This extraordinary performance had the audience enthralled and not a cough was to be heard for the full eighty minutes. It took me a minute or two to adapt to the tale, the language and the delivery but after this cognitive effort my concentration was engaged. Aoife Duffin's monologue takes us through the life of a girl from being a bump in her mother, through her sexual abuse at thirteen by an uncle to her eventual (we presume suicidal) drowning.
The setting is rural and very Catholic Ireland, full of double standards, guilt and accusation. The text is a near stream of consciousness but much easier to follow than a true stream might be. The delivery is relentless and at the end I felt exhausted. Goodness knows what Aoife Duffin must feel or how she accomplishes the task of remembering and delivering her lines.
All in all, this was an amazing evocation of the claustrophobia of rural family life, delivered with precision and plausibility.
Friday, 11 March 2016
Thursday, 10 March 2016
8 March 2016. Escaped Alone at the Royal Court
I thought this was an excellent fifty minutes. The clever direction by James Macdonald was thoroughly engaging with its interleafing of the four ladies sat together and the monologues by Mrs Jarrett. The words had me in full concentration, even though it mixed a plausible plot (the lady who had killed her husband and spent six years in jail) with Mrs Jarrett's near-fantasy.
Like Beckett and Pinter, the text took on a semi-abstract quality whereby the beauty of the words themselves became the point of the play. Somehow, it mixed the bleak with moments that were funny and it is something I would happily see again.
Like Beckett and Pinter, the text took on a semi-abstract quality whereby the beauty of the words themselves became the point of the play. Somehow, it mixed the bleak with moments that were funny and it is something I would happily see again.
Sunday, 6 March 2016
5 March 2016. The Encounter at the Barbican
This is the extraordinary tale of Loren McIntyre, a National Geographic photographer, who gets lost in the Amazon while seeking to photograph the Mayoruna tribe. He lives with them until a great flood takes him downriver on a raft back to 'civilization'.
During his time with the tribe, McIntyre has to communicate without language until he comes across Cambio whose family had been killed by Portuguese explorers and who had ended up with the radio operator - hence the name. He has experiences that are never made entirely clear as to whether they are real or hallucination - for example one of the tribe tricks him into going on a Jaguar hunt, only to abandon him as he falls into a thorn bush, his wounds subsequently becoming infected by flesh eating maggots. Luckily he is found and cured and the man who tricked him is seen dead, himself being eaten by insects.
All in all, I did not know quite what to make of it. We seem to be presented with some sort of profound truths that the Mayoruna are privy to. For example, the need to burn all your possessions from time time in order to move on (an idea I could relate to and which reminded me of an installation in london in which the artist chopped up all his belongings) and the idea that there is some sort of alternative concept of time that can exist in parallel to our linear concept. But we are all born; then live; then die.
I was also not entirely sure of the role of Simon McBurney who narrated the story. There were two massive teleprompts suspended from the balcony to help him and a lot of technical wizardry that he demonstrated at the outset. However, for me this had the effect of blurring how much he was doing on the night and how much was recorded and inserted by his assistants. It led me to ponder how much we needed night after night performances - what the live performance added.
Although well received by the critics, The Guardian's Michael Billington also questioned the hippie proposition that the tribe is the keeper of eternal truths to which our civilization has denied us access. I also could not entirely see the point of the intrusion of McBurney's cute daughter from time to time during the story-telling. Were we in the theatre or was he recounting something that had taken place in his house? On re-listening via a podcast, I began to find the whole think a bit irritating unfortunately.
During his time with the tribe, McIntyre has to communicate without language until he comes across Cambio whose family had been killed by Portuguese explorers and who had ended up with the radio operator - hence the name. He has experiences that are never made entirely clear as to whether they are real or hallucination - for example one of the tribe tricks him into going on a Jaguar hunt, only to abandon him as he falls into a thorn bush, his wounds subsequently becoming infected by flesh eating maggots. Luckily he is found and cured and the man who tricked him is seen dead, himself being eaten by insects.
