Author Archives: Dorothy Max Prior

About Dorothy Max Prior

Dorothy Max Prior is the editor of Total Theatre Magazine, and is also a performer, writer, dramaturg and choreographer/director working in theatre, dance, installation and outdoor arts. Much of her work is sited in public spaces or in venues other than regular theatres. She also writes essays and stories, some of which are published and some of which languish in bottom drawers – and she teaches drama, dance and creative non-fiction writing. www.dorothymaxprior.com

neTTheatre: Puppet. Book of Splendour

‘You shouldn’t expect a story’ says someone at some point in Puppet. Book of Splendour. Well no, of course not. NeTTheatre’s latest work to make it to the Edinburgh Fringe is not afraid to tackle big subjects – the Kabbalistic tradition of Jewish mysticism, the struggle between existence and oblivion, the all-encompassing breadth of Judeo-Christian culture, history, philosophy and religion – presenting them with director Paweł Passini’s usual flair and daring. What we get instead of ‘a story’ is a multiplicity of stories, ideas and images about life and death, creation and dissipation, ein sof (no end) and the finite, weaving around and through each other and us in an exhausting but exhilarating hour-and-a-half of sensory onslaught.

A Rabbi quotes from an ancient text in the Torah, an artist in a black beret (reminiscent of Tony Hancock in The Rebel, it must be said) waves his brush in the air in an anguished state, before collapsing exhausted on a bed. Is he God? Is he the architect of the world? A naked couple – Adam and Eve, we presume – struggle into a shared white shirt, keen to cover their shame. A strange black beast with a body of shiny leatherette prowls across the stage. From the mouth of babes: a child takes a book (probably a sacred book, perhaps the Torah) from a shelf, reads from it in a voice full of awe and wonder (‘he understands nothing, but he loves it’), then later gets on a tricycle to ride around the performance space in endless circles. The words Mercy and Justice and Kingdom and Paradise are broadcast from an upstage screen, and a host of white bubble-wigged angels pop out of a cabinet to serenade us. English, Russian, Polish – a babble of languages envelop us. Books and words, and words and books. And the Word was made Flesh…

NeTTheatre’s Turandot won a Total Theatre Award in 2011, establishing the company on the Fringe as makers of complex and multi-layered visual, physical, visceral theatre in which music plays an important part. Puppet. A Book of Splendour similarly uses an extraordinary mix of live music and heightened visual imagery from high and low culture – and everything in-between – to create a glorious onstage stew of sounds and moving pictures. The Jewish myth of the Golem is a key theme in the show, and the notion of the ‘puppetesque’ is explored repeatedly throughout as dolls, mannequins, masks and animated clothing are used to create a series of effigies that appear and disappear (like the clay Golem of legend) – brought to life from inanimate matter by the human hand, a triumph of will and faith, only to then dissolve back into materiality.

Kantor – always acknowledged as an influence on the company’s work – is more directly referenced in this show, both in the stated desire to investigate and explore Kantor’s theory of a Theatre of Death (‘and its unexpected neighbour, childhood’) and in much of the physicality – there’s a nice overcoats-and-hats knees-as-feet shuffle dance at one point that is a homage to a scene in The Dead Class. The physical work – solo, duet, trio or ensemble – is of a very high standard throughout, and a word of praise here for the extraordinarily talented child-actor who held his own in this talented ensemble of eleven actors and singers.

The stage area is rather too small for this large ensemble, and is additionally crowded out with towers, screens, beds, cabinets, tricycles, chests, mannequins and whatever else. I am sure that it is all intended to be a glorious mess, but I would have thought a mess that needs some space to expand, rather than exploding out from the audience’s feet with nowhere to go. It is very difficult to read the surtitles from the front rows – and the words are obviously an important element in this production. It’s also extremely hot in the Summerhall main space, and the 90 minutes of the show drags a little. I am happy to concede that this is a ‘Fringe’ problem rather than something intrinsically wrong with the show – performing/watching a longer-than-average and complex show late-night in a crowded, unsuitable space is not ideal.

