tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73298650563144400942024-02-08T05:29:37.043-08:00Irresistible Theatrefor those who just can't stay awayAngela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-64843794910953491962010-12-02T08:46:00.000-08:002010-12-02T08:49:39.778-08:00A mirror held to natureFrom the moment you walk into the tiny Havana Theatre space you know this is not your grandmother's <i>Hamlet</i>. Some of the seats in the alley-shaped room hold actors, costumed but conversing with patrons as if they too are there to discover a story. And in a way, I guess, they are. When player Kat Gauthier steps forward to address the audience, the lilting iambic pentameter that soon reveals itself as a clever self-deprecating front-of-house speech confirms your status as comrades on a journey. The warmth of her eyes and the smile dancing at the corners of her mouth offer a welcome as intimate and irresistible as an embrace.<br />
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It is an apt beginning.<br />
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I have seen <i>Hamlet</i> before; several times in fact. The first was a professional production viewed by my grade 12 English class. While the teacher Mr. Lee can be credited with sparking my interest in Shakespeare and this play, the production was most memorable for the number of paper airplanes disrespectful high schoolers sailed onto the stage in response to the four hour production. Other versions over the years had more to recommend them. But none has moved me like this one.<br />
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An ambitious venture by the cleverly-named Honest Fishmonger's Equity Co-op, the production features recent graduates of several of the city's theatre training programs (Kat Gauthier is from TWU), alongside established theatre professionals like David Bloom (Claudius)and Simon Webb (Polonius). Directed by Kevin Bennet, the show makes ingenious use of its intimate surroundings, engaging the audience from those opening moments right through to the final words. Jennifer Stewart's "first full fledged set design" is a study in simplicity. By enveloping the audience in a room of sheets, Stewart creates the perfect ambience for Bennet's inclusive vision. The "walls" alternately reveal and conceal, providing proximity and distance, immediacy and scope, without a single cumbersome set change.<br />
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The heart of the production, however, is the acting. In a cast without a weak link it is dangerous to single anyone out, particularly when the final effect is ensemble. But several of the performances were a revelation to me, the first in a most unexpected place.<br />
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I confess I have never thought much about Hamlet's father; I've always considered him more of a dramatic device than a person. He gives the story a nice little ghostly kick-off and serves as the catalyst for the action to follow. But he has never lived for me until tonight. For the first time, I realized the enormity of what has happened. Claudius has killed his own brother and married his wife, stealing her heart and Hamlet's crown. Watching the pain, loss, and betrayal on Michael Fera's fatherly face as young Hamlet discovers what has happened brought tears to my eyes. When contrasted with Fera's hilariously lowbrow gravedigger, the man's talent cannot be ignored.<br />
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As Claudius, David Bloom is a delicious blend of cunning and charisma. While we see the evil within, the veneer of charm is sincere enough to prevent us from dismissing Gertrude's attraction too easily. Simon Webb's Polonius is delightful; his parental platitudes land with just the right tone of self-congratulation and I could see Mr. Lee's approving nod. As Laertes, Joshua Reynolds transforms a shallow and vengeful young man into a devoted son, brother, and friend, a man whose mounting losses tragically propel the story to its inevitable conclusion. And as Horatio, Sebastian Kroon personifies a true friend: gentle, solid and compassionate to the end.<br />
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The biggest surprise for me was Ophelia, a character I had always regarded with contempt, an addle-brained lovesick airhead whose inability to speak for herself or survive without a man leads to her well-deserved demise. But Julie McIssac taught me different. Her Ophelia brims with life and intelligence - listening to her father, sparring with her brother, wooing her prince. Hamlet's rejection wounds her in a way we feel and when she enters wild-eyed, cradling her fragile blossoms, her madness wounds us. Her sweet, tortured voice climbs and falls through its discordant melodies as her body is tossed by unseen demons from place to place. <br />
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One other remarkable accomplishment: the production is almost completely devoid of yelling. One of my many pet peeves in the theatre is that intensity all too often equals volume. This <i>Hamlet</i> was undeniably intense but the depth of its passion was matched by a refreshing breadth of expression.<br />
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I am so grateful for this production. The power of a good story well-told was confirmed to me tonight. The opportunity to experience the humanity of these characters and to take their journey is a gift. <br />
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In <i>Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art</i>, Madeleine L'Engle says, "In art, either as creators or participators, we are helped to remember some of the glorious things we have forgotten, and some of the terrible things we are asked to endure..."<br />
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Thank you, Honest Fishmongers, for helping me remember.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-60218938050730915042010-10-04T12:00:00.000-07:002010-11-15T07:24:55.914-08:00Electrifying theatreElectric Company is the darling of the Vancouver theatre scene. Always creative, frequently innovative, the company has become the poster child for Vancouver’s reputation as a hotbed of “new” theatre. A lot of that attention is well-deserved and as I watched their latest offering <i>Tear the Curtain!</i>, I found myself wishing I had the power to extend their fame across the country and around the world. Work like this could do a lot for Canadian culture. Anyone who cares about the arts in this country should see this show. Anyone struggling to make art would be honoured to be splashed by the ocean of its genius.<br />
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The show is a fascinating blend of film and theatre – one of Electric Company’s hallmarks. In a previous production, director Kim Collier used film to re-envision and re-energize Sartre’s existentialist classic<i> No Exit</i>. That show has received productions in several Canadian cities and will soon play San Fransisco’s A Contemporary Theatre. It’s intriguing and inventive and its success is well-deserved. But in my estimation, it has nothing on <i>Tear the Curtain!</i>.<br />
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Whereas <i>No Exit </i>uses live-to-film interludes to show us close ups of what is happening in hotel hell, <i>Tear the Curtain!</i> uses actual movie footage, created by the company to be integrated into the live performance. The film footage is fascinating and fully-realized, helped in large part by Peter Allen’s fabulous score. It has all the ambience of the 1920s setting enlivened by incredibly present performances. When I was watching <i>No Exit</i>, I was less interested in the actors on film than in person. But in <i>Tear the Curtain!</i>, the enormous faces of Dawn Petten’s endearing Mavis and Jonathon Young’s enigmatic Alex drew me into their world and made me eager to see the actual actors’ live performance even while I was captivated by them on film. <br />
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That’s the most incredible accomplishment of this piece. While some of the dialogue debates the relative superiority of film or theatre (a fitting topic in a show which explores the possible history of the Stanley Theatre’s life as a presenter of both) the production uses each medium to enrich and strengthen the other. The film sequences offer detail and tone that enhances our appreciation for the live, and the live scenes contribute immediacy and vibrancy that invigorates our sense that anything can happen. Furthermore, <i>Tear the Curtain!</i> marries form and content. One of my biggest pet peeves in the contemporary theatre (likely whined about in this blog) is the frequent triumph of style over substance. I have long contended that, in order to be succesful, spectacle must serve story. It does so here, brilliantly. <br />
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This interplay is so successful largely because the production is a technical marvel. The integration of film and live theatre is so seamless it seems almost impossible. Each time a door opens on film and someone walks out of it on stage we are again amazed at the artistry. At times when the film images are projected onto the rough walls of the set, the disorienting effect is the perfect paradigm for the mystery of the characters and the complexity of the story.<br />
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Part of my delight with the production is its provocative questioning and abundant paradoxes. I have always been intrigued by plays that wrestle with the line between reality and fiction, between truth and madness. This show keeps you on your toes in a way that defies easy answers and short summaries. But although the twists and turns can be disorienting they are never distressing. The journey is such an adventure that we are happy to simply hold on to our seats and keep our eyes wide open, hoping to have the time to evaluate once it’s done.<br />
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The show is not just technologically adept. It is thought-provoking, funny, and full of heart. At its core, <i>Tear the Curtain!</i> is an exploration of the central value of the arts in our search to make sense of our world and to find the ending we long for. When Jonathon Young steps forward to deliver a monologue which one could say broke the eighth wall (the fourth dissolved ages before), the transparency of his soul is a gift. <br />
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I don’t know who deserves credit for this triumph, exactly. A production like this clearly requires many collaborators pooling their brilliance. Director Kim Collier, along with co-creators Jonathon Young and Kevin Kerr must take the lion’s share. But there is plenty of praise to go around. David Roberts' production design, Brian Johnson's photography direction, Miguel Nunes' sound design, Alex Craig's editing, and Michael Sider's "video wrangling" have all contributed immeasurably. Nancy Bryant's costume design works on stage and on screen to bring these characters lovingly to life. And the actors? Dawn Petten makes us fall in love with her from the first frame, charmingly inhabiting that girl Friday staple of the era without ever seeming stale or derivative. Laura Mennell’s on screen presence is delicious, making it easy to see her as a film star and a kingmaker. James Fagan Tait’s trademark raspy voice is perfect for the elusive and eerie Stanley Lee, and Tom McBeath and Gerard Plunkett are typically terrific in a cast without a weak link. Stage manager Jan Hodgson and her assistant Jennifer Swan also deserve kudos as keeping this machine running smoothly must be their somewhat daunting responsibility.<br />
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The role of the Arts Club Theatre and its artistic managing director Bill Millerd (who has an amusing cameo in a film sequence party) cannot be understated. Taking on a project like this, with its enormous scope and demanding technical needs, is not a job for the faint of heart. I can only imagine how Kim and Jon attempted to explain their vision; it had to be a leap of faith that empowered Millerd to produce this show. <br />
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We can only hope that other artistic directors will grab some of his courage and invite Electric Company to remount <i>Tear the Curtain!</i> so that it gains the profile it so richly deserves.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-89784976701886508162010-10-04T10:49:00.000-07:002010-10-04T10:49:48.097-07:00Back at itThis blog has lain fallow for many months not because I haven’t been seeing theatre but because seeing a lot of theatre and writing about a lot of theatre, when one has a 70 hour/week job and a young family, is frequently more than I can handle. But I can’t quite face giving up, so this fall - this time of beginning again - marks a new start for Irresistible Theatre.<br />
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It’s perhaps fitting that the first entry of my return to blogging celebrates my return to Fringing. I have not attended the Vancouver International Fringe Festival in many years. Living in the suburbs, combined with the intensity of September in the university calendar (particularly when I’m directing) make the Fringe schedule a challenge. But this year, I’m making it happen.<br />
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I’ve seen three shows so far, all one person offerings but otherwise very different. <br />
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<i>Dirt</i> by Robert Schneider, is a critically acclaimed offering from New York which receives its 100th performance during the VIFF. Christopher Domig plays Sad, an Iraqi immigrant in an unnamed city, who makes his living selling single roses, offering small tokens of romance to men and women on the streets. The roses are a fitting metaphor for Sad’s efforts to make his way – beautiful, fragile, having travelled such great distance that they have lost their defining scent.<br />
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Domig’s performance won him the best actor award at the New York fringe and the production claims accolades in Berlin, London, and Edinburgh as well. Although I can appreciate the performer’s talent, I can’t summon the same sympathies for the show. The script is so rambling and circular that it is almost completely lacking in story – the indefinable “what happens next” element that keeps us engaged. Given the show’s advance press and my natural sympathies for the subject, I expected to be riveted. Instead, I was bored. <br />
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I’m nervous admitting this. Given <i>Dirt</i>'s many admirers, clearly it’s my problem. But I’m going out on a limb here because there might be someone else who felt as I did and who is afraid to speak up. I’m not fond of sacred cows in the theatre; too often I wonder if I’m the only one who noticed that the emperor has no clothes. This might be one of those times. But I can’t be sure since so many reputable others have seen something I did not. Is the show universally adored or are dissenters merely silent? (The woman in front of me who spent most of the performance on her IPhone doesn’t count as she didn’t try nearly as hard as I did to find a way in.) <br />
