Category: 2012 – Adelaide Fringe Festival

[2012085] The Jane Austen Argument present: Somewhere Under The Rainbow

The Jane Austen Argument @ The Big Slapple – Apollo Theatre

10:30pm, Sun 4 Mar 2012

I’d heard the “Jane Austen Argument” name bandied around a bit previously – perhaps previous cabaret festivals? – but had never actually investigated their music; after reading their précis and seeing mention of their 2010 Fringe Award win, I thought it high time that I gave them a try… and besides, I love a good argument.

As I eyeball the small crowd I see the slightly glazed eyes and hazy grins of the converted; I get the feeling that everyone except me is already a devoted fan. There’s a bit of seat jostling once we’re let into the cavernous Apollo, but the forty or fifty rabid followers that turned up were all afforded prime positions.

And when The Jane Austen Argument – Tom Dickins and Jen Kingwell – enter the room from opposite sides of the stage, each strumming a ukelele, the crowd go wild. Their appearance is two-thirds goth, one third cabaret: dark colours and eyeliner offset by flourishes of flamboyance. A gentle song to open with – half-happy, half-mournful, with the jaunty ukeleles supporting their harmonies – and I’m definitely curious.

And then comes the rest of the band – bass, drums, and… cello. Yes, the cello makes an appearance and I internally swoon with delight; nothing can go wrong now, I figured. They’ve won me over, purely by leveraging the greatest instrument ever created.

But the nice thing is that I would’ve been perfectly happy with the performance sans cello. The Jane Austen Argument’s songs are really lovely, their lyrics (defying their appearance) are not overly riddled with angst, and their stage manner is really quite approachable – there’s many a story told of Tom & Jen’s experiences taking their music on the road, of the people they’ve met, the places they’ve seen.

There is the odd slip into goth bombast – one or two songs are steeped in melancholy, underpinned by mournful piano lines – but then there’s the audience-shoutalong of When the End of the World Came, and a cover of One Line (normally I’m quite precious about people covering PJ Harvey, but that particular track is one of my least favourite of her songs… and the ‘Argument did quite a good job of it). But the most impressive song of the night was the finale, Under the Rainbow – theatrical in their presentation, a massive wall of noise builds up for a crescendo… before simmering back down in a well-controlled exercise of leaving the audience wanting more.

I really quite enjoyed The Jane Austen Argument, though I suspect that my head was not in the most receptive of moods after The Boy James. Still, I rushed to buy a CD, but didn’t join the mailing list; read into that what you will.

[2012084] The Boy James

Belt Up Theatre @ Adelaide College of the Arts – Tiny Lounge

9:00pm, Sun 4 Mar 2012

An usher coagulates the early-arriving audience members into small groups and guides us up the elevator to ACArts’ third floor; three corners, a winding corridor, and we’re standing by the door outside the Tiny Lounge (which seems to be a small re-purposed studio). Cast members in various states of undress push past us into the Lounge; attempts to sneak a peek at the room are met with much tutting.

Eventually, the door opens and a head peeks out – a young, boyish face, black tousled hair. After eyeing the waiting crowd, the pyjama-clad Boy opens the door and ushers us into the Lounge, which – with its armchairs around the four drape-covered walls, antique-ish furnishings, and collection of homely rugs and mirrors – feels more like a drawing room or study. The Boy seats us, then crouches on the desk in the centre of the room; his every physical movement convinces me that we’re watching an over-excited nine-year-old boy, rather than twenty-three-year-old Jethro Compton.

The Boy encourages us to introduce ourselves to each other, to tell each other our adventures; we’re a shy audience, and there’s not much action as a result of his instructions. He then announces that we’re going to play Wink Murder – the first guy nominated actually announced himself as the murderer, which kinda missed the point! A few more rounds, and then The Boy asks us to close our eyes: “keep them tightly shut so James will come.”

With nothing but blackness, my hearing is acute; I hear someone – presumably James – come into the room and sit at the table. There’s a grunt, the folding of paper. Then a gruff voice announces “this isn’t going to work,” and footsteps leave the room; we open our eyes and The Boy James is pointing at someone in the audience. “You peeked,” he accuses, and I wonder if the performance has been fucked up for the rest of us.

With my attention on The Boy, I failed to notice the entrance of The Girl. Slight and demure, and wearing a white nightgown, she stands mute at the other side of the room; once noticed, her coy stillness is utterly transfixing… for both the audience and The Boy.

But once The Boy recognises her presence, he scurries about, attempting to get her to play with him; she’s not really interested, though, and focusses on the whiskey decanter perched down one end of the room. When she first lunges for it, The Boy calls out in anguish: “Don’t,” he pleads, “it’s poison.”

