[2012113] Butterscotch

Emma Clair Ford @ La Bohème

4:30pm, Sat 10 Mar 2012

After remembering her name from nominations for Best Cabaret in 2011’s Fringe Awards, a cheeky matinée guaranteed that Emma Clair Ford saw me squeezing into La Bohème this Saturday arvo. Of course, matinées and La Bohème kinda feel like strangers – they’re almost at odds with each other, and it’s as if the venue doesn’t really know what to do with sunlight. But it’s a nearly full house, the weather’s moderated enough to afford a glass of red, and I’m looking forward to see what Ms Ford has to offer.

What she brings to the table is a largely autobiographical tale in which she recounts the significant events of her (relatively) short life so far. The early years are really endearing, as Ford paints a beautiful picture of the forest in which her family spent her younger years, and of the learning experience from releasing her beloved pet rabbit back into the wild – rather than make its quick death a dubious and potentially tasteless episode, she finds a way to craft a bittersweet narrative through that chapter of her life.

Growing up, there’s all the blossoming and heartbreak that’s associated with young womanhood, then the travel and having her eyes opened by The World. Throughout, Ford is constantly second-guessing herself, and struggling to figure out what makes her special; how she will make her mark.

But, having seen her perform, it’s pretty easy to see what makes Emma Clair Ford special: she’s a wonderful stage presence, at once open and giving and mysterious and cheeky. Despite the somewhat familiar life-until-now core of the show, the manner in which she weaves the narrative through the verses and choruses of her songs (in particular, Six Months in a Leaky Boat and The Boy in the Bubble) is a real delight.

And her singing… gorgeous. Clear, unfettered tones sweep you away, and her storytelling manner is spot-on. Pacing, volume variation, everything. Ford also had lovely piano accompaniment, consciously softening when she drops into narration; but I reckon I missed the best that her lighting would’ve conveyed. In the dark of night, I think the right lighting cues could’ve added a bit to the theatre of her production, but as La Bohème battled with the afternoon sun some of the effects were lost.

But that’s totally my fault for trying to squeeze in the matinée. And it most certainly didn’t take anything away from the performance: Ford is, most definitely, an incredibly talented cabaret artist, and I’m pretty bloody certain I’ll be grabbing a night-time session next time she’s in town… I reckon her combination of story and song will be magical on an inky evening.

[2012112] Outland

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

2:00pm, Sat 10 Mar 2012

A quick glance at my watch after Two Points of Reality saw me ringing for a cab and scooting back to AC Arts with minutes to spare before the start of Outland, Belt Up Theatre’s other production this Fringe. A frantic dash to locate the impromptu ticket office ensued, and – as I sank into an armchair in the Tiny Lounge – I was gloating a little, thinking that I’d just managed to sneak in an extra show that I’d have initially thought unlikely.

Whilst the layout of the Tiny Lounge was familiar from The Boy James, and the cast from that show are all physically recognisable, Outland is a very different beast. Using the life and work of Lewis Carroll as a basis, Outland seems to blend the “real” world of Carroll with that of the Outland (as found in his Sylvie & Bruno fictional universe).

I think.

Because, let’s face it, Outland is confusing as fuck.

Here’s what I can figure: Charles (Dodgson… “Lewis Carroll” was a nom de plume) exists in a “real” world, with his associates Arthur and Murial (who are also characters in one of the Sylvie & Bruno stories… look, I’m barely hanging on, here). However, Charles’ epilepsy drops him from the “real” world to a “dream” world that contains the Outland, Wonderland, and Elfland. In this dream world, Arthur and Murial become the childlike sprites Bruno and Sylvie… and also play double-duty as the Sub-Warden and his Wife, as parts of the Conspiracy in Outland are played out. A magical cape also appears at some point, possibly transporting characters into their opposing worlds…

I think.

Of course, I could (or, rather, do) have that synopsis completely arse-about: dream could be real, or both could be wrong, or something else… following the logical threads (if, indeed, there are any) isn’t something that is required to enjoy Outland. It’s possible to just revel in the spectacle of the production – the visually lush Tiny Lounge is used to full effect, with fantastic direction ensuring that everyone in the audience got a great view of proceedings as they were presented in the round. The performances are all thoroughly wonderful, with all three actors flitting between their multiple characters convincingly, and there’s some minor audience interaction – punters are plucked from the audience to play (embarrassment-free) ancillary roles; at one stage, Charles grabbed my feet and examined my shoes in detail, proclaiming them to be “special horizontal weather boots”.

