Category: ff2010

Peeled [FringeTIX]

Di Smith @ Holden Street Theatres – The Arch

7:30pm, Mon 22 Feb 2010

Waaaaay back in 2000, it seemed like there was a real glut of one-woman-multiple-character shows – The Entire Contents of the Refrigerator being the one that immediately springs to mind – but I don’t recall there being much activity in that somewhat specific genre in the last few years. Sarah Quinn has, of course, excelled in one such show (and this year’s A Captive Audience looks, thankfully, like more of the same), but others have been hard to come by.

Or maybe they’re just not reaching out from The Guide, appealing to me.

Regardless, I’m back in The Arch for the third time today to see Di Smith’s display of three characters whose only common trait appears to be loneliness. The first woman, Irene, is a carny spruiker with an autistic son, constantly battling pre-conceived notions on multiple fronts: as an itinerant carny, she’s viewed suspiciously, and her son is always the first to be blamed when something goes wrong (such as the missing girl that drives most of Irene’s tale). You get the feeling that, at story’s end, Irene is almost relieved at the outcome… but her isolation, her lack of emotional support, just barely starts cracking her hardened façade.

Alison, on the other hand, seems desperate and dateless. Venturing into the duplicitous world of online dating, she fantasises about the potential for romance with her new beau – only to have her dreams shattered by a Cleveland steamer. Tragic for Alison, but bloody funny for me.

The last character, Maureen, was the one that hit home for me. Suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s (at age 51), Maureen knows she’s entering a murky twilight, with her husband doing all he can to make her life as fulfilling as possible. But she can sense that she is, essentially, leaving him behind – she’s grateful, of course, but cognisant that her condition is ruining his life. It’s certainly the best-written of the three pieces, and I sense perceptive parallels with my own parents.

Peeled lingers in my memory in some sort of strange limbo; on the one hand, all the characters are unique in their own way, with Maureen standing out the most. And Smith’s delivery is certainly convincing, both in dialogue and song (each character belts out a tune as a signature flourish). But the first two pieces didn’t really engage me at all – leaving me quite firmly on the outside looking in – and the third was a little uncomfortable, given the close-to-home nature of the characters. And so Peeled falls into that category where I’m glad I saw it, but would hardly recommend it to anyone; a shame, really, because I love this format when everything goes right.

[2010038] iexist.com [FringeTIX]

I Must Not Theatre @ Holden Street Theatres – The Studio

6:30pm, Mon 22 Feb 2010

As an obsessive/compulsive gamer during the Fringe off-season, I should have been able to identify with this performance. And, after a solo opening filled with the emulation of an MMORPG session gone horribly wrong (something that I have no direct experience with, and have desperately tried to avoid (MMORPGs, that is)), I was intrigued.

The problem is that the intrigue, for me, didn’t last.

Inspired by the growing legions of teens that are finding their social interactions to be easiest through various cyberspace options, iexist.com aims to portray the relationships between its physically seperated characters through abstract dance and some spoken word. And, whilst some of the form and movement through the sparse (but clever) PVC piping framed set is interesting and evocative, it really failed to engage me – but I can’t put my finger on why.

It’s not like the material was contrived or offensively dumbed down; indeed, it’s quite a compassionate and pragmatic look at the issues affecting these people – their physically disconnected relationships and abstracted communications within these online worlds, addressing the extent to which people open themselves up online… and the dangers in doing so. But, as mentioned above, it just didn’t grab me.

Decent ideas turned into decent content, competently delivered… for no emotional connection. But, for some bizarre reason, I found the Director’s Comments in the programme really interesting. Go figure.

King Lear [FringeTIX]

So What? Productions @ Holden Street Theatres – The Arch

2:30pm, Mon 22 Feb 2010

This year seems to be particularly good for Shakespeare – along with the Festival’s Vs Macbeth and The Life and Death of King John, this production of King Lear appeared, wodged in a very Pete-friendly timeslot. The Bard on a weekday matinee, you say? I am so there.

Not many other people were, though. There was maybe eight of us, I reckon. Which has the cast outnumbering us quite heavily.

It’s a relatively straight-forward production: minimalist in nature, relying only on a few chairs, a wheelie bin, and a lot of newspaper for staging. There’s some great direction in there, travelling being denoted by movement around the audience; the space of The Arch is used to its fullest, but – save for some clever shadow-play – there’s no massive surprises in store. It feels complete, but sparse.

