Feelin' stabby

This week's *INK piece. With the Fringe Festival coming up shortly, I may not have time to add much to these short reviews, but this play got me thinking about the art of acting in our fair city - and in general - so i may enlarge upon that next week. Especially since the next review is of BE | LONGING, a piece with much to mull over in the acting stakes.

Theatre du Grind Guignol - A Triple Feature (directed by Ben Blakeley and Alex Wilson, @Allen Hall, 23/24/25 Feb).  The Grand Guignol was a small-ish theatre in Paris that during its 65 year existence (closing in 1962) specialized in representing acts of extreme horror, sleaze, moral malaise and all sorts of general unhealthiness. While on-stage mayhem was in itself nothing new, it was an extraordinary cultural feature that enjoyed extended periods of real popularity across the social classes, and it seems that a considerable number of the plays presented were purpose-written to “go there”; short vignettes that got right to the blood-soaked action. And so it was two of these historical pieces, as well as one modern NZ short that were presented at this intriguing show. The substitution of “Grind” in the title refers to the notion that GG aesthetics and techniques – the visceral and liberal use of undisguised violence and blood, for one – influenced the Grindhouse film genre, and the subsequent very popular permutations of Horror themes. The grindhouse strain – with its convention of sleazy antisocial characters doing bad – was particularly alive in “La Casa del Diablo”, the shortest and probably most successful piece. Two hookers and their madam venture into the clutches of some deadly criminals – but the bad guys are themselves are going to learn about pain! In both the original GG plays, revenge and comeuppance were strong features –instantly familiar in tone to our modern culture of violent cinema of any genre, but “La Casa..” succeeded here due to a brilliant slow creeping tension, helped along by strong characterizations from the cast. You likely knew what was going to happen from early on – but you still gripped the seat in anticipation. “Firenze”, the first piece, wasn’t quite as arresting, and with its theme of nasty nuns and dodgy doctors I found myself wondering if the atmosphere of a strongly Catholic culture with its attendant body horror and authority issues mightn’t help one appreciate it a little better.  Over-written, with antique language structures, it was still an interestingly gothic glimpse into a theatre form that seems quite ritualistic in the slow creeping dread it tries to build. “The Tramp” – a recent work by Paul Rothwell – is also given a nicely slow burn, as four friends in a DOC hut freak themselves out, before falling victim to a killer in the shadows. With a nicely dark lighting plan and the best ensemble acting of the night (special mention to Abby Howells’ hilarious German backpacker) my attention was held, although the play itself might benefit from expansion into a true terror opera, as the ending felt a little precipitous. Having explored implied, and non-implied violence in longer works like Fun Shy and Sunday Roast (both seen in Dunedin in the past 18 months), Rothwell is certainly closest in spirit to the original GG that I can think of among playwrights in NZ right now. In all, all three pieces were alluring glimpses into a theatre of intense sensation and I found the whole bill terrifically interesting, leading to discussions afterwards about what a modern Kiwi exploration of the “unhealthy body” might consist of – Prozac-dealing doctors laid low? Exclusive Brethren hitmen? Personnel managers forced to “confront” the reality of short term contracts? I think there’s some stories there we’d all like to see.

The Motor Camp: a heretic speaks

Here's this week's *INK review. As often happens, there isn't enough space in print to really unpack the play in question. Sometimes that's a blessing. But this week there's quite a few things to be said about this problematically popular piece. *

