Author Archives: Lisa Wolfe

About Lisa Wolfe

Lisa Wolfe is a freelance theatre producer and project manager of contemporary small-scale work. Companies and people she has supported include: Thirunarayan Productions, A&E Comedy, Three Score Dance, Pocket Epics, Jennifer Irons, Tim Crouch, Liz Aggiss, Sue MacLaine, Spymonkey and many more. Lisa was Marketing Manager at Brighton Dome and Festival (1989-2001) and has also worked for South East Dance, Chichester Festival Theatre and learning disability arts charity Carousel. She is an occasional performer and installation maker in collaboration with other artists, and is a Trustee at Brighton Open Air Theatre.

Foxy and Husk: Fox Symphony

Fox Symphony is the second full-length show from performance maker Foxy and Husk, whose human identity remains a well-kept secret.

Sumptuously dressed in rich brocades, fun-fur and sparkles, with an exquisitely painted foxy face, Foxy and Husk is a performer like no other. Her stage impact is immediate and her skill in the chosen theatrical form, lip-synching to verbatim recordings, faultless. It is at once bizarre, batty and intriguing and it is strange how quickly you become accustomed to it. A lip-synching woman-fox, dressed like a pantomime character, talking about society and identity? Of course. Bring it on.

Fox Symphony presents a range of opinions about experiences of community and nationhood, edited from a series of interviews. On stage and in film we hear the voices of these people channelled through Foxy, occasionally costumed to suit. We can only gauge their gender and ethnography through the voice and Foxy’s performance. Inevitably some characters have more impact than others; the Scottish couple are delightful, and brilliantly put together on film (film makers Alice Russell and Clair Nolan.) The Jewish man with his eels and bagels was hugely popular and memorable. There are interesting insights about class – ‘I like the Bombay Mix with raisins in best – that sounds so middle class!’ – and a moving piece from the daughter of a displaced family who long for different ways of life.

It’s a linear narrative that sometimes felt a bit flat. I wanted a bit more challenge: to hear tougher stuff mediated through Foxy. Some bits of business seem like padding. It makes sense within the dramaturgy (by Mary Osborn) for Foxy to eat a plate of eels and mash, but it wasn’t interesting to watch.

Having a largely filmed backdrop allows little opportunity for lighting designer Joshua Pharo to really play, and the stage picture switches between film on and film off. This limits movement too, with Foxy only coming centre stage at intervals, working within the restraints of the format. The audience is welcomed, served tea and whilst there is no concept of a fourth wall I struggled to place the ‘live’ Foxy in the world of these filmed ‘others’, let alone understand where we fitted in. But I rather enjoyed that struggle. Known theatrical conventions are disregarded. It may alienate some, and confuse even more, but as a performance conceit it’s refreshing.

With lip-synching having its moment right now – Dickie Beau making headlines and the LipSinkers constantly touring – Foxy and Husk proves she is an expert in this form. If Fox Symphony lacks the emotional impact of Fox Solo, and feels a bit stretched, it is an adventurous and enjoyable hour, produced with care and presented with charm.

Happy Days – Here Again

It takes some chutzpah to choose Happy Days as the title of a festival. Samuel Beckett named his play ironically; there are few sources of joy for the optimistic Winnie in her mound. So hats off to Seán Doran and his team – this third Happy Days festival was convivial, imaginative and fun.

The landscape you drive through from Belfast to Enniskillen is pungent like a farmyard and emerald green. The town sits on a buckle of land between Upper and Lower Lough Erne. It is a place of watery reflections and big skies, of unsympathetic 1960s town planning and too many cars. Despite some fine buildings remaining, it has few venues for performance, demanding ingenuity from the programmers and a little effort from the audience.

Wednesday 6 August

6pm: I am with writer and James Joyce expert Peter Chrisp and we start our Happy Days in Blakes Of The Hollow bar, a Victorian cathedral of a pub and the festival’s unofficial social hub. Upstairs is a Gothic-style room and on couple of tables rests a coffin, and by this coffin a woman is reading from Joyce’s Finnegans Wake.