But then we get to Act V – and it is, quite literally, a bloody mess. Dispensing with the Bard’s scripted dénouement, it’s an all-cast lineup where each character rapid-fires an explanatory soliloquy about their downfall, then marks their death by smashing a blood capsule on their forehead. With twelve cast members on stage, it rapidly becomes a pile of bodies and blood atop a bed of newspaper.

Lear’s two dirtbag daughters (Danielle Nakkan and Ash Vlahos as Gonerill and Regan, respectively) are sufficiently hateful, while Jacqueline Breen’s Cordelia is a demure shrinking violet. Clare Matchett’s Fool (popping, surprisingly, out of a wheelie bin at the appropriate moments) provides great comic relief, but it’s Stephen Sharpe’s performance in the titular role that brings it all together: he oozes regality early, then manages to pull off an absolutely convincing batshit-insane Lear later in the piece.

I bumped into Sharpe down Rundle Street one day as he emerged from the Sushi King that seems to feed all Fringe Artists. He was still bloodied from that day’s performance, and as I raved to him about how much I loved the show (and let’s be clear – I thought it was awesome), he smiled broadly and thanked me for my words… and he sounded so young, so far away from that character onstage. That really surprised me; but then I remembered that there’s this little thing called acting, and that’s partly why I see all these shows.

Because these kids can really act, and director Christopher Hay definitely has an eye for the theatrical. King Lear deserves to be an unmitigated success, and I feel disappointed in myself that I didn’t push it onto the Fringe-going masses more myself.

Oh – and the programme? Divine – wonderful texture, superb presentation, and great content… not unlike the production itself.

Freefall [FringeTIX: The Arch, The Ringbox]

Gravity & Other Myths @ Holden Street Theatres – The Arch

1:00pm, Mon 22 Feb 2010

Summary: this show was amazing.

Now step back and explain.

I’ve no idea what attracted me to Freefall; the precis in the Guide is ambiguous and, indeed, a little odd given its location in the circus section. I walked in expecting some light acrobatics set against a bed of interesting characters embedded in some sort of basic theatre. Why’d I pick this show, again?

Regardless, as the lights drop, the young-looking cast appear, scribbling on hanging sheets of paper at the rear of the stage (a common motif this year, it seems). Then a large lightbulb is lowered from the roof – it’s the only source of light in The Arch now and, as it is swung around its fitting (scooting within millimetres of the corners of the T-shaped stage) the soft orange light it emits lights up the faces of the cast with wonder.

And then the acrobatic part of the performance kicks in – and it’s bloody amazing. There’s tons of brilliantly choreographed tumbling and balance acts, the female members of the cast are swung and flung around seemingly at will, and the multi-level juggling is almost impossible to follow. And then there’s the occasional spoken-word break, with the cast delivering lines based on the phobia theme… this could have been incredibly cheesey, but they manage to pull it off with the perfect balance of humour and compassion.

And the genuine sense of camaraderie that seemed to exist within the group… there’s a tangible team on stage. If there’s a spill (the odd juggling feat went awry), there’s always someone to clean up. There’s the little looks between them that indicate a focus, an intent, greater than the individual’s need to get past the next trick. And, whilst the male members of the cast have a homogeneity about them (in dress and stellar ability), the women are more distinct: the coy, cheeky grin of Tilly Cobham-Hervey (“Blue”). The elegance of Jascha Boyce (“White”). The stunning balance and strength of Brie Henwood (“Stripey”).

Now, there can be no messing around here; I heartily, unreservedly, recommend this to anyone and everyone, but with one small caveat: I saw this at Holden Street, not The Ringbox. And that may have coloured my experience somewhat, but I don’t really care – because my emotional response to this performance was one of tearful joy. And that’s something I haven’t had from many shows… ever.

It’s a ridiculously confined space for such a massive act… it’s all right there. Christ, I was sitting in the second row, and one mis-directed club whilst juggling could have knocked all my teeth out. When they’re standing three-tall, the topmost person is staggeringly close to the roof of The Arch – indeed, the lighting rig in The Arch had to be reconfigured to provide the vertical space required for Freefall. And yet they towered above the miniscule audience that day – all ten of us, maybe – and they fucking delivered. I shit you not, I’m tearing up right now, just recalling the jaw-gaping joy I felt that afternoon.

