Britt Hatzius: Blind Cinema

The room is a small cinema.
It has rows of light blue chairs.
The rows are long and the fabric is velvety.
On the chairs are black blindfolds.
Behind the chairs are long black tubes with black cones sticking out of either side.
The adults sit on the rows leaving one empty row behind them.
This row, we know, is for the children.

I hope I described that clearly: it has taken me years to learn how to do that – to know all the words and to organise them in a way that builds a picture. This is the task given to the children participating in Blind Cinema: to describe the images they see, in a film that they have never seen before. to adults who are blindfolded.

I listen intently to their description, given in whispers through the black tube I hold to my ear. The experience is strangely intimate, patient, and quietly treasured.

When we put on our blindfolds, the eight year olds scuttle in like a small herd; the room becomes full of their shuffles and breath, their nerves and excitement. My listening tube starts to softly bump against my head and a whisper begins – ‘the screen is black… there are three bricks on the floor… the floor is muddy’. I can hear the distant crinkles and cracks of the film, but I rely on my narrator to concur any images in my mind’s eye.

I enjoy the opportunity to have a dependant relationship on a child and to meet them solely through their voice. They acquire a special presence, something like a wild animal close by. My attention is nicely heightened.

They sound a little snotty and I imagine their wide eyes staring up at the film. From the descriptions and struggles to find the right words, I understand that it is an experimental film; fragmented images, something like Dada I think. They say ‘weird’, ‘something like an egg’, ‘they are on something but I don’t what it is’. My experience of the film is half formed pictures of trees and people and cities and rooms, I have no sense of narrative or emotion. I let go of the idea of the film very quickly and just become interested in the quality of the voice I am listening too. Instead of imagining the film I begin to imagine the child talking to me. I hang on to any lilt of a Bristol accent and consider what it is like to grow up as child in this city that I have come to live in.

The room is full of whispering voices, I am aware of every child working to describe what they see and trying to make sense of it. A challenge that these children are only just growing skills in. It makes me consider the development of our own communication skills, that it is through talking to others that we become skilled at translating the world around us. For these children, education and the school environment is the centre of their world, and the show made me certain that these places should not be silent but full of children’s voices; trying, developing, changing.

When the film ends, the children file down to the front of the cinema to bow. We remove our blindfolds to see the small gaggle of children in their school uniform. We asked them questions about the film and the experience, and they answer shyly. It is different now, without the blindfolds or the dark or the whispers. And I sense a tenderness around my left ear, I cup it like I did when I was listening, trying to remember the voice that was once there.

Through a simple exercise and allowing children to really try, to fail, and star, Blind Cinema is a sensitive and gentle connection with a developing mind.

Will Adamsdale & Fuel: The Joke

An Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scotsman: it’s a good premise, one we’re all familiar with, and certainly holds the potential for not only a good dose of laughs, but also a puerile potential for political undertones. The Joke, presented by Will Adamsdale and Fuel Theatre at Camden People’s Theatre, sets itself up in exactly this fashion, but unfortunately on many levels falls short of its own expectations.

We begin by sitting, collectively sharing the experience of staring into an empty space, before eventually the silence is broken by seemingly one of our own. A man tucked away three rows back begins to whisper to an audience member in front, to ask what’s going on. The premise feels obvious and it’s quite awkward, deliberately so, before breaking down. He stands, proclaiming his need to leave, as ‘nothing is going to happen,’ only to find that the door to the exit is now locked. Thus the play ensues, and two other characters are introduced (including CPT’s own artistic Director and erstwhile Cartoon de Salvo performer Brian Logan), both equally confused about their motives for being here. Eventually, the trio whittle down the possibilities, concluding rather absurdly that they must be trapped in a joke, and in order to escape they must set about presenting this joke in its entirety. Farce follows with far too numerous retellings and re-imaginings of the Man Overboard joke, concerning an English Captain, an Irish deck-scrubber, a Scotsman – who might be the lookout, I’m not too sure – and a Boy/Buoy. I’m sure you’ve heard it.

The main problem lies in an underdeveloped plot, and the lack of any clear resolution. Indeed, the play rather fizzles out, seemingly having run out of ideas. There is no indication as to why all of a sudden they are able to escape the joke: it is overlooked. Even more frustratingly, the perfect closure presents itself. As they share their last remaining tic-tacs, the following quip is heard: ‘We’ve got no tic-tacs, and you could say, no tac-tics.’ The trio collectively laugh, in a moment which celebrates the simplicity of a joke’s ability to bring laughter from the most unexpected of places. They succeeded on their voyage to discover ‘why we tell jokes’. I could almost see the door swinging open, proclaiming their chance discovery in a moment of despair. But it remained firmly shut.