What the answer is for shows of this quality and complexity and how they can fit into the Fringe format is obviously a question for future Edinburgh presentations by neTTheatre and other enterprising and adventurous companies of this calibre. Regardless, this is a show that has stayed with me – one that I would dearly like to see again as I feel I have only scratched the surface of experience and understanding.

www.nettheatre.pl

Akhe: Mr Carmen

The cards are drawn, and what will happen will happen. As we enter the space – a big old church with a grand high ceiling, shadows cast on rough brick walls – two men, dressed in great frock-coats and tall hats, are sat upstage behind painted lecterns, turning over playing cards and throwing them to the ground. The lecterns are hinged, and the effect is of one of those ‘head, bodies, legs’ games. The lights dim and the lecterns move forward, downstage to the very front of the stage space, opened out to become a kind of painted wall on which our two performers perch drinks and candles – candles which burn through strings, which cause things to fall… And so we are off!

In Mr Carmen, Russian ‘theatre of engineering’ supremos Akhe are up to their usual tricks. There is smoke, flame even. There are flat puppets whizzing round a wire square surrounding the space, which creates a kind of surreal boxing ring in which our two combatants in love slog it out. There are pulleys and winches, cardboard and string, water and wine, paint and sand.

This version of (or perhaps we should say homage to) Carmen goes back to the original novella by Prosper Mérimée – Carmen’s husband is written out of Bizet’s famous ‘opera comique’. It is the rivalry between men that is at the forefront of this exploration, which exploits the tragicomic aspects of the story. Carmen herself is nowhere to be seen, an elusive absence referenced with dancing dolls, roses, lipsticks, and a red chalked heart on a board. Her name (and her lover, Jose’s name) are writ large – in glitter, in foam, in fire; as wood-block prints and in blood-red paint on crumpled brown paper.

Everywhere in this word-free piece there are visual, physical and musical allusions to the Carmen story: cigars are rolled on thighs, frockcoats opened to reveal matador-style red stockings. Andalusian trumpets sound, and a guitar is strummed with Duende passion. There is a cigarette light dance duet, a whirling all-male flamenco (beautifully absurd as danced by the burly men of Akhe), and a knife fight using a whole medley of different weapons.

As always in Akhe shows, puppetry, paper engineering and automata feature heavily, with two-dimensional and three-dimensional figures made in their own distinctive style, a kind of mulch of Russian folkloric and Dada. It goes without saying that the performances are pitch-perfect, and it all adds up to a wonderful show – Akhe at their eccentric best.

www.akhe.ru

Derevo: Mephisto Waltz

‘You forget that all the feelings of the world, the rains, the sounds, the cities, the birds, the people, and everything… is you,’ says Derevo’s announcement of their inspirational new ensemble work, Mephisto Waltz. Know that we are intrinsically part of everything, and that everything – good or bad – is part of us, is the message. Light and dark, life and death, sanity and madness, summer and winter, Heaven and Hell. You can’t have one without the other.

The show is a kind of history of the whole world and all it contains, with loose reference to Goethe’s Faust, and in particular the less-well-known Faust – Part II, with its story of Faust’s time in the wilderness, and the birth of Euphorion the savage bird-man who (like Icarus) flies too high and is burnt to death. Human folly has a light shone upon it, and the excesses of capitalism, religion, war, and the plundering of the natural environment are all commented upon wordlessly. Sound has a big part to play (in particular, Franz Liszt’s Mephisto Waltzes, and Holst’s The Planets suite).

Many and various are the extraordinary images that move across the stage, conjuring up illusion and allusion: here, a Nosferatu in a long black gown, with a curved nose and an enormous shadow double looming over him; there, a stage-full of whirling dervishes and waltzing women. Now a bower of flowers, and now a shower of pretty butterflies that turns into an ominous flutter of suicidal moths hitting the light (I’ve never seen butterflies as menacing creatures until this moment). A carrot-nosed snowman melts before our eyes, and a flock of egg-heads in nest-twig collars invade the stage. There’s a living scarecrow clanking cans at the birds around him, and a savage soldier tearing apart a globe to reveal its juicy (watermelon) centre – chewing on a cigar, he walks downstage muttering in a crazed no-man’s-language, to stand just inches from us, grinning insanely. (Both of these figures, and many others, are played by Derevo’s director and guiding light, Anton Adasinsky.)

Now he’s a blind scythe-bearer in a pink skirt hacking at the air, and now an old man lying on a couch, layer after layer of plastic masks stripped from his face until he remains ‘maskless’: exposed, raw, open to the realities of the world he has created.

