[2008004] Karen Dunbar

Karen Dunbar (FringeTIX)

Karen Dunbar @ The Pod

7:15pm, Sun 17 Feb 2008

It’s a mistimed entrance, her floundering onstage completely at odds with the stuttering music; so Karen Dunbar insists that she perform the entrance again. The second time it all comes together, and she manages to massage the audience applause into a rhythmic accompaniment as she gallops about the stage. The clapping subsides – and then she starts it up again, and gallops faster. “That’s all this show is,” she quips, “clapping. Come on, only 57 minutes left.”

Dunbar – “The Karen Dunbar, not ‘Carrington Bar'” – relies very much on her physicality onstage. She flails her arms, she flicks her hair and sweat, she flares her nostrils – there’s comedy value there before she even opens her mouth. And when she does speak, it can be a bit of a battle to understand what the hell she’s saying – her Scottish accent is pronounced and, even if I get the feeling that she deliberately slows her speech and straightens the sounds out to be more acceptable to our antipodean ears, when she gets fired up the dialog can often initially appear to be gibberish. There’s often a noticeable delay between the joke being delivered and the audience laughing; you can almost hear people’s brains kick into interpretive overdrive.

But her material is – mostly – great. Dunbar’s at her best when delving into the more coarse topics – her own incontinence, chef’s arse, spit-roasting, or her own pubic topiary: “‘The Constant Gardener. That’s me.” There’s some funny physical humour – her dance piece was a hoot – but also some dead weight; her Shirley Bassey impressions went on too long for little reward.

Dunbar even gave us a take-home summary of her own show: “Was she funny? Was she fuck – great singing voice, though.” And it is a great singing voice, and she is a great presence onstage, and she did have the mostly full, hot & stuffy Pod in stitches. But there was just a little something missing; I reckon it’s a tiny shard of a fragment of a piece of Something that would turn this show from “yeah, not bad” to “pretty fucking awesome.”

Arsed if I know what that Something is, though. Probably surtitles.

[2008003] The Amazing Drumming Monkeys

The Amazing Drumming Monkeys (FringeTIX)

Congo & Bongo @ The Puppet Palace

6:00pm, Sun 17 Feb 2008

Well – there’s not really a lot to say about this one. After all, with a title like “The Amazing Drumming Monkeys,” you’re going to be expecting monkeys. That drum. Amazingly. And that’s pretty much what you get. Except for the Amazing bit.

Congo and Bongo, the monkeys in question, play bongos. Bet you didn’t see that twist coming! They’re inanimate plush monkey heads with puppetted arms… not marionette arms, the human-arms-inside-them type of thing. Whatever that’s called.

Anyway…

Congo and Bongo belt out a bunch of short, punchy, bongo driven numbers, with each song punctuated by a genuinely cute “yay!” and even cuter monkey sound effects. It’s very kid-centric in a Wiggles kinda way – lots of dancing around, friendly animal references, and catchy sing-a-longs. There’s also a bit of an environmental message, and a not-so-subtle racial harmony subtext too – edumacational!

The Puppet Palace was warm and a little humid, but certainly not as oppressive as I’d feared given the stinking hot day. There was maybe a dozen young children and (one would presume) their respective parents in attendance; the kids all seemed to love it, and more than a couple of adults got into the swing of things, too – dancing like a monkey, engaging in the bounce-around physical aspect of the show (especially the ever-smiling Louise, who ably assisted the Monkeys in their frog-jumping sideshow). Mind you, I’m damn glad that my SO decided to come along to this one; I’d have felt like a complete fucking dickhead dancing like that by myself.

“Amazing”? Not really. But if you’ve got a gaggle of youngsters, you could do a lot worse than spending a half-hour with The Monkeys.

[2008002] Tom Tom Club

Tom Tom Club (FringeTIX)

Tom Tom Club @ The Umbrella Revolution

10:00pm, Sat 16 Feb 2008

In strikingly similar circumstances to 2007’s performance of Tom Tom Club, I enter the Umbrella Revolution with the same mate on opening night and with a few drinks under my belt. The 2008 Umbrella Revolution is a much more up-market affair than in previous years; polished wood seating on three sides of the central performance space creates a more intimate, small circussy feel. The new seating, whilst not as vicious as that of years gone by, still managed to be arse-numbing in all sorts of new and creative ways.