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The second show I saw was <i>Stretch Dog </i>by Vancouver actor/playwright Rob Olguin. Olguin has expanded his MFA solo project show into a one act revelation of fear and loathing, a rant about the trials of making a living as an actor, a lament about the incredible tensions theatre provides for a husband and new father. The writing is clever and filled with humour, weaving three independent stories together into a map of this man’s halting journey. The stories are both delightfully original and painfully familiar, signposts of self-discovery as recognizable as the faceless agent holding the actor’s future in his hands. The piece showcases Olguin’s physical and emotional flexibility, with particularly satisfying moments of complete vulnerability. <br />
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<i>Confessions of a Paperboy </i>is a reasonably well-known Canadian script, presented at this year’s Fringe by Vancouver newcomer Giovanni Mocibob. As ten-year-old paperboy, Christopher Columbus, Mocibob exudes energy and innocence not often found in someone midway through his third decade. The script and the performer are charming, drawing us into life in Calgary in the 70s, before big news companies replaced paperboys on bicycles with papermen in station wagons. Playing a range of customers as well as Christopher’s family, Mocibob chooses subtle changes of voice and manner to effectively communicate their pain and yearning. The set is more fully realized than many at the Fringe, testament to its transplant from an earlier mounting in Rosebud, Alberta, and it’s white picket fencing is mostly successful. Director Paul F. Muir has skillfully adapted the show to Pacific Theatre’s two-sided space.<br />
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I intended to post this two weeks ago but life interfered. It also got in the way of my hopes to see more at this year’s Fringe Festival but I am confident that next year I’ll head back.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-29083536876061507182010-02-25T07:46:00.000-08:002010-02-25T07:51:42.002-08:00Courageous IsMaybe I got what I asked for. I wanted story and this week I saw a play that had two. <br />
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The first act of Michael Healey's <i>Courageous</i>, now receiving its world premiere at Edmonton's Citadel Theatre, is about Tom, a devout Catholic marriage commissioner who refuses to marry a gay couple because it goes against his faith, despite the fact that he himself is gay. <br />
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The second act takes up the story of a minor character in the first act, a white trash child-man named Todd who marries his equally juvenile and potty-mouthed girlfriend at the very beginning of the play. A straight couple that seems doomed for failure and oblivious to the meaning, privilege, and responsibility of marriage.<br />
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On the surface, the stories are related only in that six-degrees-of-separation kind of way. But thematically, they are kissing cousins and unraveling the relationship is half the fun of a very fun evening.<br />
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It's a play I wish I could see again. Partly to watch for the connections between the acts with the knowledge gleaned from having seen both, partly so I can write down more of the clever funny lines, and partly so that I can hear and ponder the intricacies of the arguments about faith and behaviour. And there are many.<br />
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In one particularly satisfying scene, Tom and Brian (the lawyer he refused to marry) are waiting for the adjudicator at the human rights tribunal that is hearing Brian's complaint. They suspect they have been left alone to see if they can work out their differences and they certainly try. Tom's passionate and intelligent articulation of his faith - how and why it matters - could spur a conversion. His willingness to turn the other cheek, and his understanding of the power and importance of forgiveness, give substance to his assertion that we have lots of opportunities every day to "behave like a Christian".<br />
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Todd's story is completely different. Married young, this skater-dude is now a jobless father whose approach to life can be summed up by the fact that he never does something until he has been asked four times, which is his way of determining if it's worth doing. When his wife Tammy nags him to get a job (four times, of course) he finally does and that's when things truly get complicated. <br />
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The acts have completely different protagonists and conflicts; they also use a different theatrical style. While Act I is straightforward realism, the events of Act II are framed - and frequently interrupted - by Todd's narration, a narration that not only tells the story but demands the audience pay attention to the lessons he is learning from his life. Act II begins with Todd commenting on the first act, ("That was harsh, eh?")and then capsulizing the typical approach to life in two questions: "What should I do?" and "Am I happy?" As he finally comes of age he discovers that the first question might be a lot more important than the second.<br />
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En route to self-discovery, Todd's life is affected and changed by Christians. His boss is a born-again recovering alcoholic and his Somali neighbor and co-worker "gets religion" under the boss's guidance. When those two apparently kidnap Todd and Tammy's daughter, we are afraid for her safety and their sanity. But the revelation that they have taken the baby to be baptized - and the equally surprising discovery that Tammy regards the action as a beautiful gift - shape Todd's life and the conclusion of the play.<br />
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I'm still working through the connections between the acts, still wondering why Michael Healey structured <i>Courageous</i> this way, still debating whether it was the right or best choice.<br />
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All I know for sure is that this is my favourite kind of play - one that makes you laugh and makes you think, one that makes you want to write down things the characters say and post them on your wall. Or at least think about them some more.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-31759573154198906982010-02-06T08:26:00.000-08:002010-02-06T08:31:03.196-08:00PuShing My ButtonsI’ve been thinking a lot about contemporary theatre these days. No, that’s not an event, really. But In the last two weeks I have seen seven shows that are “new”, mostly as part of Vancouver’s much-lauded PuSh International Performing Arts Festival.<br />
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I love PuSh. I love the opportunity to see shows from around the world, to, in a small way, put my finger on the pulse of the body of contemporary theatre. I love the impetus for local groups to create works that are innovative and unusual. I love the energy of walking into a show knowing that the promo blurb didn’t really prepare me for what’s about to happen, that it couldn’t because the performance will be indescribable. I love the way it makes me think about my art form and expand my ideas of what theatre is. I love the idea of this Festival and the respect and enthusiasm it generates in and about Vancouver artists.<br />
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But, true to my nature, I also hate PuSh. I hate the complete focus on works that are strange and experimental. I hate the celebration of what’s offensive in the name of art (exemplified by this year’s poster child, <i>Jerk</i>). I hate the lack of dialogue and relationship. I hate the almost total absence of story.<br />
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And that’s the crux of the matter for me. Where have all the stories gone? If PuSh is a true and accurate representation of contemporary world theatre, is story completely passé? None of the shows I saw at PuSh (nor, as near as I can tell, any of the shows I did not see) were primarily concerned with story, with the exception of <i>The Edward Curtis Project</i>. (Interestingly, the promotional paragraph in the PuSh program emphasizes <i>Edward Curtis</i>’s interdisciplinary and political nature and does not even hint at the centrality of a human story.)<br />
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There were elements of story, certainly. In <i>Nevermore</i>, the story is fairly clear and undeniably important. But it isn’t central. The spectacular images and evocative music created by the genius team of Jonathan Christenson and Brette Gerecke will live on in my mind for years. But Poe’s life provides inspiration and context for those elements rather than a traditional linear narrative. <br />
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With <i>Kamp</i>, we take the story of the holocaust in with us. And given the unrelenting horror of each day in the concentration camps, and the inescapable reality that the prisoners suffered, the show is justifiably and movingly not linear.<br />
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In <i>The Passion of Joan of Arc</i>, story exists in our minds (because most are familiar with the basics of her tale) and in the projected lines of dialogue from the original silent film. So there is a sort of story and certainly a linear progression towards Joan’s inevitable death. But spectacle, not story, rules.<br />
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<i>Poetics: A Ballet Brut</i> teases us with the potential of story, as it teases us with the potential of relationship. But none of the potential of this piece is fully realized and the lack of clear structure and meaning appears carefully calculated, a kind of up-your-nose self-consciousness that likely earned them their reputation as “the most buzzed about new troupe on the New York avant-garde scene.” The fantastic and thoroughly enjoyable piece involving the “secret dancers”, along with the delightfully out of place pink tutu-clad ballerina, come close to providing context and meaning, however undefined. But it is too little, too late, and too overshadowed by a series of numbers that dare us to say the emperor has no clothes.<br />
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The sensory overload of <i>White Cabin</i> was remarkable. Intriguing, engaging, and artistic, the creativity and chaos of the production land it at the top of my “shows I never want to stage manage” list. But it isn’t about story. There is a charming sequence in the middle in which the two male performers exchange a series of sumo-wrestler style belly bumps. The audience was completely enchanted, on the edge of their seats, chuckling appreciatively. I think the reason this sequence is so compelling is that it was one of the few times when we saw the “characters” interact, and as humans we are wired to long for relationship.<br />
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The whole experience of PuSh has placed me in a bit of a personal quandary. I love story. As an undergrad, I was a TA in the English Department and I remember telling people that “theatre has my body, but English has my heart”. My fundamental reason for doing theatre is because it enables us to literally bring stories to life. <br />
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But I also love spectacle. I love theatre that can’t be anything else, theatre that tells the story by immersing us in experiences and images that could never be captured in a book or on film. To sacrifice the technical artistry of light, set, costumes, and sound on the altar of “the well-made play” would be a great tragedy. But to tell a great tragedy – or a great comedy or drama – is a privilege that cannot be abandoned in pursuit of what’s “cool”.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-22670948760968599162010-01-28T22:51:00.001-08:002010-01-28T22:55:36.722-08:00Passionate About The Passion ProjectI’m not sure what happened. <br />
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When I entered the theatre, I liked what I saw. More art installation than set, the space was filled with cold pipes and thick ropes, rough wood and primitive hooks. The lighting was evocative. In the corner was a stool. On the floor outside the main cage of screens, laid a square of light with a simply drawn heart. When the show began, the frames became screens of varying sizes onto which were projected black and white film images. The hanging wood and bare floor received lines of projected type in several languages.<br />
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I was interested, then intrigued, then involved, then absorbed. At some point, my eyes filled with tears. When it was over, I didn’t want to move. Or talk.<br />
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The show is called <i>The Passion Project </i>and it is a marvel of interdisciplinary genius. Using portions of three versions of Carl Dreyer’s film <i>The Passion of Joan of Arc </i>as its starting point, <i>The Passion Project</i> combines film, music, commentary, text, and live performance, embedding them in a “set” that is really an interactive gallery installation.<br />
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What fascinates me most is that I am not sure which aspect – which art – <i>got</i> me. And I don’t really care. All I know is that I saw something really special tonight. Thank you to Reid Farrington and Laura K. Nicoll; Ron Reed, and Pacific Theatre.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-57986148109450888202009-11-15T09:19:00.000-08:002009-11-15T09:26:08.566-08:00I Hate You, You're Infuriating, Don't Change (with apologies to DiPietro and Roberts)I recently faced a fact. As a director, as soon as the show opens, I hate theatre. <br />
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I understand why this is so. Whereas, during the rehearsal process the work is dynamic and ever-changing, opening night means my part in the show's growth is effectively over. I have no power to continue to shape it, no mandate to help it improve. It exists outside of me, beyond my control and I mourn that loss. My husband calls it my post-partum depression.<br />
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I also understand that saying I hate theatre is at best only part of the truth. That "hate" comes out of an enormous, obsessive love. If I didn't want the art to be great and the show to be successful, I could happily walk away on opening, content that the rehearsal process was satisfying.<br />
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Instead, my focus shifts and I am painfully aware of the difficult things -the hateful things - about this art.<br />
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1. It requires an audience. "Without you, all we have is a rehearsal." The audience doesn't merely feed the actors, artistically and literally. When we pour hearts and souls into creating theatre, we are arrogant and foolish enough to believe that the show can feed the audience. So if people don't come, it's like we have prepared a marvelous dinner party and no one shows. Babette's Feast gone to waste. I hate that.<br />