Described by the company as ‘a gospel of dance, a personal journey and a declaration of love’, Mephisto Waltz is Derevo returning to what they do best: a strong five-person ensemble with breathtaking physical presence. It is at times impenetrable, but it is always fascinating – with moments of dark humour to throw some light into the Faustian darkness.

www.derevo.org

If it’s Thursday it must be Edinburgh…

So, here I am in Edinburgh, on the eve of the opening of the Fringe – it officially kicks off tomorrow, Friday 3 August. Today was planned as a quiet, settling in sort of day. Two shows booked to review (some have opened early), and maybe a bit of networking and organising. This is how it went…

11.00: I’m at the Pleasance Courtyard which is relatively quiet and calm – the Fringe hasn’t really started yet, after all. I’m here to see a children’s show, Ripstop Theatre’s Luminous Tales, which is part of the Escalator East to Edinburgh programme. I have high hopes, as Escalator is usually a mark of quality, and the show comes tagged as a Norwich Puppet Theatre production – or endorsement, at least – hard to tell for sure what the relationship actually is. It’s a bit of a disappointment – and worryingly the puppetry is below-par. I’m left feeling a bit confused, and feel the need to phone Total Theatre reviews editor Beccy Smith for a quick counselling session. She advises that I should write the review that needs to be written, regardless – so that’s what I’ll do (it’ll pop up in the reviews section soon, folks). Not a very auspicious start to my Fringe experience…

12.40 Still at the Pleasance. Now I’m off to see Pete Edward’s FAT, another Escalator show, billed as ‘the multi-media journey of a gay disabled man in search of his heart’s desire’. This one is good – thankfully. I’m thinking it might be time for lunch, but a persistent person with a bunch of flyers is insisting that I need to See Exterminating Angel at 14.00. He offers me a free ticket. I point out that if I wanted to see it for free, I’d go and get myself a press ticket, and anyway I am pretty sure I’ve already allocated another Total Theatre reviewer to see this one. He looks at me with big soulful brown eyes and shrugs. If he’d have carried on with the sales pitch I’d have walked on, but there’s something about that shrug. I take the ticket from his hand…

14.00 Pleasance Above, Exterminating Angel. Not a reworking of the Bunuel film, but inspired by it, with a dash of Maeterlinck’s The Blind to boot. An improvised show, the action set around a never-ending dinner party – the outcome is never the same is the USP. How much is improvised, and how they go about setting their improv rules I have no idea – but it’s good, very good. Dangerously funny, edgy, and working the balance between the mundane and the surreal very cleverly. I’m glad I went, so thank you tall dark handsome stranger.

15.30 After a hurried lunch, it’s off to Fringe Central to meet the press (department). Media passes for me and the Total Theatre reviewing team sorted; spreadsheets of venue and show contacts acquired; access to computer and office facilities organised.

16.40 I’m now at C Nova – one of the newer venues of the ever-expanding C Venues empire – for Remor, a show in a box by Spanish company Res de Res. Eleven minutes of intense non-verbal performance in a mock prison cell. Take no prisoners performance you might say…

17.00 Ah, a press launch! I’ve managed to miss the Zoo Venues one but make it to the Gilded Balloon for wine and canapés. A number of keen theatre-makers try to sell me their shows: there’s the one about the wife of a porn addict and how she got divorced and got a life (‘it’s based on a true story – and there aren’t many Fringe shows by and about middle-aged people’), the one by two Cornish rappers and a Casiotone (‘er, are you busy? I suppose we should be telling you about our show as you’ve got a reviewer’s badge on. We’re from Cornwall…’), and the one with a gun wearing a condom on the flyer (‘some people find the image disturbing, but don’t mind that, read the back!”) which is the proud winner of the Sir Michael Caine award for new writing. Luckily, I’m rescued by Steve Forster (Escalator’s ever-cheerful press officer), who tells me about something I genuinely do want to see – Thread, the new show by Nutshell, creator of last year’s site-specific success Allotment, which is also back for a one-week run. He also reminds me to come along to the Hunt & Darton Café, which is, yes, a café – but a café as ongoing art project. Kind of like the late-lamented Forest Café but will less lentils, perhaps?