As for the show… well, it’s more-or-less the same as last years effort, just tightened up a bit. It’s a hip-hop driven acrobatic tumble-fest; Ben Walsh, Tom Thum and DJ Dizz1 provide the audio backdrop for the physical antics of the four resident acrobats (Ben, Daniel, Shane, and Tom), before occasionally commandeering the spotlight themselves. It’s hard to tell who the star of the show is: Walsh is the big name that drew me to the show (and his OmniChord makes a re-appearance (with a song that didn’t make me cringe as much as last year’s), along with the flailing drumming of the Wheel Of Life). DJ Dizz1 did a tremendous scratch on Whole Lotta Love and provided sterling work throughout. Tom Thum amazes with his World Champion beat-boxing skills, sounding at times like a convincing vinyl record, AM radio, and even mimicking Dizz1’s efforts. Oh, and beat-boxing whilst performing a head spin. Oh, and that great rendition of Billie Jean.

But the real front-men are the four acrobats. Using every inch of space in the centre of the Revolution – and sometimes even faux-tumbling into the crowd – they perform with pace, verve, passion; there’s a genuine feeling of danger, that these chaps may indeed be performing on the edge of their abilities. If that’s an act, then it’s a very convincing one; regardless, it’s still pretty exciting stuff.

After seeing the first performance of Tom Tom Club last year, I said “If they trim that wanky spray-painting thing off the start and magically sober me up, I’d rave more.” Well, they did trim, and so I will rave more. This leaner, punchier Club is a far better show for the editing; there’s very few flat spots, the energy starts at “woah” and gradually ascends to “WOAH!” throughout.

But, at the end of the day, is it worthy of the standing ovation afforded it by a fair chunk of the audience? Hell no – but that’s me, the stingiest of the standing ovators. Still, it’s well worth your cash… hang on, I’ve just checked the ticket – $34. Bloody hell. That’s… ummm… I want to say it’s par for the course, but I’m not sure I can :}

[2008001] Andrea Gibbs is STARKERS

Andrea Gibbs is STARKERS (FringeTIX)

Andrea Gibbs @ The Garden Shed

7:00pm, Sat 16 Feb 2008

A quiet crowd of little more than a dozen – including a bunch of other Garden performers, I suspect – turned out on a sticky Saturday night. The Garden Shed, “improved” this year by some loosely-sprung floorboards, is its familiar humid self; the hot stage lighting didn’t exactly help matters. Thankfully, the “drinks inside” policy is very liberal.

First signs weren’t good – a projected voiceover, high on quality and low on laughs, struggles to raises a smile before Andrea appears onstage for the first of her three monologues – “Naked Ambition”. But right away, I’m sucked in by the familiarity of the life she portrays; we’re shown a child of the 70’s, steeped in the mystique and versed in the machismo of that golden era of that golden era of Australian cricket. The sport forms the backbone of this piece, allowing Gibbs to flesh her character (whose dreams are to be a streaker at the cricket) out beautifully. It’s a narrow – and shallow – characterisation, but well weighted, competently performed, and – with the exception of some jarring of eras of cricketing icons – well written.

(Ooooh – there’s currently a big yelling match between staff at the Quiet Waters :)

The voiceover returns as Gibbs’ mostly naked form streaks from the stage, noting that “those in the side seats may have seen a bit of booby.” (Correct!) There’s also a nice little general interest information about “party boobs” which seemed almost absurd in its inclusion and detail. In hindsight, however, it was a perfect prelude to the second monologue, which focused on the amazing abilities of one particular prison inmate. You’d think that twenty minutes of gags based on the ability to smuggle contraband in her “cooz” would’ve died early, but Gibbs keeps it fresh enough that the jokes never seem to get stale. There’s a tinge of tenderness in there, too, which makes it all the more fulfilling – and the recurrent muffled mobile phone ring still brings a smile to my face.

The final act – a widow who discovers the delights of sexual gratification through pain – seems to be a bit of a stretch, upon reflection. It seemed funny at the time, and I remember deliciously anticipating a spiraling devolution into a piercing gross-out fest which sadly never happened, but in the cool breeze of night it just doesn’t seem as arresting as the first two monologues.