James – whose bearded and formal appearance seemed to marry up with his gruff voice perfectly – returns, and again The Boy tries to play with him; “no,” says James, “I’m not going on any more adventures with you.” The Boy pleads with him, anxious for the chance to play; they struggle and, amidst their tussling – The Boy being playful, James being tired and reluctant – The Girl grabs James’ hair and slams his head onto the desk. James is out cold; The Boy is terrified.

The Girl sneaks a drink from the decanter, and soon thereafter she starts coming onto The Boy, physically pressing up against him. He squirms uncomfortably and pushes her away when she tries to kiss him; she stumbles into the centre of the room where she stands shyly, looking ever-so-alone, and utters her first words: “fuck me,” she says, in the smallest, most delicate voice.

You could’ve heard a pin drop; it felt like the air had left the room. The audience held its breath in stunned anticipation of The Boy’s reaction.

The scene that follows is uncomfortable as she accosts him: not only does it feel very rape-like, but my head was telling me I was watching two children. Once that painfully concludes, The Girl leaves; James, who had been laying on the floor motionless the whole time, wakes and leaves also. The Boy finds a letter from James, and gives it to an audience member to read – it’s nonsense, full of run-on sentences that seemingly have no structure, and no comprehensible meaning.

And then the door to the Tiny Lounge flings open and we’re asked to leave.

As I wandered into the night, I felt floored by what I had just experienced, but I was struggling to make sense of it in my own head. It felt like The Boy and James were one and the same person, that The Girl somehow represented the changes that The Boy goes through to become James; that seemed to agree with other summaries of the show, but then why did the programme refer to The Boy as Lewis/Charles?

In the end, I conceded defeat in attempting to understand what was going on… but nothing can reduce the impact of the experience of The Boy James. Compton is utterly convincing as The Boy, and Serena Manteghi’s Girl – pure innocence one moment and a maelstrom of destruction the next – is so good that my words cannot hope to impart her quality. Dominic Allen does double-duty, both directing and bringing the weary but strong-willed James to life, and…

Look, The Boy James was just brilliant. Not only is it a truly unique experience wonderfully told, but it’s not afraid to let the audience wallow… to give the audience something to go home with. But if I had to pick a fault, it would be my new pet peeve: the audience was not given the opportunity to thank the actors for their sterling efforts; we were just shunted out into ACArts. And that just felt… well, almost disrespectful.

[2012083] Legacy of the Tiger Mother

An Angela Chan Production @ Adelaide Town Hall – David Spence Room

7:30pm, Sun 4 Mar 2012

I admit it: Legacy of the Tiger Mother was on the outermost limits of The Shortlist: a show that I would only schedule if it really made the day work. And lo, this Sunday conspired to suggest a run of shows so smooth, so enticing, that I couldn’t help but – somewhat reluctantly, it must be said – slot this one in.

And boy am I glad that things worked out this way, because Legacy of the Tiger Mother was a lot of fun.

From the first time I met Lily, a first-generation Chinese immigrant living in America, and her daughter Mei, I was sucked into their almost abusive relationship: Mei, a girl caught up in the pop culture of her country, is being… well, “coerced” into pursuing her piano lessons by her ultra-dedicated mother. It’s a somewhat familiar tale, with “tough love” being the order of the day, but Lily’s strictness is never seen as anything but well-intentioned.

After a fantastic strong opening, the show settles into a Suzuki-nightmare flashback that dominates two-thirds of the performance, showing the conflicts between mother and daughter in their home as Mei reluctantly practices at her piano whilst Lily works to support them both. The strive for perfection is evident in Lily’s mindset, and Mei is played wonderfully young and naïve; but this flashback is bookended by the two women sitting side-by-side in the present day, watching Mei’s daughter at her piano recital – and there lies the heart of Legacy, as Mei tries to balance Lily’s “traditional” parenting style with her own, more modern, interpretation.

I was taken aback with how genuinely funny Legacy of the Tiger Mother was; some of Lily’s proud (spilling over into goading) comments at the recital were hilarious, and there’s a great river of giggles throughout. But what surprised me the most is that Legacy is, by and large, a musical, with plenty of humour to be found in the songs – the reverse racism of Lazy White Children is a particular standout, though it also manages to display some of the most blatant racial stereotyping of the production. Then there’s the somewhat bittersweet Something Better, the playful Little Miss 1986, and their reprises; throughout, the vocal performances are really wonderful, with the piano accompaniment pretty well done (and there’s some great laughs to be had when Mei is sight-reading the fluffed notes in Fur Elise).

An American production with a local cast (both Chiew-Jin Khut and Yen Yen Stender (as Lily and Mei, respectively) perform respectably enough, but excel with their singing voices), Legacy of the Tiger Mother was a very pleasant surprise: despite all the near-groanworthy racial stereotypes on display, Angela Chan and Michael Manley have constructed a really enjoyable script. This proved to be one of those “maybe” shows that, in retrospect, I feel utterly chuffed to have squeezed in.

