst performing extravagant gestures and very deliberately transitioning between stage marks. About halfway through the first fifty-minute piece, however, Mark’s rollicking nature kicks in and the tempo picks up; Cate’s delivery starts feeling much more natural and nuanced, with some great vocal variation (a great feigned speech impediment!) thrown in. It’s all becoming rather enthralling… but then she turns tail and stalks determinedly from the chancel (which acts as the stage for the performance).

So – it’s an interval. A great time to make notes and take stock of surroundings. St John’s Church is lovely inside, cool and frugal whilst still managing to feel delicate and ornate. I took the opportunity to breeze through the treatise masquerading as programme notes; a very academic affair which provided no assistance whatsoever to people, like me, who were utterly unfamiliar with the Gospel of Mark. But, given the rest of the audience, I think I was very much on my own in that regard. I was – by far – the youngest of the forty-odd people there; it’s a sea of white hair in the pews, and the muted interval conversations are fantastic: “do you still play the organ?”, “how many parishioners are there now?”, that sort of thing. Churchy conversations that I’m not likely to encounter in my usual day-to-day activities become fascinating here, and once again I find myself revelling in the moment, furiously trying to commit some to memory whilst scribbling other bits down. “It’s like I’m hearing the material for the first time,” said one woman to another; that’s exactly how I was feeling too, but for a far more literal reason.

The second “act” again starts slowly, with the chancel being adorned with a few simple props – a plant, some bricks. Again, Cate’s reading is initially a little reserved and tentative, but as the performance progresses she’s pulling at her own hair, creating a tousled mess in agitation, and tearing at her elegant white dress. As the Gospel reaches the events in Jerusalem, the pacing is appreciably quickened – shorter, sharper passages are almost venomously spat out, and there was a real feeling of tension and angst in the air. And suddenly, Cate drops the book from which she’d been reading – it lands flat on the ground with an echoing thud. She leaves the stage, and returns to much applause noticeably deflated.

I hung around after the performance – after all, here was a girl that had a significant impact on my early adulthood. I waited until all the other attendees had proffered their thanks on the way out, then approached.

“Pete,” she greeted me, “I saw your name on the list.”

We chatted. I asked how her life had been; “textured,” she replied with an unnerving stare into my eyes – nay, soul – “very textured.” The familiar smile was there, but everything else seemed to indicate that we were worlds apart. And then I caught a weird, third-person view of my own stupidity; of course we were worlds apart; that’s what 17 years does to people. We part, shaking hands; “go well,” she said.

I’ve no idea what the crowds were like for Mark‘s other shows in Adelaide, nor how the show reviewed; I do know that Cate wound up taking the show to the Melbourne Fringe too, so I’m hoping it garnered good results for her. But I left St John’s somewhat uncomfortable, yet satisfied; pleased with the performance, but perturbed by the piercing sureness that Cate seemed enveloped in. I’m still trying to figure out whether I was jealous.

Mark Butler – Let’s Talk About SEX

Mark Butler @ Electric Light Hotel (Beer Garden)

9:00pm, Mon 9 Mar 2009

Right. So. Mark Butler… I saw his show about swearing back in 2007, and remember being singularly unimpressed – and his audience handling left a lot to be desired. But I’m nothing if not generous, so I thought I’d give him another chance… and it was a Monday night, and bugger all else was on.

Of course, in retrospect, I should’ve just gone home early, basking in the glow of Holy Guacamole. Ah, hindsight, you really are a cruel mistress.

Pitched as “a sex education class for grown up boys and girls”, Butler presents the show in the guise of a teacher in front of a room full of kids… in fact, he uses pre-recorded child-like voices to simulate classroom babble, interspersed with (occasionally humorous) questions that keep the script rolling along. And it is a script, rather than a stand-up routine; Butler trots out his little factoids about sex (both human and animal) at a gentle pace, maintaining the teacher façade.

The problem is, though, that – as well-researched as the show may be – Butler simply isn’t very funny. Upon reflection, he strikes me as a stand-up comedian who really wants to be an actor; he has a part to play, and gets extremely grumpy if he’s not allowed to play it. This was most evident when he dragged a woman out of the audience for a bit of ritual humiliation; she rapidly proved that she was funnier than he (“how would you make this banana hard?” “well, I’d stick it in the freezer”), and then Butler couldn’t get her off the stage quick enough. Or maybe she just wanted to leave quickly to escape his presence: the content had a distinctly misogynist leaning (discussing oral sex, boys were encouraged to just grin and bear it; girls were told to suck it up and swallow with relish).