For all the confusion that Outland projects upon the audience, it also offers a lot in exchange – not least of which are some of Carroll’s ideals. Worlds are gifts from God, he suggests, encouraging us… no, daring us to daydream as adults, to create spectacular worlds in our minds. And that’s a pretty special gift… and one that’s gratefully received.

[2012111] Two Points of Reality

Move Through Life Dance Company @ Holden Street Theatres – The Studio

1:00pm, Sat 10 Mar 2012

It’s a sticky afternoon, and there’s only a relatively small crowd that’s gathered out at Holden Street for Two Points of Reality; that’s kind of understandable, though, when you consider that (a) it’s a dance piece with a matinée, and (2) its précis indicates that it tackles the subject of dementia. On the subject of the former: hey, I love matinées, and I love dance; on the subject of the latter… well, let’s just assume that I’m facing my fears or somesuch.

Before the dance begins, some Fight Dementia ads are projected onto a screen; they’re chock full of great production values and scary statistics, causing the girls sitting in front of me to vocalise – and discuss – their surprise… so one could consider that move an illuminating success.

Once the dance begins, we’re shown the physical deterioration of a woman as she dances with her own fading memories; sweeping movements create a sense of peaceful beauty before the body contracts, becoming a reluctantly guarded husk. The woman’s daughter appears – her actions are full of frustration, lament, and – later – an almost shy carefulness. When those two performers are together, there’s a genuine sense of narrative… and it’s a story that I recognise. When the woman pulls away from the daughter in indignant anger, someone was really tugging on my heartstrings.

But there’s another player in this performance, too – the nurse. Treated with indignant indifference by the daughter, her interactions with the woman start as a struggle, hint at dependence, before a symbiosis develops. And, with her high energy solo, the choreography (which remains excellent throughout) seems to paint the nurse as noble; heroic.

My memory will probably relate Two Points of Reality and My Unseen Disappearing World as companion pieces purely because of the core subject matter; however, they’re clearly very different performances. And the wonderful thing about both is that they tackle the subject matter with dignity; that Two Points of Reality also manages to create a credible narrative thread through an attractive and engaging physical dance piece is commendable.

[2012110] Gareth Berliner : An INCH of Integrity

Gareth Berliner @ Gluttony – Funny Pork

10:00pm, Fri 9 Mar 2012

During the 2011 Feast Festival, I spent a bit of time with my Fringe Buddy down at the Feast Hub catching comedy and cabaret shows alike. After one show, we wound up boozing on with the comedian we’d just seen; as soon as my Buddy was out of earshot (on her way to the ladies), the comedian had turned to me and said – with an endearing earnestness – “I’ve got a massive cock.”

“That’s just great for you,” I told him, “but I have no interest in it whatsoever.”

That’s a mildly amusing story in my memory. But its relevance to this blog post (besides the publishing of the memory for posterity) is that this comedian – who had himself provided some solid laughter earlier on that evening – had raved about Gareth Berliner. Raved. His favourite-comedian-ever kind of rave… so much raving, in fact, that I’d drunkenly stabbed at my phone’s virtual keyboard to enter Berliner’s name for future reference.

And so it was that I came to be sitting in the Funny Pork tent for the last show on my birthday. Now, I’d caught (half of) a Rhino Room late show on March 6 where Berliner had performed a spot, and he struck me as being pretty funny there – stories of being molested by a German lesbian and being dumped by an epileptic lass (moments after taking viagra) were told with a frankness and eye for comic detail that impressed. But when those same jokes appeared this evening… well, they (understandably) lacked the punch of unknown material, but they also felt longer, stretched out… softer.

Whilst I identified with Berliner’s nice-guy-getting-shat-upon persona, most of his stories didn’t really feel like they reached any particular climax. They’re all very nice stories, well constructed and told – meeting and living with his fiancé, travel and drug experiences, a frank discussion of his own diseases and hospitalisations – and they’re all sprinkled with humorous nuggets. But there doesn’t appear to be any thread joining these stories together, and they lack the comedic punch on their own to result in uproarious laughter – a fact that alienated the row of girls sitting in front of me, who spent most of the show looking at each other quizzically, trying to see if anyone in the group had figured “it” out.

But here’s the thing – Gareth Berliner is such a genuinely nice guy, and so earnest and honest in his approach, that it’s hard to remember this show in a negative light. It was just… nice. Sure, he may be more of a raconteur than a filthy laugh-merchant; but I guess the moral of this post is that you shouldn’t necessarily put someone on your Must-See Comedy List on the advice of a well-endowed gay comedian who’s hitting on you. And, having just typed it, that really should have been obvious at the time.