So – was this worth the $14 paid? Probably. If this is the worst show I see all Fringe, I’d be pretty bloody happy. If it’s the best show I see all Fringe, I’d be pretty bloody pissed off. So there you have it – a decent show, nothing spectacular, but solid enough.

Plus, you get to see boobies ;)

All Systems GO!

It’s here. The Garden is open. Festival tickets are all bought and paid for. The Schedule spreadsheet has been assembled, and the tricky task of scheduling Fringe shows has commenced.

Acrobat‘s return, scheduled for this evening, has already been cancelled (as has Holy Cow‘s entire season). No big deal at this stage; FringeTIX are happy to exchange tickets for another day, and there’s still some slack in “pre-week” that it can fit into.

In tizzying myself up for FF2008, though, I may have made a little bit of a miscalculation. In the hairdressers. A Hairdressing Incident, if you will. Needless to say, you’ll see me coming. Check the promo pics for The Angel And The Red Priest on page 40 of the Festival Guide for some idea of what I’m talking about.

No sleep for 29 nights now… :D

2008 Adelaide Festival Launch

Oh dear. I need a new job.

Because the 2008 Adelaide Festival of Arts is going to cost me a ton of money. And a kidney.

That’s not to say that the ticket prices are hellishly expensive – although there are a fair few more $100+ prices to be found. It’s just that there’s very, very little in the programme that I don’t want to see.

The launch – attended by a third-full Festival Theatre – got off to a dry start; Ross Adler and an Adelaide Bank chap rolled out the usual platitudes, before Mike Rann came out to officially launch the Festival. It’s the first time I’ve ever paid attention to Rann (or “Media Mike”, as my Dad loves to sneer) speak… he’s constantly flipping pages of his pre-written material every 10-15 words. Bloody good speaker, though.

And then came (Artistic Director) Brett Sheehy – first introducing the 2008 motto “what are you seeing?”, and following up with the iconic sculpture that will adorn Festival press everywhere, a fantastically playful amorphous blob called go, you little dynamo, go. And, pausing just twice for well-deserved sips of water, he talked with vim and enthusiasm about pretty much every performance on the programme. Forty-five minutes straight.

And it was genuinely exciting! The opera Ainadamar looks to be the flagship production this year, DBR & The Mission sounds like it’s going to be a storming lead on the musical front (with Dharma at Big Sur following closely), the crowd behind 2006’s Nora return with another re-working, this time of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Brink have another promising production (When The Rain Stops Falling), there’s a fantastic sounding Indian/Sri Lankan Midsummer Night’s Dream, and the dance piece to book early will be Sacred Monsters (which actually elicited excited yelps from the audience). And much much much much more…

Potential duds? Well, yes; a piece focussed on the Dunstan reformist years? Not so interesting. A Chinese junk cruising up and down the Torrens? Ho hum. The Living Books project? Fraught with danger. But they could all be eclipsed – for better or worse, if you catch my drift – by the Leonard Cohen / Philip Glass collaboration “Book of Longing”… that’s either going to be 100% pure genius or mass-suicide material.

A lot was made of the efforts to produce the first Australian (and third world-wide?) carbon-neutral Festival; a noble goal, for sure, but it didn’t get off to a promising start with all the Guides and posters being handed out as soon as the official Launch was over. Then again, I was there saying “one of each, please”, so I’m part of the problem. (Nice to see my name in the Guide again, too – pg 68, right across from Brett Sheehy ;)

And with that, all that remains is scheduling and earning and booking and paying off Visa and earning and paying off Visa and waiting… and on the 29th of February, lazing around the Persian Garden in hazy expectant delirium. Oh yes, I cannot wait :)

…or maybe not.

It seemed like a good idea, to attack the Festival of Ideas in the same manner that I attack the Festival of the Arts & the Fringe (ie, with gusto).

The problem is, when I’m tapping out my thoughts on sessions, I feel obliged to cover them in the minutest detail, expounding on themes that appeal to me. And, because I’m no writing clever person, that’s really hard for me to do in a manner that I’d consider “timely”… bearing in mind it took me three months to finish my Fringe ramblings.

In short, I bit off more than I can chew :}

Here’s a bunch of other bloggers who are writing in a much more elegant and composed manner than I…

At least the peeps behind those blogs can (a) do the sessions some credit, and (2) string more than two words together in a coherent manner.