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2. It is ephemeral. The last show I directed was dedicated to a dear friend who died earlier this year. I invited her husband to see the show, eager that he should experience this tribute, longing to share our mutual pain at her passing. I contacted him and arranged for tickets. But after the show closed, I discovered that I neglected to confirm with him and he did not come. There is nothing to be done. He can't catch the video, or wait for the remount. The show is over. Forever. I hate that.<br />
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3. It needs support. I’m not talking about finances here, though that is certainly true. Theatre also needs people who view the work with loving eyes. I am an intensely critical person and I believe passionately in the importance of criticism in improving theatre. I welcome others to engage with the work I create. Of course, ideally, I want them to like it. But mostly I want them to care, to be willing to ask why and to help me make better choices in the future. Unfortunately, some audience members bring a spirit of negativity that can be destructive to the work itself and to my view of the work. I hate that. <br />
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I have often said that one of the few things I know about relationships is that the things you most hate about someone are the flip side of the things you most love. So we need to be careful about changing our spouses; we might lose something that was what attracted us to them in the first place.<br />
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Apparently, the same can be said of my relationship with theatre. Theatre needs an audience because it is a communal art. Every person in that room is sharing an experience and shaping that art. Because theatre is live, audience members are participants, not consumers. That’s why Daniel MacIvor compares it to church. I love that.<br />
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Theatre’s final repository is the hearts and minds of its audience. It’s hard not to have something tangible at the end of a show, to feel like there’s nothing left. But all the best things in life exist in our hearts and minds. To use another relationship metaphor, it reminds me of whining to a friend when I was planning my wedding. All this effort, all this time, all this money, going into a wedding and when it’s over you have nothing to show for it. And she said, “just a marriage”. I love that.<br />
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It really is irritating that theatre – and the arts in general – need positive energy. It seems that we spend a lot of time telling ourselves, and anyone else who will listen, that the arts matter. Next week, there will be another Wrecking Ball event in Vancouver to try to convince politicians. That’s hard. But when people do care, when those who understand why the arts matter get together, it is incredibly exciting. And when their collective positive energy infects others and reverses the negativity, it’s revolutionary. I love that.<br />
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Embrace the ambivalence.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-75599629991677457862009-08-29T22:10:00.000-07:002009-08-29T22:10:20.890-07:00The Rocks Will Cry OutWhen I was a child, my brother had a copy of the soundtrack to <i>Jesus Christ Superstar</i> (the original Broadway show, not the movie). I heard it frequently, committed many of the songs to heart and – like other songs I learned as a child and teen – I still know them. Some of those words came to mind when I saw the Limbo Circus Theatre production of <i>Macbeth</i> this week. <br />
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The context is Jesus’ triumphal entry to Jerusalem, when the crowd of disciples began to praise God loudly and boisterously, prompting some Pharisees to suggest that Jesus tell them to hush up. The Bible version of his response is in Luke 19 but I like the one set to music:<br />
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Why waste your breath moaning at the crowd?<br />
Nothing can be done to stop the shouting<br />
If every tongue were still, the noise would still continue<br />
The rocks and stones themselves would start to sing.<br />
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What on earth does such a story have to do with a production of Macbeth, arguably one of Shakespeare’s bloodiest tragedies, you justly ask? No one shouts or sings “Hosanna!” and there’s not a whole lot of praising going on.<br />
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It’s not the play but the production which brought the words to mind.<br />
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Limbo Circus Theatre is a company formed by Studio 58 students who created this show with other students and recent grads from several theatre schools in the city (including Katherine Gauthier from Trinity Western University). The energy and passion is palpable, thickening the very air and enveloping everyone in the room. These are actors whose talent is undampened by cynicism and undaunted by a lack of resources.<br />
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The play takes place in a tiny hole-in-the-wall called Little Mountain Studios. Formerly a garage and now mostly an art studio, this is a space only ingenuity can transform into a theatre. For the production, audience is seated alley style, crammed together on folding chairs, filling each possible crevasse and corner. The set is primarily a warehouse-sized wooden door, which may or may not be part of the space itself, and a small platform at one end of the alley. <br />
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Overall, the production is strong, with live piano accompaniment, impressive post-modern costuming, and some excellent performances. The pacing is tight, the emotional commitment sincere. Even the cross-dressing (so many more women onstage now than in Shakespeare’s day!) succeeds by not over-striving or over-justifying.<br />
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It was towards the end of the show that the words from Scripture/Tim Rice came to mind. If you really love theatre as these young thespians clearly do, nothing can silence you. (I’m not sure how blasphemous it is to compare a love for theatre with a love for Jesus but this whole blog is based on that concept so I’ll risk it.)<br />
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Since I saw this show, the theatre community has been hit with another round of funding cuts from the B.C. government. Battered and angry, many individuals and companies are holding a rally tomorrow to protest in hopes of reversing the decision, particularly in cases where promises were broken.<br />
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The timing is either ironic or encouraging. On the one hand, those who love theatre will find a way to make theatre regardless of obstacles and that is a beautiful thing.<br />
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On the other hand, isn’t it great when there is money to support such inspiring and visionary work?<br />
<br />
Let the rocks cry out.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-34791771364801884672009-08-23T19:41:00.000-07:002009-08-23T19:46:38.941-07:00Live Art is Non-ReturnableAfter a summer with virtually no contact with civilization and truly no contact with virtual civilization, I have been soaking up the noise, activity, and excitement of life in Vancouver since my return. And I have returned to the theatre.<br /><br />This week I saw two shows, both novel but otherwise very different. <em>Via Beatrice</em>, a self-proclaimed “experimental operetta” from Fugue Theatre tells the story of Diana, a Canadian woman who travels to Rome after her daughter’s death. The challenging music (composed and performed by Peggy Lee) and complex script (by Sydney Risk winning playwright Jenn Griffin) are ably performed by the trio of Lucia Frangione (Diana), Laura Di Cicco (Beatrice), and Marco Soriano (Alessandro). Each actor nimbly switches from major to minor characters and from major to minor keys, while navigating the time-travelling script and unpredictably adventurous score.<br /><br />The production is raw in that wonderful way a world premiere ought to be. It is clear that all involved are taking significant risks in producing and performing this ambitious work and their fearless creativity is inspiring. Those who came out to see it also took a risk, always true in theatre but even more so with new plays. Whether due to the number of shows on right now, the spectacular weather, or the multitude of entertainment options in the last days of summer, houses for <em>Via Beatrice</em> were small. And that’s a shame because theatre cannot thrive without new works and new voices. The courage of all of those at Fugue deserves to be applauded<br /><br />The next night, I saw Marsha Norman’s <em>The Laundromat </em>(aka <em>Third and Oak: The Laundromat</em>) the premiere production from Scarlet Satin, a new company formed by TWU grad Diana Squires. Dice is a force and her first venture in the producer’s chair is worthy of her drive and ingenuity. The novelty of setting the show in an actual, working laundromat earned Scarlet Satin press from <em>The Globe and Mail</em> and an appearance on the CBC Radio program <em>On the Coast</em>. The laundromat itself is perfect for the production: Swan Laundry on Burrard is festooned (yes, festooned) with cheery pink bubbles and retro lettering that begs to be in a production set in 1979. The owner Carolyn Currie loved the idea and loves the arts so offered the location for free and it is unlikely she regrets her decision. Not only did Diana’s publicity prowess garner media attention, the show has sold out its entire run (impressive even in the tiny 25 seat venue).<br /><br />The show itself is delightful. Squires’ DeeDee is annoying and endearing by turns and Brenda Matthews’ restrained Alberta provides the perfect foil. Tamara McCarthy’s direction ensures the small space is used in a way that is both believable and theatrical and the vintage television commercials add a satisfying comic touch. There’s something about watching a show called The Laundromat while you listen to an actual washing machine wash actual clothes that completes the experience.<br /><br />Sometime between these two shows, I heard a radio interview with Chris Jones, theatre critic for the <em>Chicago Tribune</em>. Apparently, thanks to the largesse of a foundation in the windy city, a recent production there offered a money-back guarantee. Those who did not enjoy the show were invited to step up to a table in the lobby for a refund. I wondered who at <em>Via Beatrice</em> or <em>The Laundromat </em>might have accepted such an offer. My hope is that very few would respond, as was the case in Chicago, and that most would dismiss the concept as unfortunate and pitiable.<br /><br />Jones rightfully acknowledges the difficulty of commodifying live art. Not only does such an action change the audience response to the production but treating the show as pure product compromises the dignity of the participants (particularly the unfortunate soul who is charged with issuing the invitation.) He also points out that patrons who are dissatisfied are much more likely to miss the time than the money and no one can refund hours and minutes.<br /><br />I’ve been thinking a lot about this idea, mentally revisiting shows I’ve seen that were only partially successful as well as those that were boring, offensive, or self-indulgent. I keep asking myself what circumstances would move me to demand my money back. But I’ve discovered a big problem.<br /><br />If you buy a new faucet from Home Depot and realize it doesn’t work with your countertops or suit your spouse’s tastes, you can take it back and get a refund. But how can you possibly return the experience of live theatre? However much I have hated some productions (and I confess there have been a few) there has invariably been something gained from the experience, even if only a sharpening of my critical faculties. <br /><br />Well-intentioned though it might be, the idea of a money-back guarantee for theatre should die a quick and noiseless death. As something that exists in hearts and minds, theatre’s value cannot be measured by something in your pocket.<br /><br />Simply said, live art is non-returnable.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-36727193117848462102009-06-16T09:27:00.000-07:002009-06-16T10:32:17.428-07:00Party On!Oh what fun! Many things make the Jessie Awards a great evening - the glitz, the glam, the giggles, the dancing... But the best thing about the Jessie Awards is that it feels like theatre matters.<br /><br />I went to the party with a friend who isn't "in the biz" and it was a delight to see the event through her eyes. She wasn't jaded about who didn't get nominated or annoyed by who won. In fact, she had seen few of the shows represented. But she could tell the room was full of intereting, passionate people. She could tell they had gathered to celebrate their great love for theatre. And she could tell there was a lot of great theatre to celebrate.<br /><br />Frequently, she would ask me to guess the winner. I was successful a few times, but more often I would scan the nominees and be unable to select one artist's triumph over another's. It was clear that there was so much talent in that room and on those lists - it would have been very difficult to choose. I had sentimental favourites that I was rooting for because they are friends, or because the performance or production really touched me, or because it was "their turn". But when the winner was announced, I could not begrudge a single one. The accomplishments represented by each nomination were valid and significant.<br /><br />In some cases, other favourites were not nominated at all. Rather than causing bitterness, this made me realize again the depth of talent in Vancouver, the breadth of the theatre scene here. Not every good show can be nominated. Not every good performer can win. The competition around here is really stiff. And that's a great thing for all of us.<br /><br />I would have loved to see Lauchlin Johnson's genius recognized for his set design for <em>Mourning Dove</em>. I would have loved to see Lucia Frangione nominated for <em>No Exit</em>. I would have loved to see <em>The Real Thing </em>receive a nod for best production.<br /><br />But then I look at some of the categories: how do you choose a "best" performance when the possibilities are Anthony F. Ingram, David Marr, Russell Roberts, Todd Thomson, and Simon Webb? How do you choose a "best" director from Kim Collier, Dean Paul Gibson, Morris Panych, Max Reimer, and Meg Roe? And then there's the "significant artistic achievement" category. Yikes! With nominations for everything from "video design & editing" (<em>No Exit</em>) to "ensemble performance" (<em>The World Goes Round</em>) to "origami artistry" (<em>The Life of Paper</em>), it's hard to even determine the criteria for judgement. And when the Progress Lab wins for "innovative contribution to the artistic community" for <em>Hive 2</em>, how can anyone who experienced the magical madness of Hive have any complaint?