Surprisingly, there was a bloody big crowd in the beer garden at the Electric Light for this Monday night performance; there was a fair bit of laughter about, but there was a fair bit of beer about as well, and I prefer to think that the former came from the latter, and not necessarily from Butler’s ordinary antics. For the most part, this show left me (and the gorgeous lass next to me, on an uncomfortable night out with her dad) sighing, rather than giggling; I’ll not be affording Mark Butler any more opportunities, I reckon. Two are more than enough.

Holy Guacamole

The Good Room @ Holden Street Theatres (The Arch)

7:00pm, Mon 9 Mar 2009

You know, I so very nearly didn’t see this show; the blurb – quirky as it was – didn’t reach out and grab me at all. But on my birthday, and with (as per Fringe tradition) bugger all else in that public-holiday Monday timeslot, I decided that I’d truck out to Holden Street regardless… hey, they’d been good to me the last couple of years. Spend the day with friends. A nice safe thing to do, I reckoned, especially since my selection of shows on my birthday usually tends to be pretty poor. Or maybe that’s just a subconscious self-loathing thing.

Anyway – I’m at The Arch. Seeing Holy Guacamole.

And, without much fanfare, out comes Eustace, a half-boy half-avocado hybrid, made up in fetching shades of green and brown. He’s very much the black sheep of the family, and treated as an outcast by his three sisters; his only real friend appears to be Camille, the “different” girl, who appears to be seeking spiritual fulfilment by flitting between religions (dalliances with Islam and a bout with Hare Krishna warranting costume changes). Eustace yearns to be elsewhere, but is embroiled in a struggle that thinly disguises issues of class and caste, of appearances and expectations. But despite those rather serious leanings, Holy Guacamole was bloody funny; I laughed my arse off, and even prematurely clapped before the grim ending, the twist in the tale.

The ending – an enchanting/haunting/funny/chilling climax that owes much to the Wives of Stepford – somehow leaves you utterly satisfied. And it’s only after I left The Arch that I became aware of the most stunning accomplishment of this production: it’s somehow managed to make you forget that the main character, this retrospectively ludicrous half-boy-half-guacamole creature, is weird. Somehow, The Good Room have managed to get the audience to see themselves as Eustace, with the “normal” characters being the weird ones. Evoking our own feelings and memories of loneliness, the guacamole boy is the stranger in the community; the smiling and conniving sisters are the evil in the community itself. And it’s wondrous and magic and utterly brilliant that they’ve managed to get you to feel that, and it’s a stunning example of the power of Fringe theatre.

The cast were uniformly excellent, with one of the “evil” sisters being a particular standout for her subtle considerations of Eustace’s predicament. The staging was perfunctory, but effective, with ample use made of the depth of the stage. And sure, I was half-cut when I entered the The Arch for this performance – hey, that gorgeous girl with the beautiful eyes behind the bar at Holden Street remembered that it was my birthday, and ensured I got value for money from my celebratory glasses of red. But this was, hands down, the most wonderfully produced, entertaining-yet-cerebral, perfect show of this Fringe. I even got to accost the cast with such opinions (and, generally, shower them with praise) when I happened to be drinking with the Holden Street crew after the last performance of Guacamole, which is one of those little things that make a Fringe memorable to me. Telling people their creation has made my life better… I love that.

Mediocrity

Jally Productions @ The Bakehouse Theatre (Studio)

5:00pm, Mon 9 Mar 2009

It’s been years since I’ve been to a show in The Studio at The Bakehouse; it’s a tiny, intimate space, and it’s at about half capacity today. The raised seats look pretty packed, so I sit closer to the front of the stage; I park my arse, then check the stage – there’s one chap sitting at a table onstage, and I just happened to sit in the chair that he was morosely staring at.

Staring, without blinking.

Staring. At me.

No, through me.