[2012109] PRESS-PLAY! (Week 1)

Adelaide Duende Collective @ Bakehouse Theatre – Studio

9:00pm, Fri 9 Mar 2012

I leave Spoonface Steinberg and turn around, straight back into the Studio for the first of Duende’s shorts for this Fringe. I’ve become quite the fan of Duende’s work in the last couple of years, so it was easy to slot both episodes of PRESS-PLAY! into the schedule; that this managed to complete a Bakehouse treble was just cunning planning.

This evening’s PRESS-PLAY! was a thirty minute short, Six Dollar Solitude. It opens with Alex – newly married but suffering from an inexplicable malaise – being badgered in a bike shop; she purchases the bike and anthropomorphises it as the second principal character, Gus (who remains proudly on display for the entire performance) and, with a hint of hesitation, starts riding.

And, as she discovers a tranquility for which she had (unknowingly) been yearning, she keeps riding, leaving Adelaide and inadvertently heading towards Alice Springs.

As she rides, we’re privy to phone conversations with her husband, parents, and friends; there’s flashbacks to the party girls and hubby again, but – in the context of her unplanned adventure – these characters all seem distant. It’s not until Alex and Gus run into trouble in the outback that any other convincing characters come onto the scene; most of the time, we’re left with a girl who appears to be emulating the later parts of Forrest Gump… but without the historical impact or celebrity. Or nobility.

Despite being initially put-off by the heavy-handed sleazy salesman in the opening scene, Renee Gentle does a decent job flitting between the characters at her disposal – although having the spotlight constantly following her and blacking out as she switches characters has the effect of making character interactions seem slow and clumsy. And, unfortunately, I don’t think that John Doherty’s script really gives her a chance to shine: whilst there are some bright spots – the begrudging acceptance of Alex’s parents to her actions, and the subsequent tension between them – the bulk of the characters in the play feel underdeveloped – in fact, it’s only Martha, the kindly hotelier from Pimba, who feels “real”.

Whilst it’s entertaining enough – and bravely brief – Six Dollar Solitude was my least favourite Duende production to date. A shame, certainly, but not enough to scare me away from the second PRESS-PLAY! instalment…

[2012108] Spoonface Steinberg

Boo Dwyer @ Bakehouse Theatre – Studio

7:30pm, Fri 9 Mar 2012

There’s usually a couple of shows every Fringe that capture the punters’ interest, that make such an impact that word-of-mouth almost feels mandatory; one Fringe-going couple that I encountered at several events (starting with The Boy James) had raved with such intensity about Spoonface Steinberg that, had it not already been on my Shortlist, I would’ve been convinced to include it. But, given the amount of buzz I have felt for this show, there’s a disappointing turnout for this Friday-night session: the small Studio would’ve only been a third full.

Spoonface is a young, autistic girl with terminal cancer… that doesn’t sound like a basis for an uplifting story, and for the most part the show remains in this slightly grim realm. Spoonface – clad in grubby pyjamas, thick socks, and the beanie that signifies the chemo-ridden child – tells the story of herself and those around her in short scenes, separated by blackout; these vignettes are contemplative to the point of slowness, due partly to Spoonface’s condition, but also due to her detailed observations of those that surround her – the guilty mother, philandering father, her doctor, and the housekeeper that gives her the affection and stimulation she needs. A fascination with opera and a recognition of her impending death colour all these scenes.

As the play progresses, Spoonface’s monologue focusses more on the spiritual – she sees her condition as a gift from God and, as death becomes inevitable, she starts wondering faith and philosophy… heady thoughts for a child. And the final few scenes are just beautiful, with the child using wonderfully evocative language, building upon the idea of a unified oneness in nothingness.

Boo Dwyer (also known as Mrs Mickey D) puts in an absolute blinder as Spoonface – there’s a measured sense of gravitas to her portrayal, with an immense amount of fine detail – the compulsive movements of her fingers were a great touch. As Spoonface’s condition deteriorates, her face seems to become paler, more drawn – it’s a really remarkable performance.

Unfortunately, Lee Hall’s script is a bit uneven. Even taking the logical inconsistency of a small child being so deeply observant and philosophical about life, religion, and relationships, the pacing is almost lethargic at times: some scenes are extremely contemplative with no progression of plot or understanding, and – after over one hundred shows in this Fringe – I was really struggling to stay awake through some of those slower moments.