There were simple problems with pace and comic timing. Cheap gags reigned supreme, which is fine, but it all felt woolly. Comedy demands precision, there was too much uncontrolled mayhem here. Each performer took it in turn to lead gag after gag, allowing no time to establish a rapport between themselves. The play makes reference to the Marx Brothers and the contrast felt telling. Chico, Harpo, Groucho, Gummo and Zeppo each developed very distinct personas, complementing each other in highly situational-based comedy. Here the situation, however abstract, was present, but the three performers didn’t utilise their complementing traits, and this stunted the comedic effect.

The play isn’t without merits; Lloyd Hutchinson makes an amiable Irishman, the butt of many a joke but by far the most accomplished in his comedic delivery. His timing is precise and raises genuine laughs and he balanced the tone well rendering the melodramatic elements of the plot less garish.

Comedy is tricky – and even more so when there is an attempt to deconstruct it. Here, it feels like too many elements are in the mix, and the result lacks the polish and wit the concept deserves. There is certainly potential in the subject matter and these are three accomplished performers in their own right. A bit more exploration may well unearth a more cohesive dialogue to carry the play forward.

Andy Field: Lookout

This unusual production pairs one adult audience member with a primary-school-aged child from the city, and has been created by Andy Field in collaboration with the students and staff of Sefton Park Junior School.

I no longer live in Bristol and this visit was one of the few times I’ve ever been left feeling nostalgic about it. Brandon Hill is at its most beautiful at this time of year (even in the drizzle). The view over the cityscape, right over the docks, out towards the mouth of the Avon, is spectacular, and added to this, the whole place is singing with flowers and birdlife. After a while I understand that this outdoor event is not simply about being able to be outdoors now that it’s (almost) summer. Lookout carries an ecological message. We ‘look out’ over the landscape and we need to ‘look out’ for the future of a city whose green spaces and relative opulence provide an almost perfect mix for urban living.

Lookout is an event that gives small audiences a half hour introduction to possible futures. On entering the park we were greeted by Andy who hands us a small portable recording to be listened to, individually, at places where the view was the most far reaching. At first, music and then a child’s voice speaks: ‘Hello, my name is Frank, and I’m 49 years old.’ The voice goes on to describe something very different from the view I’m actually looking at. Allotments created of necessity cover the parkland (as they must have done during the war). Massive radar dishes funnel the heat of the sun and create local weather conditions; the views are gone, buried under high rise housing developments. The voice stops and a real child’s voice takes my attention: ‘Hello, I’m Frank and I’m seven years old.’ Frank then outlines the format of the exchange; he asks me three questions. ‘Do I think I will be alive in 60 years’ time?’ He is unflinching but the point has been made – how do I see the future of this place? And, how would I feel about its loss of it as a place of beauty? But is there also an assumption, in Frank’s script, that audience are part of the ‘I won’t be around so I don’t care’ club? That only by knowing we will witness the devastating changes that will occur if real environmental protection doesn’t speed up, will we care about and actively support change?

As the first exchange ends I listen to another recording: ‘Hello, I’m Frank and I’m 69 years old.’ Frank is standing beside me looking at the view though a pair of toy binoculars until it’s time to talk again. Then other voices, that offer other futures, feature interesting proposals such as the abolition of money, the teaching and learning of gymnastics for all from an early age– thus making the ‘need’ for acrobats redundant. Finally Frank asks for, and takes careful note of, some things I would ask for from the government. I don’t know what he will do with my replies. I don’t ask. There is no formal ending, he walks away. The recording turns to music and then ends.

The exchange has been smoothly mediated and I need to reflect hard on what I’ve contributed to. The introduction of a listening device was key because, as with other forms of theatre, we have been trained to listen but in ordinary encounters, in public areas, there are no particular definitions to the space or focus of attention.