THE MOTOR CAMP (by Dave Armstrong, @ The Fortune until March 10th). Three days after opening, as I write, accolades are audible everywhere for the Fortune's 2nd production of a Dave Armstrong play in less than a year. It's apparent that the Fortune is on a roll of sorts, delivering dead-centre entertainment in a lively, likeable way. This play is certainly charismatically cast and performed. Jonathan Hodge is perfect as the super bogan Mike; Joe Dekkers-Reihana and Claire Dougan delivered the best moments of understated humour; and I'm very pleased to see local talent Nadya Shaw-Bennett land a plum role here. In all, the whole cast was obviously comfortable with each other and working as very strong unit - even on opening night - a testament to director Conrad Newport, who has got the best from each sequence. It's always a pleasure to see timing and tension used this well. In terms of recommending The Motor Camp however, I have to be honest and say that I do not like the play itself. Armstrong's plays are enjoying a vogue in Aotearoa right now, and it seems his popularity comes from a similar place that has kept Roger Hall's plays well attended over the years: he shows the common garden Kiwi in a funny, loving light. All good; I liked The Tutor as a play very much, and I think I'm the only person I know who thought Spin Doctors (the early 00's sitcom he worked on) was hilarious. But it isn't serious, complex playwriting. It's adequate-to-quite-lithe farce, and The Motor Camp is not his best work. For a start, given that he's adapted this tale from a story by Danny Mulheron, why on earth has he chosen a situation that so closely mirrors the set-up of The Tutor, his own work? In that play, there's a scene where a recalcitrant pupil shows that he indeed has some facility in maths through an interaction with an (if memory serves) FHM magazine. Here, the exact same scene happens, but with a Penthouse. Perhaps there really is nothing new under the sun; but, not having actually forgotten The Tutor, it felt pat and lazy. Unfortunately much of the dialogue could answer to the same description. The constant stream of bogan-speak and tired jokes and observations felt literally oppressive, which points out a central inconsistency in Armstrong's worldview. There's a definite thread of prodding pretension, and by proximity, the "educated" classes in his plays - which is fine, but I'd contend that it's often people of exactly that world who find unending jokes stemming from a more "ignorant" mind funny, because they don't have to be around it all the time and can afford to objectify such people. But while that stuff is quite wearying, it's nothing compared to the ceaseless bickering of the academic family who've parked up next to their social inferiors. "You're being boring!" yells the wife at one point - and it's true. If Motor Camp had a strong thread of story/meaning below it - something The Tutor achieved somewhat - it would be ok. But it's quite flimsy. Just the usual battering ram of class and family, with a catalysing incident involving a certain someone's penis ending up in the hair of someone it oughtn't - after which everyone releases their tension, apologizes, and the posh family show that they're GC's with... money. Such lightness is fine in a sitcom, where it's about switching your brain off to some degree, but with these performers acting their hearts out right in front of us I would kind of like a little more to take home with me.


*
(There's an aspect to "the constant stream of bogan-speak and tired jokes and observations" that I had no hope of getting into in the 600 words above - and while there's probably more I could write about The Motor Camp, on different topics, let's maybe leave it at this...!)

In the first act of TMC, Mike, building contractor from Invercargill, lets forth a stream of small-minded attitudes - framed as jokes - which are strongly racist in character and serve to illustrate a number of power dynamics. Firstly, it seems that his Maori wife and stepson are basically fine with it - they don't take it seriously, so why should you, yeah? It also prods at the liberal pretensions of Frank, an obviously wimpy teacher who gets little respect from his family. Before too long though, we see that Frank is equally capable of uttering racist and sexist sentiments. Mike also gets little respect from stepson Jared, which may have something to do with the fact that he cuffs him over the ear every 5 minutes.

Despite cringing at this woeful banter, which I've spent far too much of my life hearing in all its delightful forms, I was genuinely interested in where this might lead. Are we going to go into why everyone's behaving this way, despite the obvious contradictions of who they're actually relating to and what they'd actually like to achieve in their lives? After all, these are just characters, right? We can put any words, any attitudes into the mouth of a character and the all-powerful hand of the playwright will lead us and the character into the ramifications of their implied world. Right?

It's a terrible thing to do to a play - to decide what you'd like it to be as you're watching it, and then be disappointed when it doesn't pan out. But it isn't just about personal preferences. TMC wades straight into areas of social life that are very current and will have a lot of say in the type of New Zealand we will inherit post- John Key, in a world where class has become increasingly stratified behind the proliferation of free market and your-choice ideals. I'm aware of these things, and am very interested in what our artists have to say about it.

But TMC goes nowhere with it. It's a farce of sex, manners and bad timing in the classic mould. Class butts against class, for sure, but the way it plays out is - to be frank - not serious, not interesting, not cleverly designed to reveal how humans really behave or to say something interesting about how NZ is or might be. It's nothing; a throwaway. A supposedly-titillating cock rubbing that actually further serves to emasculate the Frank character, who leaps to the last rock of his masculinity - his money (actually, mostly not even his) - to save the day for everybody. And everybody pretty much stays the same.