And then I discover that, apart from instructor/mentor Triton Tunis-Mitchell (who’s still on the junior side of thirty, and astonishingly strong), not one of the cast is over nineteen years of age. And that chucks a whole new perspective on things… because, whilst I’ll see some of the same tricks elsewhere this Fringe (in fact, the entire first act of Controlled Falling Project could have been plucked from Freefall), I’m still stunned that a group so young were able to conjure up that strength, that skill, and deliver with such poise.

And the ending… the ending! An absolutely magnificent full-stop on a magical show; perfect punctuation.

Look, I could keep typing, but get no closer to communicating how much I loved seeing Freefall. I hope it translates well to The Ringbox – the kids(!) certainly have the skill to carry it – but such an amazing show, in such an intimate venue… this is one of my shows of the year, hands down.

Shaggers [FringeTIX]

Nik Coppin, Ro Campbell, Oliver Clark, Brad Oakes, Bart Freebairn @ The Tuxedo Cat – Attic

10:00pm, Sun 21 Feb 2010

After last year’s Shaggers episode (which included moments of extreme fish-out-of-water discomfort), I was a little reluctant to schedule this one in so early; but with “we’re just friends” Irene as my partner-in-crime I felt a little safer this year.

And, without further ado: this was, quite possibly, one of the funniest shows I’ve ever seen.

But it’s important to put that into context.

Most significantly, there were four of us in the audience that night. Irene and myself, merrily sloshed at this stage, along with the married-for-thirty-odd-years Ingrid and Joe. Ingrid & Joe took their seats halfway back in the empty room while we continued pissing on at the bar; Irene (a) is blind, and (2) brings out the bravery in me, so we grab a cocktail table directly in front of them, then goad them into coming up front to join us. It’s all friendly laughs when emcee Nik Coppin takes to the stage, encourages introductions amongst the four of us, and then explains how Ingrid, prior to ascending to the Attic, had asked him whether this was a “dirty” show; “well, it’s a show about shagging,” Nik had replied, “but I’ll talk to the boys and we’ll try to clean it up a bit.”

And then he introduced Ro Campbell.

And he was fucking filthy.

Ro started out rude, moved onto tales of cunnilingual spelunking in the back of a ute, then wrapped up with the Wrongest Thing He’s Ever Written (a joke involving Roman Polanski, Jack Nicholson’s hot-tub, Bindi Irwin, and a stingray). By the time the ultimate punchline of the joke comes around (which my own sick little mind predicted), I’ve completely lost my shit – tears are in my eyes, Irene is crying “stop it” repeatedly, and Ingrid is laughing her arse off.

And suddenly Ro Campbell is a must-see.

Oliver Clark is up next with his cheesey schmaltz. Heavy on the innuendo (as befits a Shaggers show), his hip-thrusting closer was particularly amusing – “since it’s such a small crowd, you get another go each” he crooned, pointing his fingers and crotch in each of our faces in turn.

And then came Brad Oakes. Now, in their defence, most of the comedians tonight had been partaking of frivolities down at the Fringe Club prior to fronting up for Shaggers – but Brad was clearly worse-for-wear. Chucking his foot on one of our cocktail tables – and then struggling to keep his balance – he introduced us to his runners, bemoaned his lack of sex, threw in some arse-fingering jokes, then somehow staggered away again, leaving us chortling away.

At this stage, Irene’s finished the drink she was nursing; Coppin, back onstage to introduce the final act, asks if she’d like another. Yes, she replies, and Coppin summons the lonely barstaff to bring the appropriate beverage. “I’ll have a glass of red, too,” I called. Nik looked incredulous – even more so when Ingrid and Joe also re-upped their orders. The drinks came – “best show EVER!” I exclaimed – and, speechless at our brazen attempts to leverage his hospitality (and meagre profits), Coppin went the whole hog and presented us with DVDs and flyers, ordering us to at least spruik the show for him.

And so, to our final act: Bart Freebairn. Now, I’ve not been super-keen on Bart’s work in the past, but when he dragged a beanbag onto stage and parked himself in it sans microphone, surrounded by the four of us, it just rounded the night off beautifully. Sure, I’d heard the bulk of the material before (the wrongest-thing-he’s-had-said-to-him-during-sex bit), but tonight – in this intimate space and inebriated state – it just worked.