[2012082] Dance Interrogations

hipsync @ Medina Treasury Tunnels

6:30pm, Sun 4 Mar 2012

It took a little exploring to locate the entrance to the Tunnels – despite walking past the Treasury every day on my workplace commute, I’ve only ever entered the building whilst inebriated. Eventually I found some stairs and was directed to a little waiting room… I was the first to arrive, so – as is my wont – I pulled out my laptop and start making incomprehensible notes.

What I should have done is pressed staff for more details (a programme, maybe?) of this performance… because it turned out to be a genuinely engaging – and genuinely curious – affair.

The numbers in the little waiting room swelled; I offered my seat (and my ability to potentially write) to someone who looked in need of a sit-down. A couple of curt attempts at friendly Fringe-chatting, and then we’re led deeper into the tunnels underneath the Treasury, walls of rough sandstone and floors suffering with grit. The group reached a small square room – we couldn’t all fit inside, so a number of us were left peeking through a doorway from the slightly larger rectangular room we were in, standing on tippy-toes or peeking between bodies to see what was going on.

In the small room stood Dianne Reid, dressed in a thin white hazmat suit (sans helmet). She starts pushing herself around – into walls, off of walls, up to the very edges of the audience. Her movements look chaotic, yet controlled, and she’s quietly – but clearly – babbling to herself.

She’s not happy about growing old, by the sounds of it… she’s constantly sneering at her own age. But there’s more in her actions than her language – a whimpering desperation, a tempered anxiety seems to guide her movements. And as she moves between the smaller and the larger rooms (causing the audience to rearrange themselves – who was once struggling to see became the centre of attention), she also shifts the medium somewhat – in one location, the white hazmat suit becomes a projection screen, and Reid trembles beneath the image of someone crawling over her.

As she runs up against more walls, scrapes along more floors, the suit becomes worn and ripped. Eventually its use has been served and it is removed, revealing the floral dress underneath… and the tone of the piece changes a little. With skin shed, everything seems a little bit more accessible now; there’s not as much need in the movements. Reid still performs in the audience’s face, but rather than feeling confronting, it almost feels a little… well, joyous.

And then it’s over. At thirty minutes, Dance Interrogations feels perfectly timed: I left feeling satisfied and a little confused, but that’s pretty much the way I like it. I’m not really sure what I expected going into the performance, but I’m certain that I liked the rumination that it conjured in me.

[2012081] Stephen K Amos – Laughter is My Agenda!

Stephen K Amos @ Arts Theatre

5:00pm, Sun 4 Mar 2012

It’s been a few years since I’d thrown some money in the general direction of Stephen K Amos – he’s always on The Shortlist whenever he’s in town, but is often dropped because… well, I’ll generally favour something new over something familiar. That’s not to say that Amos retreads the same ground with his comedy… just that you know exactly what to expect from one of his shows.

For example, he susses his front couple of rows out very early on, and zeroes in on the person who gives him a witless answer to one of his questions; that person becomes the Callback for the entire show, with Amos conjuring humorous derision incredibly well. This evening’s Callback, Alistair, squirmed into his front-row seat a few minutes late. Incredulous, Amos demanded to know why an eighteen-year-old would be so late to a show – does he have a demanding job? No, replied Alistair, I “do nothing.” “Nothing?” raved Amos, “What does that mean? Where do you go in the morning after you wake up?”

“The kitchen,” came the answer, cementing Alistair the Callback position for the evening.

But there were other audience members who made Amos’ job easy; the guy who forgot to turn his phone off copped a river of faux rage. And one chap, sitting at the rear of the Arts, felt obliged to yell out a slightly delayed “no” anytime Amos queried the entire audience – “any Nigerians in the house tonight?” was followed by “are you enjoying yourself?” for a self-denigratory laugh.

It’s just as well Amos is quick on his feet dealing with unruly audience members, though, because the rest of this evening’s show felt remarkably lacklustre (by the standards I’ve come to expect of him). There’s some early Clipsal-related gags, references to the Gillard/Rudd kerfuffle, and some audience interaction bits (focusing on mixed-race children), before he settles into somewhat familiar work revolving around his family. To be fair, he did explain that he was trialling new material, and he was often able to elicit a laugh from picking up his notes and crossing jokes out with an extravagant flourish… but there was still a little something missing from the content this evening.

