[2013073] Stuperstition

[2013073] Stuperstition

Stuart Lightbody @ Holden Street Theatres – The Studio

5:00pm, Fri 1 Mar 2013

I feel like I’ve seen a lot more magic performers in the last couple of years, and whilst I’ve not got to the stage where I can recognise how we – the audience – are being fooled, I’ve become… well, a little blasé about the usual tricks. Weary, even.

So why did I find myself at yet another magic show, then? Because I was on the hunt for something different, something new… something vital. And, after a slightly stiff opening, Stuart Lightbody warmed the small and sceptical crowd with smooth banter and a likeable personality; he trotted out a few well-worn tricks and I sighed a little inside. Oh dear, I thought: more of the same.

But then he demonstrated how the tricks were done.

Hmmm, I thought as I sat up straighter, that is indeed different.

And that’s Lightbody’s hook: he mixes his subversive magic with overt explanations, and attacks the unscientific and paranormal with a rational mind. He cracks jokes about astrology before cold-reading an astonished audience member, using just her zodiac designation; he talks about the law of large numbers whilst tearing homeopathy apart and overdosing on sleeping pills; and there’s a fantastically funny piece where he makes balls of tissue disappear from in front of the increasingly incredulous audience member parked onstage. Those in the crowd were treated to a demonstration of just how easy it is to distract a mark as Lightbody casually tossed the tissue behind him, a colourfully stark demonstration within the inky blackness of The Studio.

But then there’s the flat-out unexplainable: the swallowed needles, threaded onto a piece of cotton – surely an exercise in sleight-of-hand. Card visualisations from afar – surely marked cards? Or reflections? More cold readings of people’s faces – and I’m completely lost. I have no idea how he’s performing some of his psychological tricks, and his assurances that there’s a rational explanation for this witchcraft fail to convince.

Most of all, however, Lightbody carries the show with a refreshingly approachable personality: well-spoken in a charming accent that’s more British than South African, his affable nature is immediately endearing. That he feigns to show you how his tricks are performed is a potent hook, and his purported skepticism is just icing on the cake; but he’s also a bloody good magician, and these ingredients all combine to create a compelling performance.

[2013072] Huggers – The Family Friendly Comedy and Cabaret Show

[2013072] Huggers – The Family Friendly Comedy and Cabaret Show

Nik Coppin, Nick the Bubble, Sullivan and Bok, Benny B @ Austral Hotel – The Bunka

3:15pm, Fri 1 Mar 2013

I was really wary of booking anything too early on the day after a Barrio Preview Night… whilst there was not as much damage done to one’s liver (or brain, or relationships) as at the 2013 drink-fest Preview, it was certainly a struggle to drag myself to a mid-afternoon Huggers session – the hangover, it was a-thumpin’. Lemon, lime, and bitters was the best I could manage.

Another show in Nik Coppin’s ensemble stable, Huggers is the family-friendly version of his Shaggers compendium (which is always a suitably crude way to round off a day); this Friday arvo, however, the crowd was sparse, with a quiet collection of four families (a total of eight or nine kids) in attendance… which left my Event Buddy and I feeling a teensy bit out of place.

Nik’s affable manner eventually warms the (initially) frost crowd, and his bribery techniques – throwing sweeties into the crowd to encourage some sugar-loading from the kids – was accompanied by his usual Anglophilic anti-Aussie cricketing jibes. Nick the Bubble (from Nick Brothers Family Show Hooray) was the first guest of the afternoon, and proved a gentle start with some kid-friendly magic… more cups and balls, culminating with a coconut reveal that caused some wide-eyed astonishment from the younger audience members.

It’s fair to say that Sullivan and Bok were absolutely brilliant with the kids, firing them up with a bit of Marco Polo (milking it for all the pantomimic goodness they could get!). Bok played the straight-person like the best teacher ever, and Sullivan’s surreal insanity seemed to mesh with the children’s imagination… the audience was positively bubbling at the end of their performance.

Benny B from Snarp! wrapped up proceedings: “why is the man in a pink leotard?” queried a girl in the audience of her mother, but no answer was forthcoming. But Benny B backed up his ludicrous appearance with some great juggling (especially the cigar box juggling) and some truly terrible puns that split the adults and kids in exactly the right way.

So while this episode of Huggers didn’t quite match the glorious variety of last year’s effort, it certainly provided more than a few grins… and a chance to ease away the hangover.

[2013071] Doku Rai

[2013071] Doku Rai

Black Lung Theatre @ Queen’s Theatre

8:30pm, Thu 28 Feb 2013

I was utterly thrilled to see Black Lung lauded in the launch for the 2013 Festival; their presence in the 2007 Fringe was massive, with both awards and audience plaudits richly deserved. More of the same with a Festival budget? Oh, yes please, I thought to myself.

After seeing The Smile Off Your Face earlier in the day, and having just been amazed by Skeleton, I was positively giddy walking into Queen’s Theatre; a drink from the bar, ten minutes exalting the previous performance’s virtues to some friends, and I felt on top of the world. The promise of a Black Lung head-fuck almost felt like too much goodness for one day.