<br /><br />Theatre artists have a love/hate relationship with awards. No one wants to take them too seriously but everyone wants to win. It's popular to say the nomination is what really matters but that position is hard to maintain if you're Sheila White, who finally won last night with her 13th nomination for costume design, or Jennifer Lines who won her first Jessie (for her performance as Ariel in <em>The Tempest </em>) despite being one of those actors whose consistent excellence is widely acknowledged.<br /><br />But I defend awards shows like the Jessies because, as I said in my last post, any time achievement in the arts is recognized and celebrated everyone wins. And that's the most fun of all.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-7795381603204908002009-06-14T22:33:00.000-07:002009-06-14T22:51:13.567-07:00Spring Theatre FeverRecently, I was talking with a friend about the Touchstone/Horseshoes & Hand Grenades/Felix Culpa co-production of Judith Thompson’s Iraq war play, <em>Palace of the End</em>. I realized a number of things during that conversation, not the least of which was how much good theatre I have seen in Vancouver this spring.<br /><br /><em>Palace of the End</em> is good theatre. The stories are compelling, the topic is relevant, the staging is thoughtful, and the performances are strong. But perhaps most important, it’s good theatre because it does what no other art form can. Three characters based on real people tell their stories directly to us. The urgency of the topic seizes our attention. The conviction of their speeches demands our allegiance. The intimacy of the space prevents our escape. No other art could confront us so directly or engage us so completely. No other art is likely to make us that uncomfortable. And frankly, discomfort gets big points in my assessment of worthwhile theatre.<br /><br /><em>Antigone Undone</em> also accomplished what no other art form can, though in a completely different way. A creation of the unceasingly inventive Leaky Heaven Circus, this Antigone bears little resemblance to those of Anouilh and Sophocles. You enter a small upper room at the Russian Hall (think: Legion) to find rows of swivel office chairs surrounded by a narrow platform stage. Painted black, the walls hold various props: a pitcher of water, a series of kitchen implements, a hand beater, an egg, a microwave. The techno-pop soundtrack is loud and catchy, inviting patrons to swivel-dance their chairs as they wait expectantly for the magic to unfold.<br /><br />With lip-synching, cross-dressing, movement sequences, and film clips, the piece could be considered more performance art than play, despite being inspired by one of the Greek masters. But who cares? I was thoroughly entertained, always intrigued, and constantly delighted. And I now know what happens when you microwave a bar of Ivory soap.<br /><br />Earlier in May I saw <em>John and Beatrice</em> by Carole Frechete, presented by Pi Theatre. A great success last year, this production marks the third remount for the company, a co-pro with Saskatoon’s Persephone Theatre. Somehow, I had missed both other rounds and I was determined to see it this time. I’m glad I did. Vincent Gale was a revelation as John, inhabiting the character so completely that I wanted to get up on stage and introduce myself to see who would respond. Patricia Drake took over Karen Rae’s role as Beatrice and although I heard how wonderful Rae was, it’s hard to imagine a more endearing representation of the strange and seductive Beatrice. Add to the inspiring performances an intriguing script that never reveals where it’s headed and you have a most satisfying evening at the theatre.<br /><br />Many other shows this spring were worth seeing. Tempus Theatre’s <em>36 Views</em> was a handsome production of another stimulating script and Michael Kopsa’s performance as Wheeler was fabulous. A Theatre Conspiracy and Rumble co-pro, <em>Blackbird</em> by Scottish playwright David Harrower offers new perspectives and insights into sexual abuse in a piece that is both disturbing and moving. The Electric Company remount of <em>Studies in Motion</em> reminded me what I liked the first time. It pushes the boundaries of what can and should be done on stage, revealing spectacular movement sequences that will live in my mind forever. The brilliance of Tom Stoppard’s <em>The Real Thing</em> was beautifully brought to life in the Arts Club production, by a perfect cast with unusually perfect accents. It made me want to examine my relationships, embrace my husband, and read the play.<br /><br />Many, many, more shows this spring revealed again what a fantastic theatre town Vancouver is and made me grateful to live here. Tomorrow night, Vancouver will celebrate live theatre at the annual Jessie Awards. Although awards ceremonies – like top ten lists – are a tricky business, I think it is important to hold these events and important to attend them. When excellence in the arts is recognized and celebrated, we all win.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-58740816903714349082009-05-27T22:37:00.001-07:002009-05-27T23:36:32.077-07:00Fat is PhatI've seen a lot of theatre in the last couple months, despite the lack of blog entries. Many shows of many kinds, all with something to recommend them. But tonight, I saw a show that has made it onto my Top Ten.<br /><br />On the drive home, I thought aloud about whether this show deserved Top Ten status. I had a philosophical debate with myself about the merits and pitfalls of even <em>having</em> a top ten list. It's sort of like a musical group's "best of" album: what makes a "best" song or production? If I continue going to theatre, how do I determine which shows stay on the list and which are replaced? Do they have an expiration date? Is it all at the mercy of my capricious memory?<br /><br />Despite the obvious difficulties, I will keep my list and I have bumped a show in favour of tonight's offering: <em>Fat Pig </em>by Neil LaBute, presented by Mitch and Murray Equity Co-op at Performance Works in Vancouver. And here's why.<br /><br />First of all, I love the script. It's engaging, timely, and provocative. Like most great art, it takes a specific issue and uncovers its universal signficance. And perhaps most important, it is both outrageously funny and painfully human.<br /><br />Thankfully, this production does it justice. Well cast, expertly directed, beautifully staged, it leaves little to be desired. I have never seen Lawrence Haegert in anything before but I will definitely watch for him in the future. His performance as Tom was remarkable. His commitment and transparency were complete, yet contained; always natural, never reaching. It is intriguing that he studied at Sir Wilfred Grenfell College in Newfoundland, also the training ground for the amazing cast of <em>Tempting Providence </em>and the gifted Stephen Drover (with whom Haegert founded Pound of Flesh Theatre). I must plan a visit to The Rock to see what thespian magic is in the water and to sit at the feet of the masters.<br /><br />The other actors are also very fine. As Carter, Aaron Craven finds just the right balance of charm and sleaze, surprising us with revelations of insight that ultimately earn our sympathy. Jennifer Mawhinney is fantastic as Jeannie, complementing her flawless body with a flawlessly realized and touchingly vulnerable portrait of the unlikely "other woman". And as Helen, Kathryn Kirkpatrick delivers self-deprecating comments as one who knows their protective power, flirting with Tom and with us until we fall for her. Hard.<br /><br />Set and costume designer Naomi Sider, and lighting designer Itai Erdal, have created a world that is spare and attractive, the crisp, clean lines an effective counterpoint to the voluptuous excess of the subject. <br /><br />As a director, I am particularly critical of my own discipline. But Michael Scolar Jr. has created a terrific production in every respect. In addition to drawing lovely performances from his actors, the staging is inventive without being self-conscious, the pacing is spot on, and the comedy and pathos are in perfect balance. <br /><br />I would have loved to direct this play. I would love to take credit for this production. I would love to see this show again.<br /><br />For all these reasons, <em>Fat Pig </em>makes my first Top Ten entry of 2009.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-81095309770139465422009-03-03T06:48:00.000-08:002009-03-03T07:13:00.701-08:00East Dance Shake TownI saw four shows last week. Four very different shows.<br /><br />The first was <em>East of Berlin</em>, by Ottawa playwright Hannah Moscovitch. In many ways it’s my favourite kind of theatre; funny, important, intimate. This Tarragon Theatre production (presented by the Cultch as part of the Chutzpah! festival of Jewish performing arts) is solid. As the central character, Rudi, Brendan Gall is endearing and quirky, masterfully delivering Moscovitch’s unfinished thoughts. Some of his physical tics flirt with excess but on the whole, he is an able storyteller, nimbly navigating the depth and humour of the writing. Paul Dunn as Rudi’s teenage friend Hermann is less successful. Given the same pattern of incomplete sentences, Dunn runs out of steam ahead of the script, making it too easy for us to see the words on the page. As Rudi’s love interest Sarah, Diana Donnelly is remarkable, giving one of those completely realized performances that make it hard to see the actor beneath the character. Her emotional commitment to the material seems absolute and effortless, complexly layered and unselfconsciously transparent. <br /><br />The script is strong in many ways, rendering human portraits and an intriguing story, and the directing and design enhance the experience. But as is too often the case, the play’s ending was less than satisfying. Completely engaged throughout, I felt shortchanged by the final minutes, which provided easy answers to complicated questions. Nonetheless, it was the most compelling of this week’s shows and I am glad to have seen it.<br /><br />ProArteDanze is another Toronto import, also part of the Chutzpah! festival. They are accomplished dancers and the program was varied and fun. One piece in particular, a new duet choreographed by Kevin O’Day and created for Robert Glumbek and Emily Molnar, was delightful. Athletic, elegant, and fun, it carried us forward, involving us in the world of the dance so completely that we were sorry to see it end. Glumbek’s solo was also evocative and involving. He understands the necessity for dancers to connect to the context of the work, to make the emotional physical. Not all the dancers were equally successful in this regard and the “soundscape” of the opening piece aggravated this problem. Where music might have supplied some of the emotional score the dancers neglected, the techno-industrial sounds accompanying the piece distanced us even farther.<br /><br />Shakespeare’s <em>Coriolanus</em> has apparently not been performed in Vancouver for more than 100 years. That makes the current production at the Jericho Arts Centre very exciting, a feeling obviously shared by the many fine actors Jack Paterson was able to assemble for his mounting. The magnetic cast is uniformly strong. But whenever a play has not been performed much, the question must arise whether it should be. Sadly, the answer here is likely “no”. Despite creative contemporary staging and dynamic performances, the script does not offer sufficient intrigue or – dare I say it – complexity, to maintain our interest.<br /><br />I finished the week with a Saturday matinee of a high school production of <em>Our Town</em>. Directed by TWU grad, Robyn Roukema, the show has more than 30 students from middle and high school to people Grover’s Corners. Seeing the work necessary to transform a gymnasium into a theatre and knowing how much Robyn had to do herself was inspiring. It was also a good reminder of why I don’t teach high school. I directed <em>Our Town</em> many years ago but had forgotten what a profound, insightful play it is. Or maybe because I’m farther along life’s path the simple truths could speak to me more clearly. <br /><br />Each of these shows taught me something; about theatre, about the world, about myself. But there’s something fittingly ironic about seeing <em>Our Town </em>at the end of a four-show week. “Pay attention to your life,” says Wilder, “every, every minute.” I am a hurrier, a multi-tasker, a workaholic, and I am thankful for his reminder to see the beauty of this world in the light of eternity. <br /><br />I think I’ll go hang out with my kids.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-20107084108684189652009-02-24T21:20:00.000-08:002009-02-24T21:26:08.819-08:00So You Think You Can GAGAI arrived in a fairly fragile state. Difficulties with family and friends, lack of sleep, work anxiety, hormones... who knows. But encountering protesters outside the theatre was almost more than I could handle. I waited in the will call line while they chanted slogans like “freedom for Palestine” and “dead children can’t dance”, uncertain whether my political leanings were being compromised by attending Israel’s Batsheva Dance. But I have a problem with the idea of boycotting cultural events to make political statements. My cynical self doesn’t believe the right people will get the right message. I moved into the theatre to get away from the racket.<br /><br />Inside, I was surrounded by an unmistakably dancey crowd. Different from a theatre crowd, these patrons were somehow both sharp and flowing, with long necks, bright eyes, and extra limbs. The house opened very late and the sensory overload intensified as I read my program in the crowded lobby. When I took my seat, I felt overwhelmed, as my neighbour reminded me sadly of both a relative and a friend. Her earnest enjoyment of the lone dancer’s improvised comic curtain raiser brought tears to my eyes. And as I pulled myself together, I was enveloped by an unusual scent I could only identify as vanilla mothballs. <br /><br />The opening number was electrifying. An androgynous half-circle of dancers crouched on chairs, leapt to their feet, threw off their hats, chanted in a strange language. The movement travelled from one edge to the other, like a sophisticated, mesmerizing version of “the wave”. Each dancer echoed the actions of the one before, with rapid fire precision and passionate commitment. When the movement reached the final dancer at the end of each sequence, he flew forward onto the floor as if he'd been shot, the only one still fully clothed and therefore clearly different. Memories of the protesters filtered my judgement.<br /><br />Nothing after the first number quite lived up. There were other lovely pieces, like the male duet near the end of the show, but much of the work seemed self-consciously provocative. An extended segment of solo show-and-tell had a playground bravado that was alternately intriguing and irritating, its creativity marred by a need to surprise in a way that was both unsurprising and juvenile.