As an aside, Amos mentions that on the opening night of this season, an audience member had (in response to a comment on Obama’s racial heritage) yelled out “Oi Stephen, Obama’s mum was white, you c#nt” – and, as much as I dislike that much audience protrusion into a show, I almost wish I’d caught that show instead. That’s not to say that Amos has lost his touch – he’s still one of the quickest and most disarming comedians around, able to make you laugh hysterically whilst feeling thankful he’s not picking on you… it’s just that something was lacking in this timeslot.

[2012080] Aluka

Aluka @ Format (Basement)

3:00pm, Sun 4 Mar 2012

In retrospect, I don’t know what I was thinking scheduling Aluka on the same day as Jane Austen is Dead; even in the most optimal of conditions, a ten-minute hike from the Bakehouse to Format is pretty tough going. As a result, I’m running (literally) late, and I’m so glad of my shoes as I quietly pad down the stairs, gently buffeted by (what seemed to be) the sounds of angels coming from the basement.

The rough-hewn basement is packed with people of all ages, though there seemed to be a fair few families present; as I find my own little space at the back of the room, I check the crowd out. The adults are rapt, utterly engaged in what was being performed for them; even the small children seemed to cease their aimless squirming when Aluka were singing.

Aluka are a three-girl a cappella group from Melbourne, who perform on the very quiet end of the spectrum. Their songs are mostly performed very softly, with a delicacy that is utterly enchanting; breathy, airy passages are occasionally underpinned by gentle beatboxing percussion that is almost adorable. They are completely unafraid of letting silence work for them, of making the audience strain for the next note…

And their voices are gorgeous – sometimes pure and sweet, other times desperately sad and softly broken. Songs are largely folky in nature, varying tempos well measured by the girls; compositions usually focus on overlapping vocals, with some songs seeing each of the girls singing mere syllables, with entire words seemingly coalescing from nowhere. But, whilst I realise I’m painting a ridiculously twee memory of the show, there were some fantastic bits of humour in the delivery too – though one such moment was completely fortuitous, with the phone of one of the girls blurting out a perfectly timed text message notification at the end of their second song.

Look – I loved Aluka. Stunning voices, clever compositions, and a purity and sweetness that was a pleasure to revel in. I highly recommend checking out their first EP; while it lacks the spontaneity of a live performance, it shows off the group’s style wonderfully.

[2012079] Jane Austen is Dead

BRAVE Theatre @ Bakehouse Theatre – Studio

2:00pm, Sun 4 Mar 2012

Sure, the Bakehouse’s Studio is a relatively small space (it only seats about forty people), but there was a decent crowd in for this matinée – especially for a bright-yet-sticky Sunday afternoon. The set is simple: a bookcase that contained a couple of books, a collection of glasses, and a small bar were all that adorned the stage.

We soon meet Sophie, who owns and runs this Jane Austen-themed bar, left to her by her father (a self-confessed Jane Austen tragic). Sophie’s 33 years old, single, and her most significant ex-boyfriend is getting married tomorrow… and his bride-to-be’s hen’s night has just stepped into her bar. She laments her own singledom by comparing the significant men in her life to those that appear in Austen’s novels; her “Mr Darcy” is proving to be elusive, with the contenders providing comic fodder galore (her romantic dalliances in the schoolyard were a particular source of mirth). She also reflects on the seven stages of desperation, and her own loneliness is contrasted by her ditzy assistant Mary, who spends her “working” hours waiting for a text message from her cousin… a desperate date.

Mel Dodge is absolutely wonderful onstage in this solo outing: her acting was superb (despite their physical absence, it felt like Mary and The Bride were onstage with her), she’s as cute as a bug’s ear, and her Kiwi accent is to die for… hearing her lament “it’s fucking fiction” in authentic vowel-transliterated Kiwese remains a highlight of my Fringe. Her script is wonderful fun; whilst I’m no Austen aficionado, I could sense that it’s chock-full of in-jokes – but that certainly didn’t stop me from having a great old laugh. The contrast between the men in her life and the characters on the page is stark – there’s little nobility on offer, and even less genteel romanticism… but her characters’ unbridled hope – coupled with an almost reluctant pragmatism – remains utterly charming throughout.

Jane Austen is Dead was a real gem: a great script, presented by a talented actress, that left me feeling totally smitten. Brava!

[2012078] Exhibit Amy

Amy Bodossian @ Ambassadors Hotel

10:30pm, Sat 3 Mar 2012

I’ve rocked up at Queen’s Theatre to see Horse, grabbed a drink, and sat down to pound out some notes; the venue is dead, with my presence increasing the head-count in the foyer area by 50%. I start chatting to the front-of-house minder – she eyes the empty space, and tells me that performer Flick Ferdinando is feeling ill… Horse may not be on. I immediately pull out my phone and start checking for something else on my shortlist.

Fifteen minutes before the scheduled start time, the cancellation is confirmed: I smile, ask for my best wishes to be passed on to Flick (whilst passive-aggressively indicating that I probably wouldn’t be able to see the show on another day), and scoot around to Ambassadors to see Exhibit Amy.

