Author Archives: Charlotte Smith

New International Encounter / Ira Brand: Tales from a Sea Journey ¦ Photo Jiri Jelinek

New International Encounter / Ira Brand: Tales from a Sea Journey / Keine Angst

New International Encounter / Ira Brand: Tales from a Sea Journey ¦ Photo Jiri Jelinek

From the tip of Iceland, looking south, there is only ocean between you and Antarctica. Unless, of course, a container ship with New International Encounter (NIE) happens to be in your sight line.

The company developed Tales from a Sea Journey on a ten-day trip from Le Havre, France to the Caribbean island of Guadeloupe. (They then spent some time on the beach, had a few drinks, and caught a nine-hour flight back.)

This becomes a framing device – initially rather obvious, but subtler at the end – for three sea tales that develop concurrently. There’s Ella, a Norwegian fisherwoman who cheats death only once. The Danish teacher, Elizabeth Flensburg, who wrenches over her maths textbooks in the late nineteenth century, but still falls for a leather-clad stranger. And the cack-handed Second World War naval officer, Captain Mathieson, who shoots his dog, ignites his boat and drifts to Java.

NIE live up to their name, with humour and conviction. Narration in Norwegian is comically translated. The show was developed with Sjon, lyricist for Bjork. The captain resists and obeys onstage instructions, hallucinating with ease and leaving girls in stitches. His three-part puppet of a dog fails to die with comic aplomb. The final a capella song by three women, after another has gone missing, is gently haunting.

However, overall, Tales from a Sea Journey feels less edgy or moving than some of the company’s other work. It’s not entirely clear which age group it’s aimed at, and the stories are perhaps slightly safe.

Fear is the subject of Keine Angst by Ira Brand, later the same evening. But despite several espressos, a heart-rate monitor and a manic routine to simulate the ‘fight or flight’ response, the piece fails to convey it.

Her lists of phobias can be monotone, the design is monochrome. She speaks of ‘a form of synaesthesia’, but reels off only smells. There are some nice visual touches (hand shadow puppetry), glimpses of humour (dangerous driving) and honesty about breaking up with her boyfriend. However, the one-woman format becomes relentless, the piece feels contrived, and it falls flat.

www.nie-theatre.com / www.irabrand.co.uk

Kazuko Hohki: Incontinental ¦ Photo: Alex Brenner

Kazuko Hohki: Incontinental

Kazuko Hohki: Incontinental ¦ Photo: Alex Brenner

Lancaster bombers, audience aerobics, an outsize white feather boa, swirling planets and Japanese bedside tales are all part of Incontinental. But there’s no escaping that this is a play about faecal incontinence.

Kazuko Hohki describes how it was born in the subsidised cappuccino surroundings of the Wellcome Trust. The onstage presence, patience and fluency of Alastair Forbes, professor of gastroenterology and clinical nutrition at University College Hospital, helps make the piece careful and coherent.

In tandem, Lewis Barfoot and Colin Carmichael revel in cabaret. A ‘disco dysentery’ number takes us through conditions from ulcerative colitis to short bowel syndrome. Incontinental Airlines welcome us aboard an aircraft with two toilets at the front, two in the middle and sixteen at the back, with their own irrigation system.

The real-life story of ‘Minimouse’ is perhaps the most poignant. In her mid-twenties, she is suddenly left doubly incontinent after a difficult childbirth. Messages from an online forum show her struggling with shopping, Christmas, the in-laws and the health system.

The detail of the show is impressive. There’s the city commuter who counts steps between public conveniences on his way to work, anatomical precision, and the facts that speak for themselves. About 1% of adults in the UK have faecal incontinence, and one-third of all people over 65 have problems with bowel control at least once a year. Women are disproportionately affected, denial is rife and forced anal sex can even be a factor.

This is all rich material. The subject matter of bowel and bladder just seems to bring out more panache and pizazz from the performers. Lewis in particular has a fine voice (occasionally over-miked), but both she and Colin swing effortlessly between song, dance and subtle character acting with star quality. And if you were wondering how the ensemble holds together, catch Prof Forbes on the flute.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, there are embarrassing moments. The swirling dance with loo roll became a pretentious parody of an Andrex advert. And of course, you may just not want to connect with the arts/science divide, the Second World War spoof or the anal sphincter itself of a Thursday evening. But overallIncontinental is a gutsy and gentle piece of theatre. Surprisingly uplifting.

www.kazukohohki.com

Baccala Clowns: Pss Pss

Baccala Clowns: Pss Pss

Baccala Clowns: Pss Pss

These two clowns can’t even reach their own trapeze, so they end up playing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star on a stepladder. The different sized pipes from the rungs of the ladder make for an unusual triangular rendition.

Baccala Clowns also enlist an audience member to balance on, without it being clear whether or not he’s a plant. If not, it’s a real risk – supposing he has weak knees or shoulders? – and they also flout health and safety by moving the ladder over the audience’s heads. If so, it’s still an engaging ploy. And they certainly coax the audience into group hugs.

The stepladder moment is not the only one that suggests that a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for… Camilla Pessi and Simone Fassari also play with an apple and banana, striving for a mouthful, with the man stuck in a gaping loop, unable to take a bite. Their lopsided hugs – with the woman absorbed but the man bored – also suggest mismatched dreams. So although Pss Pss is billed as suitable for age five upwards, it has some adult nuance too.