Unflinching. Bloody unnerving it was, and it had me considering a seat shift. But before I could move, the (previously hidden) Narrator sprang from behind his podium onstage and leapt into his explanation of Norman, and his bored gaze.

Poor snivelly Norman, continually harassed by his wife, goes to the doctor for a trivial complaint and is told he has only a short time left on this earth. This news, understandably, shifts his perspective somewhat, and he decides to correct in his remaining time all those mistakes he left. He stands up to his wife; he reacts to his bane in The Brute, and becomes the man he always wanted to be – but never was. Of course, there’s a tiny twist in the tale that was telegraphed to pretty much anyone who’s seen any movies ever, but that’s okay.

Mediocrity was a lot of fun; it was loud and abrupt, the performance of the Narrator (Luke Lanham) was beautifully bombastic and perfectly pitched, with Frank Wilkie’s Norman being appropriately hen-pecked and cowering. The Brute (Michael Morgan) was likewise ace, with the only letdown being Norman’s wife – fair enough, really, since she was supposed to be an overbearing bitch – but Alli Pope more than made up for it as The Doctor.

And here’s the best bit: Mediocrity was blissfully brief – in a good way. Despite the few scenes that overstayed their welcome (the initial visit to the doctor’s office seemed far too long-winded), this skinny forty minute production felt surprisingly solid. That seems to be a ballsy move these days – the status quo seeming to insist on an hour – but it makes the piece that much more memorable to me. Kudos, Jally; hope to see you Fringing again soon.

Charlie Pickering

Charlie Pickering @ Bosco Theater

9:30pm, Sun 8 Mar 2009

I distinctly remember the first time I saw Charlie Pickering in 2004; coming off a piece of punched-in-the-heart theatre, I was cheered no end by his charm. 2007‘s show likewise was uplifting, but after 2008‘s let-down, I was determined not to see Charlie Pickering early in his season; I wanted to catch the bedded in, well-oiled, seasoned Charlie Pickering.

Ummmmm, that all sounds a little… gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Pickering’s central premise this year was simple: he’s just turned 31 years old, and he’s feeling very immature. And I can completely identify with this; in my mid-30’s, I fell back into the world of video games, then developed an addiction to anime and manga – none of which are (currently) deemed to be particularly “adult” pursuits. So, when Pickering laments at his lack of maturity, or of his inability to perform any of the tasks his father was capable of doing… well, I felt like calling him an immaturity wimp. Soft. Not really committed to the immaturity goal ;)

But outside this thread, he happily lambasts Adelaide Confidential, rambles through dubiously cheeky stories of schoolies engaging in sex-by-SMS, and leverages his father (again) with familiar tales of home renovations.

And some of the stories are familiar because, well, you’ve heard them before. Because this is the same old Charlie Pickering – the same style. The same form of audience banter (this night resulting in the discovery of the guy who wrote the Adelaide Fringe iPhone app – “so you wrote something I don’t care about? awesome”). And yes, some of the same stories.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Pickering is still in my good books; I love his honest style, and his upfront, sympathetic delivery is pleasant. But by only occasionally delving into the slightly risqué (the schoolgirl lusting sometimes verged on the creepy), I’d still consider him to be pleasant.

There’s that word again: “pleasant”. That’s a one-word summary, that is.

Charlie Pickering: pleasant.

A Spoonful of Reflections [FringeTIX]

HartBEAT Dance Project @ Higher Ground (Art Base)

7:00pm, Sun 8 Mar 2009

It’s an interesting idea, this one – fourteen distinct pieces of dance, all named & numbered, with photos spread around the venue depicting each in action, accompanied by a little descriptive note – it’s dance presented in an exhibition setting. The music starts almost as soon as we start treading downstairs; a dancer appears from a side room, walks to the centre of the prescribed space, and starts dancing. As the music morphs into the next piece, they leave the space, returning to the room for a breather, and are replaced with other dancers… or sometimes they hang around, creating a bigger group. One through fourteen, then back to one again – the performances on the return leg appearing to be slight reduxes of the originals, often turning group-based movements into solo performances, without losing the intrinsic nature of the piece.