I was pretty bloody hammered by the time this show finished (and then we kicked on at the TuxCat’s rooftop bar for a decent old Sunday night session), but I’ll be buggered if it wasn’t one of the funnest hours I’ve ever had. The intimacy of the show just made it utterly memorable, one of those experiences that I’ll cherish always. It obviously made an impact on Joe & Ingrid, too, because they spied Irene and myself in The Garden a week later, leading to even more laughs.

There you go, then – Shaggers: the show that keeps on giving.

Marcel Lucont – Encore [FringeTIX]

Marcel Lucont @ The Tuxedo Cat – Rooftop

8:45pm, Sun 21 Feb 2010

I loved Marcel Lucont’s show last year – it was exactly the right show at the right time with the right audience. It was piss-yourself funny and left me indebted to Lucont forever.

This year, it’s a couple of hours earlier in the evening, and the crowd… oh dear.

They weren’t into it. At all.

And that’s a massive shame – because Lucont is still a magnificently realised character, aloof and arrogant. And charming, in a horribly acidic kind of way. Because he’s the misanthrope (a kindred spirit!) we all hate to love… but love him we do, despite his threads of humour which weave back and forth across That Line.

But, with a longer set, Lucont is forced to delve into time-sucking stories (ostensibly taken from his autobiography, Moi) – and these ruin the pacing of the show. Still funny, mind you… but out of place. The unresponsive crowd didn’t exactly help this evening, either – I get the feeling that one good heckler would’ve made all the difference, allowing Marcel to cut them down with confident disdain, getting the audience onside, and rolling from there.

I really think Marcel Lucont is a great impact comedian, perfectly suited to the half-hour-or-shorter set. That’s not to say this show is bad, by any means – it’s just that prolonged exposure to his style gets a little numbing after awhile. By all means, check him out if he’s not had the pleasure before.

Alexis Dubus – A Surprisingly Tasteful Show About Nudity [FringeTIX]

Alexis Dubus @ The Tuxedo Cat – Rooftop

7:30pm, Sun 21 Feb 2010

Another drinkie or two between shows, and we walk into the TuxCat’s Rooftop venue to be greeted by Philip Burgers (from Dr. Brown Behaves) posed naked on stage, Alexis Dubus quietly painting away. There’s a chuckle by everyone as they enter the room; Irene decides the optimum seats are directly in front of Dr. Brown’s cock.

Thankfully – for me, anyway – as soon as the audience are bedded in and tittering, Burgers leaves the stage (to appreciative applause), and Dubus begins his accurately-named Surprisingly Tasteful Show About Nudity. And it is very tasteful; whilst nudity is obviously at the core of the show, this is first-and-foremost more of an informative discussion than a collection of cheap gags.

Sure, there’s the odd humorous aside into nudity through history – witty quips surround fertility statues and the Rude Man, but it’s all broken up with facts and figures that Dubus has been collecting. There’s a brief discussion of the impact of streaking, and we’re introduced to Stephen Gough, the Nude Rambler, currently still in prison after being arrested for Breaching the Peace.

The bulk of the material, though, revolves around Dubus’ own explorations into nudity – recounting stories of his research trips to naturist events at theme parks, and, more prominently, his participation in the World Naked Bike Ride – first the Adelaide version (with all of fourteen participants), and then the London event (which had a lazy 1200 riders). Sure, he started the ride in his Nude Suit, but he’s already committed to riding stark naked in Adelaide’s event this year if he can get 100 other people to sign up.

This is the first time I’d seen Alexis Dubus perform outside his Marcel Lucont alter ego, and he’s got quite a likeable style. He’s enthusiastic without being effusive, and he seems to be taking this subject matter very seriously – so much so that, when I bumped into him (fnarr fnarr) in his Nude Suit one afternoon in Synagogue Place, he mentioned to me that he was considering doing a free show during which everyone would nude up. I’ve no idea whether that eventuated but… yeah. Like I said, he’s taking it seriously.

And, at the end of the day, this was an enjoyable performance. It wasn’t wall-to-wall laughs, but I’m not sure it was meant to be; just one chap talking about nudity, tastefully. Just your average Sunday evening, really.

Death in Bowengabbie

Tamarama Rock Surfers @ The Tuxedo Cat – Rooftop

6:15pm, Sun 21 Feb 2010

I absolutely adored Death in Bowengabbie last year; it’s one of the few shows that I recommended to people before the Fringe started, and something that I’ve continually been telling people they should see. Because – quite simply – it is that good. I convinced Gareth (the choreographer) that it was a brilliant show, and well worth his precious time; Irene reluctantly came along as well.

