Author Archives: Sarah Davies

About Sarah Davies

Sarah is a Drama Lecturer (UAL Acting and Applied Drama), Freelance Writer, Facilitator and Improviser who has written for Total Theatre Magazine since 2011. Recent work includes play commissions from Theatre Centre, Menagerie Theatre and Now Press Play, and facilitation/directing for The Marlowe Theatre, All The World's a Stage and Improv Gym. Her recent improv performances include Mount Olymprov (Greece) with Big Bang Improv Boston, Amsterdam Improv Marathon,and Improfest (London).

Scriptography Productions: To Kill A Machine

This powerful, affecting work interrogates the boundaries between man and machine through exploring Alan Turing’s life, achievements and eventual persecution based on his homosexuality. Best known for his instrumental role in cracking the German’s Enigma cipher during his time at Bletchley Park in World War 2, fiercely intelligent Turing also taught at Cambridge and developed the Turing Machine, the theorem considered to be the basis of modern computation, before being arrested and tried for homosexuality in 1952. His punishment or ‘treatment’ was horrific chemical castration, which significantly affected his ability to think and eventually contributed to his tragic suicide in 1954.

To Kill A Machine opens with a brief introduction to Turing’s life, quickly introducing him as a precocious child who cannot conform and is frequently advised to learn what others’ expectations are and mimic them in order to try to make friends. This is a recurring theme as Turing enters secondary school, where events are played out at breath-taking pace and with effective use of physicality and a stunning set comprising of a tree-like ‘machine’ on which props and key artefacts can be hung. Here at school Turing meets Christopher, a boy who clearly has a crush on him, played beautifully by Francois Pandolfo who brings a quiet tenderness to these interactions. Yet Turing is far too busy asking questions to notice this, absorbed by questions such as ‘what is a man and what is a machine?’ and ‘do you think a machine can think?’ Here too, the concept of imitation is introduced, framed by a sinister ‘gameshow’ device based on the concept of ‘the imitation game’, where an interrogator asks (clichéd) questions to two hidden people and has to guess who is male or female based on their responses. Turing wonders if a machine could play this game and if it could lie in order to fool the interrogator.

Later, we see Turing as an adult, removed from Cambridge to Bletchley Park at the behest of a sinister-seeming government official who hints repeatedly at ‘secrets’ Turing may have. Worried that Turing is a ‘risk’ due to his ‘tendencies’, the government send a ‘Betrayer’ in to seduce and ruin him. Rick Yale brings this character to life with breath-taking energy and physicality, creating a wholly believable villain who has sex with Turing then burgles him. Turing reports this to the police, inadvertently admitting that he ‘had relations’ with a man and thus ending up in court. His options are limited as a result to imprisonment or chemical castration. He ‘chooses’ the latter and a very brutal but effective scene shows its implementation; again in gameshow mode two ‘hosts’ insert drips and tell homophobic jokes. Because he doesn’t laugh, Turing is dehumanised by the hosts, and by being likened to a machine his treatment seems acceptable to them.

The denouement is gut-wrenching and inevitable; Turing has been unable to follow the ‘rules’ laid out by society, first due to his sexuality and secondly by refusing to lie about it. ‘Only a machine follows the rules it has been given’ he cries in an extremely powerful closing monologue, asserting that to be successful a machine must also learn to lie, something that he himself has not been capable of. Gwydion Rhys’ portrayal of Turing stands out as being gripping and fully committed; at the bow he seems wrung dry by the performance. Writer Catrin Fflur Hughes’ script captures the speech of the era exceptionally well, and complex mathematical ideas and themes are introduced in an inventive, engaging manner. Along with the strong visual aesthetic Lee’s direction brings, the writing mixes the abstract with the naturalistic with skill, creating a poignant piece that by exploring the nature of machines, raises many questions about what it is to be human.