The choreography seems to be very much focussed on the beat of the music – which, whilst that sounds somewhat sensible (given that it’s dance), unfortunately often feels very contrived – especially when the dancers mime sentiments expressed in the song’s lyrics (this was especially bad in 4). And, given there’s a heavy reliance (with more than one dancer in play) on the co-ordination of particular movements, it’s quite surprising to see that there’s a very liberal (and individualistic) interpretation of those movements by each dancer. I’d have thought that any choreographer worth their salt would’ve had conniptions at the different variations of the same general idea.

That’s not to say that it’s all bad, though – some pieces (5, 6, 11, 14, then 6 and 5 again on the way back) are fantastic – vibrant and full of enthusiasm. And, on the reverse leg, the dancers were all smiles and laughs, which added a certain playful element to the performance. And this certainly constitutes the best use of space in the ArtBase that I’ve yet seen – the columns define a natural space in which the dance is performed and allows the audience to frame the performance to their liking, with no particular vantage point favoured by the performers. Clad in white, the six dancers (five women, one bloke) are of all different shapes and sizes – and, perhaps surprisingly, my favourite performer was significantly heavier than the stereotypical dancer.

So – there was some good dance, some bad dance, great use of space, and an innovative presentation. Overall on the positive, I reckon.

Madhu – Sweet Diversity [FringeTIX]

Niki Shepherd @ Holden Street Theatres (The Studio)

5:30pm, Sun 8 Mar 2009

After some appalling dance in 2007, I’d been scared off Indian-influenced dance a bit… but then I saw Madhu in the Guide: short run, at Holden Street, and not a Shakti to be seen. “Ancient Indian dance and new choreography come together in this unique and exciting solo performance,” it promised. You beauty – scheduled, ticket acquired.

Of course, I forgot one little thing – the music. And what music would you expect to accompany trad Indian dance?

Yep – tabla.

I fucking hate tabla. Actually, that’s not quite true; I find it quite refreshing, almost a palate cleanser, for a couple of minutes. But once it crosses the five-minute mark, it turns into one of the most annoying sounds that could afflict me; I’d honestly prefer white noise, static.

Regardless, Niki Shepherd draws upon her background in Kuchipudi dance, with the type of swift, gliding movements that I’ve come to associate with Indian dance. And, whilst that only turned out to be mildly interesting, the surprising thing (for me, anyway) was how expressive it all was – her eyes told stories, flitting from left to right, and that little head-wobble thing popping in sync with the music.

Costumes look to be traditional – but who am I to judge? – and Niki presented three pieces, introduced with little voiceover snippets. The first two are curious; as I’ve mentioned, I didn’t get sucked into the style as much as I was expecting, and the tabla was really getting on my nerves. After a short interval (why say it’s going to be five minutes when you know it’s going to be ten?), the third piece starts – and this, too, raises plenty of questions. Unfortunately, they’re not “good” questions – more along the lines of “when it this going to end?” Because, despite the costume change (from traditional to more modern), this untrained eye detected little – if any – change to the dance itself, so deep was the influence of one on the other. Of course, it was set against a more modern piece of piano-centric music, so at least it had that going for it… but, all else considered, this final act added little to the performance, except spins that looked on the edge of control.

Sigh. At the end of the day, this was pretty much a non-event to me. Which is sad, I guess, but at least I can say that I’ve experienced something new.

Storm In A Teacup [FringeTIX]

Flipside Circus @ The Ringbox

2:00pm, Sun 8 Mar 2009

First mistake: I leapt at the opportunity to book this ticket. “Matinee!” I thought with glee. Alas, three words of doom: Fringe. Family. Day. So the crowd is at capacity, and it’s hot and sunny and we’re in the Ringbox with very little shade to be had. Sunburn and crankiness ahoy!

But still, at least it’s supposed to be a rendition of The Tempest… another bit of my beloved Shakespeare. But then the show starts…

Oh shit – it’s a piece by a youth circus troupe.

My heart plummets. I normally try to avoid these types of shows, because my head shifts from “entertain me, dammit” to “awww – aren’t they talented for their age.” Which essentially means that I’m probably not being entertained. Which kinda defies the point of me being there.

Surprisingly, though, the opening bit is quite exciting – there’s probably about a dozen kids roaming the stage, engaging in all manner of tricks; it may not have been hugely complex, but the movement and colour creates the illusion of frenzied activity – and that, in turn, leads to a decent feeling of excitement (there’s that word again).