Wandering into the performance space, I suffered an odd flashback to 2000’s Ur/Faust – there was smoke a-plenty, with a large temporary seating area that was springy underfoot. Comfy cushions were offset by a lack of backrests, but we’re buffeted by a band (Galaxy) rocking away at the back of the set (which is a murky collection of drapes and plantlife and canoes and not-much-light).

The house fills, the band stops playing, and there’s an awkward moment as they clear offstage and make room for the first act. It’s delivered in a mix of English and (presumably) a language native to East Timor (Tetun? it sure didn’t sound like Portuguese), with surtitles occasionally visible through the smoke, projected onto various pieces of the set. The inconsistent nature of the surtitles (and the muffled sound from the performers themselves) made following Doku Rai a bit of a chore; the eye would have to peer through the haze to try and locate translations somewhere new (and on several occasions I searched in vain for the text, only to realise that my lugs had mislead me, and that the muted speech had been English the whole time).

But it’s an engaging tale… in the beginning. One young man is bullied and harangued by his older brother; in desperation, he seeks to have his sibling murdered. After witnessing the violent death, the younger brother is then startled to see his elder return from the dead… only to be killed again, and again, and again, with the subsequent slayings becoming almost farcical – a joke unto themselves. The fact that the younger brother insists on the deaths being recorded on video creates a dark sense of bemusement; this carries over into some of the other characters’ interactions with the dead man walking.

The unexpected stage presence of a live rooster caused one of my neighbours (who, it turned out, is ornithophobic) to noticeably tense… which is a far stronger emotional response than the work ever caused me. Because at the end of the performance, I was left befuddled: was there a point to all of this? If so, did the production fail to make it, or did I just miss it? Whilst I could appreciate the production values of the piece – some of the staging, including the gorgeously constructed bath scene, was hauntingly dream-like – they felt largely inconsequential; the story of Doku Rai could have survived just as well without the complex and ever-evolving set, the elaborate-without-a-need lighting, and even the live band.

The closing moments of the performance – when the entire cast gather onstage to sing whilst video footage of the work’s East Timor development was played – suggests that there was a lot of effort behind the production. It certainly seems to treat the native culture with a great deal of respect, and delves deeply into native mythology… but the end result somehow feels shallow.

There was precious little detail of Doku Rai‘s content on hand at the 2013 Festival launch event, and – in retrospect – the cynic in me should have picked up on that; the whole thing reeks of a production where a bunch of money has been committed to the project without any real expectations of outcomes. Sadly, it really felt as if this mega-co-production was given enough rope to hang itself.

[2013070] Skeleton

[2013070] Skeleton

Larissa McGowan (and company) @ AC Arts Main Theatre

7:00pm, Thu 28 Feb 2013

At the launch event for the 2014 Adelaide Festival (which, at the time I type this, was just over two weeks ago), I bumped into a new friend from this year’s Festival; she mentioned that she’d been reading this blog every day (thanks!), but asked why I hadn’t kept writing.

The answer (which I never got around to telling her at the time) is, quite simply, “Skeleton.” This show.

Because there’s no way I can possibly convey what I felt during and after this show; there’s no way I can describe how it affected me. My word-writing skills, they ain’t that good… and yet, I want to try. I really want to impress upon the reader how totally fucking amazing this performance was: how gobsmacked it left me, how much I wanted to rave about it to anyone who would listen, and… well…

…see? I feel utterly incapable of writing about its impact on me. But what I can write about is what I expected… and what I saw.

Anyone who has engaged in conversation with me about the Australian Dance Theatre over the last couple of years has instantly regretted it; my (increasingly irrational) disappointment in their output manifests itself as a boorish outspokenness. But one positive constant throughout recent ADT performances has been the presence of Larissa McGowan; far from the ever-so-slight stereotypical dancer, her Amazonian physique exudes strength – whilst her movements still revel in grace and finesse. So when Skeleton was announced as her first independent work, I was anxious to see what she would conjure up outside of the technological constraints of the ADT.

So I was initially a little nonplussed when the piece opened with a series of person-sized screens (like mobile office partitions) steadily crossing the performance space, constant velocity their only virtue. But then the screens started leaving behind dancers: clad in simple grey garb, they’d sneak onstage under the cover of the screens, hold a pose or commit to a small movement, before disappearing from the stage behind another screen.

The effect is… well, magical. The understated nature of the movements – both human and mechanical – assures me that this is no ADT-style technological tour de farce.

And then Objects start appearing, their pure-white presence a stark contrast to the inky blackness of the space and the grey-and-tan of the performers. A shoe appears from behind a screen; a skateboard rolls into the dancers’ interactions. A bike becomes a focal point. The threatening presence of baseball bat matches the unsettling soundtrack of samples from movies; the audio verges on the discordant throughout, with the end result being an edgy undercurrent of violence.

Whilst the movements of the dancers spans the range from ballet to pop’n’lock, Skeleton also has a couple “gimmicks”. The aforementioned screens frame the performance, and even when they’re static – most notably during the kicking sequence – their presence still defines the space, providing a contrast to the engagement of the dancers. But the most startling gimmicks are the Objects: their pure white appearance gives the impression that they are made of plaster… an impression that is validated when they eventually shatter.