Finnegans Awake! is a festival event at which it is hoped that people called Finnegan will come and read a couple of pages of the book. Only three bona fides have so far turned up, so now anyone can be a Finnegan, and we duly take our turns. As I stumble through the beginning of Book Two… ‘Newly billed for each wickeday perfumance. Somndoze massinees. By arraignment, childream’s hours, expercatered. Jampots, rinsed porters, taken in token.’ I remember with awe Olwen Fouéré’s Riverrun (reviewed at Dublin Theatre Festival last year.)

8pm: The 1986 Ardhowen Theatre overlooks the river and is the venue for Krapp’s Last Tape, performed by the celebrated film actor Klaus Maria Brandauer, directed by Peter Stein.

In a pool of light, a white haired old fellow slumps on a table, white pointy shoes peeping out below. Here is Krapp as an aged clown, his waistcoat tight across his tummy and trousers voluminous. For twenty minutes or so Brandauer plays with us and with the character, fumbling with his keys and his bananas. It is a masterclass in clowning. His voice, when it comes (in German, with surtitles) is in a very high register, quite unlike the voice on the tapes. As he listens to his younger self, with growing agitation, anger and eventually despair, I wonder how he had become this comic figure, what had triggered such a change? It is great physical acting, and audacious too, with Krapp left lying across the table as an echo to the repeated lines ‘We lay there without moving.’ Does it serve the text well? I am not so sure.

Thursday 7 August

Visual arts and music are programmed alongside performance, riffing on the Beckett theme. In The Clinton Centre, built on the site of the 1987 IRA bombing, Tacita Dean shows a collection of 100 pre-war postcards of Kassel in an exhibition called c/o Jolyon. The cards were originally mailed to the former CEO of the Aga Khan Trust for Culture in Kabul, Jolyon Leslie. Dean has over-painted the scenes with contemporary views of the same sites in gouache, rather beautifully. The connection here is that in 1933 Beckett spent a memorable time in Kassel with his cousin Peggy Sinclair, she of the ‘shabby green coat’ perhaps, who appears in Krapp’s Last Tape.

Two more Beckett-related artworks are on permanent display outdoors at the Enniskillen Castle Museum, Alan Milligan’s Beckett Chess Set, and Joseph Kosuth’s Texts for Nothing.

Noon: At the Castle, we board an old coach for a journey to Beckett’s Catastrophe. Written first in French, this short one-act play premiered at the 1982 Avignon Festival. It was inspired by and dedicated to Czech playwright and later president, Vaclav Havel. The coach takes us through the village of Lisadowell where Union Jacks and Ulster flags are flying and a banner proclaims ‘God Save The Queen.’ There has been an Orange march recently and this sudden flash of Unionism is unnerving. The route becomes more rural, the lanes narrow; it is all getting a bit sinister. We pull up at a disused chapel, grey-walled and overgrown.

Directed by festival artistic associate Adrian Dunbar’s Ceithleann Island Theatre Company, Catastrophe is a powerful political allegory brilliantly suited to the dilapidated interior of the church. A dictatorial theatre Director (a nod to Beckett’s own reputation?) played by Frank McCusker directs his Assistant, Orla Charlton, to arrange the clothes and limbs of the Protagonist, Dylan Quinn, who stands motionless on a plinth. Orders are barked and notes taken. The Assistant is querulous and disdainful, wiping the Director’s seat before she can bear to sit in it for a breather. These are spare, steely performances that make every word count. When the Director is satisfied with the way it all looks, shouting ‘There’s our catastrophe!’ a light is focused on the Protagonist’s head. It forms a triptych of shadows, the hands crossed against his chest. Recorded applause echo around the room as the Protagonist slowly raises his head, opens his eyes and stares at us. The applause dies. Beckett intended this moment to be a gesture of rebellion. Dunbar’s production and Quinn’s eyes give more leeway to interpretation. Is he captive or conniving? Rebel or saint? It’s a gripping and vital fifteen minutes.