Andy Field’s work always focuses on the reimagination of everyday behaviours and this commission from Mayfest builds on that trope and his history of making interactive work. The levelling of adult and child in this piece is exceptionally simple and clever. I overhear a member of the audience saying that the kids are ‘sweet’, but they’re not. They are on the same level as the adults in this exchange (only more imaginative) and the familiar, simple interaction at the heart of this piece nevertheless exerts a complex effect. Frank was an actual child and a ‘character’, he played a part, as did his peers with other audience members, and each was both real and symbolic, universal children. This strangeness created a beneficial distance that validated and gave an equal weight to the ideas of both parties. It’s a concept piece that could be used to powerful affect in many other cities and may, I hope, be repeated when Frank is 69.

The Upstairs Brigade: Birthday in Suburbia

This show, by young physical theatre collective The Upstairs Brigade, all graduates of the MA in Physical Theatre at St Mary’s University, opens with a group of mysterious black hooded figures performing a dance routine. Then it quickly shifts style into a quirky and comic play set in the suburban home of a middle-aged Polish man, Stanislav, and his British family. It is his 40th birthday, and his somewhat neurotic wife has made arrangements for family and neighbours to come and celebrate. The characters are rendered as exaggerated caricatures, including two brightly sketched Polish sisters, one cold and uptight and the other giggly and carefree. There is a nerdy male neighbour and a lustful femme fatale, with whom it seems the lead character has been having an affair. It is strong ensemble playing from a talented young cast that paints a clear picture of the uptight mundanity of a suburban life. Stanislav watches with increased agitation as the nervous tension of the socially inept group increases, whilst his wife Linda prompts the group’s ‘fun’ activities.

And then the piece takes a distinctly unexpected direction as a strange woman enters the house, visible only to Stanislav and communicating to him in expressive and highly physical forms of sign language. This sudden change comes at just the right time to punctuate the narrative, creating an element of genuine mystery – in part because the nature of what she is ‘saying’ is hard to discern (for non-signing audience members). Does she represent his conscience? Or his repressed desires for a more exciting life? She is certainly a charismatic presence, and leads him literally down the toilet on a surreal and ambiguous journey, reminiscent of the ghosts in A Christmas Carol.

The set is composed of a series of sections on wheels, which are inventively rearranged by the supporting cast who re-don their black cloaks, to show this journey. But where are we going and who are those mysterious figures? Is he back in Poland at some Bohemian soiree, or somewhat inebriated amongst a group of down-and-outs? The level of ambiguity is intriguing, but sadly the performance I saw was curtailed by a power-cut and so the mystery was never revealed. The power of this production is highly dependent on the degree to which this strange journey becomes clearer, and what actually happens upon his presumed return. It certainly presents an intriguing mixture of theatrical styles performed with skill and commitment.

ZLS Theatre: Insomnia

There are a host of good intentions behind Insomnia, but not as much in the way of multimedia theatrical innovation as the show’s promotion suggests. Local company ZLS have carefully developed their cast of characters and present sequential snapshots of their respective sleeplessness, cut with video interludes.

The show’s premise, setting out to stage the weird liminal state of late-night insomnia, seems to propose a rich territory. The tag line ‘When you don’t sleep, who else wakes?’ makes a good soundbite, but reflects the lack of focus in the show as a whole: beyond the starting point of their wakefulness, there is a vain wait for coherence between the disparate storylines. ZLS certainly have ambition: the four cast members inhabit a slew of genres – subaquatic, post-apocalyptic silver-catsuit-clad science fiction; hair-braided, gown-wearing mediaeval fantasy, featuring deals with dragons and putting peasants in their place; the creepy thriller of a lonely, resentful programmer building himself a robot girlfriend in his bedsit; and in psychological drama, an institutionalised teen. The performances are solid, the rhythm of each scene meticulously metered, yet it is missing an emotional core; too much textbook technique and nowhere near enough personal investment.

The staging is unconventional – mismatched chairs laid out seemingly randomly, between the precisely marked performance spaces in The Brunswick’s chilly cellar, means that the audience are only looking comfortably at one or two of the actors at any point. This can make the repetitive format feel overlong, especially when long video interludes are projected onto a small, partly obscured section of wall.

Recurring motifs run through Insomnia in an attempt to bring cohesion, and while these invite curiosity, lending another layer to the play, far more narrative progression and resolution are needed to justify the lengthy playing time.

The custom-written stories, which expand on the experience of each character, form an interesting addendum, dispensed to each of us as we were dismissed back to the balmy spring evening outside. This was a literary touch which, with the right audience, could engender lively post-show discussion. Sadly not on this occasion though – the slightly baffled theatregoers all simply shuffled their separate ways. An ambitious undertaking sorely in need of some dramaturgy.

Total Theatre