Monday, 11 May 2009

Books read in January

The following are short reviews of the books that I read in January. The marks I have given them in the brackets are out of five.

Miss Garnet’s Angel – Salley Vickers (3.4)

This is one of those novels that EM Forster or Henry James might have written in which an elderly woman, Julia Garnet, goes to Italy and falls in love with Venice. She learns things about herself, such as not to close her mind or heart to new, hedonistic experiences. It is full of Venetian references with a dash of art and religion, as in Italy it is almost impossible to ignore either.

Miss Garnet travels to Italy in remembrance of her friend, Harriet, who has recently died. Initially, a parsimonious spinster, Julia soon discovers that it is not as hard to make friends and initiate relationships as she had thought. She can portray whatever image of herself she chooses in Italy where no one knows her and she is not confined by preconceptions.

She used to be a Communist and very austere, but now she starts to let herself indulge and even flirts with Catholicism. She learns about the angel Raphael through artworks and discovers he is the angel of healing and that he accompanied Tobias on his journey through the wilderness. Allegory begins to crash in, in deafening waves and this is the least enjoyable part of the narrative.

When Julia tells the story to a random stranger on a train it is a terrible device and makes her sound like the elderly teacher she is attempting to shed. The spiritual or supernatural element is overwrought and if Vickers had eased up on the symbolism it would have left a lasting impression rather than a whacking imprint.

Death on the Ice – Robert Ryan (4.4)

What made people risk their lives in treacherous conditions among people they didn’t know to reach the South Pole? This novel based on diaries and letters from the men on Scott’s 1912 expedition attempts to answer that question. Robert Ryan makes these men human through his imagined dialogue and characterisation and he describes the Antarctic scenery in all its terrifying beauty. This is an end of an era style of novel which depicts a time of heroism and duty against insurmountable odds. It is gripping boy’s own adventure stuff told with compelling language.

There was great rivalry between the English and the Norwegians and much is made of the difference between Scott and Amundsen. “Amundsen won the Pole. But Scott, he achieved immortality.” Scott’s expeditions included scientific research and quests other than reaching the pole, including gathering data that has been used in contemporary theories on climate change and anthropological information about emperor penguins and the effects of extreme temperatures.

Even though we know that Scott doesn’t make it back, he came agonisingly close. Mistakes were made; instructions given but forgotten in the intensity of the moment, and the mistaken confusion is almost Shakespearean in its scope. Part of the excitement and tension is due to the writing, which is very good and keeps the novel thrilling with is evocative and economical imagery. The novel also humanises the men and their journey and gives a voice to Kathleen, as the strong woman who had to wait behind, knowing that her husband was risking death and aware of the gossip that greeted her whenever she went out without him.

Zlata’s Diary
– Zlata Filipovic (3.2)

Before the war in Bosnia, Zlata Fliipovic was a normal privileged eleven-year old girl. She read books, played the piano and watched television, talking with her friends and going on skiing holidays. Like many teenaged girls, she kept a diary. Then in September 1991, everything changed in Sarajevo. Inspired by Anne Frank, who wrote to Kitty, Zlata calls her diary Mimmy, and confides her thoughts and fears in it. It is full of overwrought adolescent pretension and hyperbole – including a bombardment of capital letters and exclamation marks – but she has justification for her terror and anguish.

Zlata’s diary was discovered by Janine di Giovanni, a journalist for The Sunday Times in Bosnia. When her diary was published, Zlata became a media celebrity and a symbol of the casualties of war. She is often referred to as the new Anne Frank, but her work is not of the same calibre. From the day she knows her diary is due for publication, she is constantly aware of herself and the image she is projecting.

It’s not exactly the sort of book you would read to gain political insight, but it is worth reading to see how the war affected her. She describes how her family move their mattresses into the kitchen where they eat, sleep and live. There is no gas or electricity so she writes by candlelight and bathes in a basin. She writes of how they cope without running water, and describes the scenes outside of water collection, with one eye on the possible public reception.

One of the hardest things for a young girl is the lack of social contact. Her records of her visits to her grandparents are the most honest entries in the diary and she is concerned about the effect the war is having on her parents. Zlata looks forward to birthdays because it is the only time “when the neighbours relax, spend some together and cheer up a bit.” She spends the rest of her days in the house and the cellar, aware that her circle of friends has shrunk to the extent that she feels caged.