Also bear in mind that the sessions will be podcast on Radio Adelaide in the coming weeks.

And so, with that weight lifted off my shoulders, I might just sit back and enjoy the rest of the sessions a little more.

What Endures? Thoughts on discerning what to take into the future and what to discard

It’s the first of the daytime sessions, and – again – I’m unsure what to expect. Arriving early despite the rain at the Art Gallery Auditorium (the stage for the fabulous A Large Attendance In The Ante Chamber in 2002), the crowd is sparse – it soon fills to breaking point, with everyone forced to do the shuffle-up to squeeze more peeps in. This daytime crowd is mostly older – retirees, it seems – though there’s a sprinkling of post-grads, too (though is feels quite disingenuous to be making such judgements based on appearances).

Paul Chadwick poses the question What Endures? Thoughts on discerning what to take into the future and what to discard and, from the outset, admits that he has – at best – only a tentative answer. He introduces his topic by mentioning that rapid change tends create a distortion of the effecter of that change, and the ideals associated with it; but that the matter of that which should be endured is best identified close to the changing event. This was ably demonstrated by the drafting of the Declaration of Human Rights so close to the end of World War II; over half-a-century on, the ideals expressed in that original draft are being watered down as we wander further from the attrocities that inspired it.

There’s several tangents in his presentation; the idea that privacy is an enabler (of self-discovery, of intimacy, of liberty). The impact on property law by the concept of ownership of genetic data. The progression towards a surveillance society, and the establishment of surveillance-free zones (akin to national parks). And the resonant gem for me was the idea that Understanding is always partial.

As previously mentioned, Chadwick presents only a tentative answer, stating that enduring ideals should be based on the concepts of Synthesis (a merging of doctrines) and Questing (facilitating the search for greater truths). Audience interaction posited that materialism is one facet of current society which should not endure, and posed the idea of sustainability within the framework put forth by Chadwick.

In all, it was certainly a thought-provoking session, but Chadwick’s slow, considered – almost over-enunciated – approach made the going a little tough at times.

The Elephant and the Dragon

As per usual, an Adelaide Festival opens with an aboriginal flourish; this one struck me as the most noble in recent years, four young men performing dances of welcome and handover before cleansing the room. A hint of humour and steeped in respect, there’s a gentle nod to aboriginal rights, and the prospect of hope in young Aboriginals in the future.

This year’s Festival of Ideas is dedicated to Elliot Johnson, who took to the stage and proceeded to tear into the Government’s recent reaction to Aboriginal child abuse issues, scouring the prescribed eleven-point action plan. The first six points were dealt with cynical consideration, but the final five were identified by Johnson to be a direct attack on the Aboriginal process of self-determination.

“The Elephant and the Dragon” refer, of course, to the global powerhouses of India and China; this session aimed to contemplate the impact of the two countries on the world economy & the environment. First up on the panel was Joseph Cheng, quiet but firmly spoken. His primary assertions were that China’s continued growth was a big win for Australia, as it would be resource- and capital-fuelled. He later (bravely) referred to the “September 11 incident“, made mention of the impact on the Taiwanese economy by the return of talented students who had sought to further their education in the USA, and insisted that Australia was in a good position to place international pressure on China – as long as we didn’t kowtow to American interests. Later discussion saw Cheng describe the almost Orwellian approach the Chinese government has to pro-democracy demonstrators, and stated that the current political regime is far more strict on public demonstrations than in 1989.

Ramachandra Guha leapt to the podium with a swaggering confidence. His humorous recap of India’s democratic history – predictions of doom, gloom, and decay for the first 50 years, then constantly predicted to be a superpower – was fabulously entertaining, as was his likening of the two Ghandis at either end of India’s political spectrum to Presidents Jefferson and Bush. Ramachandra owned the stage, and his rapid-fire heavy accent was, at times, a little difficult to follow; but he imparted some absolute gems of information. Tribal people in India being aggressively dispossessed by mining companies; the environment is of little concern to the current government (an is deemed the least glamorous ministry).

Robin Jeffrey also focussed on India, but painted the government in a more positive light – after all, with a nation of many different languages, scripts, and religions, they’ve still managed to maintain a reasonably stable country. This is countered later in proceedings with the observation that TV is becoming a fixture in more and more Indian homes; and with it comes information, particularly the opportunity to see how other parts of India live. This has the potential to create a feeling of disparity where previously none existed.