The problem is… that feeling doesn’t last.

Aside from Prospero (played with fatherly aplomb) and the drunkards (played for laughs by the three eldest members of the troupe, their intertwined juggling was a highlight), the youngsters aren’t much cop onstage. Their tricks are par for the course for their age, the progression of the storyline perfunctory at best. But the most talented of the young ‘uns was the young fella playing Ariel – he showed great moxie, and wasn’t afraid to work the audience for his deserved applause.

Apart from those occasional blurs of colour, there wasn’t a whole lot else to be happy about… and it was as hot as fuck in the afternoon sun… I actually prayed for cooler weather. The re-telling of The Tempest was tenuous at best, sadly, and apart from the previously mentioned talent, there wasn’t that much to write home about.

Except…

One of the songs they used during one of the kids’ routines was… ummmmm… perhaps a touch inappropriate. The rapid-fire funk of Mr Bungle’s “Squeeze Me Macaroni” blared out from the speakers, presumably for the cheerful (but dubious) “knick knack paddywhack and give your dog a bone, baby” chorus. And that’s okay, it’s just that the rest of the song is a collection of sexual euphemisms…

I wanna lock Betty Crocker in the kitchen
And knock her upper during supper
Clutter up her butter gutter
Hostess Ding Dong wrapped an eggroll around my wong
While Dolly Madison proceded to ping my pong
Your Milky Way is M’n’M in your britches
And I’ll tell you Baby Ruth it looks mighty delicious
Keep blowing my gum, cuz here I come
I’m gonna get you all sticky with my Bubble Yum

Knick knack paddywhack and give your dog a bone, baby

I was givin’ some head to some french bread
It was a four course orgy on the spread of my bed
French kissin’ french fries in my Fruit of the Looms
I get deeper penetration with a fork and a spoon

I got yogurt meat loaf smeared all over my ass
I stick my weiner in two buns and and then give it the gas
Sour cream from my spleen into Levi jeans
Gonna bust the seams with my refried beans

Ronald McDonald just loves to be fondled
With Big Mac he’ll fuck it like a Chicken McNugget
Colonel Sanders wants to goose Granny’s loose caboose
He’s gonna give her a boost with that Kentucky fried juice
Sooper doop poop scoop, loop de loop, chicken coop
Shoot some hoop, top sirloin from the groin
Topped with dick cheese, sneeze, wheeze,
From the skeez disease, wooi!

Take a dump, baby, squirt some gravy
Pour some sugar on me, honey, make it brown & runny
Give a little Flavor Flav, back from the grave
Gonna burn some toast, pump some humpin’ rump roast

Sure, they looped the song before the really rude bits…

Knick knack paddywhack, jump in the sack, in fact
Jerk the smack and crack Jack from the back
Bananarama or ramabanana
Fuckin’ Barry Manilow on the Copa Cabana

Squeeze me macaroni, slop your face with my bologna

You gotta syphon the spinach, you gotta cream the corn
Sperm scrambles the eggs and a meal is born
Cookin’ like a beginner, but I’m goin’ up in her
I had Fritos for lunch I’m havin’ bush for dinner
Chef Boyardee and the Three Muskateers
Shove Charleston Chews in their rears like queers
“Holy moly, guacamole!” said my Chips Ahoy
I’m gonna pinch a ravioli on the Pillsbury dough…Tall man

Knick knack paddywhack and give your dog a boner, baby

We came to pottie…we came to pottie down your throat

…but still – a bit odd for a show aimed at (and starring) kids, innit? Still, it kept me in wonderment…

Capture [FringeTIX]

Playground @ Colour Cosmetica

9:00pm, Sat 7 Mar 2009

You know what it’s like when you love someone so much that it hurts when it’s unrequited? When you shower them with kisses, and they keep pushing you away?

That’s me and Playground, that is.

When I saw them in [interrobang] it was a revelation. The little fantasy world in my mind, where I’m some sort of ultra-successful producer, spunking art upon the world such that people look at me in awe and adulation… well, Playground’s dance plays a part in that. Three years later that memory still lives on.

But…

Wearing Away Our Lips? A bit disappointing. And this performance, Capture? Frustrating.