The Partnership – Barry Unsworth (3.5)

Published in 1966, this is Barry Unsworth’s first novel and it was immediately placed on the list of banned books due to its homosexual subject matter. This is, as is often the case, naïve and misses the point, as the novel also deals with a variety of themes including friendship, cruelty and loneliness.

In a plot practically made for an Ealing farce, Michael Moss and Ronald Foley are business partners, drawn together to make pixies for the tourist market of Cornwall that both despise. Both are using the other but the balance of power frequently shifts during their relationship. Moss is quietly oppressed, while Foley, although he likes to think of himself as a man about town, has no firm opinions and melds into whatever mould he is poured, much like the plaster of Paris shapes he makes on the side.

The Partnership is a curiously depressing little novel. With its dark undercurrents, shifting power struggle, and seminal sociological setting it is reminiscent of the film, The Servant. As it questions the elements necessary to form any type of partnership it leaves a sense of melancholy in its wake.

The Quick and the Dead – Janine di Giovanni (4.2)

Janine di Giovanni is the woman who ‘discovered’ Zlata’s diary, and this her collection of dispatches from Bosnia, particularly Sarajevo. Just as she knew that one person’s story is more affecting than the plight of a nation, so she realised that different angles and viewpoints would make this war more interesting to the Western media.

Although aware that she had the option to leave and so could never understand their plight, she did share some experiences with the besieged citizens, however, and explains these to the reader in terms they may be able to understand, appealing to the senses and personal deprivation. She describes how cold it was in winter; the endless queues for water, food, bread, wood, and even the opportunity to search for rubbish; the constant fear of the snipers; and the simple need for a little luxury.

Di Giovanni narrates these tales minimally and without melodrama, allowing them to speak for themselves. A resident of a nursing home, where old people were left to die without heating or medical supplies, braved the snipers to cross the street to the Holiday Inn where the journalists stayed because they needed to tell their story. This is the responsibility and motivation under which di Giovanni wrote. She felt that the world needed to know what was happening. It had all seemed such a distant possibility until it actually happened. Sarajevo hosted the Winter Olympics in 1984. Less than ten years later, the world was watching for different reasons.

The Quick and the Dead is an excellent collection of shocking stories that try to explain what the hell happened in Sarajevo. It has a rightful place in the canon of modern war literature.

Saturday, 9 May 2009

First Laughs

First Laughs. Comedy Festival 2009
Wellington Opera House, May 3

Once again the New Zealand International Comedy Festival began in Wellington with First Laughs – a pick and mix of the talent to be showcased over the next three weeks. Local and international acts shared the stage at the Opera House competing for audience attention and hoping to woo them along to their forthcoming full-length show.

The night was ably compèred by Steve Wrigley leaping about the stage with his ‘seducto dance’, dislike of Easter and advice to cheer up and stop taking the recession so seriously. Some of his material was a little jaded (aren’t we over jokes about LOTR yet?) but his delivery was engaging and he’s generous towards his fellow performers.

Despite Wrigley’s introductions, it was harder to differentiate between the acts, because none of them have a particular schtick. Last year we had unicycles, flow charts, impressions and musical comedy. This year we had a load of blokes (with only two women performing), one of whom (Mark Scott) has a guitar and one of whom (Te Radar) has a sustainability TV series – I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard jokes about pig hunting.

In general the night was mercifully short of swine flu jokes, although Benjamin Crellin (with excellent stage presence) handed out masks for people in the front row and then chastised one for not putting it on – ‘I bet you’re the sort of guy who has sex with a condom – in his pocket.’

Instead the jokes were mainly aimed at Facebook, the New Zealand Defence Force (which seems fractionally unfair as apparently it can’t defend itself) and the emotionless reaction of the Kiwi male (or Aussie in the case of Mickey D).

According to Steve Wrigley all reviewers are f*&%wits and the worse a review is, the better a comedy show sells. Apparently if we hate it, it must be good. But what if we like it, because on the basis of these condensed comedy skits there was lots to like.

International highlights included Janey Godley, back with her hard-hitting self-effacing Glaswegian approach, Jason John Whitehead, whose charming Canadian wordplay is effortlessly original, and Geordie Jason Cook saying inappropriate things because of the voice in his head.

Among the home-grown gems were Cori Gonzalez-Macuer who manages to make terrorists on the tube funny and Dai Henwood who has started hating things he has no reason to hate, like helping his friends move and toffee apples.
TJ MacDonald also merits a longer stint with his laconic observations – does he really love Secret Santa because he enjoys being the anonymous cause of someone else’s disappointment? Without wishing to inversely influence anyone’s shows, I encourage you to find out.

