Category: ff2010

Death Conversation with Himalayan Cultural Eve

M. Art Theatre @ The Garage International

4:00pm, Sun 14 Mar 2010

Normally, I’m wary of productions associated with Shakti’s Garage International venue; that’s a little unfair, I know, but I’ve been to one-too-many shows where Shakti herself has featured in the production. And her style of eye-fluttering dance just doesn’t gel with me, so I figure it’s appropriate to just not take the risk.

But dance from Nepal? That just sounds too interesting to pass up. And, as I wander into the North Adelaide Community Centre, I’m thankful to see Shakti only handling tickets on the door.

Now – in conjunction with knowing nothing about dance, I know bugger all about Nepal. So as the performance begins (in front of a pretty good crowd of about thirty, on this sticky Sunday afternoon), I’m curious to see what the fundamentals of Nepali dance are. And the first piece had a solo female dancer, clad in robes of muted colour, dancing with a passionless, almost disinterested, facial expression. There’s a lot of emphasis on the hands, though; it became clear that hand movements were of grave importance. The piece livened up with some smooth spinning, but that managed to disorient her somewhat, and she bumped into a separator as she attempted to spin off the stage.

Oh dear, I thought. Not a great start.

The second piece was much more enjoyable; a mixed gender group, it’s all very bright and lively. This leads into the core of the performance, the Death Conversation play, which sees Pushpa in military custody and facing torture as he is interrogated. Different dances are sparked by his memories of happier times – of family, of his people – and by his observation of the world he lives in now, full of anger and mistrust and violence. In the end, he chooses to face Death, rather than let go of the happier times…

All this is, of course, a reflection of the People’s War – not something to be taken lightly. Which makes the lackadaisical stage production feel all the more disappointing; there’s people wandering backstage at random intervals, and the offstage narrator (who really should have been onstage) was hesitant and seemingly unprepared.

But on the plus side, the two principles – Subash Thapa’s pivotal Pushpa, and the dreamlike Shaman of Birendra Bahadur Hamal – were fantastic, each providing strength to their respective pieces (even if the Shaman did appear too keen to bang his drum). They, alone, were enough to carry this performance, which proved to be an interesting excursion into areas I’d not experienced before.

The Sociable Plover

Guy Masterson & Ronnie Toms @ Higher Ground – Theatre

9:30pm, Sat 13 Mar 2010

“It’s just started,” said whoever was on the door as I ran in… I’d forewarned them of the possibility of my lateness. Trying to soften my footfalls as I quickly crept around the walkways leading into the Theatre space, I took a seat in the front row at the back section. As I slump into the chair, amazed that I’ve made it in to the show with a vague semblance of punctuality, I almost drown in the tranquility of The Sociable Plover – Guy Masterson is sitting in a small bird-watching hut onstage, peering outwards through binoculars, gently nibbling at a sandwich. There’s soft sounds of birdlife in the background.

So… peaceful.

My heart slows down a little; my senses pick up. It suddenly hits me that I know nothing about The Sociable Plover (least of all the meaning behind the curious name), other than Guy had insisted that, of all the shows he was presenting at Higher Ground this year, this was the one I would like the most. And for awhile, I was puzzled by Guy’s comment; I know nothing about birdwatching (other than the fact that enthusiasts tend to exhibit a level of passionate OCD that I’m most certainly familiar with from my other hobby), so the quiet opening – though most certainly peaceful – took me a bit by surprise. Or anti-surprise, if you like.

It wasn’t until the sudden arrival of Ronnie Toms’ character Dave that things pick up; and then the conflict between the two, the mental manoeuvring, the jousting between the brawn and the brain begins. Neither character is particularly likeable – Dave is brash and uncouth and on the run, Masterson’s Roy is obsessively pedantic – but there’s traits in both that are immediately identifiable. It’s hard to pick a side here, and as they get to know each other fascinating little diversions occur. There’s a couple of twists, and the ending seems perfect.

It’s all wonderfully acted and – as with all the shows at Higher Ground this year – beautifully produced; the set is magnificent, full of wonderful detail. But the surprising thing was that The Sociable Plover is funny, as well as being dramatic; it really is a wonderful script, satisfying on many levels. Great stuff.

Vital Organs Collective

Vital Organs Collective @ The Birdcage

5:30pm, Sat 13 Mar 2010

A fun – but useless – fact: Vital Organs Collective were responsible for the sixth-to-last show I saw in 2009, and the fifth-to-last show of 2010. I loved Pie Charts & Panties, so when I saw Vital Organs Collective’s name in the 2010 Guide, I had pencilled them in straight away (for my birthday, no less).

Alas, Thirsty Events (where Le Rox used to be – showing my age, there) seemed to disappear without a trace; but Vital Organs managed to scrounge together some times over at The Birdcage, including this early-evening show… their last before returning home to Melbourne.