But that takes nothing away from the power of Dwyer’s performance; it really is a wonderful effort. Trim out a couple of those largely inconsequential bits, though, and there’d be a stunning and impactful show in Spoonface Steinberg.

[2012107] The Big Bite-Size Soirée (Menu 2)

White Room Theatre @ Bakehouse Theatre – Main Stage

6:00pm, Fri 9 Mar 2012

A regular Fringe Friend consistently raved about The Big Bite-Size Soirée – the show was already on my Shortlist, but it was only after talking to her that I learnt that there were three different sets (or menus) of ten-minute plays. With that in mind, I realised that my OCD would probably force me to see all three menus; I figured I’d better get started early.

Turning up for Menu 2, I spent an interesting five minutes chatting with the director of all fifteen pieces, Nick Brice. Though he was noticeably guarded – fair enough, given the fact that some fat redhead has started firing twenty questions at you – it’s always interesting talking to overseas artists who’ve decided to chance their arm in little ol’ Adelaide. Into the theatre, and there’s only twenty people (tops) in the audience for this series of five short plays.

Uncomfortable Silences kicks things off, and it’s immediately recognisable – it’s me and one of my friends. Unrequited Love, Just Good Friends. It hits maybe a little too close to home to be enjoyable, but I can see the quality in the piece. Vintage follows, a charming – and funny – tale showing a modern couple who decide to live their lives as if they were in the 1940s. Clever, and well done. All Hail is a relatively straightforward pisstake of Macbeth – entertaining enough, but not exemplary.

Transactions is probably the pick of this Menu, featuring a chap who pays a prostitute for a “real” relationship, with an inadvertent – and uncomfortable – “I love you” admission well before his time is up. Scott McAteer’s dialogue is fantastic: “Ten minutes – is that all you can afford?” she asks. “I’m saving,” comes the bittersweet reply.

Finally, The Key to the Mystic Halls of Time is an awkward piece revolving around two World of Warcraft players; the elder bloke was obsessive, the younger far more balanced. I’m not sure what the intent of this piece was supposed to be, but it felt like I was being lectured that oldies were being told not to play games… and, if that’s the case, writer Matt Cassarino can fuck right off (I’m a proud, old gamer).

Throughout all five pieces, the White Room cast – Alice Robinson, Andy Hutchison, Lisa Beresford, and Sean Williams (who looks scarily like Rob Sitch) were exemplary. Usually operating in pairs, they manage to create believable characters onstage, which must be tough given the fifteen(!) bite-sized plays they’re performing over the Fringe. And, whilst some plays are more successful than others (Key to the Mystic Halls really rubbed me the wrong way), Menu 2 was strong enough overall that I don’t regret my compulsion to see the other Menus too.

[2012106] Am I Good Friend?

Yve Blake @ Bull & Bear Bar and Restaurant

3:30pm, Fri 9 Mar 2012

I’m concerned as I glance over The Program that is given to me as I hear into the rear room of the Bull & Bear; the photos contained therein seem symptomatic of a mind that’s obsessed with internet meme images. Especially cats. There’s ten cat pictures. Watermelon-head cat? Yep. Sniper kitten? He’s there too.

Now, I hate cats. Okay, it’s not so much “hate” as it is “extreme resentment”. Because those little fuckers get to look cute and cuddly and then when you sleep they eat your pizza and when you yell at them they look all cute and cuddly and you can’t yell at them anymore and it’s not fair.

But anyway…

The room’s pretty chockers, and – given this is the first of three performances of Am I Good Friend? – I’m thinking it’s a family-and-friends affair… a thought that is solidified when Yves Blake takes to the stage (well, the little semi-circle of space at the focal point of this makeshift theatre) to raucous applause. And if there’s one thing I want to remember about Yve, it’s that she is enthusiastic.

Armed with PowerPoint presentations and previously-assembled movies, she describes – in comic detail – how she is going to scientifically determine whether she is a “good friend” to people. To argue her position, she presents statistics (Facebook Friends vs Real-World Friends), shows interviews with random strangers who espouse their Friend Judging Requirements, and tracks down long-lost friends (or even just Facebook de-frienders) to ask them what she could have done better.

Whilst her multimedia content is very much from the technology-wielding Generation Y outlook – and hence came across a little childish to an old fogie like me – there’s an interesting thread to the show that has a bit of heart to it. The persistent multimedia got a little wearing after a while, but Blake changes it up with bits of audience interaction; we were all asked to contributed the name of a former Friend for her dataset, and there’s an oddly sweet bit where she gets a punter to confess her Friending sins for her.