All in all, I did not know quite what to make of it. We seem to be presented with some sort of profound truths that the Mayoruna are privy to. For example, the need to burn all your possessions from time time in order to move on (an idea I could relate to and which reminded me of an installation in london in which the artist chopped up all his belongings) and the idea that there is some sort of alternative concept of time that can exist in parallel to our linear concept. But we are all born; then live; then die.
I was also not entirely sure of the role of Simon McBurney who narrated the story. There were two massive teleprompts suspended from the balcony to help him and a lot of technical wizardry that he demonstrated at the outset. However, for me this had the effect of blurring how much he was doing on the night and how much was recorded and inserted by his assistants. It led me to ponder how much we needed night after night performances - what the live performance added.
Although well received by the critics, The Guardian's Michael Billington also questioned the hippie proposition that the tribe is the keeper of eternal truths to which our civilization has denied us access. I also could not entirely see the point of the intrusion of McBurney's cute daughter from time to time during the story-telling. Were we in the theatre or was he recounting something that had taken place in his house? On re-listening via a podcast, I began to find the whole think a bit irritating unfortunately.
3 March 2016. Bill Viola at Yorkshire Sculpture Park
YSP is hosting an extraordinary set of films by Bill Viola, The underground gallery has a series of films that seem variations on a theme of one or a small group emerging from a grainy background to pass through a waterfall into full focused colour - before retreating to again be hazy black and white outlines. There is no real need for the guidebook to twig that Viola is here portraying the boundary between life and death and pondering on the existential.
The gallery also houses The Trial, in which a couple on separate screens are showered with a tar coloured liquid, followed by blood and finally clear water. Another pairing is the aged and naked man and woman on separate screens who examine themselves intensely with torches for some twenty minutes. Entitled Man searching for immortality / Woman searching for eternity, it is an intense piece that confronts us with old age and impending death.
More enigmatic is The Dreamers, with seven characters, each on their own screen, covered peacefully by water. They lie there, eyes closed, with an air of serenity. The Veiling has layers of thin cloth with projectors at either end. I found it the most difficult of the pieces - simply to see what was going on.
On the other hand, Night vigil was much clearer. One of three pieces inspired by a production of Tritan and Isolde to which viola contributed, it is a diptych with, on one screen, a woman lighting memorial candles and on the other, a man emerging. As she lights the final candle on her screen, he fully emerges and passes through a bonfire on his screen.
The other two films of this Tristan and Isolde trio were shown at the Chapel, one after the other. With the contrast of Fire and Water, Fire Woman has a woman silhoueted against an enormous raging fire before falling backwards into a lake. Gradually the lake moves up the screen until it has taken over. The second film, Tristan's Ascension, starts with him lying on a slab before water starts falling. Slowly it increases in intensity until it become a torrent of water and bubbles, sufficient to float him into the vertical and ascend him to disappear at the top of the screen. These were two films of almost hypnotic quality that I would happily have watched again and again.
The gallery also houses The Trial, in which a couple on separate screens are showered with a tar coloured liquid, followed by blood and finally clear water. Another pairing is the aged and naked man and woman on separate screens who examine themselves intensely with torches for some twenty minutes. Entitled Man searching for immortality / Woman searching for eternity, it is an intense piece that confronts us with old age and impending death.
More enigmatic is The Dreamers, with seven characters, each on their own screen, covered peacefully by water. They lie there, eyes closed, with an air of serenity. The Veiling has layers of thin cloth with projectors at either end. I found it the most difficult of the pieces - simply to see what was going on.
On the other hand, Night vigil was much clearer. One of three pieces inspired by a production of Tritan and Isolde to which viola contributed, it is a diptych with, on one screen, a woman lighting memorial candles and on the other, a man emerging. As she lights the final candle on her screen, he fully emerges and passes through a bonfire on his screen.