Enniskillen embraces Happy Days with some vigour. At the Jolly Sandwich you can have a banana sandwich to honour Krapp’s Last Tape, or a ham and clove to honour Endgame. It would be churlish not to.

Up at Castle Coole, the eighteenth century neo-classical home of the Earl of Belmore, Gerard Byrne’s festival commission, A point of view waiting for Godot, is installed in the servants’ basement. It’s a cut-up of filmed performances of the play simulating the literal point of view of the characters and is a rather baffling watch. More immediate is Antony Gormley’s Tree Waiting For Godot in the stable square, shiny metal and harsh angles, casting a shadow on the cobbled ground. It has been made for a future production of the play by Australian Aboriginal people.

4pm: Liam Browne, previously of Brighton Festival, has curated a series of talks and debates that take place in South West College’s big hall. Today Klaus Maria Brandauer is in conversation with Adrian Dunbar. It is a lively hour; both are great anecdotalists. You can see how Brandauer’s playful personality influenced his performance as Krapp. He says he considers Krapp to have had a very good life: ‘He is gifted, has memories, has connections to other people, has one big love, is open-eyed.’ Adrian observes that never has the rendition of the word ‘spool’ so perfectly matched the character.

After reading a couple more sections of Finnegans Wake in the pub (it gets progressively harder but we are doing our bit to help them finish the book) it is time to journey on again.

7.30pm: The American composer, music theorist, writer and artist John Cage was a huge James Joyce fan and a devotee of Finnegans Wake. His 1979 score Roaratorio combines voice and Irish instruments to create a ‘performance without actors.’ It is often accompanied by Merce Cunningham’s choreography, first devised for a performance at the Brooklyn Academy of Music in 1983.

This being Happy Days, we are not seeing Roaratorio in any ordinary setting. It is a twelve-mile drive to the Marble Arch Caves, a steep descent into the depths of the mountains, and a ride in a flat-bottomed, battery-powered boat along a shallow river until we reach the stage.

All around are sounds from Cage’s score, in a version created for the Queen’s Festival Belfast in 1997. It booms and shudders and bursts into jaunty song. The dancers of the Dylan Quinn Dance Theatre have amazing special awareness. They are fleet of foot and limb, knees bending into angles, arms up like flags, lifts and twirls. It is deceptively difficult choreography and they don’t miss a beat, on a tiny platform suspended across water. Our small group walks slowly through the caves, listening to Cage reading the Wake, or the sound of a motor engine, or the uillean pipes. There are two sets of duets with a hint of traditional Irish dancing. It is beautifully disciplined dance performed by Dylan Quinn (last seen on a plinth in Catastrophe) David Ogle, Jenny Ecke and Vasiliki Stasniaki, staged by Patricia Lent of the Merce Cunningham Trust. We see them last swishing horizontally beneath us as we climb out of the caves. Whilst it may not give the complete Roaratorio experience – the segmentation of score and dance prevents organic development of themes and story – it is a fascinating experience and very well produced. The youthful cave guides enlivened the journey, mixing safety advice with geology information. Out in the evening light, I blag a lift from a local couple who take us on a thirty minute scenic ride to Cavan, across the border, pointing out historical features. It is that kind of festival.

Friday 6 August

7am: At the Round ‘O’ jetty we board the Inishcruiser, re-named by the festival Smeraldina after the girl in Beckett’s More Pricks Than Kicks and Dream of Fair to Middling Women. Isn’t it bad luck to rename a boat? And isn’t this event called Purgatorio? And is it really seven o’clock in the morning? Ah well, all seems just lovely as we cruise along Upper Lough Erne, being served tea and toast. Not the black tea and dry toast that pilgrims to Patrick’s Purgatory get; ours is sinfully enriched with milk, butter and jam. After an hour or so on the water, getting to know each other and having been introduced to Enniskillen born actor Ciaran McMeniman, we disembark at Inishmacsaint (which means field of sorrel) and walk to a ruined church with an unusual jointed cross.