Thursday, 7 May 2009

'Tell me a story'; 'I don't want to give you nightmares'

A Most Outrageous Humbug, Three Spoon Theatre
Downstage Theatre, 29 April – 7 May

The opening gambit of A Most Outrageous Humbug sets the scene for the entire play. Artfully designed piles of books and sombre mood lighting (Marcus McShane) form the backdrop to Edgar Allan Poe’s parents’, Elizabeth (Jean Sergent) and David (Adam Donald) ferocious and theatrical argument which ends in tears and blood.

Top hats, velvet waistcoats, silk cravats hoop skirts, and fortified corsets (gorgeously designed by Dawa Devereux) hint at the constriction of fierce passions. Meanwhile the scenario is underpinned by Tane Upjohn Beatson at the piano with its exposed hammers and strings playing dramatic, morose music. This promises to be an American Gothic Romance with dark undercurrents of violence and passion, and boy, does it deliver.

Told through a mix of Poe’s essays, poems and stories woven with imagined events, the play purports to be a biography of the man. As a lesson to anyone who ever wants to know how much of an author’s work is biographical – it’s simply impossible to know. Three Spoon Theatre under the direction of Charlotte Bradley have created a work which shows a man spiralling into madness and sabotaging his entire literary career, loosing himself in stories and wine. You might just as well worry about their state of mind.

Edgar Allan Poe became an orphan at two, the inference being he had no early stabilising factors in his life. Driven by thronging passion – ‘his ardour was matched only by his ambition’ – he hoped academia might rein in his wild excesses. We are told this by Thomas McGrath narrating as Poe from the sidelines, becoming increasingly involved in the action as the play progresses. The play both shows and tells with Ralph McCubbin Howell acting as Poe throughout.

Poe writes every moment available between his studies to the detriment of them both, and becomes romantically involved with Frances Osgood (Adrianne Roberts). His rival in love and literature is the ‘sweaty and creepy but persistent and rich’ Rufus Griswold (Ed Watson). Poe may be ‘talented and passionate’ but he also has a wild disregard for propriety reflected in his appearance. Howell plays him as explosive, which leaves him with nowhere to go as his tempo is feverish from the beginning.

The journey into madness is marked by a number of well-scripted scenes. There is a poetry reading between Poe and Griswold at which Griswold suggests ‘The ladies will enjoy our academic duelling’. There is Poe’s peculiarly abstract proposal to his 13-year-old cousin Virginia ‘Sissy’ Eliza Celmm (played with wide-eyed gaucheness by Alex Lodge) using his macabre stories as a form of courtship – ‘I liked your poetry better’. Sissy’s amusing wittering suits the young girl’s naivety, but her chilly defence is a little modern – ‘I may not be an adult, but at least I’m not a prat.’

There is the costume party book launch at which Elmira Shelton (Jean Sergent) dresses as the author – is it a sincere form of flattery or grist to his burgeoning paranoia? Meanwhile a mysterious hooded figure, seen only by Sissy, stalks the party, which cannot bode well. In orchestrated breaks from the party, guests partner up into formal dance and corpses return to life.

As Poe reads his stories we are frequently deceived into questioning what is reality and given unheralded glimpses into his manic mind. ‘What a gift to tap into the psyche of a blood-thirsty psycho so effortlessly’. He applies for an editing position only to be interviewed by characters from his short story Doctor Tarr (Adam Donald) and Professor Fether (Jean Sergent) in a show-stealing scene.

This is a brilliantly written script and hangs so tightly together that it is hard to believe it was devised collaboratively. The colours of red (the consumptive blood that claims so many characters) black (the raven feather; the relentless gloom) and white (the purity and innocence of Sissy; the bleached bones of his tales) are woven into the tapestry of the narrative.
Death unifies all from his mother’s untimely demise to his own wrestling with himself (literally) in the final scene. It’s not exactly joyful, but it is triumphant, and a worthy inclusion in the Pick of the Fringe.

Monday, 4 May 2009

A Multicultural Melting Pot

Poly-zygotic (Pick of the Fringe), F.I.T. Productions
Downstage Theatre, 29 April – 7 May

The other day some friends and I were pondering what we did to entertain ourselves before the techno-You Tube generation. We all admitted we made up skits which we forced our parents and elderly neighbours to come and see, as we performed song and dance routines, ‘gymnastics’ (at best a handstand and a forward roll) puppet shows, or, at a push, poetry.

