|review| body & soul at the young centre

review by kat fournier

I told myself that I wouldn’t start this article by mentioning that Body and Soul was commissioned by Dove, but there it is. The truth of it is that this play was, in fact, commissioned by Dove. If you’re like me, this might send a chill down your spine. Theatre is a strong hold against consumer culture, an art form whose ever changing structure makes it intrinsically uncommodifiable. A commissioning by… Dove? (Dove Brand naming count: 3) (…4) What is the world coming to?

But I’d be wrong to stop there, because this play worked. It worked because it was solidly written, because it spoke with such an honest voice, and because its style integrated the rawness of 13 untrained actors into a captivating performance – not to mention the talented hand of Ms. Judith Thompson who co-wrote, dramaturged and directed it.

The piece, performed at the Young Centre for the Performing Arts, is a collection of the stories of thirteen women over fifty. A creative impulse that is somewhat akin to Vagina Monologues, Body and Soul started out as a collection of letters. The women all wrote letters to their aging bodies, and Thompson then picked these 13 women to appear in the final version.

Loosely staged as a series of exchanges and monologues, the play visits a number of themes. Womanhood and childhood, for example. They talked about their mothers, and what motherhood has done to them. Structurally, we follow not just all the themes together but we also follow each woman individually. This interplay of individuality with collective experience means that a broad scope of womanhood emerges; Thompson is careful not to re-write a cliche of post-fertile experience. This is the power of having so many competing, different voices working together.

And we see very little overlap — every woman only speaks of her experience. An ex-nun speaks of her vow of celibacy as a young girl, while another woman talks about her incarceration after standing up against racism. A Cree woman faces the pain of an absent mother at a young age, while a mother shares the experience of having to fight so that the law validates same-sex parents. Thompson makes sure that – despite their maturity – these women have nothing in common.

The real beauty of this piece comes out of the movements of the women. Devoid of training each woman is no more and no less than themselves. Clenched hands and wavering voices. Moments of over-rehearsed speech broken by emotional quivers as their pasts resurface. Their stories are made beautiful not only because of Thompson’s eye for craft and structure but because of how raw they’ve become for us. They are dedicated to delivering the wealth of their experiences – the ‘fruit of wisdom’ or, you know, whatever – and they do. They bring grace and honesty to the stage, while the mechanical edges of this creation are smoothed (but thankfully not entirely erased) by Thompson.

The performance incorporates song and movement, punctuated when a new theme begins to surface. One of my favorite moments is the opening of a second act: the women enter the stage, hunched over and shrouded in floor length, hooded, black robes. They begin to cackle as they hover around an invisible cauldron. The shrill laughter grows louder and louder until they suddenly face the audience square, throw off their robes and pose, revealing their formal wear. Its about breaking expectations, and facing off with the way that age is treated by a youth-loving-age-effacing media.

So yes, I was initially curious if not entirely offset by Dove’s association with this piece. As someone who likes to think of the theatre as one of the last standing uncommodifiable spaces that still exist in Toronto, that I showed up to see all the seats housed small gift bags was troubling. I worried how any play can make up for the indoctrination that comes with any marketing campaign (“sure age is beautiful if you use the products in our new line”). Clearly a giant marketing tactic, I became skeptical that any show could overcome the consumerist undertone of a play commissioned by a huge corporation.

But the show speaks for itself. Maybe this is the new brand power. Yes every inch of every surface (i’m prone to exaggeration) is owned by someone, but this play really succeeds at offsetting brand coding. As a whole, the play stands to be able to break through archetypal barriers that brands try to market us through. Its the way these stories work together – both complementing and juxtaposing one another. Kudos to Thompson, because my inner cynic softened. Maybe there’s light at the end of this tunnel.

|review| alias godot at tarragon theatre

The city is run amok with menacing youth and crooked cops. In Tarragon Theatre’s Alias Godot, Toronto playwright Brandon Gall puts forth that the infamous Godot has inadvertently wandered into a crime scene despite other plans. It looks like Estragon and Vladimir will have to wait while this debacle is sorted out.