Capture is a series of three pieces, all featuring one of the Playground principals, Tess Appleby. The first piece sees her joined by Dan Hales & Melissa Stupel in an interesting series of movements that seem to owe more to the circus garb that we can see in The Garden than to contemporary dance. I got my first taste of a video intermission, during which the dancers stood still at the side of the space; it’s very odd, watching a video of a dance being performed when the dancers are right there.

The second piece sees Tess & Dan return in a segment where She holds Him captive, manipulating Him as She sees fit; again, this is interspersed with several pre-recorded bits. These, at least, appeared to have a bit of thematic legitimacy… well, the first one did, anyway. Was She just showing Him what she was doing when he was blindfolded, to create a sense of helplessness? No matter – by the time the third such video was shown, I was almost shaking my head in disbelief. Obviously Playground have an artistic agenda with their persistent use of video… but I don’t know what it is. I can’t see it, I can’t understand it. And I want to, I really do… because my instinct is to tell them to stop. But I know nothing about art, let alone dance, so I’ll just vent my frustration right here.

Getting back to my opening analogy: I’m sitting there, willing myself to love Capture, but the direction just seems to keep slapping me in the face. But then comes the look, the smile, the giggle with a playful toss of the head that sends hair cascading across beautiful eyes that makes you fall in love again: the third Capture. From out of a box of memories comes a series of photographs, and Tess dances with the memories, plays them back, all the while shadowdancing with two walls of the tight Colour Cosmetica space, contemplations in reflections from the back wall coming to meet me. It’s utterly enchanting, thoroughly beautiful, and I’m lost. Again.

So I leave on a high, but as I type this I’m forced to reflect a little. The first two Captures showed promise, but interrupt my appreciation with decisions I cannot fathom. Those last ten minutes? Magical. Utterly, utterly breathtaking.

Like I said, frustrating. But the aftertaste is so very, very sweet.

Toys [FringeTIX]

Tina Evans @ Fringe Factory (151 Hindley Street)

7:45pm, Sat 7 Mar 2009

It’s listed as a fifteen minute dance piece. When the capacity crowd (all of thirty people) are finally let into the venue thirty-five minutes late, I’m concerned about missing my next show. When I take my seat in the front row, however, I discover the reason for the delay: a DVD projector, integral to the performance, cacked itself – requiring a new projector be brought in. This became apparent to me when, as I parked my arse in the front row, I wound up sitting next to a Fringe employee with the replacement projector sitting on her lap, her knees held at just the right position to effect the adequate projection onto the screen at the back of the stage… and constantly fan me with hot air.

Now, the Fringe Factory at 151 Hindley is… well, intimate. Thirty people squeezed into something not much larger than a bedroom, with a “stage” that’s maybe only 2 x 4 metres. And, as the screen displays some jarring images of childrens toys and sinister shadows (with a very ocker and only somewhat creepy voiceover), Tina Evans pops onto this tiny stage. Wrapped in Gladwrap with a bubble-wrap tutu, she poses as a music-box ballerina whilst audio of an auction is played… this is an auction for her.

Toys is completely focussed on one thing: the selling of children into the sex trade. The audio is unnerving, the video a collage of innocent and diabolical snippets, Evans’ movements perfunctory… up until she drops to the floor (well below the sightline of most of the audience), screaming and convulsing and clawing.

And then it hits you: you’re watching a child rape scene. Child Rape. By Men. Lots of Men.

And that’s pretty fucked up. The mind takes these images and runs with them, and it’s horrible. It sticks and gnaws and then dwells, forcing the brain to reconcile image and explained fact. And when Evans eventually struggles away from the scene, curls up into a ball, and starts singing of all her assailants to the tune of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”, it’s a chilling moment, an eerie moment.

So it’s all very thought-provoking and meaningful and serious, and undoubtedly brings light to a horrible issue; but, having mulled on the issue during the performance, as I dashed to my next show my brain was constantly wondering how the fuck does this make money for the artist? It was only on for three performances; it only costs $5; and a capacity crowd is thirty. Let’s say a third of those people also buy the $2 program. Thus, Evans can only gross a maximum of $510 for the entire season; how is this going to keep an artist – a worthwhile artist with something to say – fed?