It has to be said: Blake is a dynamo of a performer. Her writing shows a wonderful self-assuredness (the text of The Program is madcap fun), and her delivery is oddly engaging: she had great pitch variation in her voice, and a weird habit of leaning into audience members when addressing them… intimate, and maybe just a little bit creepy. In a kooky way. Getting the tassels out at the end was odd, too.

And then, after she’s guided us to a feel-good ending (we all got our “golden truth egg” that assured us that yes, we can be good friend), she thanks us for attending; this show is a big risk, she tells us, especially since she’s only eighteen years old.

And then content of the show, and all the little notes I’d made that said “YOUNG” in uppercase, underlined several times, made sense.

Am I Good Friend? was guilty good fun. It left me with a smile on my face, and I’m smiling thinking about it now (ten months later), and I’ll be looking forward to seeing what Yve Blake does in the future.

[2012104] Rapskallion

Rapskallion @ Idolize

11:30pm, Thu 8 Mar 2012

An unintended gap in the schedule leads to a last-minute decision to see Rapskallion, who – despite the précis promise of music laced with junkyard and romance – were relatively low on The Shortlist. Still, with the timeslot open, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity of RushTIX… only to belatedly remember that the Garden’s ticket office doesn’t use the FringeTIX system. Full price it was, then.

Green ticket in hand, I park myself in the queue that’s only about forty deep at the nominated start time… and the previous show was still playing. I get a comfortable leaning position and start sketching out the route the eponymous vehicle took in Back of the Bus, and start jotting down a few notes. The queue builds behind me, but I’m trying to focus on dumping my memory; suddenly I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn and look at the tapper – a somewhat familiar face, but I can’t place him.

“I want to thank you,” he says with a smile.

I’m still drawing a blank. “Oh?”

My face must have given away my lack of recollection. “Yeah; you were the only other guy there last night…”

Last night, last night…

“…at the GhostBoy show. There was no way I was getting up on stage, so thanks for that.”

The memories flood back in. “Oh! You’re the grumpy guy!” He grins, and we start chatting, swapping show stories and recommendations, and checking the cricket scores for the benefit of his son. It turns out he’s reviewing for one of the street mags, so we talk about that process until the line starts moving.

Once inside, the reviewer and I have different priorities, so we go our separate ways. My limbs are tired and aching, so I grab a booth with a good view of the stage; Rapskallion take to the stage, and it’s a pretty big complement of players: drums and double bass, squeezebox and trumpet, guitars and violins, and vocalists of both genders. Their songs… well, they’re not so much songs as they are seedy stories with musical accompaniment.

And the music… well, it’s kinda-sorta one part folk, one part cabaret, one part blues, and one part filthy Lithuanian vodka. Drunken rhythms lurch along, tempos stay up to keep the dancers happy (hey, I almost got up for a jig myself – and that is saying something), and – for some bizarre reason – I found myself fascinated with the punctuation of muted trumpet in the songs. The fact that I felt like I was revisiting a drunken, sloppy Crooked Fiddle Band (from much earlier in this Fringe) should only be considered a positive thing.

Look, there’s not really much else there is to write about here. Whilst I’m not sure I’d be prioritising a repeat viewing of Rapskallion’s seemingly sordid act, I enjoyed their performance enough to warrant buying a couple of CDs… and certainly didn’t decry their win in the Fringe Awards a week later.

[2012103] Jon Brooks – Breaking News

Jon Brooks @ Austral Hotel – The Bunka

9:30pm, Thu 8 Mar 2012

The morning after the city-ruining Fringe opening parade, which left the streets strewn with detritus both cast-off and human, I bumped into a stern looking Jon Brooks in front of the Austral. I’ve chatted with him before, mainly about our shared love of Bill Hicks (Brooks introduced the first screening of American in Adelaide), so I stop to say hello and ask how he fared on opening night. He looked disgusted: “drunk wankers everywhere,” he lamented, “I saw pissed people holding up an ambulance that was trying to take someone to Emergency.” We chat a little about politics before I depart, and I assure him that his show is on my Shortlist.

(As an aside, a passerby heard us talking about the Fringe and stopped: “there’s too many venues,” she complained, “There’s too many shows.”)

And so I arrive at The Bunka on this evening, and waiting outside is a couple who I’d seen at a couple of shows previously (starting with The Boy James). We chat and compare notes – they rave about Spoonface Steinberg again, escalating it up my List – before we settle in for Brooks’ comedy.