And you know what?

Everything I said before still stands.

And, if anything, it was even better this time: I noticed the suitcases being used as headstones. The great characterisation of Rasputin, the Tasmanian devil. The impact of the father’s suicide on the story.

It’s a magical piece of theatre, wonderfully sparse and economical and perfect in its presentation. It still speaks to the small-town country boy in me, and it’s just one of those experiences that feels like it wraps me up in a coddling mist of descriptive delight, leaving me drawn and deliriously happy at the end of the performance.

So imagine my surprise when I look to Gareth as we walk out, raising my eyebrows in a so-what-did-you-think? kinda way… and he responded with a hand-waving “meh” gesture, followed by a quick escape. And Irene, whose taste has proven to be mostly compatible with my own thus far, responded to my excited inquisition with a wrenching “the Titanic song at the end was the best bit,” followed by “I found the character too cold to be able to connect with.”

Oh my.

Could I really be so wrong about this? Have I completely misjudged the quality of Bowengabbie not once, but twice?

Ah, fuck it. It’s all opinions, innit? And, truth be told, I’d rather people see Death in Bowengabbie and think I’m a nutter, than not see it at all. Better to have loved and lost, and all that.

…go see this show. Bloody brilliant, it is.

Pickled. [FringeTIX]

Chris Scherer @ The Tool Shed

4:45pm, Sun 21 Feb 2010

Just south of the entrance to the Fringe Club is The Tool Shed. In the spirit of There., it’s a tiny white shipping container, and on either side of the footpath there’s a couple of chairs that waiting punters are using. I take a seat, start jotting down some notes on other shows, when a chap called Gareth leans over ask introduces himself.

It turns out Gareth is a choreographer from Melbourne, briefly in Adelaide on a whirlwind Fringe expedition, seeing all shows he can; he remembers seeing me in last night’s Heavier Than Milk, of which he was far more scathing than I. We chat, I pick his brain a bit on the state of contemporary dance, and then we’re ushered into The Tool Shed.

Now, the shipping container forms an incredibly intimate space for a small audience; there’s a limit of twenty people per show, and I reckon that’d be a tight fit. Our audience of about ten was comfortable, without feeling like we had acres of space on the white steps we perched on. To get to those steps, though, we had to first negotiate a field of primed mousetraps – the audience tip-toeing ever-so-carefully through a couple of metres of the snappy booby-traps before parking on the steps at the rear of the container. Then Chris Scherer appears, dishevelled and nervous, and launches into one of the more confronting and provocative shows I’ve seen in years.

Pickled is very much a physical movement performance with theatrical elements thrown in; there’s a plethora of small vignettes, sometimes linked by the odd phone-call, but otherwise disconnected. After Scherer unsuccessfully negotiates the mousetrap mine-field, there’s pieces where Scherer throws himself around the long-narrow space in the form of dance; he dons bright orange tights and flops around like a fish out of water whilst a goldfish looks on; he sits with the audience and addresses them directly. There’s also a quirky and challenging Kissing Booth, the pain and confusion evident on his face as he lowers his price – to the unresponsive silence of the crowd (I bumped into the Fringe Club a few nights later and asked if he’d ever had any takers for the Kissing Booth; “not yet,” he said, “but here’s hoping.”).

But two episodes really stick out in the mind; after providing each of the audience with a ping-pong ball, Scherer stands a few metres away, wearing a target on his chest. The mental cue is triggered in the audience, and the ping-pong balls are launched; some miss, some hit the target, and there’s a titter amongst the crowd. After all the balls have been dispatched, the previously-motionless Scherer flinches – and a gasp goes up behind me. We all, suddenly, feel like shit. This is followed by a segment where Scherer simply faces the crowd – and weeps. You want to look away, but there’s a compulsion to watch him; the weeping continues, outstays its curious and painful welcome, and the discomfort escalates.

Now – I love this sort of stuff. I love being emotionally challenged, being dragged outside my comfort zone by someone who clearly has a coherent vision. And that’s the amazing thing; despite the disparate nature of the elements that make up this performance, there really does seem to be a singular vision behind it.

If this were performed in front of a sober crowd at midnight, it would blow minds – it’s very much an avant-garde piece of work that is at once aesthetically impressive and emotionally involving, and I can only imagine how the isolation of an inky black night outside would impact the viewer. But, as it was this sunny Sunday afternoon, Pickled was merely stunning.