<br /><br />Batsheva is famous for inventing a style of dance known as GAGA, a sort of experts’ improvisation which requires more uninhibited spontaneity than refined technique. While several of the evening’s pieces had elements of GAGA, the method was most evident when each member of the company brought someone from the audience to the stage to dance as the spirit moved them. With so many dancers in the audience this exercise was less embarrassing than it could have been but the result seemed equal parts dance event and social experiment.<br /><br />As a daily regimen of movement training, GAGA has much to teach dancers and actors about listening to their bodies. But in a world where everyone thinks they can dance, the professionals distinguish themselves by meticulous choreography and synchronicity of gesture. And for my $70 ticket I expect more than an evening spent watching people follow their impulses.<br /><br />I’ll never know how much my state of mind coloured my perception of the performance. I do know that I was excited to see the show, eager to be entertained, expecting to be enthralled. And it was an enjoyable performance, one that improved my mood and enriched my understanding of contemporary dance. Maybe I got my money’s worth after all.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-26103242982578977872009-02-23T21:41:00.000-08:002009-02-23T21:45:55.978-08:00That's PuShing ItI am beginning to think that I simply cannot call myself a blogger. Or say I have a blog. The infrequency of my entries is too humiliating. But I will venture in again, after a long absence, to record my thoughts on shows I saw a few weeks ago.<br /><br />February is PuSh Festival time in Vancouver, an annual extravaganza of performance for which the sole unifying element is the effort to be unusual. Maybe that’s not quite accurate but it often feels that “conventional” and “traditional” must be the dirtiest of dirty words to the Festival’s producers.<br /><br />Not that I’m complaining. The opportunity to see a wide variety of theatrical productions, performed by companies and individuals from near and far, makes this my favourite festival. Two of my Top Ten of All Time were brought to town by Norman Armour and PuSh and I am eternally grateful. But sometimes my love of PuSh is met in almost equal measure by hate. (A couple of my never-to-be-published Bottom Ten have also been PuSh productions.) I think that’s evidence that PuSh is producing exactly the sort of provocative work that makes theatre worth doing. And seeing.<br /><br />This year, I saw four PuSh shows: Ronnie Burkett’s <em>Billy Twinkle: Requiem for a Golden Boy</em>; <em>Nanay: A Testimonial Play</em> from Urban Crawl and Neworld Theatre;Theatre Replacement’s production of <em>That Night Follows Day</em>, and Marie Brassard’s <em>The Invisible</em>.<br /><br />I had never seen Ronnie Burkett; never quite been able to cough up the price of a ticket, despite the rave reviews that precede and follow him wherever he goes. <em>Billy Twinkle</em> requires agile, transformational acting for Burkett to play all of the characters who live in his remarkable marionettes, and his abilities were stretched by the effort. But the charming show is ultimately a tale of forgiveness and redemption, surprisingly brought about by a conservative evangelical whose ridiculous puppet show is one of the funniest scenes in the play. Burkett manages to invest her simple faith with a level of self-awareness and genuine love that cannot be mocked as easily as her Jesus-puppet Sunday school rap. Somewhere in Burkett’s past, he’s been to Sunday school and he knows that “believing in tomorrow” is a good thing.<br /><br /><em>Nanay</em> is more treatise than theatre, an earnest attempt to make us care about the plight of those caught in the bureaucratic web of Canada’s Live-in Caregiver Program (LCP). In cooperation with the Philippine Women Centre, the story is told entirely in the words of those who have been affected by the LCP – employers, caregivers and children left behind. Their testimonies are stirring and the presentation is informative. But in the end, it is entirely one-sided and so politically correct that it hurts. The direction underlines this flaw in the script-making, rendering the Canadian employers insensitive, neurotic alcoholics, completely oblivious to the value of money, childcare, or compassion. The imbalance made me suspicious of the truth of the one side we did see, so it accomplished the opposite of its good intentions. <br /><br />The actors in <em>That Night Follows Day </em>are children between the ages of eight and 14 delivering a script that promised to be “smart and bittersweet”, a chronicle of the ways in which adults shape the lives of children. Presented with simple, reader’s theatre directness, the words often lack rootedness and the show relies on the charm of the children to deliver its impact. Thankfully, the casting for the Vancouver production is brilliant; the kids are a virtual mosaic of variation in size, shape, colour, style, and attitude. With that much fascinating diversity, I could have watched them speak anything – or nothing at all – for a very long time.<br /><br />Whenever a show has a single writer, director, and performer, a red flag pops up directly in my line of vision. But every rule has its exception and PuSh is all about breaking the rules so I chose to ignore the internal warning I saw when reading the website description of <em>The Invisible</em>. After all, Brassard is a frequent collaborator with another solo performer, the incomparable Robert LePage. This misleading fact proved doubly ironic. Not only was LePage’s innovative vision entirely absent, the evening seemed designed as an argument for the necessity of collaboration. Brassard was in desperate need of another voice – an editor, director, friend, who would help her to focus and clarify her work. There were some beautiful moments but they were too fleeting – or conversely, too repetitive – to redeem a disappointing performance. <br /><br />Nothing I saw at PuSh this year made it onto my top ten but every show generated plenty of food for thought and conversation. That means the Festival itself retains its position as the best part of February in Vancouver.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-43705125712320552152009-01-05T10:12:00.000-08:002009-01-05T10:18:01.649-08:00Any friend of yours...My brother sent me an email yesterday. He said his movie club had gone to see some live theatre. <em>Festen</em>, now playing in Toronto, was originally a film that he and his buddies had really liked so they were curious to see the stage adaptation. <br /><br />I don’t know if the presence in the cast of television stars like Eric Peterson and Nicholas Campbell made it easier to convince his friends to go, or indeed, whether they required any convincing at all. But Sean has seen a lot of the shows I’ve directed over the years and has come around to a thoughtful respect for theatre. The production made a positive impression and afterwards he said, “I confirm your claims about the entertainment value of live theatre. It was a huge bang for the buck, especially for downtown Toronto.” <br /><br />I smiled as I read his email and felt strangely heartened afterwards. It was as if I had asked him to look up a good friend, they had met and he had liked her a lot, if not quite as much as I do. And more, he understood why I love her, why I keep trying to introduce her to others that I love. <br /><br />It’s a good metaphor, one I had not considered before. I now realize that I am quite the matchmaker. Last week, a student engaged me in a facebook chat from his first visit to New York and I persuaded him to see <em>August: Osage County </em>(rather than <em>Young Frankenstein</em>, sigh). Although I haven’t seen the Tracy Letts masterpiece myself, I keep hearing it’s one of those life-changing experiences we all covet. So I get a small vicarious thrill when I can recommend others take the opportunity that I don’t have “<em>Visit my friend when you’re in her town, won’t you? You’ll like her, I promise. And please give her my love</em>.”<br /><br />I have often said that I am like a missionary, evangelizing the great masses of those who have not heard the Good News of the power of theatre. Of course, for me it’s a double mission as I believe that power comes from God’s delight in truth, creativity, and story. <br /><br />So when I have a part in growing a new convert, or can deepen someone’s relationship with theatre, or even plant a seed of curiosity about it, I feel encouraged. And I believe God is pleased, too.<br /><br />At the end of his email, my brother told me he resolved to start seeing theatre with his wife this year. Now that’s a New Year’s resolution I can get excited about.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-49556609597386800642008-12-09T23:46:00.000-08:002008-12-10T08:47:19.810-08:00What is an artist, anyway?I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the definition of “artist”. Often in Christian circles, people talk about artists as creators and quickly draw a parallel to <em>The</em> Creator, underlining the essentially sacred nature of what artists do.<br /><br />I’ve always really liked that idea (undoubtedly due, at least in part, to that all-too-human desire to be like God). But as a director, I question whether I can call myself a creator. And if I can’t, can I call myself an artist?<br /><br />Recently, Theatre at TWU presented a piece called <em>Mythification</em>. Under the direction and guidance of Kris Knutsen, students used the inspiration of the first chapter of Genesis and the form of Greek tragedy to write and perform a work that personified the beginning of the world. A creation about the creation.<br /><br />My Dean at TWU, David Squires, is a musician and composer, and he responded to <em>Mythification</em> with unrestrained enthusiasm. In a thank you letter to the cast, he wrote:<br /><br /><blockquote>I am an artist, and I believe that the human impulse towards creating something new is a strong measure of God-likeness. In the <em>imago dei </em>he made us, and we return the blessing, if you will, by making something which hasn’t existed before. And the moment it appears on the scene it is a wonder...suddenly there where nothing had been!<br /><br />I am an artist, and I believe that the world is a better place because I am made thus, and because I am surrounded by so many others who also speak this uncommonly God-like language.</blockquote><br />But I am not sure I can claim to speak that language. The art I make is not created <em>ex nihilo</em>. The plays I direct are written already, whether classics with many performances or new works with few. The theatre, designers, cast, and crew are new; but are we creators? <br /><br />My friend Lucia makes a distinction between “artists” and “craftspeople” or “artisans”. The artists create out of nothing and the artisans hone the work of others. She claims that the relationship is more of a marriage than a hierarchy – the artists need the craftspeople to see the vision to the end, to collaborate so that the artwork reaches something nearer beauty and perfection.<br /><br />(It’s no surprise that she is a playwright – the only artist in this scenario.)<br /><br />Like Dean David, Lucia believes to create means to bring something into existence that was not there before. But in the case of theatre, the definition is tricky. If Lucia writes a play and I put together a creative team and mount a production, did it exist before the performance? <br /><br />The art the playwright creates is the words only, on the page solely; art, certainly, but written art, as is a poem or a novel. The art of theatre is something else altogether. Whereas music cannot be “read” until it is played or sung, the art of theatre and the art of drama are two separate, intimately related disciplines. <br /><br />And when we speak of theatre, we must remember that it is, at its core, collaborative. Theatre is a living art and it lives in performance. And the performance of a play – whether the first or the fortieth – has been brought to life by the collaborators. It did not exist before and it will not exist again. <br /><br />I remember reading an interview with Raymond Chandler once in which he was asked whether he was concerned about what filmmakers were going to do to his novel. His response was (more or less): “They aren’t going to do anything to my novel. It’s sitting right over there.”<br /><br />That is a fitting parallel for the theatre. While Lucia the playwright is unquestionably a creator and artist, Lucia is also an artist and creator when she dons her actor-hat to embody a play written by someone else. While a piece of music can be "faithfully rendered", each production of a play must be different from those before because of the many interpretive collaborators, the demands of the physical space, and the lack of indisputable guidelines for presentation. Music can be recorded and preserved, while live theatre is impossible to capture, different each performance, non-existent once a production closes. Those who make theatre - the actors, director, and designers - <em>are</em> artists <em>and</em> creators. Without their vision and implementation, the words would remain on the page, artful but lifeless. <br /><br />While I'm pleased that I've managed to formulate an argument to convince myself, if no one else, it seems fitting to end all this philosophizing with a warning from Mr. Chandler.<br /><br /><em>The more you reason, the less you create. </em>Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-24030478398555806812008-12-05T22:16:00.000-08:002008-12-06T08:38:51.380-08:00Of Rules and RevelationsI love dance. Years ago, while watching Edouard Lock's remarkable <em>Amelia</em>, I had an epiphany of sorts. White-knuckled from clutching the arms of my seat to resist the urge to jump up on stage, I realized that if I had been blessed with a different body type I might have been a dancer.<br /><br />Tonight, I had the pleasure of viewing a new work by Amber Funk Barton's company The Response. <em>Risk</em> is a piece that "is an observation of how young people act...", an idea that could have spawned something as painful as an exploration of post-adolescent angst or a movement-only rendition of <em>The OC</em>. Thankfully, due to the skill of the choreographer and dancers, coupled with a healthy sense of humour, Risk is a thoroughly entertaining, often inspiring, and sometimes moving work of art.<br /><br />A month ago I saw another dance piece that did not elicit such praise. In fact, viewing the solo work <em>WhaT,?</em> choreographed by Jennifer Mascall and performed by Ron Stewart, compelled me to come up with a new rule: no more talking dancers. I should probably have known by the pretentious way in which the title is spelled that the work was going to be tiresome. But my primary complaint had to do with the fact that the show's story was narrated by Stewart. There are two problems with this. First, he is not an actor and a monologue of any length that is performed for an audience requires acting skill. Second, speaking takes up a lot of the breath needed to dance effectively so the choreography could not match his skill.