Colleen Ryan spoke far less favourably of China than Cheng, but also referred to the lack of media penetration (especially in the more isolated provinces). This prevents the knowledge of disparity mentioned above; the poor accept that they are poor, but don’t actively react against it because they simply don’t know there’s any other option. She brings up the point that neither China nor India possess any major brands or corporations; Ramachandra countered that “home-grown” brands need not follow western-established branding models, as Bollywood has shown. Ryan posited that, should the Asian countries start influencing world trade too heavily, the West may respond by simply scaling back globalisation opportunities – a form of selfish protection.

Last on the panel was Philippe Legrain – the poor bugger. As he stated upfront, he had no expert knowledge on either country in question – his area of expertise lay in patterns of migration – and questions posed to him seemed awfully contrived.

The moderated discussion leant heavily on the environment and economic growth, with some eye-opening facts being bandied about, but no real fireworks. Audience questions led to some pretty reasonable topics – the link between democracy and global capitalism, the role of education in the development of these countries, the ability to acquire or manufacture major brands – but the big giggle was the socialist chap who insisted that democracy didn’t work, that the downfall of society was linked to the fabrication of evidence of genocide… blah blah blah. Much hissing and booing to be had there.

How to wrap this up? I learnt a fair bit here, and there’s certainly a few themes that are of interest to me that’ll require a bit more mulling.

Let’s try something a bit different, then…

No sooner do I finally wrap up my 2007 Fringe comments, but I’m about to leap into something a touch different – the 2007 Adelaide Festival of Ideas. I’ve avoided this in the past because… well, I just wasn’t interested; this year, though, its scheduling fits in nicely – so why not, eh?

My expectations going in is that there’s going to be a lot of interesting discourse, the odd bit of pointless pontification, and… well, that’s about it. I’ll be focussing on the panels, rather than the single-person sessions; I’ve been lectured to enough in the past, and hopefully I’ll get to see some decent arguments :)

And with that, I’m off to the opening session: The Elephant and the Dragon. Ugh, PDF session notes only; sorry about that :}

IT IS DONE

And thus, FF2007 is a wrap. Over 3 months after the completion of festivities, I’ve managed to finish tapping out my thoughts on 83 shows, and launched them into the ether for all to laugh at. Hurrah!

So – the first of the annual Fringes comes to an end. And how did it far compared to previous years? Well, the atmosphere was definitely down; by the end of the second weekend (coincidentally, the weekend when daylight savings finished) crowd buzz had hit an all-time low. In fact, the Sunday night after the cessation of daylight savings felt like the final night of the Fringe in previous years… eerie. Luckily, the 2008 Fringe is running from 22 February – 16 March, so we’ll likely not have that problem again.

The quality of shows was good, and didn’t feel overrun by comedy as I had feared; though I think a good deal of that might have been due to The Black Lung’s successful venture into South Australia. It could also have been due to my more adventurous show choices. And for that I’m truly thankful – The Black Lung deserved all the plaudits they received (Best Venue was only challenged by theater simple’s Caravan, and Best Production could’ve been a toss-up between pretty much any of their shows – I would’ve gone with Kissy Kissy myself, but Rubeville got the gong).

Some other notable moments?

  • The Media Travesty of 2007 – Bimbo gettng a four-star review by someone. Obviously they didn’t actually attend the show, and wrote the “review” from the bar, because Bimbo was a stinker of the highest calibre. Ah, maybe that was it – a four-star stinky review. In that case, the reviewer still got the rating wrong.
  • Kicking back with Nick Sun on a dead Sunday night.
  • Ali McGregor gets major kudos for the chat – and those eyes :)
  • Sitting for a bit on theater simple’s Park Bench.
  • Genevieve from The Black Lung also gets major kudos for the chats – and that smile :)
  • Being recognised as “that crazy guy who sees all those shows” by complete strangers in FringeTIX.

So… that’s it for another year. Christ, there’s only 8 months to the next one… :}

[2007083] AVAST (A Musical Without Music)

AVAST (A Musical Without Music) (FringeTIX)

The Black Lung @ The Black Lung Theatre

9:30pm, Sat 31 Mar 2007

How could you ignore a show with this title? A musical without music, shouting out at you in bold type from The Guide… and the last of the Black Lung curated projects. And, in choosing AVAST as the last show of the Fringe, I was unwittingly setting myself up for a complete belter, a mindfuck of epic proportions.