And those moments – those shattering moments – are real technical standouts. Whether it’s a skateboard snapping in two, or a t-shirt on a dancer in motion, every breakage seems perfectly timed. I honestly have no idea how some of those moments were controlled; in particular, after tensions simmered within a protracted atmosphere of violence, the dancers stop mid-move, and turn in unison to look at a bicyle at the back of the stage… they hold the pose for a perfectly weighted beat, and the bike snaps in two. Retrospectively, it seems like a bizarre series of events, but it triggered something in my mind that has been haunting me ever since.

But even without the gimmicks, Skeleton was still utterly compelling. The physicality of McGowan’s troupe brings a real sense of power to the stage, engaging me on a visceral level; the fact that the soundtrack of the performance was unnervingly discordant, and that the gimmicks were so stunningly effective, was super-delicious icing on an already glorious cake.

As with the Ennio Morricone event last year, at the end of the performance I was suddenly up on my feet, clapping and wooting as loudly as I could. It’s only the second time ever that I’ve (intentionally) given any performance a standing ovation, but – once again – I found it absolutely inconceivable that I could not be on my feet. Skeleton was a contemporary dance masterpiece that engaged me more than any other performance in the last half-a-decade… and, what’s more, it encouraged me to believe that there is a viable intersection between dance and technology.

[2013069] The Smile Off Your Face

[2013069] The Smile Off Your Face

Ontroerend Goed @ State Theatre Company Rehearsal Room

2:00pm, Thu 28 Feb 2013

At the Festival Launch last October, I was delighted to see that Ontroerend Goed were bringing a trio of their immersive performance art pieces to the Adelaide Festival; they were the first three tickets I actually bought. And so it was that I was in the first group of people for the first performance of The Smile Off Your Face; poor timing (and a sleepy haze) saw me running stupidly early, the first to arrive at the little waiting area just inside the Playhouse. A lovely chat with the Festival staff, some friendly words with the other five patrons who turned up (none of whom had taken part in this performance before), and before I knew it I was descending the steps on my way to the STC Rehearsal Room with another punter… the first two people to participate in the 2013 revision of The Smile Off Your Face.

After an amiable chat as we sat across from each other in the low light of the “waiting area” prior to the Smile experience, I offered the woman who had come down with me the first spot; I’ve already experienced this performance, I told her, and I playfully ignored her curious queries as to the nature of the piece. And, as I watched one of the Ontroerend Goed crew quietly bring in a wheelchair and gently introduce themselves to my fellow audience member, the memories came flooding back: The wheelchair. The blindfold.

The binding of the hands.

Oh shit – the binding of the hands. “There’s going to be some light bondage” – that’s what had been whispered in my ear five years ago, and I started remembering the mild sense of (eventually) swallowed panic that had accompanied the initial engagement… and all the other memories that had been rattling around my skull (which were more feelings and broad features, rather than minute details) disappeared in a rush of apprehension.

But I was soon in the wheelchair myself. Comfortable… familiar. The blindfold… yep, I’m good. The binding of the hands again… my heart flutters a little, and I take a deep breath as my wheelchair is pushed, swung around corners…

…and then I hear a looped snippet of PJ Harvey’s Catherine (from one of my favourite albums ever), and I’m instantly at ease.

Just like last time.

So much of the experience is familiar: I’m still lured into a world defined by my lesser-used senses. I drink in the ambient noises that accompany Polly Jean, hearing the woman that preceded me in the temporal distance; I’m left alone just long enough for me to start wondering whether (maybe) I’d been forgotten. The nose-rubbing with (what turned out to be) the “bearded” bloke; taking the left side on the bed again (some habits die hard), with a sensuous female voice whispering in my ear. The tactile double entendre of the carrot and red-lace of Saint Nick… and then the denouement.

The “bearded” man greeted me again, and showed me the Polaroid taken earlier, just after I’d been pushed up against a wall; the photo showed a genuinely happy version of Me, grinning whilst craning to hear sounds. But then he looked at me, just prior to the finale; “I like your smile,” he said.

“I’ve done this before,” I pre-empted. “I know this is the part that fucks me up.”

He faintly nodded and smiled in acknowledgement, and that caused me to grin, too. He seized the opportunity – “hold that smile,” he insisted, before the tears started rolling down his cheeks as my wheelchair was pulled away, his arm outstretched towards me.

And, once again, I was left emotionally mangled by the experience. Once again, I walked away from the venue elated and shattered and spent, grinning and aching and silently delighted that I got to go through That Experience… again.

But, as I walked up the stairs of the Festival Centre, I suddenly remembered that I’d done this before. I’d written about this before. Out came the phone as I stood mid-flight and compared notes… and I was genuinely surprised to see how much I have changed… and how much Smile has stayed the same. The similarities and changes in my reactions.

By seeing The Smile Off Your Face a second time, not only was I subjected to a wonderful piece of performance art, but I was also shown my own growth… and that, in itself, makes for a pretty amazing – and deeply personal – experience.

[2013068] Ex-German

[2013068] Ex-German

Paco Erhard @ Gluttony – The Pig Pen

10:45pm, Wed 27 Feb 2013

After last year’s curious 5-Step Guide to Being German, I figured Paco Erhard was worth another shot; I figured that if he got rid of the flat spots in that show, he’d wind up with a pretty well-balanced hour of comedy.