And it’s somewhat similar in structure to their previous outing: a series of six short pieces, separated by some short, occasionally physical vignettes, allowing performers to catch their breath and prepare for the next longer piece. The performances themselves are a wonderful hybrid of dance and circus-style skills; a curious balance of elegance and brute strength. And that works remarkably well, with the option to either gape at the lifts and holds, or remain mesmerised by the synched twirls and kicks.

With the six performers (three women and three men, two of whom constituted the group-within-a-group of The Lost Rung) were clad in black, with splashes of red on the female ankles and male waists. Creative choreography and great music really helped amp up the excitement throughout the performance, and the last two pieces – Cubic and Velocipede – were a whirlwind of rolls and flung limbs.

Sure, there were a few issues – some of the interludes staggered along, rather than smoothly transitioned, and sometimes the planned bouncing and leaping seemed a little too much for the performer’s limbs to be actually able to manage – but the Vital Organs Collective managed to bring physical and exciting dance to the table. On the strength of that alone, they’ll remain on The Shortlist for years to come.

My Name Is Rachel Corrie

Daniel Clarke & Hannah Norris @ AC Arts – X Space

2:00pm, Sat 13 Mar 2010

To say that this show had garnered the lion’s share of the word-of-mouth buzz around town would be an understatement; just about every theatre-goer, Fringe-centric or not, would drop Rachel Corrie into conversation. The disconcerting thing for me, who scheduled this last-Saturday-of-the-Fringe matinee in early, was that the general tone accompanying those mentions was very variable. Some people would bring it up with the glistening eyes of the true believer; others would tilt their heads forward just a little, and look at you through the guarded corners of their eyes – like they were participating in The Great Betrayal.

So I was a little apprehensive walking into the X Space. I took a seat at the top of the stairs, right next to the chap operating a video camera; it was a great view of the stage, littered with cardboard boxes, and the crowd – a reasonable group of forty or fifty for a lazy Saturday matinée.

As soon as the performance starts, you can acknowledge the production values are first-rate; Hannah Norris is polished as the titular Rachel Corrie, and her performance was extremely accomplished. Daniel Clarke’s direction, too, is stunning; Norris’ blocking is divine, and her constant rearrangement of the cardboard boxes to provide just-in-time projection surfaces for stars, videos, or trigger words was brilliantly arranged. The projections themselves were wonderfully done, too, along with the lighting in general.

The big problem, though, is the content.

The forty-five minutes that constituted the “background” of Rachel Corrie (stories of her parents, her friends, her schooling, all attempting to underline the “artistic sensibilities” of the woman) were tedious, fragmented, and… well, horrible to watch. And it’s not until she builds the cardboard boxes into a giant wall, which subsequently tumbles down (accompanying her arrival in Gaza) that it becomes mildly interesting. There’s still constant references back to her parents that ruin the pacing, and one flashback (to Todd?) is inexplicable in its inclusion. There seems to be a deliberate over-emphasis on portraying Corrie as a naïve, well-intentioned innocent; and there’s masses of cheap, emotive monologue that verges on the preachy – and I hate being preached to.

Note that I’m not railing against the message – just the way it’s been embedded into this stodge. Because, technical excellence notwithstanding, My Name Is Rachel Corrie annoyed me from the get-go; I was clock-watching after thirty minutes, and thereafter begging for it to end.

Eddie Ifft: Things I Shouldn’t Have Said

Eddie Ifft @ Mercury Cinema

9:30pm, Fri 12 Mar 2010

Over the past couple of years I’ve managed to catch Eddie Ifft in ensemble shows three times; and each time, his crude humour and uncompromising attack has left me impressed. So when the opportunity to see him perform a full hour set came along, I jumped at the chance.

And, unsurprisingly, there wasn’t much difference between short-form Eddie Ifft and long-form Eddie Ifft.

And that’s just fine by me. He’s still got a very casual manner on stage, which nicely contrasts with some of the depravity that comes forth from his mouth; challenges and apologetic shrugs are issued equally to the audience. Besides the almost-expected bad-taste (but guiltily funny) forays into rape and kiddy-fiddling, the other choice takeaways from his set this evening involved the Sex Offender app for the iPhone, his drunk airline pilot bit, and a story about his dog and a condom. And his segment on names in strip-clubs is priceless.

So – Eddie Ifft. Crude, confrontational, friendly, bloody funny. That may sound a little contradictory, but it’s not.

Afterwards, Eddie hung out in the foyer of the Mercury, selling his CD. Knowing full well that this is the big revenue maker for many artists, I snaffled one; I mentioned the first time I’d seen Ifft (where some woman in the audience had heckled him with a serious political question), hoping he’d smile with recognition at the incident. Instead, all I saw were crazed get-this-guy-away-from-me eyes.