I find it irritating as fuck when people employ racist/sexual-sexist/dick-headed language and attitudes in order to get a laugh, and then do nothing to upset, examine or in any way go somewhere with the offer. Here's why: that shit is incredibly boring and stupid. I've heard it far too often in my life, and you know what, it's almost never funny. It usually means that you're now going to have to work alongside a really boring dick, who thinks they're hilarious, as they unleash an unending stream of moronic inanity all day long. It's a fucking drag.

And, although it's true that some people are just too thick to argue with, it is in fact possible to say to "those" people that you're not interested in their crap, and to tell them why. I've done it, and many people I know have done it, and I'm not convinced that we're doing it because we're puffed-up liberals. It's probably more to do with not wanting to propagate a mindset that tolerates a climate of small-mindedness. Which is why Mr Armstrong's play left a bad aftertaste with me - we sat through all that crap and it wasn't even examined or challenged or anything.

I don't exactly think that TMC is racist by omission. As a collaborator on Bro Town, the occasionally awesome animated series that is certainly the closest NZ television has ever come to the type of edge that South Park, say, walks on, Armstrong's been involved in the type of deflating of race-baiting hysteria that has made public discourse on such issues so much more bearable than the hectoring 1990's gave anybody reason to expect. Put simply, everyone's a little bit racist sometimes, right? You certainly haven't been around much if you've never heard racist sentiments from Maori lips. When I was freshly in New Zealand, working on a farm in Hawkes Bay, a Maori tractor driver greeted me with this: "You from Aussie mate? That Pauline Hanson's got the right idea, don't you reckon?" Yes, he was serious. I felt like I'd been smacked.

But I've encountered far more racism from white New Zealanders (relax - yes - you're far behind Australia), of a peculiarly noxious and small-minded sort (witness Paul Holmes' idiotic ravings re Waitangi Day a couple of weeks back), and I just think it's horribly naive to treat it as if it's such an unimportant joke that it doesn't merit examination when you make it a cornerstone feature of a main character in a popular play. I just don't get it - and in this, I fully and freely admit that I am in the minority, because folks everywhere are loving this play the hell up.

That's fine, for me, a white Australian transplant. There's probably some feature of Kiwi culture that I'm totally missing which, many would no doubt say, would ameliorate my view of TMC. But here's one thing I haven't missed - my Maori friends are really pretty unhappy about The Motor Camp. To them - yes, they saw it - it sounds like the same old racist bullshit, tarted up for giggles, that they'd hoped everyone would have just gotten over quite a while back.

Imagine that.

Some of our best friends were creatures

Matthew George Richard Ward

I will, on occasion (ie, when I happen to locate a file or two on all those little flash drives), post historical reviews to give a sense of what's been happening over the time I'm been reviewing (2 years now). This exceptional installation-performance took place at the now sadly defunct Rice & Beans gallery on lower Stuart Street. They hosted the brilliant Dunedin performance of Alexa Wilson's Weg; A Way among much else.

Like R&B, and so many others, Elle and Matthew have now left the Dunedin pond.