What I didn’t realise is that 5-Step Guide was a show that Erhard had already spent a lot of time polishing… and this show – by his own admission – was new. Fresh. Unpolished.

Unfinished.

Erhard opens up by explaining the central premise of the show – he’s getting older, he’s falling in love, and he’s starting to find kids cute (in a ticking-paternal-clock kind of way). But there’s little real connection between these feelings and the short jokes & experiential stories that he tells; but he always returns to that core, falling back by imagining whether the previous tale was something he’d want to teach his (future) son.

…and it’s always his son – never any mention of a potential daughter. And I found something about that to be quite grating.

Erhard also espouses liberal values, but the words never really seem to be convincing – especially when he veers into religion. There’s some international-comic observances of Australia, and some swipes at Julia Gillard that seemed to go nowhere; it was almost as if he backed off before his comments could possibly cause offence… or, for that matter, humour. And some of his decisions seemed really odd – he seemed to tiptoe around any kind of profanity, then – apropos of nothing – drops a c-bomb in the middle of an innocuous line… one of the two women in the audience was taken aback and gasped in surprise.

It must be difficult for a comic to perform in front of a quiet crowd of a dozen, but I’ve been to many shows where performers have connected to the crowd in a personal way, leading to a fantastic experience for those in attendance. Erhard failed to do that this evening; there was no attempt to engage with the audience at all as he trotted through his disparate set… it almost felt like a scattergun approach to comedy. And without that engagement, this performance just felt incredibly uninspired.

[2013067] Sam Simmons – Shitty Trivia

[2013067] Sam Simmons – Shitty Trivia

Sam Simmons @ The Garden of Unearthly Delights – Romantiek

8:45pm, Wed 27 Feb 2013

My Sam Simmons experiences have been occasionally rocky over the years… but I’ve gradually learnt to avoid his shows early in their season, allowing him to settle the act a little – to maximise the chance of a Good Show. That’s the only thing that stops me from inking Simmons in on opening night every year.

But… I still find myself a little wary going into one of his shows, wondering whether it’s going to be a polished gem or a Melbourne Testing Ground. And the fact that Simmons has become ridiculously popular over the years doesn’t help: the audiences that are attracted to him aren’t the crowds I usually like to share an audience space with. But this evening’s crowd were in a good-natured and bubbly mood, and – flying solo – I managed to snaffle a seat in the front row, right in front of Simmons’ lectern.

Simmons receives a rapturous welcome, and… well, it’s a Sam Simmons show. He’s loud and abrupt, surreal and non sequiturial. There didn’t seem to be as many “pre-recorded thoughts” as in other shows, however, and this is the first time I can remember Simmons asking an audience member onstage – dozens of people immediately offered their help, and all (but one) would’ve been relieved when they saw what happened to the “lucky” Jesse. He spent most of the show sitting onstage, facing the audience, wearing the ceremonial Meat Hat and looking at Simmons’ back, with no real involvement in the majority of the material.

I still love Simmons’ sense of surrealism and attitude onstage… there’s a little aloofness towards his doting crowd, but he’s not afraid to knock himself down a peg or two – his worryingly small “Little Fuck Captain” t-shirt is testament to that. And, whilst the show had a central thread of Simmons’ Shitty Trivia (a series of cards with jokey questions – the audience would try to answer them, but Sam’s required responses were either ridiculously abstract or obscenely poor puns), there were still the callback non sequiturs – Mysterious Shoe was a cracker. Simmons also launched into a couple of his longer rants, with the highlight targeting the pop obsession with food: food-based TV programmes copped a little flack, but the bulk of his ire was reserved for people who quit their jobs to become full-time foodies.

But, to cut a long story short: was Shitty Trivia an instance of Good Sam Simmons or Bad Sam Simmons?

Most definitely the former… unless you foolishly volunteered to “help” Simmons out onstage.

[2013066] Frank Woodley & Simon Yates – Inside

[2013066] Frank Woodley & Simon Yates – Inside

Frank Woodley & Simon Yates @ The Garden of Unearthly Delights – Romantiek

7:30pm, Wed 27 Feb 2013

I was initially torn when I read the précis for Inside – whilst I will happily fling money at the Acrobat crew (with whom Simon Yates has worked in the past), I was wary of the association of Frank Woodley – the only time I’ve seen him in the past proved so disappointing that I’ve dared not waste another hour on his work. But the initial buzz around this show was positive, and a good friend assured me that I’d find something of interest in the performance; a quick dash in from my previous show saw me at the end of a long, snaking queue outside the Romantiek, leading to a seat well back in the crowd.

First impressions of the set were oppressive; there’s no overt humour to be found there, with a grim and spartan prison cell enclosed defined by an open-fronted wire-mesh cage. Woodley and Yates – Viktor and Vissilli – are likewise visually grim characters, sporting identical shaven heads, facial hair, and drab uniforms; their accents are heavily Russian. Together, the pair perform a series of short skits that are only loosely connected via the repetitive interactions with their off-stage Warden; and, while the skits have their comic moments (often derived from intricate wordplay), the overarching narrative relies on a constant threat of torture being used to separate the two comrades.