Ciaran climbs the church wall, adopts a Byronic pose, and reads two short Beckett pieces, Heard in the Dark II, which juxtaposes mathematical formulae with the measuring of a relationship, and one of the rather Joyce an texts to a background of honking of Canada geese. These Purgatorio Island Readings, which are different each day, are a popular highlight of the Festival. The performance may only last five minutes, but it is magical experience. You rarely have the time to talk at such length to your fellow audience but here conversation is the main event. We hear how Michael MacLiammoir used to perform in Enniskillen once a year: ‘He was such an exotic creature’; how two of the Yiddish Theatre Company of New York were in the Coen Brothers’ film A Serious Man; about drama education in the North and fishing for brown trout in the lough.

1pm: Roy Foster is Carroll Professor of Irish History at Hertford College, Oxford. He is at the Festival to talk to novelist Carlo Gébler about Beckett and Joyce. These two highly articulate men discuss literature and history, the relationship between Beckett and Jack Yeats, reference other writers and tell good stories. Alfred Brendel sits at the end of the row. It is that kind of festival.

Down a passage off the High Street is the Head Hunters barbers stroke railway museum. The railway line was axed in the 50s, but these two Enniskillen barbers are keeping it alive with a wonderfully eclectic collection of artifacts and memorabilia, extremely well presented. Here you can have a Beckett haircut if brave enough. Roxy the terrier looked like he already had.

In the Cathedral Hall Derek Jarman’s 1983 film Waiting for Godot is being shown on a loop. Seven minutes and twenty-four seconds of blurred, featureless movement lacking artistry. A disappointment.

3pm: Classical music is a key component of the programme, and we are lucky to catch one of the free Precious Little concerts – fundraisers for the NSPCC. Pianist Julius Drake has put this series together, and today he accompanies soprano Léa Tromminschlager for three Debussy songs, the 1897 Chansons de Bilitis, musical adaptations of three poems by symbolist Pierre Louÿs. Fifteen minutes of getting lost in song.

8.30pm: Samuel Beckett and Oscar Wilde were both boarders at Portora School (founded by James the First in 1608), which overlooks the town. In the atmospheric school hall the New Yiddish Rep Theatre of New York perform Vartn Af Godot, an authorised translation by Shane Baker. (Just as well – Beckett’s custodian and nephew Andrew Beckett is in the house.)

The beauty of Beckett’s plays is that you can interpret them how you wish and Godot, completed in 1949 when he was fleeing from the Gestapo in Paris, easily evokes a post-holocaust period in the emblematic language of a culture targeted for destruction.

Directed by Moshe Yassur with a light comic touch, Vartn Af Godot makes the most of its low-fi production values, makeshift lighting rig and limited stage space, putting the emphasis on character and language.

Vladimir (Shane Baker, New York’s foremost Episcopalian Yiddish actor) is rather smartly turned out for a tramp; he is a bit Stan Laurel. Pozzo (Alan Lewis Rickman) is a bluff and vulnerable vaudeville clown. Rafael Goldwaser gives Lucky more huff and puff than usual; his ‘thinking aloud’ is pure ringing cantor. As Estragon, David Mandelbaum is world weary, sad and scared. He is right to be scared, for who knows what is to come, who will be saved. The text resonates in this language and setting, with its talk of camps, corpses and charnel houses. As relevant today as ever it was.

Back at Blake’s there is time for a last drink and more conversation. I say to Adrian Dunbar that Happy Days is a festival of social cohesion, ‘We are all equal under Beckett’ he replies. There are plans to take this festival to Paris, and for an Oscar Wilde Festival in Enniskillen next year. Creative ambition of this scale in a small Northern Irish town, can’t be easy economically, and we can only hope it continues to flourish.

When we get home, a message pings on Facebook. Guess who is flying over from Edinburgh to read the last ten pages of Finnegans Wake? Yep, Olwen Fouéré. Happy Days indeed.