There’s only about some-teen people in for the show this evening, and – with the exception of a table near the front that provided a haven for two gigglish couples – the audience seemed to be completely comprised of older men with scruffy hair, all of whom elected to sit as far from the stage’s light bleed as possible. I swear that a couple of them even had trench-coats on to complete the “dirty old man” look; I can only hope that I didn’t appear to fall into that category as well.

As her accompanist tinkled some electric ivories, Amy Bodossian stumbles through the audience from the back of the room, clad only in a night-shirt. She occasionally stops at tables, handing out pencils and posing for people, encouraging them to sketch her; eventually, she makes it onto the stage and launches (well, ambles – and I mean that in the best way possible) into her opening song, the titular Exhibit Amy.

From there, Amy ducks and weaves through an hour of material, scooting between spoken word, song, and poetry; all the while she’s gradually getting dressed for a night out, donning underwear(!), a sleek black cocktail dress, and gorgeous heels. It feels like she’s working with a very loose framework, with her songs and readings allowing her the ability to inject quick little asides without ruining the flow of proceedings (for which her accompanist – on keys, drums, and guitar – also deserves credit). And that makes the act feel vibrant and exciting; you’re convinced that pretty much anything could happen.

The only problem for me was that the style of delivery was very reminiscent of last year’s show, Phlegm Fatale… as was some of the material (the lustful tale of the ladybug and grasshopper, and the strikingly masculine I Want You). And that familiarity threatens to take the edge off that loose feeling of freedom… but that’s most definitely my problem, not Amy’s.

Exhibit Amy felt a little rough on the night: it seemed that Amy was still working some of the kinks out of her material and blocking, and there were a few speaker cut-outs and gear problems. But none of that can change the fact that I am equal parts smitten and scared by Amy; I adore her physicality, her dirty words, and her confidence… and I’m terrified by her blunt sexuality and confidence. And that makes for a squirmingly entertaining experience.

[2012076] I Can Keep A Secret

Babushka @ Dragonfly Bar + Dining

6:00pm, Sat 3 Mar 2012

Ah, the Dragonfly. It’s a regular lunchtime haunt when I’m unfortunate enough to be working on a Friday, with boozy lunches centred around their stunning Nori chicken, and their evening fare is fantastic too… but, despite the fact they regularly have some DJ sets of interest, I’ve never dragged myself there to see a show. Visual arts displays, yes, but not an actual gig per se.

Turning up on the cusp of “late” was probably not a great idea; Dragonfly was packed, and – with the four women of Babushka (and their male pianist) down the far end of the room – it was a bit of a struggle for me to peer through the fading light and bobbing heads to see the performance.

But you know what? It didn’t matter – because it sounded awesome.

Using the flimsy pretence of sharing their innermost secrets, Babushka – four classically trained sopranos brought together by their common diagnosis of Soprano Identity Crisis Syndrome – belted out some frankly astonishing arrangements of material both contemporary and classical. Opening with a gorgeously layered rendition of Confide In Me, their (unaided) voices filled Dragonfly easily: pure, soaring notes made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end… thrilling stuff! The contemporary cabaret favourite, Glory Box, soon followed, and was no less impressive; I Want To Be Evil also got a wonderful airing.

It’s a gorgeous presentation to behold, with the women all clad in beautiful dresses of primary colours. Laura (green) excelled during the more classically operatic moments of the show; Bethan (blue) stunned with incredibly high notes during Glory Box, and also provided string support on violin; Alicia (red), the musical director for the group, still belted the notes out whilst pregnant; and Michelle (yellow) had no problems matching any of the others in volume or tone. Whilst they all had fantastic solo moments, it was the moments where their voices coalesced – such as during their namesake Babooshka – that really impressed.

Between songs, the girls maintain the secrecy theme by imparting their own little tales laced with humour, including some of the Secret Rules of Soprano: “no sex before auditions,” they were taught, “but blowjobs are okay – they open up the throat.” Michelle lets slip details of her “tasteful” photo shoots, Alicia quietly drops snippets about her pregnancy, and even their pianist gets in on the act: “last night I finally slept with a woman,” he confides, “…Definitely gay.”

And whilst the humorous asides were effective and crowd-pleasing (the latex-snapping Silence of the Lambs touch was giggle-worthy, too), they aren’t going to be the lingering memories of Babushka. Instead, I’m going to be clinging onto that wonderful sense of theatricality, a Dragonfly that was bubbling with positivity, a killer closing song in White Wedding, and those stunning voices. Oh my, those voices.