And while that tends to create quite a bleak atmosphere, it somehow doesn’t manage to feel out of place. Nor do the brighter, more positive moments: the pair’s periodical exposure to daylight (which shows off superb lighting and sound design) also fits within the overall story without feeling tacked on, as do Yates’ occasional acrobatics (using the cage as a kicking-off point).

Despite the camaraderie shared by the prisoners, they also descend into the kind of faux violence typified by the British new wave humorists (think The Young Ones or Bottom) that Woodley so deftly dealt with in his duets with Lano. But there were also some flaws on the night – the reappearing hand, the bird getting stuck as it “flew” into their cell – but it was hard to tell whether these were the kinds of “mistakes” that occur every night.

It’s only now that I look back on the ticket price – $48. That’s probably the most expensive Fringe ticket I bought this year and, though I can see a significant investment in the set and production values of the show, it’s pretty hard to justify that expense. For as much as I enjoyed the bleak comedy, the wonderful accents, and the great design elements, I’m not sure I enjoyed it that much.

[2013065] Cracked

[2013065] Cracked

Caroline Melia @ Suzie Wong’s Room

6:00pm, Wed 27 Feb 2013

It’s my first visit to Suzie Wong’s Room since the Simple Minds & Devo show last December; a great night capped off by a very uncomfortable drink due to the altercation between my companions. No chance of that this evening, however; when I arrive, there’s just one other (non-staff) person in the place: Arnie Pie.

Arnie is a lovely chap to talk to, and – after discovering that he was here to support his friend Caroline Melia – I asked him about his Fringe assault; he seemed very open and honest and forthcoming, and we swap stories and recommendations. Eventually we’re escorted downstairs into the small performance space, and it’s set up like an seventies-ish kitchen: table in the centre of the room surrounded on three sides by chairs, with a bar in the corner; to the side of the bar sat the tech for the show, looking slightly sheepish.

Arnie and I magnanimously bicker over the optimal seats, and – just before the lights “drop” – we’re joined at the table by two more people. Caroline Melia then gently introduces herself, and set the scene: she’s English, she’s backpacking around the world, she’s found the (gorgeous) city of Christchurch. She’s happily sharing a (dubious) flat with another girl, she’s found a job at an Irish bar, she’s saving up money before moving onto her next adventure, and… an earthquake hit.

What followed that introduction (which included a charmingly lo-fi recreation of the earthquake (and its aftershocks) by a massive bass speaker and the tech wobbling furniture and knocking props over with a broom handle while flicking the lights) had less to do with the earthquake, and more to do with Melia’s interactions with other people in the subsequent days and weeks… and months. And with many buildings becoming unliveable post-quake, the affordability of backpacking had an impact on the backpacking community; as a result, the search for stable (both physical and psychological) lodgings also form a tentpole of Cracked.

There’s a wonderfully gritty tension set up following the quake, with her bar being one of the few spaces for people to congregate, but much of the narrative focusses on Melia’s search for solace in drink. And men, whom she somewhat bitterly abstracted away as bottles of booze – Rum, Corona, Margherita – but those references could inadvertently serve as double-duty for her own alcohol abuse. And this revealed a bit of a letdown with Melia’s storytelling: there doesn’t feel like a cohesive approach to telling her tales… she just jumps from story to story, in the same way she moves from share-house to share-house, or man to man.

The earthquake itself… well, its impact is never really felt (except via the bass speaker rumbles), and only ever obliquely referenced: it forms a very loose framework for the rest of Melia’s stories. And, whilst Melia is conversational in her presentation, she spends a lot of time hiding behind the bar checking her script notes… and the end of the show, marked by the passing around of holiday snaps, was a confusing denouement – was this a happy ending?

In the end, I get the impression that Melia was trying to suggest that the aftermath of the earthquake had a direct and adverse affect on her personal relationships… but I just couldn’t buy that. It felt far more likely that she was choosing to hang around some shitty people – though what influence her experience had on those choices is another story, and one not really explored. Which is a shame, really: Cracked offered so much potential, but only delivered glimpses of satisfying theatre.

[2013064] The Effervescent Shaggy Doo Beats

[2013064] The Effervescent Shaggy Doo Beats

Charles Crompton @ La Bohème

10:30pm, Tue 26 Feb 2013

Shaggy Doo Beats is another in the long list of events that I’ve Shortlisted – but never actually seen – for as long as I can recall seeing the name; the idea of beat poetry in a cabaret setting has great appeal to me, but I’ve always chickened out of seeing him… the short runs, the out-of-the-way-venues, and a touch of trepidation all contributed to my avoidance.

But I’ve tried to make a concerted effort to see repeat neglected Shortlisters this year, and so I dragged myself to La Bohème to find a… well, reserved crowd. Not packed to the gills, just a comfortable size… and quiet.

I must admit to being a little taken aback – but delighted – to see The Jazzcateers (Chris Soole as Musical Director and saxophone, Rob Eyers on drums, and Ben Fuller on double bass) open up the show (and provide musical backing); it’s the second time I’d seen Soole this Fringe (after The New Cabal), and The Jazzcateers pumped out some deep grooves and unexpected swing (and was that a bit of Bronski Beat that they covered?).