The bemused couple tread lightly, with physical skill. They are distinctive characters, even when swinging on the trapeze, perhaps particularly the shockheaded woman. The show plays a lot with the teasing symmetry of bodies, mirrored, angular, upside down and back to front. Depth and dexterity, you could say.

The design is sharp – for example lime and red colours in the costume match that of the accordion. Layers are used to great effect, with a comic mini-frock for curtseying, and a big gash of fabric hanging provocatively at another point.

Pss Pss does have a few lulls. It works within familiar European traditions, so is perhaps only gently innovative, although highly skilled. However, it is difficult to harden the heart against such a teasingly uplifting performance.

www.ibaccalaclown.com

Ontroerend Goed: Audience: Photo: Reinout Hiel

Ontroerend Goed: Audience

Ontroerend Goed: Audience: Photo: Reinout Hiel

On the way into the theatre, there’s a slight traffic jam as people hang up their coats and bags. I’m gently moved on, and decide to keep my things. Once installed, this is suddenly a relief. My coat – yes, the one from the M&S Outlet in Stevenage – and my bag – yes, the Karrimor rucksack with a Christmas present, sponge bag, mobile, money. They’re here, right here, cluttering my legroom, with me.

The muffled memory is of the Audience controversy in Edinburgh. I’d heard that Ontroerend Goed rifle through the audience’s things. The clothes rails are rolled backstage as we are eased into our role as audience. Later, random coats are paraded in a fashion show, with satirical commentary about our trends. Bags, supposedly belonging to audience members, are emptied and we look at lip gloss, condoms etc.

The kernel of the show is no longer a secret, which creates an artistic dilemma. The key moment in which a young woman is bullied, told to spread her legs, falls flat. Four people stand up to protest too quickly. One woman is very assertive, another sings and swears. The performer retains a soft, manipulative tone, making only a stray comment about ‘London’, but the rawness of the first few performances seems lost.

Audience remains a filmic journey. The camera lingers on the rows of people, skilfully focusing on hands, hair, with the cameraman a small shadow juxtaposed against the projection. Our clapping practice is brilliantly spliced into a different scene later. Footage of popular protest creates both emotion and disquiet.

Political, sexual and media exploitation is a recurring theme. It’s blatant at times, but questioning. We are left to draw parallels between the social conventions of audience participation, political messages and the aggressive lyrics of rap songs. Even if a critical mass seems to know about the show, there’s still room for intended and unintended irony. The young women who get up and dance (wiggle provocatively) – are they really having a good time? Is it OK if they say so?

Audience is a valid, coherent piece of theatre. It has vivid moments but also what now feels like puff – dead air between scenes that suffer from overexposure. Once the trick is in the public domain, it won’t be a surprise. So despite some electricity, it becomes a tall order, something of a damp squib.

www.ontroerendgoed.be

Chris Goode and Company: The Adventures of Wound Man and Shirley

Chris Goode and Company: The Adventures of Wound Man and Shirley

Chris Goode and Company: The Adventures of Wound Man and Shirley

The Adventures of Wound Man and Shirley, Chris Goode and Company, Battersea Arts Centre, December 2nd 2011

Wound Man is a modern-day superhero. Not too 1970s, although he does land in a suburban neighbourhood in a silver thong. Instead, he mumbles about ‘consultancy’, ‘community’, ‘sustainable engagement’, ‘empowering other people’ – that sort of thing. Gently upper class, self-deprecating, rather charming.

Wound Man (in case you were wondering how it’s pronounced, thinking of wind-up bird chronicles…) has so many weapons sticking out of him that he looks like a cross between Bill Murray and a Swiss army knife. We’re talking pain. It’s never quite clear but he seems to save others by taking the blows himself.

Chris Goode has based the character around a woodcut in a medieval surgical textbook, Hans von Gersdorff’s ‘Feldbuch der Wundartzney’. The fourteen year-old who he’s come to save is Shirley Gedanken (whose surname means ‘thoughts’ in German). So there’s some intellectual scaffolding. Internet research shows both characters also started tweeting during the show’s Edinburgh run. But I digress.

The hapless Shirley has fallen hopelessly in love with the school cross-country champion, Subway Darling (whose name evokes Petula Clark and Germolene, we’re told). So much so that Shirley takes up running, and nearly blows up his lungs. Slicing 30 seconds off his cross-country time, he finally gets back to see what ‘the one’ looks like when tying his shoelaces (the more steamy shower scene in the changing room eludes him, however…).

The writing is strong but not immune from sentimentality in a coming-of-age monologue. We have the cheese and pineapple cocktail sticks of a children’s birthday party, the glow-in-the-dark stickers that don’t glow and the twitchy-curtain cul-de-sac shaped like a hockey stick. The indie soundtrack can be oddly jarring – perhaps intentionally – the props bag fringe familiar and the direction slightly static.

However, Chris Goode clinches it with humour. If things sometimes feel a little jaded, he then manages to get the audience conniving in the clichéd ‘clankety-clunk’ sound that Wound Man makes. And just as you were wondering why it had to be Radiohead, expectations are turned upside-down as it turns out we’re in a hilariously themed café called ‘OK Potato’. Noah’s Ark also takes on some alphabetical punch.

The Adventures of Wound Man and Shirley is a coherent and charming story, if occasionally underwhelming (perhaps this is a less fresh version of the show). However, it confronts the teenage demons with courage and authenticity.