[2012075] L.O.V

The Chiral Collective @ Queen’s Theatre 2

3:00pm, Sat 3 Mar 2012

As I leave the Main Theatre at AC Arts after Executive Stress / Corporate Retreat, I realise there’s a tiny chance I could squeeze in another shortlisted show; I just had to make it across Light Square in ninety seconds. With a bit of traffic-dodging (and a thankfully late start), I found myself gulping air (then water) as I slid into my seat as the house lights dropped.

What followed was a patchy deliberation of male intimacy, which intended to portray the fractured relationships between boy/man James and his father, alongside the peer-driven mateship of three friends (as James is joined by Max and Ali). When James and Ali are drawn into a fight that ends in the death of another, leading to James’ imprisonment for manslaughter, relationships are strained by the expectations of silence that the stereotypical mateship infers. James’ release from prison, and the contrast between characters over the duration of his incarceration, brings those relationships into stark relief…

Whilst the premise of the play is simple enough, its production is patchy – largely due to an uneven script that regularly swaps between the (amazing!) poetic delivery of inner monologues, to the clumsy (and even amateurish) dialogue between characters. There’s a bit of confusion initially as Fabio Motta plays both James’ father and Max, but Motta was (by far) the best actor on stage, and managed to carry the two roles. But as a central character, Joseph Appleton’s Ali left a bit to be desired, with no real emotion behind his delivery… making the denouement, in which the seemingly powerful bonds of friendship and trust are shattered in an inexplicable instant, all the more unbelievable.

L.O.V has an idea about what it’s trying to achieve, but seems to get lost somewhere along the way. What starts out as a reasonably straightforward look at the social confines of male relationships is let down by an ending which is absolutely unbelievable, and almost completely out of character. Maybe a different performer could have carried the closing scenes in a more credible manner, but I suspect it’s more a case of an awkward script that didn’t quite know how to wrap itself up.

[2012074] Executive Stress / Corporate Retreat

Applespiel @ Adelaide College of the Arts – Main Theatre

2:00pm, Sat 3 Mar 2012

Intrigued by the promise of self-help theatre (and god knows I need plenty of help), I patiently waited in line near the allotted start time. Several young, well-dressed people came out and announced that the first ten people in the queue were able to enter the “elite programme” – and I was the lucky tenth person in line.

And tenth I stayed throughout the experience… but more on that later.

There’s an initial exercise – simple yes/no answers to rapid-fire questions – for those in the elite programme while we’re still in the foyer; we’re separated into the ominously named Alpha and Delta groups. Naturally, I found myself cast into the Deltas, and with the teams decided we filed into the Main Theatre, where the elite programme had their front-row seats reserved… with a couple of dozen non-elite spectators sitting behind.

It very quickly became evident that the eight members of the business-attired Applespiel (five men, three women) were trying to foster a competitive environment, as they explained the rules of engagement to us whilst performing a beep test. Not only were we elites expected to compete against each other – both as individuals and as teams – but there were also distinct elements of friction between the purveyors of this exercise; one of the women, in particular, became the focus of many snarls and snapped insults, all wrapped up in ludicrous corporate-speak.

The elite programme members didn’t spend much time spectating from our seats, though; more often than not, we were lined up and facing the audience whilst undergoing “tests”. Starting out with simple job interview questions, each trial was scored, with a leaderboard displaying the results at the end of each exercise. This had the undoubtedly desired effect of increasing the sense of competition between us; I remember fuming because my Double-Windsor tie-knot was undoubtedly superior to my neighbour’s scrawny mess, and he was verbally ranked “excellent” opposed to my slap-in-the-face “good”.

In fact, I became convinced that the early leader – Wayne, an Alpha (of course!) – was a plant. He seemed to be garnering massive amounts of respect and approval from our facilitators for merely average output; so during a team exercise, where both teams had to build spaceships from a boxful of stationary supplies, I hatched a plan to guarantee Delta’s success, resulting in Wayne being de-throned from the leaderboard – “we’re stealing all the parts,” I told the team.

So we did, garnering an “excellent… and innovative” response. Unfortunately, Alpha’s colossal failure was still deemed “excellent”-worthy… our innovation had been for nothing, with Alpha Team dominating the top rankings on the leader board, and me finishing dead last.

Executive Stress / Corporate Retreat may have been a lot of fun for those watching, especially during the “animal meditation” exercise… but I certainly had my competitive hackles raised, and that’s not necessarily a pleasurable thing for me. But it was an insightful – if not cynical – look at those professional relationships that I would certainly not choose to engage in, and it left me with plenty to think about; in retrospect, I reckon this is a performance I would’ve enjoyed more from the audience, rather than the stage.