It seems that is also what happens in Poly-Zygotic as Samoan triplets Aso (Taofi Mose-Tuiloma), Tausaga (Asalem Tofete) and Masin (Tupe Lualua) work out what to perform for Lotu a Tamaiti or Children’s Day. The programme notes explain (to those, such as I, who need the explanation) that on this day the church is filled with people dressed in white, and children perform for their parents and relatives by reciting tauloto (bible verses), singing, or performing creative dances and dramas.

The show comprises the three arguing what they will present to their audience, while worrying that other groups will be better than theirs. As the eldest by an all important 21 seconds, Tusaga thinks he should make all the decisions, despite the ridicule of his sisters. Tofete beautifully captures the shyness behind the bravado when he unveils a routine he has been working on for two years (‘It better not be a trilogy!’). The sisters dismiss it as less like Black Grace and more of a disgrace, but in truth the three move with fluid charm and poise.

Similarly to Neil Ieremia, they decry the stereotypes, refusing to do anything about gangs or violence or ‘the pathetic angel who rescues them and sets them on the right path.’ They have already done all the best bible tales, so what will they do? Has every story been told already? And where will they find their own voice? As each of the siblings struggles for supremacy, this is clearly a question that has troubled them since birth. Masina explains their relationship when she points out that one of these things is not like the other things, and quotes her father who used to say, ‘You are nothing alike but just as ugly as each other.’ Without parents, they are co-dependent and the genuine affection is only barely masked by the simmering rivalry.


A zgote is a basic cell, containing all the genetic information necessary for a new organism. The fact that they are many (poly) leads us to expect a multitude of influences, and that is exactly what we get in this play. There are myriad cultural references, from the American hip-hop and reality TV to the multi-faceted ‘Fever’ sequence. Mose-Tuiloma’s sensual singing in a spot-light evokes the Hindu God and Lord of the Dance while Lualua enacts Bollywood dance-moves in silhouette behind a very Samoan tapa cloth.


There is a touch of stereotype as the three actors play the exquisite ‘aunties’, who observe and comment on themselves as the triplets. Either standing outside the church bitching and smoking, or sitting inside (with dextrous handling of deckchairs) fanning themselves and wearing hats, they talk in realistic rhythms of family histories and community scandals.

This is a rich production full of music, movement and laughter. The actors seem to enjoy themselves as much as the audience – which is always a good sign. Poly-zygotic represents the melting pot of multiculturalism while retaining the individuality of nationhood. It’s a delight.

Friday, 1 May 2009

Brand new beer

Last night I was drinking the freshest beer in a pub in Wellington. I know because Dion Page, one of the brewers of Tuatara’s latest drop said so.

He also said that they move slowly – like a tuatara – and they haven’t released a beer in seven years. This latest is a cracker. (No, actually, it’s a beer.)

It’s called Tuatara Helles which is apparently a German style of beer that is very easy to drink. I find it to be so.

It seems that some people find Pilsners too bitter and hoppy (I’ve yet to find a beer that is too hoppy, but that’s just me) so the chaps at Tuatara have presented them with this sweeter, brighter version, which is described by the Malthouse staff as ‘more commercial’ but not in a bad way.

Made with New Zealand-grown Hallertau and Saaz hops, Tuatara Helles makes good use of what are termed the noble hops – I love that expression and I love the aroma they give off. Dion tells an amusing anecdote about trying to add them at just the right moment but being foiled by a gust of wind and a boiling geyser - I guess you had to be there.

The beer has ‘a decent burst of early malt sweetness and then late crispness for balance’ – so says Neil Miller and he knows about these things. I thought it has a slight flavour of banana bubblegum, but again, that could just be me.

It is light gold in colour and so clear as to look like it has nothing to hide. However, Dion warns that although it purports to be 5% abv, it is considerably more than that. He won’t say how much more.


We’re driving home, so we have to regrettably leave the beer behind, hopefully for another day (unless it all gets drunk, which is possible). I could go a session on that stuff. Cheers!

Wednesday, 29 April 2009

Epiphany in rehearsal

Our first Twelfth Night rehearsal was a read-through, which is fairly standard procedure. Our second was another read-through but this time we had all translated our own lines into modern English. I found this really interesting and there were several lessons learned. Here are three of them:

1. Because people were only translating their own lines, some didn’t think about the speeches that followed. Some of the comic interchanges don’t work if a person hasn’t thought to use a word that the next person puns with. This proves the fundamental way a play works – that all the dialogue is interconnected and no one person, whether they be the lead or the comic relief, can consider their speeches in isolation.