<br /><br />Tonight's show proved the wisdom of my rule; the "story" in Risk was clear and engaging without words. Part of the reason we go to dance is because dancers speak a language most of us do not. Why compromise that ability in order to use the same communication tool we can all access?<br /><br />(In response to the outcry of dancers who insist they have the right to speak, let me offer this: my prejudice works both ways. Although it is flirting with sacrilege to confess it, during the wildly successful show <em>The Overcoat</em> I found myself wondering how much better that wordless, movement-based piece could have been with dancers instead of actors. Some can do both, I know. Most cannot.)<br /><br />But for those theatre artists who can't dance, there's nothing quite so inspiring as a great contemporary dance work. The ways in which the performers move teach us about the body's physical potential as well as its capacity to carry meaning. It's a great antidote to Western acting theories' emphasis on psychological realism. Truthful acting requires complete commitment, mentally, emotionally, physically. Observing talented dancers apply the same standards to their work reveals the common goals of both arts and encourages us to learn from each other. And it helps us to remember the importance of the actor's body.<br /><br />In the introduction to her fabulous book <em>The Body Speaks</em>, Lorna Marshall states:<br /><br /><blockquote>The body is the direct point of connection between our inner self and the outer world, not merely a transportation or communication device...In a sense, it is the sole mediator of human experience. It is our body that climbs the mountain, whispers in another's ear, trembles with excitement, notices the light change, grips the bag, tenses with fear, laughs with delight. It is our body that actually lives our life.</blockquote><br />Theatre artists must understand this better than any others because ours is the most incarnational of the arts. If we are to portray human stories we must understand the human body.<br /><br />So if you love theatre, go see a dance performance.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-45377074689321060052008-09-04T22:53:00.000-07:002008-09-08T10:03:07.610-07:00Gifts Are For Giving<p>I learned a lesson tonight. It's a lesson I expect to need to learn again (why are there so many like that?!) and one that I would like to share with you.<br /><br />I had the privilege of seeing a production of <em>The Tempest</em> tonight at Vancouver's Bard on the Beach. What a thrill. It was one of those transcendent experiences when all elements of a production work together to create a world which is delightfully theatrical and intensely true. Every aspect of the spectacle - set, lighting, costumes, and sound - intensified the impact and increased the story's power.<br /><br />The performances were the sort that made you sure Shakespeare spoke as we do, as the language was so articulate and accessible. But it was not merely the actors' facility with text that made the portrayals memorable, it was their humanity. Prospero's love for his daughter was so clear, Miranda's innocence so complete, Ferdinand's loss so real. And rather than the usual beastly monster, this Caliban was a near-man whose coarse ways made him pitiable rather than frightening, even as he plots his master's death. In an additional stroke of genius, Trinculo and Stephano were women (Trincula and Stephana) which added wonderfully bawdy nuances to Caliban's shoe licking.<br /><br />The production was accompanied by a string trio (two violins and a bass) that underscored some scenes and guided the sung passages in which Ariel's remarkable voice anchors divine harmonies filled with a pathos all their own. And the spirits Ariel summons are a triad of bare-chested male dancers whose leaps and bends transform their bodies into all manner of enchanted set element.<br /><br />The wedding of Ferdinand and Miranda was a fittingly other-worldly party, resplendent with lanterns, sparklers, shimmering costumes, dancing, songs, and laughter in a scene so completely celebratory that I didn't want it to end. Never before have I cried in the theatre simply because something was so creative and beautiful. But I did tonight. And it wasn't the only time. Prospero's forgiveness of all who had wronged him was so immense that it enveloped me in a sense of priestly absolution. When Ariel leaves her master for the freedom she has fought so hard to achieve her goodbye is deliciously bittersweet.<br /><br />So where does the lesson come in, you ask?<br /><br />This production of <em>The Tempest</em> was directed by Meg Roe. A familiar name to Vancouver theatregoers, Meg is an accomplished actress and sound designer (with partner Alessandro Juliani who gets solo credit for composition on this production). Although her name is well-known, <em>The Tempest</em> is her directing debut.<br /><br />That's right. This production, which won its way onto my top ten of all time when none of the many shows I saw in London did, was the vision of a first-time director. That's incredible.<br /><br />The problem is, I have a degree in directing and I've been doing it for a long time but I don't know that I could create a work this accomplished. So for part of the performance I was torn between admiration and dejection - "wow this is really good/wow that's really depressing" -something like that. But by the end of the show (or the end of my drive home when scenes from the play were still bringing tears to my eyes) I knew the real value of what I had learned.<br /><br />Sometimes I have the idea that there's only so much talent/creativity/success to go around so if someone else gets some, there's less left for me. But when a truly gifted artist creates a work for others to share, <strong><em>we</em></strong> get the present. My life was enriched by the production I saw tonight and as a result, my work will be enriched. When we approach theatre with an open, supportive spirit it does not diminish our own abilities - it actually has the potential to increase them. In the end, it isn't about my petty jealousies or insecurites; it's about the art. And when the work is this good, the art wins.<br /><br />In Madeleine L'Engle's marvelous book <em>Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art </em>she talks a lot about the artist being a servant. In one section, she uses an analogy drawn by Jean Rhys where art is a lake and artists are all the rivers and streams and tributaries of various sizes and significance that feed the lake. She quotes Rhys who says: "I don't matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake."<br /><br />Later in the book, L'Engle offers more wisdom on the subject. (See what I mean about needing to learn the lesson over again? I've owned that book for years.) </p><blockquote><p>The artist seeks that truth which offers freedom and then tries to share this offering. I am made more free by my participation in the work of other artists, especially the giants. And it is the other artists who teach the rest of us, offering their vision of truth. And if this vision is true, how can it conflict with the truth which Christ told us to know?</p></blockquote><p>Make art, seek truth, share what you find. Feed the lake.</p><p><em>[Additional credits for the production of The Tempest ought to be included in this post. Here they are: Allan Morgan as Prospero, Jennifer Lines as Ariel, Julie McIsaac as Miranda, Darren Dolynski as Ferdinand, Bob Frazer as Caliban, Colleen Wheeler as Stephana, Naomi Wright as Trincula. Set design by Pam Johnson, lighting design by John Webber and costume design by Christine Reimer.) The other performances were all very fine as well.</em></p><blockquote><p></p></blockquote>Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-967995708084566142008-08-30T06:51:00.000-07:002008-08-30T08:47:29.669-07:00London Life Part IV: National Theatre, National ChurchFour more days to go. Friday, I decided not to see any shows as we were moving from the manor in Chiswick to a more modest but still lovely abode in Shepherd's Bush. Dave and Michelle were readying to leave early Saturday morning for camp and I would be heading to my hotel. So the day was filled with shopping and packing, with a little time to have lunch with more of Michelle's endless list of friends.<br /><br />Saturday, I had planned 'A Day At The National'. The National Theatre complex has three spaces and at least five shows running all the time. I was to see a matinee of <em>Never So Good</em>, a new Howard Brenton play about British Prime Minister Harold MacMillan with Jeremy Irons in the central role, in the true proscenium space, the Lyttleton. Then in the evening, I was booked for another new play called <em>...some trace of her, </em>a multi-media adaptation of Dostoevsky's <em>The Idiot. </em>That show was in the black boxish space, The Cottlesloe.<em> </em>But first, I went for a backstage tour.<br /><br />It's always risky to go on a backstage tour of a really impressive theatre space because one can easily contract a crippling case of theatre envy. The National is designed to cause an epidemic of this syndrome as it is a complex that seems to provide for absolutely everything. Because most shows run in rep, there must be sufficient room in the spaces adjacent to the theatres to store entire sets (which, of course, must be built in a way that allows easy movement and reassembly). But when you live and breathe theatre, being behind the scenes in such a space is ultimately invigorating and I was grateful for the opportunity.<br /><br /><em>Never So Good</em> was a marvelous production. Jeremy Irons was fantastic and all the other performances were flawless. (I was beginning to think there's something in that English theatre training.) While I would have benefitted from a greater understanding of the politics of the time, the story was fascinating and the production superb. In addition to expert performances and solid writing, the show had the most impressive pyrotechnics I had ever experienced. During war scenes there were barrels of raging fire, along with smoke that could only be caused by bombs. And when MacMillan is involved in a plane crash, an enormous fireball rolls downstage with enough heat to warm me in the tenth row. I know it's just spectacle but when the show also has substance...<br /><br />It's hard to describe <em>... some trace of her</em>. The concept for the show was to use live video to tell the story. So for every dramatic moment there is a film-shot and soundscape, usually accompanied by narration intended to seem like movie voiceover. The soundscape is created as it would be in film or radio, with actors using random objects to create the illusion of a real sound. The most fascinating part of the show was watching the performers race from one set-up to the next, arranging props, focusing cameras, mic-ing sound effects. It was a challenge to watch the video (where the story unfolds) and the live actors (who were working so hard to create an illusion for the film) at the same time. I was reminded of Vancouver's Electric Company and Boca del Lupo, both of which used similar effects in shows I saw last year. In the end, the result was somewhat alienating as the tale is told with filmed images rather than live actors and we were very aware of the illusion used to created those images. In addition, the fragmented style made the story difficult to follow for anyone not already familiar with <em>The Idiot</em>.<br /><br />Sunday, my theatre was the streets of London. I spent the day walking through parks and by monuments, snapping pictures and trying to suck up as much history as I could. I went to a morning service at Westminster Abbey and an evening service at St. Paul's Cathedral. Both were true soul food for this sometimes-Anglican and I was again aware of the power of transcendent surroundings to give me a sense of the prescence of God and to fortify my worship. At Westminster Abbey I sat in the quire next to the choir and the experience was overwhelming. Sitting under the dome at St. Paul's was also beautiful, though not as stirring, and for the first time in my life I had communion twice in one day. I walked around again afterwards and by dark, I had impressive-building-overload and was unable to be moved by more gothic or Victorian architecture.<br /><br />Monday was gallery day; so many museums, so little time. I was thankful that I had come to London with a particular plan (see lots of theatre) as there is so much to see and do in London that it would be difficult to know where to begin. I went to the National Gallery in the morning and the Tate Modern in the afternoon. I figured that would give me almost as wide a range of experience as two galleries could offer. I was not disappointed.<br /><br />For my final show I had considered going to the Old Vic to see <em>Pygmalion</em>. (Start at the Young Vic, end at the Old Vic... an English chestnut of a play, in the English chestnut of a theatre...the Old Vic is the original home of the National...) But at the National on Saturday I realized that another new show there was to be the first play by a living female playwright on the Olivier stage. Not only would this allow me to see shows in all three of the National's spaces but it was clearly a piece of history in the making. I bought tickets to that and also to a Pinter one-act called <em>A Slight Ache</em> that played in the late afternoon in the Lyttleton. (All I have to say about that show is that I might not be as much of a Pinter fan as I thought.)<br /><br />The evening production was a Rebecca Lenkiewicz play called <em>Her Naked Skin</em>. As it was still in previews, the critics hadn't weighed in yet and so I didn't really know what I was in for. <em>(...some trace of her </em>was also in previews when I saw it). The story involves suffragists at the start of the 20th century whose struggle to gain the vote for women involved more violence and sacrifice than I had realized. Significant portions of the play took place in Holloway prison, recreated as a towering series of metal cages that would roll into place on the stage's enormous revolve to a soundscape of clanging doors. This contrasted sharply with the comfortable surroundings of the House of Commons where the men laughed about the antics of these silly women whose husbands ought to keep them home where they belong.<br /><br />The riveting story was scored by a live string ensemble and anchored by more flawless performances. I'm still not certain whether I like the central character - Lady Celia Cain - nor am I sure we're supposed to. But the entire performance was one of the most absorbing I've ever experienced and it included the most harrowing scene I have ever witnessed. Women in the prisons would go on hunger strikes to advance their cause and rather than give in or risk their death, the authorities followed a plan of forcible feeding. In one scene, the young protagonist Eve is subjected to this dreadful indignity in which a rubber tube is inserted into the stomach through the nose. As I sat horrified and sobbing I was conscious that this was true to history, true to life, and in some sense truly happening. Despite the nausea such a spectacle induced, I was grateful for the power of theatre to communicate to the core of our beings in a way nothing else can.