18.00 Somehow – and Lord knows how this happened – I have found myself agreeing to join a makeshift ‘community choir’ being put together for h2dance’s interactive/immersive dance-theatre show Say Something at Summerhall. I tried grumbling that it was all a bit of a busman’s holiday, given that I’ve opted out of paid work with my company Ragroof Theatre in order to dedicate August to my Total Theatre duties at the Fringe, but nevertheless, here I am crawling on the floor and singing ‘la la la la nananana-nanu’ as if my life depended on it. ‘So, see you at tomorrow’s rehearsal’ says h2dance’s Heidi Rustgaard at the end of the evening, and ‘yes’ I say. So that it that….

23.00 Home – or at least home to the place that will be my home for the coming month. Gosh, it hasn’t even started yet and I feel like I’ve been here forever. Has it really been just one day?

www.edfringe.com

Rob Drummond: Bullet Catch

Do you believe in free will? Yes, you answer. Well, did you choose to be born? No, you answer. So, given that this first moment of your life was determined by someone or something other than you, something other than your ‘free will’, and given that every moment from then until now has been a continuous chain of events, each choice the result of an accumulation of circumstances that have gone before, ergo you do not have free will. That, anyway, is the scientific conclusion.

In Bullet Catch writer/performer Rob Drummond, in his alter-ego William Wonder, uses illusion and psychological magic – along with a whole box of clever theatrical tricks that include storytelling and audience interaction – to investigate the big life-and-death questions at the heart of human existence: the free will conundrum; existential angst and the appeal of suicide; the meaning of happiness and how to achieve it. And this all before breakfast! (This was a 10.30am show.)

Key to the tremendous success of Bullet Catch is the clever exploration of the relationship between truth and fiction; between fantasy and reality; between choice and persuasion. Magic turns out to be both metaphor and means for this exploration. Within and around the stage action, the questions are weaved, directly or indirectly. Can we distinguish between real historical reference and a fictional theatrical story? Between scientific fact and religious belief? Who is telling the truth and who is lying? Are we choosing this or is someone choosing for us? Do we want to know how the trick is done – or do we want to hold onto the fantasy and not spoil the magic? If so, close your eyes now – and you might want to put your fingers in your ears too. There’s a big bang coming…

It all circles around an exploration of the (allegedly) true life story of magician William Henderson, who, it is said, ignored his friend Houdini’s advice – which boiled down to ‘don’t do it’ – and was subsequently shot dead on stage whilst attempting the infamous ‘bullet catch’ trick. And yes, you’ve guessed it, the climax of the show is a demonstration of this very trick. Drummond cleverly pairs a reading of Houdini’s letter with a letter allegedly from the Traverse’s health-and-safety office – whose advice is similarly ‘don’t do it’. He beguiles us with his cleverness, and seduces us into accepting that it is fine for us to watch someone shoot at him with a loaded gun.

The twist in the tale comes with the idea that Henderson’s death was not so much a failed trick as the ultimate trick of them all – a clever suicide engineered by the magician, using an innocent audience member as his stooge. Yet why would someone happy and healthy with everything to live for want to kill himself? Enter stage left the sinister spectre of existential nihilism. If free will is the ultimate illusion, then what is there left to live for? Drummond reflects on the appeal of such a suicide tactic – yet still we let him load the gun.

Do we think the gun is loaded with blanks? Or that the ever-willing audience member who has shared the stage with him for practically the whole show as a kind of magician’s assistant cum confidant cum second-actor is a plant? Or do we just trust that whatever is happening on a stage is OK because it is theatre not real life? After all, there are the theatrical trappings – the hand-painted signs and the sepia portraits; the wooden tables, big old trunk, and Crombie overcoat. This is a story, about something that maybe happened in the long-distant past, nothing to do with the here-and-now… isn’t that so?

Ultimately we realise that we never have any way of knowing what is real and what is illusion: the play becomes a metaphor for the great big conjuring trick that is our lives.

With writing as precise and penetrating as a speeding bullet, a very clever use of audience participation that both honours and usurps the traditions of theatre magic shows, and the whole seductive lure of the most infamous trick of them all, Rob Drummond’s mild-mannered William Wonder proves the age-old maxim – that it’s the quiet ones that you have to watch.