Trajal Harrell, Cecilia Bengolea, Francois Chaignaud & Marlene Monteiro Freitas: (M)imosa

Closely linked to the festival’s Storm theme, this highly experimental production (full title: (M)imosa / Twenty Looks or Paris is Burning) highlights the value in turmoil, whipping up a mind-blowing hurricane of images and ideas. Presented as part of a trilogy running throughout Bristol’s In Between Time festival, (M)imosa is a complex and provocative international choreographic collaboration between New York-based Trajal Harrell, Paris-based Francois Chaignaud and Cecilia Bengolea, and Marlene Freitas from Cape Verdean. The piece is based on the documentary film Paris is Burning, which explores New York’s voguing scene of the 1960s, and imagines a clash between the stylised black LGBT performers of the Harlem Vogue Balls and the Judson Church’s post-modern dancers, who concentrated instead on a lack of spectacle. These two contrasting styles are explored through a hugely varied, incredibly dextrous and often highly surreal mix of dance forms, monologues, drag acts, songs and audience interaction. Thrown in to this riotous mix too is an exploration of the performer’s own identities and their quest to become someone else.

At its core, the piece seeks loosely to explore the character Mimosa: a transient performer of varying genders and talents who embodies this clash. Like the character herself, this exploration takes various forms and (as in Martin Crimp’s Attempts on Her Life) the more we seek to define this central character, the harder she becomes to pin down; Mimosa is presented as being a ballet dancer, a singer, an onlooker, and an outrageous drag queen. Most importantly though, she is a device to explore the transgression of boundaries, as each performer brings their own unique perspective to her that also speaks much of their own skills and talents; indeed the most outrageously abstract and captivating sequence for me is summed up thus: Cecilia Bengolea enters the stage in a nude body suit that somehow encompasses amazingly high heels that look like they have become part of her legs. Bending backwards, she clutches her ankles with stunning flexibility and moves around the stage crab-like, fake phallus pointing skywards, then eventually breaks into discordant song!

The pace of the piece is well structured, yet very challenging at times. In the opening sequence a solo performer bares her breasts and dances violently to what feels like a never-ending pounding track, tearing at her hair and seemingly trapped by the music. The highly skilled movement, physical stamina and dexterous facial expressions are breathtaking, but this sequence is an indicator of the lengthy piece’s demands on an audience to stick with it through its unconventional peaks and troughs. Moments of frenetic action with performers sweating and labouring, dancing until it looks physically painful to continue, are followed by lulls with little occurring other than the stage being slowly cleared and casual conversations occurring between the cast. This structure made the show feel almost durational in some aspects and I found myself enjoying it immensely whilst simultaneously wondering when it would end. This device seems purposeful; the technique keeps an audience invested by showing the long, messy job of defining identity. It also clearly highlights the imagined melding of the two diametrically opposed performance styles.

In (M)imosa’s liminal and unstable world, when we are suddenly grounded again in gritty reality, the juxtaposition is stunning. When the performers approach the audience (as they do often in this active, experiential, piece, coming off stage and into the audience space when they have finished performing their specific section) they are all faded glamour and muttered asides. Along with the visible detritus of props strewn around the stage, the make-up smears, bedraggled clothing, and distinctive smell of greasepaint reminds us that these are ‘actors acting’ and for a distinct purpose. There are moments too of real beauty: skilled balletic sequences, heartfelt monologues, twisted songs, and a hilarious Kate Bush parody which initiates a particularly enthusiastic audience response. The piece shows how meaningful performance can be created in the midst of chaos and mixes contrasting ideologies with verve, leaving plenty to think about post performance.

Broken Spectacles: Head in the Clouds: The Peregrinations of Marie Marvingt

Head in the Clouds is a warm, gentle, and genuinely enjoyable solo show that explores the story of Marie Marvingt, a French woman from the 1800s whose key desire, following her mother’s death, is to learn to fly; first metaphorically and then literally. Based on a true story, Marie does indeed fulfil her wish, and much more besides, including developing the first Air Ambulance.

In Marie, skilled comedic performer Helen Aldritch has created a likeable and humble character, who engages the audience through song and direct address (in both French and English) and keeps us absorbed through humorous and sometimes touching interactions, including a kissing demonstration and some entertaining stage business involving a stuffed pigeon.