published in *INK sometime in September 2011

If Elle Loui August and Matthew George Richard Ward’s WONDERING HOW WE EVER CAME TO THIS THANK YOU, FOR INSTANCE OR POSSIBLE OR JUST WHATEVER WHATEVER WHATEVER!!!! (Rice and Beans) was something a reviewer could reliably call theatre or dance, and expect to be understood, then the world would be a somewhat different place. If I say to you that I experienced this as a type of post-object art - whose scattering of bodies across the blank slate of Rice & Beans seemed to deny literal scrutiny and require of the visitor other means of perception, integration, into the work – then you might be well served in terms of perceiving an absence of commodity, but completely misled in other ways, for this was no dry intellectual exercise. What type of person has the temerity to dissect and codify when it is live bodies at stake? A theatre reviewer? Speaking recently with the director of the just-finished Avenue Q, we reached an typical impasse with his assertion that “physical theatre” was a redundant term – all theatre being intrinsically physical. Which, abstractly, is completely true, but in practice is completely not. Much, if not practically all of what we call theatre is involved in encasing non-literal, animistic, flesh-based communication in a great sheet of words (Mr Anthony is, I hasten to add, an amazing physical acting trainer). “Wondering…”, on the other hand, felt a bit like wandering down to a great river’s edge to watch an ancient species at play – but that is only if you chose to see it as spectacle at all.  It felt more to me like a rite intended to awaken atavistic pathways in the brain. When I left – after about an hour – I literally could not speak. The world seemed enormously present, and language seemed too… easy a strategy; too coarse.  I offer no guesses at method or intention on the part of the performers, and in terms of what I “literally” witnessed – two people denying (passively, it seemed) eye contact or interaction, and moving in the space – any description beyond the most basic would mislead. Entertaining, informing, transporting an audience are all splendid goals for theatre – but literally putting them in a trance is, in our modern context, something of a paradigm shift. Some say it was not always so. Certainly it has not deserted us for good. 

Jimmy Currin

 

Far more Cabaret Voltaire than... well, Cabaret Voltaire...

published in *INK 8/2/12

I was working as tech operator on This Is A Trans World so could not review it; and though I don't normally write about music the Spheres would probably qualify as high-mannerist, consciously worked performance compared to almost every other New Zealand group.

Orchestra Of Spheres @ Chicks, 3/2/12

It’s something that happens 3 or 4 times a year in Dunedin. There you are, looking at the week ahead, deciding what to do with yourself, when you realise that two – or perhaps even three – absolutely unique and un-missable events are occurring at exactly the same time. In big cities this is expected and the inhabitants have adjusted their baseline equanimity quotients accordingly. In Dunedin, it really, really hurts. It hurts because you know how rare these things are here. Because these people might not be back for a very long time, if ever. If it’s a local event that’s clashing, it sucks because you know how much effort went into making this thing happen, here in the deep south where we lack resources that bigger centres take for granted. And you don’t want to run into those artists in the street and have to admit that you gave preference to the outlanders; or simply holed up in your room, blankets over, crying.

Exactly this happened last Friday when Val Smith’s exquisite THIS IS A TRANS-WORLD went head to head against Chris Abrahams, David Watson and Alastair Galbraith. What cruelty – even the exceptional Abrahams alone would have been injurious enough to one’s sense of fair play. All three together transformed the clash into sheer unmitigated torture.

But then – something miraculous happened.  Something that made it all better. 

I saw the Orchestra Of Spheres’ first show, 3 or 4 years back in Wellington, and they have always been good. Sometimes amazing. Occasionally you might even say incendiary. But now, freshly returned from an intense European tour, they have become seriously great.

Their whole focus has changed – it’s become all about the rhythm.  Once you might’ve paid slightly more attention to Dan Beban’s amazing 3-string biscuit tin guitar riffs (yes, really, and it has to be seen to be believed). Now, through the compaction that happens via regular gigging, the rhythmic complexity that was always implied has become a vast churning energy vortex. Jeremy Coubrough’s drums, Nell Thomas’ gamelan instrument and Erika Grant’s bass carillion lock together effortlessly, and Beban quite often drops the guitar in favour of a marimba, making the whole sound-spread into a polyrhythmic gumbo that is frankly intoxicating. 

These guys have serious backgrounds in jazz, ethno-musicology, and run more side-projects than any reasonable person could allocate time and energy for.  It’s one thing to like, and say that you’re influenced by, things like free jazz, funk and conceptual cosmic musics like Sun Ra. It’s another thing entirely to really understand, really incorporate and then actually transform those elements into something original and utterly transfixing. AND for it not to end up as an intellectual exercise, but instead, becomes a music that keeps a drunken Chicks room ceaselessly dancing their arses off for – god, how long was it? Two hours? Three? I can’t think of another group in New Zealand that is doing things remotely on the level of Orchestra Of Spheres. I’ve not even mentioned their sense of style (glowing/flashing/pulsating is IN), their bizarre vocal flights of fancy, or the non-stop funking FUNK of Grant’s basslines. 

It’s said, often glibly, that rhythm is the heart of music. Here’s a band to make you remember why that is so important.

Jimmy Currin