<br /><br />(I should mention that not all theatre patrons agreed. The very English couple walking in front of me as we exited remarked: "I don't think that one scene was necessary. Rather nasty, wasn't it.")<br /><br />As I walked back to my hotel after the show I felt sated. I had sampled a delicious buffet of theatre in London and tasted many varied and delightful treats. I had walked miles, made new friends, eaten great food, and visited places I'd heard about since childhood.<br /><br />I trust it will not be a lifetime before I return.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-2437315448117237312008-08-25T07:11:00.000-07:002008-08-25T08:34:18.801-07:00London Life Part III: Three Shows in Two DaysAfter all the waiting in line I did on Monday and Tuesday, I was determined that Wednesday would involve no queues at all. Michelle and I set off for the TKTS booth in Leicester Square, the place you go to get day-of half-price tickets. (A tip to those planning a theatre trip to London. There are innumerable "Half-price Ticket Booths" in central London but TKTS is the only one with all available shows. The others generally have musicals only.) I had checked the day before and was quite sure a couple shows I wanted to see would be available.<br /><br />With a short wait in a short line that I'm not counting, we got tickets to the matinee of a new play called The Female of the Species by Australian Joanna Murray-Smith, and tickets to the evening performance of a new play called Under the Blue Sky by David Eldridge. Then we had the rest of the day to play. (A note about the definition of "new". As is often the case in New York, plays don't really count until they arrive in the West End. Although both of these shows were billed as new, the first had played in Australia and the second was a transfer of sorts from the Royal Court. But some changes were made and they had not been published before now.)<br /><br />My days in the beautiful house in Chiswick were numbered, something I knew before I arrived, as Dave and Michelle were going camping. (I can't let that comment go by without a wee explanation. When I say 'camping', what I mean is that they and their girls would be meeting up with others from their church at something called New Wine. An annual event run by the Church of England, New Wine involves tenting in a field in the English countryside with 20,000 other Anglicans, cooking for themselves in groups, and getting together for worship and singing and so forth. I told Michelle that the only way I could understand this idea was to imagine the event being much like the Quidditch World Cup in Harry Potter. I trust her tent was also magically accommodating.)<br /><br />So on Saturday, they would head to the country and I would move to a hotel I had booked online months before. Michelle and I thought it would be wise to check out the hotel before I moved in to ensure it was suitable and once we had show tickets in hand, we set off on foot to find the Warwick.<br /><br />One of the reasons I found the old part of central London so disorienting is that it didn't change. I walked from Covent Garden to Leicester Square to Charing Cross to Trafalgar Square - all places I'd heard of since my childhood - and it felt the same. There was no sense of moving from one part of town to another. (Probably because I hadn't.)<br /><br />Wednesday's walk was different, taking us through many neighbourhoods and along avenues and through parks. It took most of my visit to get used to how close things are. London is definitely a city seen best by walking and the walk to the hotel was delightful. My directional instincts were intact and we walked easily, consulting the map from time to time only to confirm that we were in the right place.<br /><br />The hotel was just as it looked on the website, including the squeaky-clean closet-sized rooms and personable staff. Having lived in luxury for much of the trip, I was determined to have a more typical London experience. Michelle said the room was normal-sized for London and the bathroom larger than the one in their first flat. In combination with the excellent location, I determined it would be the perfect headquarters for the solo part of my stay.<br /><br />For lunch, Michelle and I stopped by a market to buy the fixings for a picnic and settled onto the grass in Russell Square. We remarked to ourselves that we were having a lovely day.<br /><br />That feeling didn't change at the first show, a raucous comedy that managed to make us both laugh and cry. The central character is a famous feminist author who is confronted in her home by a former student threatening to kill her for ruining her life. Trust me, it's funnier than that might sound. The acting wasn't flawless but it was very, very good and Dame Eileen Atkins was spot-on as the writer Margot Mason.<br /><br />The only negative element in the day was that I got blisters from all the walking with sweaty feet. (I confess I had not anticipated that London would be so hot. Most of the time I was there it was hot, sunny and humid. When added to the famous London grime, I greeted the end of each day sticky and grey. But who's complaining?)<br /><br />After exploring and shopping a bit (flip-flops for my injured feet, for one), we grabbed a coffee in a wonderfully air-conditioned Starbucks before the evening performance.<br /><br />As the lights went down, we were surrounded by the sound of a magnificent explosion. Michelle grabbed my hand and we caught our breath. This was going to be a wild ride!<br /><br />It wasn't. The play is composed of three, two-person scenes, each involving some sort of male-female love relationship, and all characters are disillusioned teachers at the same school. The first scene had such painful acting that I was conscious of reading the lines on the page. This was further complicated by a set design that was hostile to movement, forcing the actors to sit in awkward places and converse from difficult angles. The second scene had similar set problems. It was quite sexual in content and I felt like a trapped voyeur, witnessing someone's adolescent humiliation. It was unpleasant and uncomfortable, though the acting was much better. The third scene saved the night. The set finally worked, the acting was lovely, and the writing provided some sense of redemption. When this couple decides to risk loving each other the relief in the audience was palpable. The most interesting part of the show was the need of the audience for something to work out well. It was instructive of the power of theatre and the nature of humankind. Satisfying, really.<br /><br />After the show, Michelle and I grabbed a late dinner and headed back to Chiswick. A nearly perfect day.<br /><br />The next day I hung around Chiswick with the fambly and then headed to Shakespeare's Globe by myself to see King Lear. For those who don't know, the idea behind the Globe is to recreate the theatre of Shakespeare's time. All tickets are reasonably priced and it's positively cheap to stand in the pit as a groundling, although the ushers do not allow you to sit down, even against the walls, and you will get wet if it rains. Again, I had bought the last ticket available so I was sitting in the north tower, right round by the stage, two balconies up on the stage left side. It was the ideal spot because it allowed me to see the entire space and suck up the pleasure of being there.<br /><br />Michelle had told me that she loves walking in old London on the brick streets because it is so easy to imagine others on those streets hundreds of years before. The Globe is like that. I was transported by watching the people and imagining the past. Although Michelle has never been to the Globe without being rained on, the sky was a beautiful clear blue that gradually darkened to provide fitting ambience for the production.<br /><br />I stayed in my seat for the first half (more like the first two-thirds at almost two hours!) and went down to the pit after the interval to experience life as a commoner and to be closer to the stage. That is a plan I'd recommend for the full Globe experience.<br /><br />The acting was superb once more and David Calder was a marvelous Lear. It is hard for me to know whether my response to the show was the result of the excellent production or the whole experience. Whatever the reason, I was enthralled, delighted, and moved.<br /><br />As I walked across the Thames from the Southbank, watching the lights glittering on the water, listening to the animated voices of those around me, and reliving the nuances of my evening, I was again grateful for this opportunity.<br /><br />And I still had four more days!Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-81979616826251409922008-08-20T22:09:00.000-07:002008-08-20T23:12:51.592-07:00London Life Part II: Two Different Days, Two Different PlaysApologies that it has been so long since installment one. I'm sure the faithful have been checking regularly, bitterly disappointed not to find more excruciating detail about a trip they didn't get to take. Hmmm.... Well, maybe no one is disappointed in my tardiness except me. Nonetheless, I will continue.<br /><br />The one dark period in my delightful Sunday occurred when I attempted to do some specific planning and discovered that most of the shows I most wanted to see were sold out. Since there are so many shows in London, this eventuality had not occurred to me. I couldn't get complete box office access on Sunday so Monday morning I scrambled to buy tickets, energized by the fear of being forced to see nothing but big flashy musicals. Nothing against muscials (well, maybe a little something) but I went to London to see straight theatre and especially new plays. I was temporarily terrified that the trip would be a mere shadow of my dreams.<br /><br />I managed to buy the last ticket to a production of <em>Street Scene</em> at the Young Vic. Those who know theatre are saying "but that's not a <em>new</em> show! and it's a <em>musical</em>!" True enough, but it's Kurt Weill not Rogers and Hammerstein (or worse, Andrew Lloyd Webber) and as a rarely-produced piece of history, I thought it would have something interesting to offer. Michelle decided to come along and see if she could nab one of the "returns" tickets that come available about an hour before showtime.<br /><br />The production was <em>quite</em> interesting. Entirely sung, it featured a cast of about 30 including many children, an orchestra of 25, and a choir of 40 that sings in only two places. Michelle and I determined it could not possibly be entirely professional, but it was fun to see a show of such scope, and the thrust staging worked really well. All in all, worth seeing but not stunning.<br /><br />The most memorable part of the evening occurred before the show. Michelle and I arrived at the theatre around 6 for a 7:30 curtain to stand in line in hopes that she would get a ticket. As we hadn't eaten, Michelle scoped out the area for food and reported back that there were a couple curry shops on the street but curry wasn't likely a good idea for eating-while-in-a-queue. I agreed but as I had eaten curry while standing in line for a show at Magnetic North and had gotten in, I suggested curry might have good karma attached. (Theatre people are very superstitious, you know. Besides, I love curry.)<br /><br />Michelle trudged off and returned with steaming containers and lots of extras (since she had charmed the curry seller with her lovely Canadian accent). Shortly after we couldn't resist digging in, she got her ticket. Then we discovered we would need to stand in another line as the theatre had rush seating. The second line was inside a restaurant directly and openly attached to the Young Vic lobby. We checked with a security guy to determine whether it was okay to eat curry in line and aside from wishing he could join us, he said it would be no problem. We stood in line eating our delicious curries and joking with the people around us about our apparent elevation of queing fare ("all I have is a sandwich!"). I decided it was a photo opportunity.<br /><br />My curry was very hot so I set it down on the edge of the bar behind me while I snapped a couple pics of Michelle eating hers. It took only a couple moments while our new friends in line laughed with us. I turned to retrieve my curry from the bar and it was gone. Aghast, I asked the bartender if it was possible to retrieve it. "No. It's in the bin," he said. No apology. Unrepentant. It was then that I realized he had done it on purpose. The curry was too hot to hold and almost full. He could see us taking pictures. He was just being a jerk.<br /><br />So please, anyone reading this, don't eat at The Cut, next to the Young Vic, on The Cut, in London. We talked to our friendly security guard at the interval (intermission to those needing translation) and he said the restaurant is not technically part of the theatre. He and all others at the Young Vic were great but that experience will always colour my impression of the evening.<br /><br />The next day, I set out into town on my own to try to get a feel for the place and to see if I could get tickets to <em>The Chalk Garden</em>, another show that was sold out. I went to the Donmar Warehouse to enquire about returns. While the website said to arrive at 6:30, Chris, the charming Scot behind the box office, said people had been arriving as early as 4:30 or 5 the last couple days in hopes of nabbing one of limited "we have up to four on a good day" tickets.<br /><br />I knew the notices (translation: reviews) were good enough that I wanted to see the show. I determined to return.<br /><br />The only unpleasant time I had in London was the few hours following when I wandered around central London trying to get my bearings. I have an excellent sense of direction and I rarely have any trouble finding my way around a new city. London was different. With all these short, narrow lanes, winding in every direction, and no potential to see landmarks that might help me know which way was which, I got very disoriented. And because it is normally easy for me, I found it quite unsettling. I walked around muttering in a whiney voice: "This isn't fun. This is supposed to be fun." I wasn't lost, but I didn't know where I was. I don't like that.<br /><br />I returned to the Donmar just before 4. Chris agreed to let me sit on the curb rather than stand inside the adjacent mall where the official queue would form. I sat and watched the buzz and took pictures and looked at my map and thought about where I was and eventually I began to feel grounded and centred and calm and no longer lost. It was a gift. That whole "be still" thing worked for me in a way I didn't expect. Around 5:15, another woman came and I moved inside.<br /><br />To make a long story slightly shorter, Michelle arrived around 6, we got one ticket around 6:15 and another around 6:30, raced out to grab something to eat, and saw the show. It was fantastic! I wanted to see <em>The Chalk Garden</em> because I've known the play for a very long time, assigned scenes from it in my acting classes, and considered producing it. but I've always thought it was rather dated so I wanted to see how it would come off in a production that was so highly regarded. I still don't know that I will ever direct it because the production was magnificent and the acting flawless. Besides which, the show is very English, filled with Wildean humour and references to the aristocracy that play in that country much better than they ever could in the provinces. I'm not sure I'll ever queue for almost four hours for another show but we were very glad I did for this one.