A healthy throng file into the performance space, decorated with cast-off whitegoods galore, a deflated sex doll, televisions, drapes and carpets and… rubbish. One character appears out of a washing machine; another from beneath a pile of crap onstage. A third, bedraggled in a loin-cloth and covered in mud – or is that shit? – enters through the massive rolladoor at the back of the theatre. Their dialog feels as if it carries weight, but is nonsensical; rambling collections of words, scrambled snippets of scripts. Faces drifting in and out of light as apparitions. It feels like a drunken pantomime with three wide-eyed Bad Santas.

At this stage, I was still happily entertained: AVAST is a collage of images rather than a painting, a jumble of words rather than a script, but it still feels good to me, and most of the other audience members seem happy enough with their lot so far; not reveling in the experience, maybe, but coasting along.

There’s a few murmurs of discontent within the audience; a couple stand and start shuffling past other patrons in an attempt to leave. The actors onstage spot them, ask them not to leave – “Please, sit back down”. The two people stop, balanced prone between the knees of the people they’re standing in front of & the next row of seats. He looks at Her; she shakes Her head, and they continue their shuffle to the exit.

“Sit down.”

There’s an edge to the voice. They keep shuffling.

“Sit the fuck down or I’ll punch your fucking girlfriend in the head.”

…

I really can’t explain what that moment was like. The hackneyed “you could’ve heard a pin drop” would be utterly appropriate, but I distinctly remember the gasps of probably half the audience.

…

The longest moment passed…

…and then the laughter started.

Nervous at first, but then it became a release. Big, bold bouts of laughter that swept the rest of the show along. It may have been a complete shamozzle of a performance thereafter – certainly, Thomas the Shit-Stained stormed off in his loin-cloth, with his hissy fit explained away as “we just won an award, and he’s a bit emotional.” There’s a faux ending due to his departure, before a ring-in is conjured up to fill in the missing role – but you’re never really certain whether you’re seeing scripted events or not. Thomas returns, and there’s a big audience sing-and-stomp-along finish to “Let It Be” and “Hey Jude”.

…god, I’ve teared up just remembering this. It was, despite all the laughter, an immensely emotional show. There seemed to be a huge sense of camaraderie between the cast, and it felt like it extended to the audience. The fact that I’m a sucker for that “Hey Jude” chant might have something to do with it, too; but it felt like the perfect end to another Fringe.

After the applause dies down and the backslaps and hearty congratulations die out, I leave the space. Genevieve still sparkles front-of-house, so I take the opportunity to check some facts with her; yes, the “offended” audience members were plants, and my guess that 30% of the show was scripted was almost entirely wrong – it’s more like 70%.

I leave The Black Lung for the last time and walk home. I’m absolutely ecstatic – I feel convinced that I have just seen something truly special. In all its anarchic glory, contorting the relationship between audience and actor, AVAST is either turning theatre on its head, or killing the medium off. I wandered home thinking that, surely, anything is possible now.

The Penultimate Show

The Penultimate Show of FF2007 for me was supposed to be Marat/Sade at the Xspace Theatre off Light Square; I was really looking forward to it, and the 90 minute duration left me a skinny 15 minutes to walk around the corner to see my final show at The Black Lung. As is usually the case when my changeover times are tight, I checked with the blokes on the door as to how the show was running for time.

“What time did the show finish up last night?” I queried.

“Oh… about 10:15. More like 10:20,” the chap replied.

This was a long way from the response of “9:15” that I was expecting… “Are you sure?” I pushed. “It’s only supposed to go for 90 minutes.”

DoorGuy looked at me like I’d just requested carnal knowledge of his daughter. He rubbed his beard and shoved some nondescript paper towards me, pointing at print too small to feasibly read. “Look, the first act is a bit over 90 minutes, then there’s a fifteen minute break, then the second act’s another half-an-hour.”

Ah.

Fuck that, then.

Given the choice of “interesting show that I’d like to see,” versus “final show of the Fringe with the friendly theatrical misfits who’ve delivered hit after hit,” I opted for the latter. I whinged like a whiny puss to DoorGuy about crapulent information in The Guide (knowing full well that he could do nothing about it, and that Issues such as Accurate Durations affect all of four Fringe-Goers), got as huffy as I wearily could, and wandered to The Black Lung early.