Happy Days, Enniskillen International Beckett Festival, took place 31 July – 10 August 2014

http://happy-days-enniskillen.com/

Photos by Peter Chrisp (unless otherwise credited)

The Ragroof Players: Bridges y Puentes

A travelling show for travelling people, The Ragroof Player’s Bridges y Puentes pitched up in Margate on a sunny summer weekend.

We gather outside a disused building in the unreconstructed part of town and are issued with passports. Around the back, gathered together in a huddle, we watch as six characters emerge from the street and begin a slow, choreographed walk towards us. Voices sound from suitcases (or so it seems) with snippets of stories. Who are these people wanting to join us? What are their stories?

Bridges y Puentes is a journey into the experiences of people who have migrated. Originally a co-production between Ragroof Theatre (as was) and Compagnie Vendaval, and first performed in France in 2012, the show has been reworked by new company The Ragroof Players and is made for each city in collaboration with immigrants to that place. In Margate, conversations with people in the once-posh Cliftonville area of town contribute to the text of the piece (via dramaturg and writer Dorothy Max Prior).

Next we queue for passport control where some are summarily told to step aside (a nice comic performance from Ivan Fabrega) and one is forcibly kept out (the outcast Matthew Blacklock). Our plight is witnessed from above by residents of the flats, dad and kids hanging out of windows and off the fire escape. They, and a man cleaning his car in the road, provide unplanned resonance.

The main performance space is gloomy, with some striplights, some metal fencing, and an uneven floor. Here the cast moves through scenes, the text becomes less fragmentary and stories unfold. A couple dance, the group swirls and disperses in a series of close-ups and long-shots, neatly directed by Marion Duggan. The show moves with and through the audience and is always audible and visible. Beautifully danced tango is the main choreographic motif, no surprise as the piece is inspired by the emergence of tango in the apartment blocks of Buenos Aires. There is also an Irish reel (nice footwork from performer and producer Anna Symes) and a final polka, to reference the largely East European and Romany incomers to Margate.

Given the limitations of lighting available, Chris Umney’s design is extremely effective. So too is the sound design, by Filipe Gomes, which swoops around the space providing just the right amount of interesting background noise.

Whilst it is a strong ensemble work, the performances of Carmela Acuyo Fernandez (also choreographer) and Anais Alvarado stand out; plus the mischievous musicianship of Estanislao Sanchez. Tellingly it is their ‘foreignness’ that makes their characters feel more real. A section in which all six are seen in makeshift homes, at first alone, then gathering into a gang which has to move from place to place again and again is particularly powerful.

If the themes are a bit overworked, Bridges y Puentes is a thoughtful and effective show. As we take a closer look at the installations that form a part of the show – suitcase tableaux, a collage of newspaper cuttings, and photos of participants pinned to the fence – the audience talks and tells their own stories, and thus we find a common language. It may not be tango, but, like life, it is a kind of dance.

Christopher Brett Bailey: This Is How We Die

Most frequently seen throwing food around or covering himself in flour, in this first solo show by the Made in China artist we find Christopher Brett Bailey alone on stage, seated behind a desk, microphone to his lips.

In the shadows of the space behind him a range of amps and monitors can be glimpsed. The lights are focused on the shock-haired, bright-eyed, skinny-fit figure before us. He gives us a look, takes a breath and BOOM. Out comes a torrent of words, delivered with fluency and vigour, like a beat poet on speed. It is a battery of opinion across a load of subjects including the English Defence League and the Oyster Band.

Another breath and calmer, slower speech begins to unravel a story about Bailey, his beehived girlfriend, her strange family, and their road-trip adventures.

As drama, there is nothing to watch but the performer, and nothing to hear but his words. With these limited resources Chris Brett Bailey manages to connect, convince, and take the audience on a journey. The language is rich and playful; it references the literary and literal, it creates bizarre visual images, it moves outside the story to comment on Bailey performing in this play. When a man left the audience, he shouted ‘Bye! That’s one down…’ and ruffled the remaining pages of the script.