Noting that today was International Woman’s Day, Brooks opens with a piece that – at first blush – felt sexist… before it evolves into an expression of outright revulsion and disgust firmly aimed at The Project‘s Carrie Bickmore, which ended with an evocative depiction of Bickmore being staked through two orifices. Opening tirade over, Brooks grins broadly at the small assembled crowd – we’re all on board, and ready for the ride.

But despite the name of the show, and the topicality of the opening piece, a large amount of the show is spent telling comic stories of a personal nature – and, in particular, the intervention that Brooks’ family forced upon him when he went home to Port Pirie for Christmas. It’s a funny story, but also carries with it hints of compassion and alcoholism truisms – a really well-rounded piece of writing.

Things head back towards the news again as Brooks recalls one of the first pieces of newspaper reporting he undertook – the tale of Midnight Lenny in Andamooka – before he rounds out proceedings by comparing the power struggles of the Labour Rudd/Gillard factions to the public pop-brutality of Chris Brown/Rihanna. And that piece, once again, highlights the strength of Brooks’ writing and delivery: rapid-fire descriptions that get twisted and turned for great comedic effect.

Jon Brooks is a bloody brilliant comedian, combining an ability for astute analysis with a coarse acerbic tongue and pacey, punchy delivery. Add onto that a fearless approach to his material selection, and he’s totally won me over.

[2012102] Your Days Are Numbered: the maths of death

Matt Parker and Timandra Harkness @ The Science Exchange – Auditorium (RiAus)

8:00pm, Thu 8 Mar 2012

Being an engineer and mathematician by training, I like numbers. And, as I’ve mentioned previously, I like the idea of combining mathematics and comedy. And whilst Simon Pampena has given that idea a whirl, I was seeking something a little more adult.

With a title like Your Days Are Numbered: the maths of death, I thought I’d found a good match.

In front of a near capacity room at the RiAus (downstairs was nearly full, anyway – and that’s where the bar was open), Math teacher Matt Parker starts out strong: he certainly knows his stuff, and is comfortable with PowerPoint, a whiteboard, and a rowdy crowd. Comedian Timandra Harkness, however, didn’t really come across convincingly at all. Where Parker is almost blithely introverted and focussed on the math at hand – the classic straight-man – in attempting to bring the mirth to proceedings, Harkness occasionally comes across as… well, needy. Desperate for laughs.

At least the math was reasonable: Parker throws around all manner of weird death statistics, which Harkness attempts to punctuate with quips and one-liners. They look at how the media can distort statistics, and demonstrate how marketing campaigns twist numbers to their advantage. There’s some well-worn factoids about shark attacks and plain/car/bicycle death rates, and they do a good job of highlighting that a statistically unlikely outcome is… well, unlikely.

But then there’s an audience participation bit that falls a bit flat – look, the audience member only got one of five of the unlikely deaths in the right order of likelihood, so surely he only deserves 20% of the applause, right? And, whilst they’re aiming for a crowd-pleasing discussion of the benefits of alcohol, the “analysis” feels incredibly loose – with precise figures on one hand, “a bit” of alcohol on the other, and a chunk of data dismissed because doctors “sneer” at the result.

So, whilst Your Days Are Numbered was at least mildly entertaining – and mostly pretty good with the numbers – I’m still blessed (and, in a way, cursed) by the fact that I’ve seen an incredible nerdy comedian before… and he still forms the high-water mark for science-based comedy. Unfortunately for everyone else, they continue to be judged against Don McMillan… and come up short.

[2012101] Back of the Bus

Java Dance Company @ a bus on the streets of Adelaide

6:00pm, Thu 8 Mar 2012

Believe it or not, I feel pretty guilty about not pushing myself to write about a show I’ve seen in a timely manner, or “in season”… not so with Back of the Bus. Because there’s so much I wanted to record that could be considered spoilers, and I didn’t want to ruin the surprise for anyone else who happened to see the show.

Good thing I’m writing this ten months after it’s finished, then. Timely in its own way!

Drawn to the premise of a dance piece taking place on a bus, I headed to the Town Hall meeting point, but found the bus waiting in front of the entrance of the Medina on Flinders. After verifying with the driver that this was the correct bus, I pressed him for details of the performance; he just laughed and broke eye contact. “I’m sworn to secrecy,” he said.

First on the bus, I took what I hoped would be an optimal seat. Soon the bus starts packing out with other passengers – it looked like a sell-out, and I started talking with the young woman next to me (as I am wont to do). We start comparing Fringe shows – I’ve not seen much, she says, just stuff at the ‘Caravan. Conversation shifts to the Festival – my Raoul rant sparked lively debate – but when I start my ADT rant a girl in front of me turns around and joins the discussion. We chat, we laugh… I ask what they’ve heard about Back of the Bus – they independently shrug.