And, in the pre-show lull, it felt like home. Even to a scruffy, wide-eyed, clean living chap such as myself, the coarse and grubby Black Lung crew were friends in this Fringey hubbub. I kicked back and chatted briefly with Tom and Genevieve, had a beer, and mused on The Wall:


The Black Lung Wall

Since it’s a nasty image (click for a slightly higher-res version), here’s the glorious text:

It began with the forging of the great rings… three were given to the elves, immortal, wisest and fairest of all creatures. Seven were given to the dwarves, great miners and craftsmen of the swollen gash and nine, nine rings were gifted to the race of men, who above all desire power… The Assassin… Justin Perry listened as the nuns beads clicked like loose fitting false teeth. And he smiled to himself, wondering how she would react if she new what had happened to the late, unlamented Frau Kappelheiner, leaving this vale of tears full of his sperm… or a good part of it, for the rug had got the rest – and her own orgasms churning inside her as she rammed that hard, black, arabian dagger deeper into her breast… You will see me naked, very naked, indeed… P.15… Ennio Morricone’s The Ecstacy of Gold… Anne Frank, Helen Keller, Anne Frank, Helen Demidenko, oh good God, this is all coming out wrong, isn’t it… From the high balastrade of the palace, the great Kahn was discovering the killer instinct, latent in all men… the fruit of sober reflection not passing whims when the German cook at the Georgetown mansion had seduced him in the pantry, “Perhaps I have already spoken of her Irene”; her slut-green eyes sent messages like a semaphore suspended over the abyss, she smelt of weeds and goats, “I should praise the flesh of the golden pheasant”. He had a big good body, he was a fag, a blind man with a cheetah on a leash; he looked at Dante and saw that Dante had ejaculated in his sleep, caked with sweat and blood, a drop of sperm… burst! From multiple fountains… other sharks, most of them hammerheads, were gathering… The description of the world to which you lend a benevolent ear is one thing, yarb blah blah, unslinging the submachine gun, the description that will go the rounds of the groups of stevedores and gondoliers… he said, unslinging the submachine gun… on the street outside my house the day of my return is another, ripped to pieces by a metal cock, for Dora was no longer the same as before, “It’s not that I no longer want to be a woman, oh great Kahn, but I don’t especially enjoy being a man, yet I cannot force my operation beyond a certain limit”, she doubled eagerly towards him, as though he had slammed a hard fist into her belly. Absorbed in that kaleidescope of eyes, wrinkles, grimaces… he seemed to feel her guts curling around his prick and found peace where horror had dwelled before… the second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension. Justin Perry closed the door of the room in the midst of the inferno… (I Calvino & John D Revere)

I chatted, I mused, I chatted, I drank, I saw Sugar for a second (wonderful) time, and I waited for the final act of FF2007.

[2007082] Ardal O’Hanlon

Ardal O’Hanlon (FringeTIX)

Ardal O’Hanlon @ Royalty Theatre

5:30pm, Sat 31 Mar 2007

I’ve no idea why I opted to see Ardal O’Hanlon; I remember picking up tickets from FringeTIX one day and getting very excited because an extra show had been added at the FF-friendly time of 5:30pm – or, as O’Hanlon put it, “right around the time I should be having breakfast”. A ticket was subsequently snaffled, but as I was wandering into the Royalty – along with hordes of other people – I had no idea of who I was there to see, nor why I was there to see him.

It turns out that O’Hanlon is an Irish comedian. Which I should have guessed, really, what with the “O’Hanlon” bit of his name, and the fact that his show was listed in the Comedy section of The Guide. He even looks like Denis Leary‘s dad, for christ’s sake, though labeling Leary a comedian (rather than “loud, opportunist, money-grubbing whore”) is a bit of a stretch. Of course, Leary’s also eight years older than O’Hanlon, and Irish-American, which just goes to show how poorly researched this whole paragraph has been.

…Irish comedian, eh? Oh yes – O’Hanlon has that gorgeous rhythm to his delivery that so many Irish comedians seem to possess, reminding me of the old comedy cassettes my parents used to play. He tended to draw on personal experiences – family, love, marriage – for material, but that didn’t prevent him from lauding the Irish cricket team. And the manner in which he handled an audience member’s protracted coughing fit with humour and grace was delightful.