[2012072] Binge Thinking

Xavier Toby @ Gluttony – Funny Pork

5:00pm, Fri 2 Mar 2012

I knew nothing about Xavier Toby, but I was attracted by three simple words in his précis – “we’re getting dumber,” he proposes. A favourable early timeslot on an otherwise awkward evening ensured that I got a chance to sample his wares, as I shared a near-capacity Funny Pork tent with a less-than-pleasant sticky humidity.

Toby’s got a pleasant, straight-up Australian style, and he opened strongly: a dolphin-fucking joke that just kept on giving in more and more outlandish ways. Eventually the absurdity peters out, and he settles in on the story that forms the core of the show: a dinner party with Xavier and three old mates and their wives, the group catching up after not having seen each other for seven years.

There’s a nice use of props as Toby introduces the other six people at dinner via their drinks: a pair of decent-quality wines, a longneck of Pale paired with a bottle of Frangelico, and a cask of red coupled with a bladder of something indescribable. Topics of conversation are introduced via the Three Things You Don’t Discuss – religion, politics, and money – leading to jokes about the catholic church, asylum seekers, and the environment. Xavier poses himself as the reasonable outcast, poking fun at the strongly held beliefs of the other couples; but, in doing so, he essentially ostracises himself from everyone else at the dinner party… which itself proves to be a great source of amusement.

I quite enjoyed Xavier Toby’s work: though his style doesn’t really stand out from a plethora of other Australian comedians, his material tended to be a little more intelligent than average. The act still needs a little bit of trimming – something Toby himself is aware of, as he butters us up: “I like you guys – you laugh at the funny jokes, and are quiet at the rest.” But by my reckoning, there was at least forty minutes of solid laughter in there, making this a pretty worthwhile effort.

[2012071] The Origin of Species by means of natural selection or the survival of (r)evolutionary theories in the face of scientific and ecclesiastical objections: being a musical comedy about Charles Darwin (1809-1882).

Tangram Theatre @ Holden Street Theatres – The Studio

1:00pm, Fri 2 Mar 2012

I was tempted – when facing of the longest show title I’ve ever typed – to produce the shortest possible post that captured my memories of my experience. But that’d just be restricting myself for style’s sake, and no-one’s going to read this anyway… so, as always, I’ll just dump my memories out here unfettered.

As the audience files into The Studio, John Hinton (who also wrote the piece) sits at a desk peering through his microscope; he glances up to greet us, referring to us as “specimens”, and occasionally checks to see whether we’d brought our own quills. One we’re all seated, he recants a brief recap of Charles Darwin‘s life, leading up to the publication of On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life (including the rush necessitated by Wallace‘s pending publication – I’ve been listening to lots of SGU lately, so this was vaguely familiar to me).

Starting with Darwin’s progression through a series of schools and professions (guided by his father), the play spends a lot of time with Professor Henslow and Darwin’s travels on the Beagle (the conversations between Darwin and the ship’s captain, Fitzroy, are brilliant fun). Once Darwin returns home to Britain, he marries his cousin, briefly explains the contents of Origin of Species to us, before a silly (in a good way) de-evolutionary denouement.

There’s certainly no fourth wall in this performance, as Hinton involves the audience on many occasions, getting his “specimens” to play the part of finches – miming to bird songs, or even mating. Whilst I suspect that though the disappointingly thin crowd numbers (only a dozen or so) obviously impeded his set pieces somewhat, Hinton still produces a wonderful comic presentation – Darwin is presented with great self-awareness, and his ability to snap between characters (most noticeably Darwin, his father, and Fitzroy) is occasionally mixed up for maximum laughs. And there’s a smattering of songs scattered throughout, with some fun rhythm mangling going on as Hinton plays acoustic guitar and sings with great expression.

You’ve got to respect a performer who has a show with thirty words in the title (especially when the Fringe Guide blurb is limited to fifty!) – that shows a faith in their audience, and a confidence in the work. Luckily, the performance absolutely deserves that confidence: it’s intelligent, witty, fast-paced, and a lot of fun.

[2012070] Aladdin and his Magic i-Pod

Jally Entertainment @ Holden Street Theatres – The Arch

11:00am, Fri 2 Mar 2012

I first encountered Jally through a quick 2009 show; I was sufficiently impressed that I figured I’d support the company where possible. So when I saw Aladdin in the program, I pencilled it in; after a cancelled show on Monday, I blagged my way into this sold-out performance, very tired and dishevelled from the previous evening.

Of course, in leveraging a late-morning matinée I essentially committed myself to watching the performance with school groups; and, given Aladdin‘s target audience, that meant I was sharing The Arch with 110 young school children, whose raucousness got a bit much for my aching head at times. But that’s fine: their enthusiasm undoubtedly heightened my enjoyment, too.