With the bus loaded, we take off and are given brief instructions – basically, don’t do anything stupid, and enjoy yourselves. A portable stereo pumps out classical strains as the bus slips into traffic and heads down Flinders St; there’s lively conversations all around, and everyone seems chirpily happy, but there’s no dancing to be seen. The bus gets caught at the lights on Pultney and Flinders… and I see her: a woman carrying a plethora of shopping bags, running for the intersection, frantically hailing the bus to stop. The lights change, the bus crosses the road and pulls over to let her on.

She clambers on awkwardly with her shopping, sighs heavily, and slumps in an empty seat, her bags flopping over her neighbour; she offers them a lolly for the inconvenience, then begins flumping down the aisle, smacking grinning passengers with her bags as she goes. She squeezes into another seat, and starts unloading the contents of her bags – it’s a comic physical performance, and she over-acts every lurch of the bus as it continues down Flinders and right onto Hutt.

After jumping on her bags and flinging herself up and down the aisle as the bus accelerates and brakes, she eventually settles in a seat and begins dozing. Everyone on the bus is laughing – it was a gloriously silly performance. The bus turns right onto Halifax, and I turn to the girl next to me – “I feel like I have to watch the corners for more runners…” – but as soon as the words start coming from my mouth, she smiles at me knowingly and stands up. She’s the next dancer, and I blush with the shame at having missed the setup – but grin at having been fooled.

Where the first dancer was frantic and messy, the second is balance and poise and… oh god, that heart-warming smile. Remaining mute, she elegantly swans the length of the bus, sliding along other passengers and melting them with her gorgeous smile as she just radiated happiness. The bus stops at Hurtle Square and we pile off; the dancers encourage us to form a circle, holding hands. They get everyone engaged – even the smaller children – as they dance among us, trying to get us dancing too. Back onto the bus, and the second dancer returns to her original seat alongside me and rests her head on my shoulder; I’m sure I managed to get a tiny droplet of sweat from her brow on my shirt. I’ve not washed it since.

Another dancer appears from the passengers – it’s the girl who’d sat in front of me, who’d laughed at the ADT conversation. I blush again; I grin again. Her pervasive mood feels almost romantically melancholic, but the aisles become a blur of activity with all three girls using the space, the lack of space, the poles of the bus to move: three different styles, three different moods. A stop on Grenfell, a short walk down to the Reading Room on Hindley where the girls have somehow arrived first: there’s a short performance that’s all about smooth movements within the tight space.

Back onto the bus again and we continue, and the girls start waving to other traffic between their dance pieces. I wonder about the busses we passed on King William Street – they were full of frowns, and ours was full of smiles, with passengers literally dancing down the aisles. Eventually we return to the Medina, and congregate in the Treasury where everyone – the passengers, the dancers – are all smiles. Back of the Bus felt like one of those experiences where you feel an intense kinship with the people who sat alongside you, and as we mingled there were the knowing nods of the shared experience. A wonderful, enchanting, and – above all – joyous experience.

(I talked to the girls afterwards; “you had me completely fooled!” I laughed, stating the obvious, before the two I’d chatted with at the beginning of the ride start jokily arguing over who nearly broke the other’s cover… “you stole my line!”)

[2012100] Shakespeare’s Queens: She-wolves and Serpents

Straylight Australia @ Bakehouse Theatre – Main Stage

1:00pm, Thu 8 Mar 2012

Every Fringe I trot out some variant of “I love me some Shakespeare,” and use that to justify another peek into The Bard’s world. This production, though, purported to be meta-Shakespeare, so I was doubly intrigued.

The premise has Shakespeare, Queen Elizabeth I, and Mary, Queen of Scots meeting up in the afterlife to contemplate The Bard’s use of women in his plays. They do so by stepping into the roles of the characters – meta-acting, if you will – and analysing their roles in each play in turn.