Andrew O’Neill: Occult Comedian

Andrew O’Neill @ Mercury Cinema

8:15pm, Fri 12 Mar 2010

Striding into the Mercury Cinema and prowling from side-to-side at seat level (no elevated joke-telling from this chap), Andrew O’Neill whips the crowd into a left-side / right-side chanting competition, before turning on us – “that’s how racism starts.” Sure, it’s a gag I’d seen him use before, but it’s still bloody funny – and was remarkably effective at getting the small-ish crowd (maybe thirty peeps?) on-side.

With a fetching skirt and his usual lipstick (though stressing that he was still a raging heterosexual), O’Neill also did his “stuff that gets shouted at him as a tranny” bit – again, familiar… but again, still brilliant. And them he got into the core of his show – the “occult” bit. O’Neill contends that all comedy is occult – after all, it’s an attempt to change reality with words alone. And that may be a bit of a stretch, but you know what? It was still an entertaining premise that he satisfyingly fleshed out.

One really brilliant sidetrack that O’Neill went on involved heavy metal. He professed his love of the genre, and went to great lengths describing the various definitions and sub-genres of metal… his passion was immediately evident, and the humour that he brought to the subject was fantastic. This was pretty much what I’d expected from Steve Hughes, so to get it from the guy with the skirt and the pretty glasses instead was chuckle-worthy in itself.

Look – nothing I write here can possibly describe this gig sufficiently. All I can say is that Andrew O’Neill projected real character onstage; he wasn’t just some guy telling jokes, he was a real person who you’d happily shout a beer and chat with at the pub. He just happens to wear makeup and a skirt and be fucking funny.

Faceless : Dead & Desirable

Unreasonable Films @ Experimental Art Foundation

7:00pm, Fri 12 Mar 2010

I’ve been to see some stuff in the EAF before; in most Festival years (including this one!) there’s usually a part of an art exhibition in there. But when I walked into the bookshop that cunningly lies between the entrance and the gallery, I discovered a couple of dozen chairs set up in the bookshop itself; a woman took my ticket and gestured me towards the seats.

I park my arse and look forward; there’s a medium-sized TV screen flickering static, and a masked chap standing beside it holding a laptop, the empty black screen facing us. Only his eyes are visible, and they point forward dispassionately.

After a minute or so I feel decidedly creeped out, and I begin to lament my early arrival.

I begin to read the text on the sheet of paper I was handed on entry; it’s a rambling treatise on the lack of private spaces in this age of social networks, written by Fiona Sprott. It manages to be both academic in tone and alarmist, all whilst raising some interesting points… but by the time I’ve finished reading it, another half-dozen people have trickled in, and the overhead lights are suddenly switched off, leaving us illuminated by the flickering static on the TV screen.

The performance proper begins. The TV plays a series of scenes that are almost voyeuristic in nature, broken up by more static; the laptop begins to display pointed messages in bold fonts. There’s unsettling electronic music in the background, and the masked laptop holder continues standing there… unmoving, failing to break the forward stare. The laptop-displayed text is, of course, the meat of the performance; first- and third-person accounts of cyber-assault, with some recollections having horrific physical outcomes – stalkings, rape, murder.

Now, a lot of the ideas thrown around by Faceless aren’t exactly new; if you’ve been socially interactive on the Internet at all, you’ve probably been subject to some of the behaviour discussed… or know someone who has. But the cold, clinical manner of the delivery – the anonymous staring man, the crisp clean lettering of the laptop, the pale blue light of the incessant TV static – gives the message an almost otherworldly feel… as I mentioned before, it feels voyeuristic, especially combined with the TV images awash with static. The physical ramifications mentioned thus feel like a distant inevitability; and that, when you realise you’re thinking it, is shocking.

Performances like this are why I love the Fringe. Faceless takes a serious topic and presents it in an unusual way – giving the audience the chance to make of it what they will. I approached the subject matter with a know-it-all’s disdain, and was seriously slapped by the delivery of Faceless – and I love it for being able to do that. This was a deeply profound performance.

Carl-Einar Häckner is Big In Sweden

Carl-Einar Häckner @ Le Cascadeur

11:45pm, Thu 11 Mar 2010

As we file into Le Cascadeur, it’s obvious the stage is just littered with shit. Bits of paper, tatty boxes, cheap plastic toys, crusty tables… there’s junk everywhere.

And then this blonde Swedish chap strides onstage, accidentally headbutts his microphone, and stammers something vaguely apologetic in broken English. He cracks a few weak jokes about Ikea, attempts a lame magic trick with a banana (which he just winds up eating), snorts softly at his own jokes, and headbutts the microphone again.