There are hilarious sketches, reminiscent of William Burrough’s ‘routines’, and at times the cadences sound like Jack Kerouac reading On the Road in that lovely, deep, slow voice. There is a musical structure at work here, with themes that are repeated like a chorus.

At the end, Bailey says ‘we pronounce this language dead,’ which perhaps justifies the rather sensationalist title, for the piece as a whole has not been terribly dark or depraved.

Some might say ‘But is it theatre? Just a bloke at a table reading from a script? Couldn’t it be put in a book for us to read, or on the radio?’ To that a resounding ‘No’ – it needs the presence, it needs the delivery, it needs the environment.

As the words die, the music begins. A violin at first and then a band, playing in darkness, building up from a drone to a rich and pounding noise. The audience is rather violently lit (a strong design by Sherry Coenen) and for a good length of time sits, listening, being taken on a journey again but this time into our own thoughts and imaginations. The lights switch focus and we glimpse the musicians George Percy, Alicia Jane Turner, Apollo, and Bailey. They leave quietly, then we leave, a bit changed.

Young Jean Lee: The Shipment

LIFT’s Artistic Director Mark Ball has given this fresh, funny and unsettling piece, commissioned by the Wexner Centre Ohio in 2008, its UK premiere. Good work Mark, for a cracker.

Opening as a kind of contemporary minstrel cabaret, the cast of five play the stereotypes they are most frequently auditioned for: the crack dealer Omar, the wannabee rapper, his long-suffering mother, the stand-up who has to do racial jokes when he would rather be joking about poop. There is a mention of ‘reverse racism’, currently a hot topic on the comedy circuit, there is stylized hip-hop posturing and casual homophobia – ‘I did not have relations with the anus of a man.’ We shuffle in our seats, laugh a bit or laugh a lot, finding our place as a mainly white audience being faced down in such broad strokes. Then comes a moment of change, sublime in its simplicity and in the precision of its execution. Amelia Workman starts to sing a song, joined by two of the male actors. It is a cover of Dark Centre of the Universe by Modest Mouse, a white indie group. Sung by black performers, acapella, the lyrics ‘I’m not the dark centre of the universe like you thought’ take on new meanings. The effect is mesmerizing, challenging the audience to see past stereotypes and find common humanity.

Young Jean Lee has made her name by tackling race, gender and political issues through her theatre work in the USA. She has worked with the Wooster group and fronts a band called Future Wife, which played at Brighton Festival in 2013. Perhaps as a Korean-American she finds herself more able to comment on and reflect about what she sees around her with humour and candour. She has certainly gathered a terrific cast for this production of The Shipment, and their acting chops are given full range in the second half.

Scenery is elaborately brought on by stage hands in matching casuals (echoes of Tim Crouch’s what happens to the hope at the end of the evening here). There is a sofa, coffee table, lamp, vase, drinks trolley. Cushions are plumped, nibbles arranged for the perfect party (that most theatrical of set ups) or a classic sit-com – the setting has all the gloss of an episode of Friends. What follows is an intelligent and hilarious take on the relationship-driven drama with caricature characters given masses of back-story and depth. Devised by Young Jean Lee with the cast (this time asked to play the part they have always dreamed of) each rings true in all its bizarreness. Prentice Onayemi as dead-eyed, straight-backed Desmond booms out assuredly stark comments even as his duplicity is revealed. Mikeah Ernest Jennings gives tightly wound loser Omar a wild physicality. Jordan Barbour brings warmth and pathos to Michael, who is at the party by mistake. Amelia Workman is more naturalistic now as Thomasina, trying to hold everything together as Douglas Scott Streater’s Thomas unravels. The dialogue sparkles, skewering stereotypes while representing them. If this was a TV series it would run and run. The Shipment, so-titled to suggest shipments of slaves, or Amazon DVD box-sets, has the power to upturn perceptions and churn the brain. It ends with one last trick, and it might just be on us.

Total Theatre