O’Hanlon frequently went on long monotonic rambles, which would start innocuously enough, eliciting a guffaw or two, before progressing to compulsive near-constant giggling; the eventual punchline would bring with it tears of laughter. And those punchlines weren’t always the most clever, or absurd, or wacky comments; but he still found a way to deliver even the most obvious of outcomes in a way that felt fresh. And apart from a little profanity late in the gig, he tended to stay pretty much family friendly – after all, who can complain about a phrase like “underpants resident”?

Once upon a time, I went to see Tom Jones perform at the Ent Centre – purely because someone on the old Faith No More mailing list said that the Mike Patton vocal on “Star A.D.” was like an edgy Jones. Once I was there, though, it was easy to recognise that Jones is indeed a great performer; but I felt somewhat distanced from the show, because everyone else in the crowd was singing along to all the tunes – and I knew nowt.

In a way, that’s what this evening with Ardal O’Hanlon felt like… many (most?) of the audience knew O’Hanlon from his work on Father Ted – they certainly erupted with applause when the show was mentioned, anyway. And, once again, I could sense O’Hanlon’s quality, but felt somewhat disconnected from the performance… initially. But such was the polish of the man’s work that he won me back with ease – by the end of his set, I was laughing with the loudest of the fans in the audience.

[2007081] Mützenball

Mützenball (FringeTIX)

little black box @ Fringe Factory Theatre

10:30pm, Fri 30 Mar 2007

Mützenball sure did put a fair bit of advertising out there, didn’t it? Despite (or maybe because of) the fact that there was a mere six performances scheduled, it felt like there was an over-abundance of Mützenball posters – with their bold imagery, all shadows and contrast and mystery – on every Fringe-friendly placard place. And the ads completely sucked me in; a hint of sour german goth, subtle promises of joyless innuendo, I filed in with the rest of the tipsy crowd to the ‘Ball, which purported to be an anything-goes club of sexual abandon.

First signs were not good at all; cheap and awfully contrived chunks of titillation, utilising obviously shocking topics of sexuality in an obvious manner. It felt lazy, like the cast had looked at the blood alcohol level of its patrons and decided it wasn’t worth putting in the hard yards this evening. There’s stereotypes galore – the frigid virgin, the loose slut, the rampant gayboy. There’s all the “risque” behaviour you’d expect – oral sex simulation using a cucumber, whipped cream antics, upskirt polaroids of the flustered virgin, snippets of NIN’s “Closer”.

It made me feel like I was sitting in a fetishist, Hellfire-Club-inspired version of What I Heard About Iraq – while I was being sufficiently entertained, it felt cheap… going for the easy laughs, low hanging fruit.

But then the mood of the entire show changes; there’s a wonderfully touching scene with silhouettes of Sarah (the virgin) and Claire (the slut) exploring each other’s bodies without actually touching – it’s a beautiful set-piece, the eloquence of which is rarely recreated in any of the other snippets that make up Mützenball. It doesn’t matter, though – the dialogue is no longer base and cheap, it’s become more contemplative and focused on a search for emotional fulfillment. Where the start of the show was rude words and voyeuristic posturing, it ends on a quest for love.

That’s not to say that Mützenball becomes any less fun, however; there’s a fantastic bit of physical humour recreating female genitals out of folded skin on someone’s back. There’s a demonstration of the wrenching nature of love by the blending of a heart. There’s ludicrous ejaculation scenes and audience participation. There’s comic relief in the throwaway lines to Mario the Music Guy (who does a great job with the sonic backdrop of the evening).

At times it felt cheap, at times it felt preachy, at times it felt lazy, at times it felt silly. The crowd didn’t mind, though, and to be fair, why should they? It was caustic and brash, giggles and guffaws, cringes and I-can’t-believe-they-do-thats. But it’s still cheap.

And whilst the final message of the piece seemed to be a rather flippant “love is really tough, so just fuck yourself silly if you feel like it”, I can’t help but remember how much the mood of the show changed with that one scene of tenderness. Because that moment alone was worth the price of admission; it’s just a shame that it was so isolated in the mush that was Mützenball.