We’re laughing, though. Oh god, are we laughing.

Häckner picks up a guitar and starts strumming a song for us; the instrument shatters after a few strums and he looks at us forlornly, before breaking into a big goofy grin. A few more lame jokes, a bit of singing, leveraging the accent for comedy value; a bit more chuckling into the mike. It’s all so silly, and we can’t stop laughing.

But suddenly, all the magic comes good. There’s an awesome ace-of-spades card trick that appears from nowhere that catches us off-guard; it’s a great trick, and amongst all the laughter it’s a real surprise. And then there’s a rabbit-in-the-hat trick that goes awfully wrong – the rabbits are burnt to a crisp – and I’m completely sold; gasping from laughter, I’m barely capable of comprehending the tricks that he appears to accidentally be pulling off.

In fact, the flattest part of the entire performance was when Häckner continually queried Irene with “do you see yourself?”, upon which she refused to be drawn… but even that was still amusing.

In short – Carl-Einar Häckner was a revelation. Equal parts silly humour, ridiculous props, and gob-smacking magic, his show was a magnificent mess that managed to entertain far beyond expectations.

Bird in the Gilded Cage

Pieta Farrell @ The Birdcage

10:00pm, Thu 11 Mar 2010

Look, I’ll be dead honest here. I’m typing this on the first day of February, 2011, around 326 days after seeing this performance. And, aside from a handful of notes about this performance, I cannot remember a thing about it.

Now – normally this is not the case. Usually, my notes act as prompts for more memories to come forth; I start expanding on one note, and the memories come flooding back, allowing me to revisit the performance in question and write some more. I like doing things like that (though usually in a more timely manner); it’s like I get to experience bits of the show twice.

Not this time, though. Let’s see what we can manage, though.

Pieta Farrell – Madam P in the performer’s circle – reminds me of Moira Finucane’s Victoriana (from 2006’s The Burlesque Hour); white-faced, almost ghostly, and dressed like a stiff widow. She’s accompanied by a violinist (who, I do recall, was pretty bloody good), along with a few loops and pedals to dirty up the musical backdrop. There’s a very burlesque semi-strip and dance, a lot of clambering and somersaulting and swinging around a suspended birdcage, and a coin-operated boy.

See all that? That was basically my notes thrown together.

But there is another little note that sparked a recollection: there was a lull in proceedings, presumably whilst a costume change was taking place. The violinist strikes up a tune; in the absence of anyone else, we focus on her. The lull carries on, the music is mesmerising… when suddenly, a character comes screaming into the space, jolting the audience like we’d been slapped.

But that’s it; that’s all I’ve got.

Look, I’m sorry this isn’t more detailed; it’s not because Bird in the Gilded Cage was a bad show, by any means (otherwise I would’ve remembered it clearly. I’m masochistic like that). But nothing stuck, and my notes didn’t spark like they usually do. Sorry.

Austen Found – The Undiscovered Musicals of Jane Austen

ConArtists @ Higher Ground – Studio

6:15pm, Thu 11 Mar 2010

It’s kind of tricky to find Higher Ground’s Studio; head over to AC Arts, meet someone at one of the not-exactly-signposted elevators, and you’re escorted up the lift, around several corners, down a bunch of corridors. Bloody hell, that labyrinth’ll thin the crowds out, I thought.

Wrong. The room was packed. Sixty, seventy people, maybe? More? Whatever – I’m stunned. I haven’t heard a lot of buzz around this show, so I’m genuinely amazed to see this many people here… and they were keen. Bubbling with anticipation. Mostly older women, too, though I realise I risk a massive kick in the bollocks for saying such a thing.

ConArtists comprised of four women, all clad in their Austen-ish best, including the delightful Penny Ashton, who acted as an emcee for the show, directing the other three women and the audience, as appropriate. First port of call: the democratically selected name of our lost-Austen, which our selected as “Pride and Perfection”. Then came the derivation of our Austen-name (I was Harry Tobybottom). And then came the performance of Pride and Perfection itself, with the four women filling the principle roles of Felicity, Amiable, Countenance, and Dozy (and their male interests, ably played with a simple costume change).

Now – what I didn’t realise was that Austen Found would be almost entirely ad-libbed.

And you know what? It was pretty bloody funny. In fact, the only thing that felt rehearsed was the YMCA signage during the inevitable ballroom dance sequence.

The ad-libbed songs, in particular, were absolutely brilliant – but I don’t want to take away from any other aspect of the performance. Because these ladies were bloody quick on their feet, knew their subject matter inside out, and had a real feel for what makes Austen Austen… and also what makes us laugh.

Was Austen Found the comedic highlight of the Fringe? Oh no. But it was a romping guffaw or twenty, all wrapped up with charm and grace.