A video screen started playing clips of Charles Crompton interviewing various luminaries (including Raymond J. Bartholomeuz) around various Artist Bars of bygone Festivals and Fringes (was that the Red Square of 1996?); and when the band kicked in a rendition of the Scooby Doo Theme, Crompton alighted the stage in a silver space-suit with exaggerated flares (replete with yellow & brown trim), and Shaggy Doo Beats B.O.P. (Bachelor of Poetry) had arrived: a raconteur, a beat poet, a man of questionable fashion sense. That hat, whilst undoubtedly iconic, is a shocker.

With The Jazzcateers providing a platform for his performance, Shaggy Doo Beats’ poetry can veer between well-contructed, comfortable, comedic poems, to stream-of-consciousness so-weird-it’s-funny jumbles; the shorter pieces are fantastic, punchy enough to make their point and escape, with the longer poems occasionally outstaying their welcome. But Crompton is clearly a clever wordsmith, and his works (orated from a book) are accented by the musical backing; together, they form a very satisfying pairing.

For all the exaggerated oddballness of the Shaggy Doo Beats character, The Effervescent Shaggy Doo Beats delivered a surprisingly cool torrent of beat-inspired poetry. That it had an equally cool swing-jazz backing was a massive bonus; this was a bloody fun (and crazy cool) performance that reminded me that sometimes I should see more of those oddball shows that occasionally scare me away.

[2013063] Limbo

[2013063] Limbo

Strut & Fret @ The Garden of Unearthly Delights – Paradiso

8:45pm, Tue 26 Feb 2013

Strut & Fret’s reputation for producing shows that become poster-children for the Fringe is beyond compare: Cantina is the most recent example, but the Strut & Fret involvement in The Garden has also seen shows such as La Clique (and its more recent incarnation La Soirée) all became populist must-see spectacles.

But there’s a level of predictability that comes with these events – they’re all meticulously constructed, to be sure, but they become somewhat formulaic in their content – and so I wind up carrying preconceived notions into the shows that carry that flagship billing. Expectations are set: the show would likely have a loose visual aesthetic, possibly a complementary aural theme, and some polished feats of flexibility and strength portrayed with slightly adult overtones.

So… that’s what I expected from Limbo. And, truth be told, I was unsure whether I’d even bother going – that’s how convinced I was that there would be little new on display.

But when some relatively Fringe-savvy friends started reporting that Limbo was most certainly different (in a good way) to the aforementioned shows, I wavered; there were still some tickets available for Cheap Tuesday (this being the first time I can remember targeting the cheap seats!), so I quickly snaffled a pair. My usual Fringe Buddy was unable to attend, so the offer went out to my Twitter followers: a ticket for the price of a beer and a chat (what a bargain, eh? If only you followed me on Twitter! ;)

Jane took me up on the offer and, as we chatted in the beer queue (thus fulfilling the payment requirements), one of her friends kindly planted himself in the Limbo queue for us. By the time we had obtained our beverages and located him, the snaking line had just started filing into Paradiso; her friend was at the far end of the top of the u-turn in the queue (which then straightened out for the rest of the waiting patrons). To save walking the pointless ten metres up and back on the u-turn, the people in front of us were just waiting for the rest of the u-turn to move to the opposite side of the “u”, hence allowing them to close the loop and shorten the queue somewhat; however, the people behind us started getting incredibly irate, and the yelling began: “if you don’t fucking move, we’re cutting in fucking front of you.”

Which I thought was a little… well, harsh. Unnecessary, even.

The “waiting” group started pointing out the efficiency of their intention with… well, a sense of gloating superiority; this did little to reduce the tension, and the bickering and aggro continued until we were inside the Spiegeltent – not really a chill start to proceedings. Once inside, though, one of the Paradiso staff recognised Jane and ushered us away from the teeming masses; did we mind sitting across the aisle from one another if we were down the front? We barely even looked at each other for confirmation – “hell no!” – and so I found myself front-and-centre on an aisle (sitting next to another of Jane’s acquaintances), with Jane herself on the aisle one row back (and yet, due to a quirk of seating geometry I still haven’t quite figured out yet, level with me).

Anyway: awesome seats. I was very pleased; I was being given every opportunity to experience Limbo at its best.

And the show opened more-or-less as expected: Sxip Shirey led an eclectic musical troupe (including a tuba and trumpet) through a smokey number that matched the dreamlike dry-ice atmosphere, before Jonathan Nosan performed some feats of physical flexibility that, upon reflection, were pretty bloody amazing… but, at the time, I was somewhat blasé: after all, I’d seen some pretty good routines earlier in the evening, and these tricks didn’t feel that much more impressive.

They were, of course, but I needed distance and hindsight to be able to see it.

Some fire breathing and aerial routines followed, but – aside from the tuba player producing a brilliant dub-step musical number – I felt like I was being pleasantly entertained, rather than enthralled. Happy, but not delighted. I remember checking the time at about halfway through the show.

And then it all happened.