The other two films of this Tristan and Isolde trio were shown at the Chapel, one after the other. With the contrast of Fire and Water, Fire Woman has a woman silhoueted against an enormous raging fire before falling backwards into a lake. Gradually the lake moves up the screen until it has taken over. The second film, Tristan's Ascension, starts with him lying on a slab before water starts falling. Slowly it increases in intensity until it become a torrent of water and bubbles, sufficient to float him into the vertical and ascend him to disappear at the top of the screen. These were two films of almost hypnotic quality that I would happily have watched again and again.
1 March 2016. Cleansed at the National Theatre.
We were warned of explicit physical and sexual violence at the door but I, at least, got more than I bargained for. This is an extraordinary piece of theatre which must make enormous demands on the actors, particularly the lead role taken by Michelle Terry.
Written by Sarah Kane, a clearly troubled person who committed suicide the year after writing it in 1999, it is a somewhat perplexing piece. Maybe this was exaggerated by Katie Mitchell's direction. At the end, the man sitting next to me commented to the effect of 'what the fuck was that about?' and I must admit the same thought was in my mind at the time. However, it is the sort of play that sticks in one's mind and after a few days the personal essence of it becomes clearer.
We are in a total institution. It is well conveyed with paint peeling off the walls and little natural light and the sounding of a bell to cue actions by the operatives. They are masked and seem to be in the business of cleansing people who do not fit the regime - gays for example. The lead role - Grace - has come to find out about the fate of her brother who is eliminated early on in the play. Subsequently we have rapes, homosexuality and masturbation in front of a caged dancer who performs as money is put in the slot machine. We also have the graphic removal of body parts much to the delight of the rats who make off with them. Every so often a squeeling rat is shot by one of the guards. One of the gays commits suicide; and so on.
At the end Grace has been given the penis of one of the gay couple - Carl and I'm tempted to say we all live happily ever after. The cage girl emerges to declare love for Tinker, the 'commandant', who kisses her and shoots her.
It is a perplexing piece. Sold out and walked out, it is a production that divides audiences and critics who range from two stars in the Observer to five stars in the FT.
Personally, I cannot see this is a great play or even a good one. It seems to be in the shock genre, without leaving us clear what we are meant to be shocked into or out of. However, it is undeniably an extraordinary event, to which thank goodness hapless tourists will not have been able to buy tickets on the off chance.
Written by Sarah Kane, a clearly troubled person who committed suicide the year after writing it in 1999, it is a somewhat perplexing piece. Maybe this was exaggerated by Katie Mitchell's direction. At the end, the man sitting next to me commented to the effect of 'what the fuck was that about?' and I must admit the same thought was in my mind at the time. However, it is the sort of play that sticks in one's mind and after a few days the personal essence of it becomes clearer.
We are in a total institution. It is well conveyed with paint peeling off the walls and little natural light and the sounding of a bell to cue actions by the operatives. They are masked and seem to be in the business of cleansing people who do not fit the regime - gays for example. The lead role - Grace - has come to find out about the fate of her brother who is eliminated early on in the play. Subsequently we have rapes, homosexuality and masturbation in front of a caged dancer who performs as money is put in the slot machine. We also have the graphic removal of body parts much to the delight of the rats who make off with them. Every so often a squeeling rat is shot by one of the guards. One of the gays commits suicide; and so on.
At the end Grace has been given the penis of one of the gay couple - Carl and I'm tempted to say we all live happily ever after. The cage girl emerges to declare love for Tinker, the 'commandant', who kisses her and shoots her.
It is a perplexing piece. Sold out and walked out, it is a production that divides audiences and critics who range from two stars in the Observer to five stars in the FT.
Personally, I cannot see this is a great play or even a good one. It seems to be in the shock genre, without leaving us clear what we are meant to be shocked into or out of. However, it is undeniably an extraordinary event, to which thank goodness hapless tourists will not have been able to buy tickets on the off chance.
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