The programme – or, more accurately, the running sheet – lists thirty-eight additional characters from over a dozen of Shakespeare’s plays, which has the three principal characters meta-acting at a pretty rapid pace. And, generally, they bring the appropriate mood to each piece – the comedies are played for laughs, the weightier pieces given the appropriate gravitas. In adopting another character, the principals will often indicate the role via a simple piece of costumery… and as the sole male onstage, Patrick Trumper gets off lightly, as his costume changes are limited to various hats. The two women – Rachel Ferris and Kath Perry (who plays a great Queen Liz) – tend to have more elaborate shifts.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Shakespeare’s Queens was coming across as edutainment. The characters frequently drop into modern language, with modern narrative about the snippets being performed, which had the effect of taking me back to my Year 11 English teacher (who attempted to make pertinent points about Macbeth through over-the-top blustered acting – and sparked my interest in Shakespeare). Indeed, in this 1pm matinee there was a school group of about ten (who, after being sternly warned about the non-use of mobile phones in the theatre, were far better behaved than the group of silver-tops behind me, who insisted on chatting during some of the narrative links).

And there’s nothing wrong with edutainment… until it gets preachy or lecture-y. And, unfortunately, Shakespeare’s Queens does the latter, with motives being coldly analysed in-between fragments of performance. Sure, the performances are pretty good overall (save the occasional broken French), but I was constantly being pushed away by the fourth-wall-breaking commentary. That, and I couldn’t help but think that there was something sickly sado-masochistic about Mary and Elizabeth sharing such a casual conversation – I tend to think there would have been a bit more tension there, what with the whole “execution” thing.

[2012099] Ellipsis

Garath Hart @ Queen’s Theatre 2

11:00am, Thu 8 Mar 2012

You can tell right away that you’re in for a quirky experience with Ellipsis – upon entry into Queen’s Theatre 2, you’re handed a pair of wireless headphones and a cup of hot, green tea. We choose our seats, don our headphones, and sit there waiting – sipping tea in silence – taking in the details of the cubic frame onstage, three sides of which have bars of red twine.

When Garath Hart places himself within the cube, he appears murky in the half-light of the theatre; the sound that comes through the headphones starts quietly, and is sparse and organic… it’s like eastern-flavoured meditation guide music. Subtle lighting highlights the sides of the cage; a small fan starts up, catching the red twine, and the way it drifts in and out of the light is mesmerising. Hart’s arms flow, there’s precision in his hands, and his legs make short, sharp movements: he’s like a bird within the cage. He’s perfectly synchronised with the burbles of the audio; curious, I remove my headphones… and discover it’s deathly quiet in the theatre.

Curious. My mind starts whirring, trying to figure out where he was getting his cues from, whilst also clinging to the idea that his performance is so tightly practiced that he can maintain that level of precision sans cues.

There’s a side-trip to a microphone for a short spoken word piece, then he returns to the cube. The music changes: it’s now much more percussive, mechanical, and Hart’s movements lose their flowing nature and become sharper, more precise. Again, his movements are perfectly synchronised with the audio, and again I check to see if there’s any audible cues in the theatre… no. Then I notice that there’s thuds and clicks and cracks that appear in the audio that coincide with his some of his footfalls on the stage; is the floor miked?

His dance remains hypnotic, engaging… and then the sound cuts out of my headphones. I take them off, checking the power LED that I noticed when I took possession of them; it was still on, but I noticed others in the audience checking their headsets too. Hart continues dancing, and I put the headphones back on; the sound comes back. Some minutes later it disappears again, then returns.

Curiouser.

Hart completes his piece, and I applaud with vigour. I’ve somehow been incredibly engaged by this; the contrasting styles of dance and music, the unique staging, the enforced isolation of the headphones, the challenging audio presentation, and even the tea. It feels like a really thoughtful, intelligent piece of work, and I decide to wait behind to see if I can chat with him.

Others, of course, have the same idea, and I notice the artist lanyard around one young woman’s neck. We start chatting whilst waiting for Hart, and I discover that she’s one of the dancers from Carnally. I gush at her about her show – her older companions (parents? hosts?) grin with pride – and then Garath appears, obviously happy. I let the other dancer chat first, but then Garath turns to me and offers his hand in greeting: “we’ve met before,” he smiles, “at a piece called Pickled.”

I’m caught off-guard… and then the memories come flooding back. Not only did we see Pickled together, but I’d recommended that he also see Death in Bowengabbie, which Garath had subsequently graded with a so-so hand-wave… I’d always felt bad about that! We laugh at the recollection, and then I start grilling him about his wonderful performance: was the floor miked? Yep. How was it cued? There were some light cues, and there were some periods where the sound tech could pause to sync up. What about the drop-outs of audio in the headphones – were they deliberate?

He smiles mischievously. “I’m not saying,” he grins, with a twinkle in his eye.

I loved Ellipsis. It provided stimulation of just about every sense, and mentally engaged – and, paradoxically, soothed at the same time. A brilliant performance.