2. Many had thought that the modern read-through would be shorter than the original, expecting the traditional Shakespeare speeches to be unnecessarily wordy. In fact, they were the same length. Modern speech may be much more economical, but it is also less colourful, having lost many idioms and phrases.

Things the sixteenth century peasants knew are no longer common knowledge. Words such as cuckold or cockatrice require lengthy translation, such as ‘man who has been betrayed sexually by his wife and another man, so now has horns growing out of his forehead’ or ‘fabulous beast hatched by a snake from an egg laid by a cock, with a serpent’s body and the legs, wings and head of a cock, which can kill people just by looking at them.’

Sure, sometimes the classical allusions may spin things out a bit, but they also enrich and delight, not to mention reveal an insight into the character and create a bond with the audience. After all, there is an argument that culture is based on shared stories and mythology.

3. This play is funny – the humour comes through clearly and it is not all visual, as some people contend. When people drop the ‘thee’s, ‘thou’s and ‘marry sirrah’s to make it flow in their own accent and vernacular (Shakespeare did not have the squeaky snipped vowels of the antipodes in mind when he penned his dialogue, which is why his plays can sound so awful here), they can really appreciate it.

"He’s a very fool and a prodigal" becomes 'He’s a right flash wanker' and it speaks to us as the bard intended. Of course, some of it defies translation, particularly the iambic pentameter and the rhyming couplets. There is a reason it has passed into the canon of literature and the litany of cliché.


“Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em.”


Monday, 27 April 2009

There'll Always Be An England


Happy as a Sandbag, Wellington Repertory Theatre
Newtow
n Community Centre Theatre, 21-26 April

I wasn’t really sure what to expect from this show – it is a revue of 1940s skits and songs depicting war-time life in England – but I was very pleasantly surprised. It pays homage to the fighting spirit that saw a nation through times of loss, hardship and deprivation. Through skits about topics ranging from the Home Guard to the ammunitions factories, warmth and humour are served up alongside nostalgia.

The basic choreography and simple directing (Ewen Coleman) focus attention on the stories. There are scenes of air-raid shelters full of courting couples and evacuees trying to wet the bed so that they will be sent home to their parents. There are American GIs who are ‘over-paid, over-sexed and over here’, and women working hard on the land.

Moments of humour are represented by radio programmes and stand-up comedians; Max Miller is played fabulously by David Adams in his flamboyant suit. David also plays Hitler, which is slightly unnerving – not least because he is Neville Chamberlain less than a minute later.

The make do and mend spirit is alive and well, with a recycling spirit that would do today’s eco-warriors proud. Rationing and creative cooking is gently mocked in an excellent skit performed by Felicity Cozens who manages to look truly ecstatic at the sight of an onion. Wilton pie, made without meat but vegetables such as carrots to aid night vision, is not such a thrill it would seem.

I’m not sure which of the men delivers the Churchill speeches, but they are intensely stirring. The words, ‘We shall never surrender’ or ‘This was their finest hour’ bring an instant lump to the throat, just as Hitler’s speech, projected onto a screen on stage, settles a chill on the heart. There are also tears to be shed at the vignettes of loss – when Julie Homan sings the ‘Ballad of the Soldier’s Wife’ shivers run down my spine. It’s not just the lyrics – that woman can sing! The dramatic piano solo of the Warsaw Concerto (played by Saar Cohen-Ronen) is equally moving.

Originally the show was written for ten parts, but this larger cast of nineteen spreads the talent around. It is unfair to single out specific actors as the whole ensemble works well together. Susan Page, lighting operator, told me she felt a sense of camaraderie develop during the season. Despite the sadness and reticence, the shared emotion finds a voice in the 1940s sing-a-long. The music hall favourites are sung with brio (You are my Sunshine; Knees up Mother Brown; Roll out the Barrel) and it’s a delight to see the audience members join in.

The patriotic numbers are belted out without a hint of ridicule or derision. It is generally unacceptable these days in this country to be proud to be English, but hearing those songs (There’ll always be an England, Rule Britannia, Land of Hope and Glory, The White Cliffs of Dover) made me feel exactly that.

I’m grateful to Wellington Repertory for presenting this show without sneering irony. I’m grateful to the men and women who suffered so much for future generations to enjoy their hard-won freedom. And I’m grateful for being given the opportunity to remember with respect.

Bless ‘em all