Three men swayed out over the crowd on metal poles, my proximity such that I could see the beads of sweat on the performers as they slid past… as well as the strain on the poles; I was gasping as much at the engineering as the spectacle. Elevated pole balancing a metre from me, muscles straining, then the implausibility of Mikael Bres hopping one-handed from pole to pole. Then the magic component: an impalement, again only metres away, as Nosan descends to purgatory (through the loose narrative of the show). And the closing act, a time-tested-and-true disappearing girl routine, that still has me scratching my head.

And it was all there. Right there in front of me.

For all my indifference regarding the first half of the show, the second half of Limbo was totally worth the price of admission. It felt new, fresh, innovative… and, what’s more, it was a quality spectacle that almost – almost – equalled the superb Smoke and Mirrors as my favourite big-budget variety show. Sure, it wasn’t worth a standing ovation (as much as one woman vainly tried to encourage), but it was certainly a bloody wonderful experience from my – admittedly superb – position in the crowd.

[2013062] Morgan & West: Clockwork Miracles

[2013062] Morgan & West: Clockwork Miracles

Morgan & West @ The Garden of Unearthly Delights – Le Cascadeur

7:15pm, Tue 26 Feb 2013

I had been really careful about scheduling Morgan & West in this Fringe; after not seeing them last year, I felt like I had to honour my friend Sam’s suggestion this time around. The Clockwork Miracles précis didn’t exactly attract me, but… I was there out of duty. I owed Sam.

But then, about halfway through the show, another act’s name popped into my head… and I realised that Morgan & West weren’t actually who Sam had suggested at all. And that was a double bummer, because I really wasn’t enjoying the show at that point… which meant that, on top of not actually satisfying the debt I felt, I was wasting a perfectly good prime timeslot.

Worse still, I’d first bumped into the self-anointed Time Travelling Magicians as I had scurried through The Garden towards their show; they had attempted to spruik me and, as I flashed my ticket when they expressed cool disbelief at my enthusiastic assurance that I was actually about to see their show, I actually felt like they cold-shouldered me. How odd, I had thought: I’m not even in the venue yet, and the performers have got me off-side.

And whilst their Victorian presentation and schtick is certainly unique, the language and mannerisms become tiresome after awhile; worse, there were few tricks that I hadn’t seen elsewhere in the previous fortnight. Card tricks and sleight-of-hand routines failed to excite, though the interest picked up when the audience was involved: the tricks were (again) familiar, but the panache of the two English gentleman (and, in particular, the handling of their audience marks) provided something worth smiling about.

In the end, though, I was left with the impression that Clockwork Miracles was better suited to a parlour presentation than the wide open spaces of Le Cascadeur… maybe in a tighter space I wouldn’t have felt as detached from the performance. Then again, maybe I just needed a more positive impression of the chaps going into the show…

[2013061] Another Point of View

[2013061] Another Point of View

AfterDark Theatre @ The Birdcage

6:00pm, Tue 26 Feb 2013

A curiously lyrical précis for a circus piece attracts me to Another Point of View, and initially I had flashbacks to the first show I saw at The Birdcage this year: after the house lights drop, the stage lighting is… well, low. Dim. But there’s (just) enough light to make out a trunk at the back of the stage, from which limbs appear in a strange dance.

Eventually two women (Jacinta Rohan and Vicky Aisha Blackthorn) extract themselves from the trunk – an impressive bit of contortion, now that I think about it – and start awkwardly wandering around the stage. They’re clearly friends (or sisters), but they communicate only through looks and small gestures; and despite the implied familiarity of the two, there’s also a tension present.

The circus elements of the performance are contemplative and refined; there’s a lot of balance and stretching routines that border on the impossible, but maintain a sense of elegance. And while the aerial hoop routine is decent, the hula hooping is flat-out amazing – one of the best of its kind that I’ve seen in years.

In between the (relatively infrequent) circusy bits, there’s a few narrative bits that, whilst almost dainty, somehow extend the idea of intimate friendship between the two; most involve the performers watching old “talkies” on the telly or engaging in some more menial balancing. But there’s also a really clever piece where they both eat breakfast cereal with spoons held by their feet whilst laying on their stomachs… go on, try it. It’s silly to look at, messy thereafter, but a gigglingly fun thing to witness.

There’s some really wonderful bits in Another Point of View – the women are clearly very talented, and some of the humour-imbued narrative interludes were quite clever… and that’s before I consider the sapphic overtones of the piece. But the torporeal pacing sadly left me feeling like it was an exercise in style over substance; as beautiful as the generated mood was, the audience was left to wallow in it for far too long before being presented another piece of… well, interest. What’s there was good… it’s just that there were too many points where I was given time to realise that I was not being engaged.

[2013060] I Am My Own Wife

[2013060] I Am My Own Wife

Charles Mayer @ Bakehouse Theatre – Studio

9:00pm, Mon 25 Feb 2013

I’ve previously remarked that my father is German by birth, having emigrated out here in the early 50s to find work; while his parents were still alive, he’d regularly return to the country to visit them, on several occasions taking the rest of his Australian family. On one occasion, I got to visit the country, too; as a seven-year-old, it was a pretty big adventure, visiting my Oma and Opa for (what turned out to be) the only time. The only time I’d ever see my Opa… wow. That just came out all stream-of-consciousness-y, and now I’m a little bit sad.