In both her ability to multi-role and her well-choreographed physicality Aldritch excels at bringing often abstract scenarios to life and creating strong stage pictures with simple objects and set. Themes of endeavour and love run through the production, with the repeated assertion that ‘love is about all of the changes you make’ being aptly illustrated in the journey that Marie makes to reach her goal. Aldritch’s creation of Marie’s lover Albertus is particularly striking and amusing: he is characterised as an oddball whom she nonetheless adores, and her fantastical story is really helped along by re-enactments of events involving the couple.

The fact that the characters are so well shaped is what kept me rooting for them until the end, though the small technicality of sound effects being rather loud and Marie being a softly spoken character did mean that I missed some information. However, this did not detract significantly from what was an interesting piece, delivered with energy and pleasing attention to detail.

Future Ruins: Theatre on a Long Thin Wire

Twelve strangers stand in an empty room right in the eaves of Summerhall. Nearby is a faded-looking chair with a mobile phone resting on it. Suddenly, the phone rings, and so begins our journey, facilitated by the whims of a voice on the end of the line. Theatre on a Long Thin Wire is a fascinating exploration of group psychology and the notion of individual responsibility. Our choices as an audience shape our fate to an extent. We stage-manage our own production, grouping ourselves around the person who has answered the phone and responding to relayed requests compliantly.

To reveal too much about where this voice originates from, or how it finally implicates us in a disturbing denouement, would be to take away key elements of surprise vital to the audience experience. Suffice then to say, the voice takes us on a journey that demands that we work together as a group, firstly in innocent ways, and later a little more darkly. I felt a real fascination with the psychology behind this production; on one level individual behavioural responses are challenged – who will be brave enough to answer the phone first, and how will they handle the resultant conversation? – and on the other there is a gradual but compelling sense of deindividuation that grows as we begin to act more as a (possibly too compliant) group.

The immersive, risk-taking nature of this work, even set as it is within an empty space and simple framework, makes for a compelling experience. However, I was not wholly convinced that the woman who answered the phone first off and again at the end was not actually a conspirator. There was much in her slick delivery and ability to pace the action that spoke of an actor associated with the production. If this was the case, though, the contribution nevertheless served to move the narrative on with skill.

The build to resolution is structured to prime a sense of maximum investment in the voice’s fate; we know that we are waiting for something significant to happen. The final event when it comes is surprising, facilitated as it is by those in the audience who are willing to go along with it, and left me with enough to ponder for a long while after, for I may have refused to participate in the final action, but should I have tried to change it? This genuine sense of moral culpability is a real strength of the production, which taps in to the current zeitgeist for experiential and immersive work with real verve.

Les Enfants Terrible: Dr Longitude’s Marvellous Imaginary Menagerie

Right from the pre-set, Les Enfants Terribles create a visually striking and highly fantastical world of circus and carnival, where anything seems possible. We find ourselves looking at the entrance to an old fashioned circus tent, reminiscent of 1930s Spiegel-style construction, resplendent with signs and pictures promising delights within, and it quickly becomes apparent that the story and characters are just as colourful as the setting itself. The Mad Hatter-esque Dr. Longitude and his ensemble of performers take us on a journey to explain how they came to possess their menagerie of impossible creatures including the Bumble Wasp and the Tresillian Toad.

A heady mixture of puppetry, song, physical theatre and narration drives the show on at a relentless pace. The accomplished performances, and a vibrant design aesthetic that takes influences from steam punk and circus shows of yesteryear, provide enough material to fully absorb the many adults present at this children’s show.

The production makes clever use of many of the hallmarks of the genre, including inventive larger-than-life characters, all easily identifiable, whose delivery often mimics that of excitable children’s television presenters, and a simple and accessible plot complete with recapping songs that help to make sense of the story. These devices provide a hook for the imaginative and often crazily surreal ideas in the production to hang upon, and there are some wonderful moments of surprise involving visual imagery (the discovery of the ‘massive paw’ creature, represented in puppet form, is particularly well-pitched and hilarious) and interaction that keep the audience on our toes and fully engaged throughout. These moments are well-paced and judged, building to a climax which resolves the story effectively. This is a production with a very distinctive style; a huge imaginative mix of genres and performance types, handled with ease and skill. Extremely enjoyable.