<br /><br />My intention at the beginning of this post was to write about the next three shows as well. But once again, the entry is detailed and the nature of the blogbeast is that these are supposed to be short. Sigh. Maybe I'll work my way up....Last entry - one show. This entry - two shows. Next entry - three shows.<br /><br />I think I can do that. Check back to find out.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-67889936948027377422008-08-09T08:51:00.000-07:002008-08-09T10:40:54.977-07:00London Life Part I: Food and FriendsA couple weeks ago I took a trip to London to see theatre. I had every intention of writing blog entries regularly, possibly even while away. I didn't.<br /><br />I finally figured out why (aside from the usual life is busy/stuff happens reasons). The trip itself was overwhelming and the idea of attempting to capture it in a few pithy sentences in a single brief essay was even moreso.<br /><br />Therefore, I have decided to report on my London trip in installments, partly so that I can give you a better sense of my adventures and partly so I can face writing this blog. It might be more information than many of you desire but this was one of those "trips of a lifetime" and I want to remember it in detail.<br /><br />Before last month, I had never been to London. Or anywhere else in England. Or the UK. Or Europe. Or... In fact, I had never flown across the Atlantic. I've been through a lot of the U.S., to Mexico, Venezuela, Jamaica and Cuba. And I have been across Canada many times (though I have yet to visit Newfoundland - that's on my list.) So this was a big trip for me.<br /><br />I returned from my family vacation in Nova Scotia on Wednesday, July 16 and on Friday, July 18 I left for London. By myself. I wouldn't necessarily choose to have such a quick turnaround but the trip was planned to coordinate with the schedules of my friends Michelle and Dave who are in London housesitting for most of the summer and had invited me to stay with them for part of my trip. They are social butterflies who lived in London for more than six years and attracted an extravagant number of friends. There was one week when they could accommodate a houseguest and Michelle would have time to come see plays. I didn't want to miss it.<br /><br />The flight to London from Vancouver is through the night and with the eight hour time difference I arrived around 11 am Saturday (3 am Vancouver time). The flight on British Airways was great - made me long for the bygone days of full-service airlines. With the good food, movies, occasional naps and lots of adrenalin, I arrived feeling quite perky. After a short tube ride I was with Michelle in Chiswick, a posh borough in West London.<br /><br />The house we stayed in was amazing. Worth millions, it was large even by North American standards, set on a beautiful property with a separate garage with games room; front, side ,and rear yards; a beautiful patio; and a hot tub. The house itself was stunning; a brick Victorian three story with all the modern amenities. I think I might have met my dream kitchen - large gas range with side grill; two ovens; enormous subzero fridge; adjacent family room; eating area to seat 10 with French doors onto the patio; heated slate floors... Fabulous.<br /><br />As we were walking to the house from the tube station, Michelle pointed in the direction of "ArtsEd" the grad school where she had studied acting while they lived in London. "There's a matinee the Masters students are doing this afternoon, if you're up to it," she said. She was only half serious but she was also curious to see what this year's grads were up to. And I can hardly resist a challenge, especially one that involves theatre. So after I settled in and had a snack, we headed out.<br /><br />The play was a modern adaptation of The Bacchae entitled <em>The Disorderly Women. </em>That I was willing to see a Greek tragedy when I had been up for more than 24 hours testifies to my insanity or my dedication to theatre or both. The production had its strengths but the best things about it were getting to see where Michelle had gone to school and meeting one of her acting instructors who happened to be in the audience.<br /><br />That evening, after putting their darling twins ("we're five now!") to bed, the social butterflies had a party (ostensibly for Dave's upcoming birthday, though I suspect it was primarily a reason to get together with their friends and eat chocolate). Those who do not know Michelle will want to after the following description. Chocoholics, sit down.<br /><br />Michelle made chocolate desserts for the party. I will attempt to recall all of them: amaretto chocolate cheesecake; chocolate marzipan pots de creme; mango white chocolate parfaits; chocolate strawberry trifle; fatfree chocolate banana cake; chocolate meringues; chocolate meringue summer berry pavlova; chocolate bread and butter pudding made with croissants; chocolate raspberry torte; and chocolate "shots" - a concoction with secret ingredients that was much like drinking a flavourful chocolate fudge sauce. I might have forgotten something, but you get the idea.<br /><br />There were only a dozen people at the party.<br /><br />Understandably, the party needed to go late in order for the guests to have an opportunity to use the hot tub and make several trips to the dessert table (which was in the large formal dining room, not the aforementioned 'kitchen nook'.) I headed to bed around midnight and I think the party actually wrapped around 3 am. Welcome to London.<br /><br />The next day was a typical Dave and Michelle whirl. We met several of the same people and some others at a neighbourhood greasy spoon for a "Full English" breakfast. I passed on the blood pudding and beans but I did try the famous English sausages and eat some eggs and tomatoes (be sure to pronounce that correctly as you read). After brunch, some of Michelle's friends from acting school came over. Then we went to church.<br /><br />Dave and Michelle's primary sense of loss in moving back to Canada is that they miss their London church. I understand why. A church plant intended to reach out to non-churchy types in the borough of Acton, it meets in a Church of England high school at 4:30 on Sunday afternoons. The service I went to was quite atypical (a full-immersion baptism in an Anglican church? what?) but I could see why they love it so much. The congregation was young, vibrant and friendly and the service unconventional without being entirely wacky. The vicar and his wife are lovely, unpretentious people (I met them at the party the night before) and the entire atmosphere is warm and welcoming.<br /><br />It was Dave's turn to go out to the pub for dinner afterwards so Michelle and I headed home to put the girls to bed and, you guessed it, have guests over to visit. (And they have more than two months of this sort of schedule!)<br /><br />So my first two days in London involved one show, one church service, and lots of visiting. I was aware that the generosity of my friends meant my experience was completely different, more like a local than a tourist, and in many ways much richer, than it would have been if I was on my own. Thank you Dave and Michelle.<br /><br />Next installment: let the playgoing begin!Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-90909379409619757542008-08-02T07:06:00.000-07:002008-08-02T07:49:20.551-07:00True ConfessionsWell, I'm afraid it has happened. I went for three entire weeks without seeing a show.<br /><br />In my last post (more than a month ago!) I said that I was planning to see an outdoor production of <em>Our Town</em> while vacationing in Nova Scotia. Well, I almost did. One day when we were out exploring, we drove to the remote arts-centre/farm where the production was to take place to find out how the whole thing would work. I discovered that the show was selling well so I should buy tickets ahead, that the location was farther away from our summer home than expected (a full hour and a half), and that the decision to cancel a show due to inclement weather (which they defined as downpour, not merely rain) would be made 20 minutes before showtime.<br /><br />Suddenly, going to theatre seemed a lot more like work than play. And work is exactly what one is not supposed to do on a holiday. So I decided to pass.<br /><br />We had a marvelous time in Nova Scotia. We walked down to the Bay almost every day. We ate scallops. We gorged ourselves on local strawberries. We visited with neighbours. We drove to the "South Shore" where the Atlantic is cold and fierce, playing in the waves with our boogie boards, numb and giggling. We spent a day wandering around Halifax, our one city experience. We drove up "Digby Neck", a thin piece of land that stretches up the coast, topped by two tiny islands connected only by ferry. Off the coast of the second (Brier Island) is a colony of Sea Lions and we sat in the sunshine watching and listening to their primal laziness for at least an hour. We went shopping at the best thrift stores in the universe, the humourously-named Guy's Frenchies. We played croquet on the lawn and read on the verandah. We had a holiday.<br /><br />One of the most memorable events every year is Canada Day. Though the village is tiny they take the national celebration seriously and we see more people on July 1 than at any other time. Among the activities are a parade that goes from the shore up the hill past our house to the firehall, the smallest and happiest parade you will ever see, followed by an award presentation and ice cream. The best part is the evening. All day long, men drive down the hill with flat trailors full of wood scraps which they place in a carefully constructed pile on the rocks at the shore. When completed, the tower is easily 14 feet in diameter and at least 10 feet high.<br /><br />Around 8:30, the wood is ignited and everyone gathers at the shore to watch the bonfire against the backdrop of the Bay. There are smaller fires around the large one, used to roast weiners and marshmallows on the carefully whittled treebranches that have been prepared. My kids always think that those are the best hot dogs they ever have and I am sure it's true. The atmosphere is vibrant and festive and as the tide climbs closer to the fire, the sun sinks lower into the water.<br /><br />At sunset, everyone moves up off the rock onto the freshly-mowed field behind to watch the fireworks. We sit on the grass facing the Bay surrounded by approximately 150 others and watch a couple local guys send magic into the sky from their post beside the fire engine. I've seen some spectacular fireworks in my life but even the international competitions can't seem to compare. The excitement and appreciation, coupled with the stunning backdrop and the sound of the incoming tide, make these my very favourite fireworks. When they are over, the crowd applauds and cheers and people make their way home or traipse back down to the rock to watch the tide eat the remains of the fire.<br /><br />I think I need to correct my initial comment. I did see a show during my time in Nova Scotia, an intimate show with heart, anticipation, beauty and impact. My favourite sort of theatre.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7329865056314440094.post-80532081924196603642008-06-26T06:05:00.000-07:002008-06-26T07:07:59.184-07:00There's more to life than theatreThis will be my last entry for a while as my family and I leave today for a vacation in rural Nova Scotia. We try to go every summer to a tiny fishing village on the Bay of Fundy where our big excitement is watching the tide come in and playing in the brook behind the house. The house itself is more than 100 years old, filled with memories of my father as a boy, a place I visited often in my childhood. The wood stove that my grandmother used is still in the sunny yellow kitchen but it is merely a countertop now. The hammock in the yard is gone, but the trees that held it remain, even taller than when I was a girl. And you can still see the Bay from the verandah and watch the sun slip silently into the water at the end of the day.<br /><br />So far away from the bustle of the city, the village does not have a single store (though it does have three churches). Our house has no television, no internet, no phone. We can't get cell reception until we drive a few miles away from the shore, over the "north mountain" towards the Annapolis Valley. Like all great vacation spots, it's very not here.<br /><br />I <em>am</em> planning to see some theatre while I'm there. A company called Two Planks and a Passion is doing an outdoor production of <em>Our Town</em>, which was once the most-produced play in the world. It might still be. Groundbreaking and filled with wit and wisdom, <em>Our Town</em> deserves its place in American theatre history and on the playbills of high school and college drama programs around the world. It also deserves a place at professional theatres but the large cast prohibits frequent presentation so I'm looking forward to this one.<br /><br />This past week I saw four shows, a big step down from my Magnetic North frenzy. Two were small musicals with big heart, one was almost pure spectacle, and one was simplicity itself. For pure spectacle, nothing beats Cirque de Soleil, a company whose artistry, athleticism, and aesthetic brilliance can't fail to inspire and delight. I was struck in the performance by the sense of awe that filled that big tent and it was hard for me to imagine someone not believing in God after witnessing such ingenuity.<br /><br />The simple show was the Pulitzer-prize winning <em>Proof</em>, produced by Pacific Theatre's current acting apprentice, TWU grad Becky Branscom, who also starred as Catherine. It was stripped-down theatre with only a few chairs, evocative music, and stark lighting (designed by TWU grad Lois Dawson) to create the experience.<br /><br />Except that's not true at all because story rules this show. I have often said that the only element without which theatre could not exist is actors. This production proved my thesis. This is an actors' piece and the actors in this production shine, bringing the humanity of the characters to the surface. Jackie Faulkner is another TWU grad in the show, playing Catherine's sister Claire. This production is a tribute to their talents and Becky's determination and I'm very proud of them. I'm also pleased TWU has included <em>Proof </em>in its 2008/09 season as its truths about relationships, pain, and healing have much to offer our audience as well.<br /><br />Thornton Wilder's theme in <em>Our Town</em> is an admonition to pay attention to your life, to see the beauty in the simplest of moments. We might think that the mundane activities of our lives are unimportant but he reminds us that each "normal" day is a precious gift, filled with a significance that might not be understood this side of eternity. As I play on the shore with my kids, I will be doing all I can to follow Wilder's advice to live life "every, every minute". I suggest you do the same.Angela Konradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17956312673321229606noreply@blogger.com1