But that’s all beside the point. What I was trying to establish is this: in my German grandparents’ flat, in a little town an hour outside Munich, they had a very homely dining room. That’s where the telly was, where my brother and I would watch The Muppets in a foreign language (whilst marvelling that Kermit sounded the same); and that’s where all their beautiful antique-looking furniture was – stained woods and ornate bevels and curves.

And that’s what the set for I Am My Own Wife looked like… but without the telly, of course.

The play is a solo performance; Charles Mayer, dressed all in black with a flat androgynous presentation (and, most noticeably, a long black skirt), initially adopts the voice of playwright Doug Wright (who won a Pulitzer for the play). Wright’s chance discovery of a museum of everyday antiquities – most significantly, a gramophone record collection – led him to meet their curator, Charlotte von Mahlsdorf. Mahlsdorf, born male in 1928, began living as a woman after the fall of the Third Reich in East Germany; her museum and underground bars became secret havens for the closeted homosexuals on the other side of the Berlin Wall. Amazed by her life, Wright interviewed her at length, many times; the interviews became the core of his script.

Mayer spends much of the play as the transgender Charlotte, imbuing her with a sense of refined nobility; he typically swaps between characters with a minor physical flourish, and the interview scenes which bounce between Wright and Mahlsdorf are a delight: Mayer slowly circles a chair as the playwright, sliding onto the chair to become Charlotte. And Mayer’s physical mannerisms of Charlotte were sublime: there’s so much elegance when she handles the small models of furniture (a brilliant bit of direction).

Charlotte’s story covers her conflicted youth, with some incredibly dark moments with an abusive father; after self-identifying her gender, and discovering the joys of collecting her precious gramophone records, she recounts the establishment of her museum… and then came the secret clubs, the perilous encounters with the SS and Stasi, and the morally dubious late-life decisions. That the script also leaves room for a hint of darkness and suspicion in Charlotte’s character is a surprise, and adds a great deal of weight to proceedings; Wright’s investigations of Charlotte’s Stasi files calls into question her coy expressions of innocence.

When I first jotted down some thoughts about this performance, I couldn’t help but reflect that – a decade ago – multi-character solo performances were common-as-muck in the Fringe; the two that linger with me are The Entire Contents of the Refrigerator and Virtual Solitaire (both in 2000). But, as much as I enjoyed both of those pieces, neither comes close to providing the coherency between characters that I Am My Own Wife Provides; but that’s not really a fair comparison to all concerned. Wife‘s narrative is far stronger, and there are only a handful of characters that get any significant stage-time; Charlotte dominates, of course, but Doug and his friend also appear often… other characters only have comparatively fleeting lines, and the purported count of forty-three distinct voices seems a little hard to believe.

But none of that takes anything away from the strength of Mayer’s performance, nor of Craig Behenna’s direction: both were near faultless, and the compassion that was imbued in this improbable storyline is absolutely compelling. I Am My Own Wife was absolutely wonderful theatre, professionally delivered.

[2013059] Raton Laveur

[2013059] Raton Laveur

Fairly Lucid Productions @ Bakehouse Theatre – Main Stage

7:30pm, Mon 25 Feb 2013

Walking into the Main Stage at the Bakehouse, the light crowd saw a lounge room. Just an ordinary, urban lounge room; nothing unremarkable, nothing untoward. We sat down; the house lights dropped. In the darkness, we hear a quiet rustling… and then a desperate whimpering. The house lights come up, and the ordinary scene has gone; in the centre of the room is a rolled up carpet. Standing over it is a man holding a baseball bat and hyperventilating – the source of the whimpering. And there’s blood… lots of blood. The carpet, clearly rolled around a lump of something, is caked in the stuff, and the man is liberally covered in red stains.

It’s a bloodbath.

It’s also an incredibly effective opening.

The man – Phil – has become obsessed with the nest of raccoons that lives behind the crêperie in which he works; his fiancé, Lily, is the cooler head in this situation, and gently pries him for information. The lump in the rolled carpet is the Raccoon King, we are told; but Phil is clearly paranoid and delusional – and constantly gasping for breath – and, as they contemplate the cleanup of the blood and the carcass (including a fantastic bit of desperate back-and-forth banter about how to cut through bone), it soon becomes evident that Phil and Lily don’t have the most stable of relationships.

Curiously, the somewhat predictable Big Twist is revealed about a third of the way through the play; the remainder of the play is a gore-tinted exploration of the co-dependency of the couple’s relationship. This is neatly contrasted to the bizarre Raccoon King thread, and reveals a depth to the script that really satisfies. But the script also delivers a whole lot of What-The-Fuck moments, too, and they continue to delight throughout.

Wendy Bos is incredibly good as the cool-under-pressure Lily, and I’m staggered as to how Ben Noble could hyperventilate (or at least sound like he was hyperventilating) for so long; his mania is writ large on his face. The two actors are good enough to flatten out the few lumps in the script (the fact that Phil and Lily are together at all becomes more and more implausible as the play progresses), and their comic timing is superb.

And it’s worth pointing out that Raton Laveur is, indeed, a comedy… just a very, very, black comedy. Not only that, but it’s also very, very, entertaining; another one of those productions that makes me utterly thankful that the Fringe exists. And that opening… just superb.