Which is just as well, really, because Aladdin and his Magic i-Pod was clearly aimed squarely at a much younger age group. The concessions to modernity, whilst still paying heed to the original tale, come early on in the production, as Aladdin trades his lamp(!) to Mr Dodgy (at the Bad Bad Guys store) for a magic carpet (complete with fleas).

Yep, there’s a fair bit of crossover.

After convincing Mr Dodgy’s sister that the “magic” carpet is broken, Aladdin manages to exchange the rug for a magic iPod; and lo, out of the iPod comes Jean Genie (whose every appearance triggers a played-for-disdainful-laughs dance by the cast to the chorus of Bowie’s classic). Of course, the Bowie reference is lost on the kids (and even some of the younger teachers present), but the constant callback to the joke works: they’re soon bouncing around with glee at repeat playings.

In fact, the kids really seemed to love the show – big, bold, and colourful, and full of fun sequences that got the kids yelling out in a pantomimic frenzy. Aladdin’s misheard wishes – a big shark, a giant moose who likes juice – had the younger audience almost beside themselves in glee… and that made this big kid smile. And hey, I enjoyed myself too – if only because of the curious looks I got from some of my younger neighbours when I joined in the yelling.

Like I said, this big kid had fun :)

[2012068] Nostalgia For Reality

SSSR @ Adelaide Town Hall – David Spence Room

6:00pm, Thu 1 Mar 2012

What the fuck.

I mean… really: what the fuck.

Those three words – and, for convenience (and emphasis), those Three Words again are “what the fuck” – perfectly describe the experience of Nostalgia For Reality… because I really have no idea what I sat through that evening.

I don’t usually take comps or freebies to shows, but my Event Buddy – with whom I was seeing Raoul later in the evening – had acquired a pair of tickets for Nostalgia For Reality after being accosted by some Russians in the Mall. With nothing else planned, I checked my copy of the Guide… and, sure enough, I’d scribbled a question mark (and some other unreadable marks) next to the show’s blurb. I figured that those scribbles meant that the show was under consideration, so I agreed to go gratis.

The David Spence Room was set up in an odd configuration: audience seating lined three walls, giving the impression that the show would be presented in the round. No lights are dropped as two men (from the five-strong Russian troupe) appear, colourful shirts poking through plain vests… they’re jovial and smiling. Through toothy smiles and sweeping actions, they welcome us to the show – before telling us about their impending heart attacks. Furthermore, they tell us, their approaching deaths are our fault… they feel too much pressure to perform, you see. They feel fear because of us. It’s all our fault.

And, less than two minutes into the performance, I’m feeling unbelievably disconnected and… well, horrified. You see, my Event Buddy – the provider of these tickets – had recently (a fortnight ago) lost a dear, close friend to a heart attack. And I could barely imagine what was going through her mind as these smiling men repeated, over and over, that their heart attacks were our fault.

The rest of the audience shifted nervously in their seats, too, but the performance carried on; the awkward opening gives way to some odd tumbling, before two gorgeously attired women appeared (the long red dress was stunning, and the green thing with the flappy bits was the manifestation of joy) as more oddball dialogue was delivered. But there didn’t really seem to be any connection, any flow, between the vignettes…

And then the two puppet heads appeared, engaged in their own non sequitur… and that’s the first time my mind shaped those Three Words. The stage used for their puppetry spins around to reveal another female performer hidden within. The group all try to engage the audience in a bridal waltz… the looks of sheer discomfort from the crowd were completely understandable, considering I probably looked the same as I twice declined their gentle invitations to join them in the dance.

I just really, really wanted to get out of that room.

But then came the closing piece: a series of projected images and videos that the group had recorded during their time in Adelaide. These projections recorded the responses of other people to their advances in the Mall… the same advances that were made to us. And their responses looked exactly like ours – “oh dear,” their faces said, “this is very odd. I don’t believe I am unsafe, but I really don’t want this weird colourful Russian near me. Oh shit, there’s a camera.” I suspect the intention was to create a sense of melancholy, but – as the troupe stood there and watched the projections with us – it just felt… well, what the fuck.

It’s clear that this performance comes from a place that I’m not familiar with. There’s such conviction and dedication in the performers’ efforts that I’m left in no doubt that this type of presentation is a more prevalent art-form in Russia. But for me – uneducated and ignorant – it was a disjointed mess of non sequiturs, obscure abstractions, and overwrought sentimentality.

Sometimes you leave a show with your Event Buddy, and you’ll turn to look at each other and just burst into laughter; that mirth comes from equal measures of relief and bewilderment, tinged with the acknowledgement that you’ve just shared An Experience. There was no such laughter at the end of Nostalgia For Reality; we silently walked towards our next venue. Eventually, after a few blocks, I had to break the deafening silence that surrounded us: “let us never speak of it again,” I said.

“Yes,” my Event Buddy agreed.