Directed by Richard Rose, slapstick comedy parades throughout the performance. Inspired by Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, Gall tries to make some sense out of Beckett’s absurdity by throwing his infamous emblem of existential crisis – Godot – into an interrogation room in post 9/11 New York City.

Godot is a prim, witty man that glows with an ephemeral light – quite literally; a vague follow spot pursues him almost throughout the play. He is a strange man, and doesn’t quite know where he is nor is he willing to speculate as to how he got there. Rebecca Picherack’s lighting design stresses the peculiarity of this strange meeting by leading the audience from day to night as the interrogation continues incessantly.

But the show’s charm is predominantly as an array of characters. Director Rose hams up the clowning and really Godot’s oddity isn’t outwardly distinguishable from the other misfits. The show opens as a police officer storms into the room. It’s been a rough night and his shoulder harness is handcuffed together – the key is attached to his back. He spins like a dog chasing his tail to try to reach it. A slight man in a dark suit stumbles into the room, trying to catch his falling hat before it hits the ground. Godot has arrived, and he is followed by a stern looking man poised with a snarl.

Alon Nashman plays Godot with an alien-like gleam. He is juxtaposed by Paul Braunstein as Edward and David Ferry as Vincent as a typical police duo – the former is meek, while the later is crude. It’s good cop, bad cop. Add Godot. Stir vigorously. Slightly over-the-top throughout, the piece is rich with the type of hilarious banter you’d expect if you locked a crude cop, his halfwit side kick and an embodiment of existential philosophy in a room together.

Godot’s presence is the biggest cult-generating factor this show invokes. A fun sort of game springs up: what would happen if we extract the essence of Godot and weave him into a New York police department’s interrogation room? For playwright Gall, Godot’s very presence becomes a sort of vortex in an otherwise concrete, physical reality. What the officers take for granted about themselves and each other – and about time and space altogether – slowly melts into a Dali-esque stew of surrealism.

For those of us who are decidedly reverent to the house of theatre history, this performance boils down to a sort of catch-the-Beckett-references as they fly by. A coat rack in the stead of Beckett’s leafless tree, the untimely entrance of a man and his servant, or a strategically placed phone call nearing the end of the second act, for example. Ultimately the very structure of this play progresses inch by inch in accordance with Beckett’s Waiting for Godot with only minor adjustments.

Gall writes the characters into a cramped interrogation room. On the back wall is a long mirror, assumedly backing onto a witness gallery. Are they being watched? Who knows. Set designer Teresa Przybylski exaggerates the cramped space by raking it from every angle, turning it into a sort of hand-drawn perspective box.

It isn’t until the second act that Gall really starts to light a fire with this piece. Godot, seemingly confined, easily undoes his handcuffs while an intoxicated Vincent slowly dozes off. When he suddenly wakes up, Godot casually re-fastens himself – totally unbeknownst to his captor. And just like Beckett’s Vladimir and Estragon, Godot in Alias Godot is characterized by choice. The infuriating but simple truth of the play becomes that each character ultimately has constructed their reality. The only confines are those imposed by their own perception.

The power of this piece wavers. As the situation begins to spin into an uncontrollable mess, director Rose’s impact really begins to come through: everything twists into eeriness – the lights change, the temperaments of the characters become manic. But, even in these moments the clowning prevails, and as the actors reach moments of sharp impact laughter seemed to fall out of the audience.

A notion about policing vaguely surfaces. In this stuffy, warn interrogation room, two police officers have detained Godot though he insists on leaving. Where Beckett proposes a basic need for camaraderie (though seemingly pointless), Gall interjects a questioning of those who have been put in charge of overseeing morality. There’s a powerful moment when Vincent stands upstage of Godot as he cowers against a wall. Godot’s shadow is a tiny speck compared to the giant, postured Vincent. Justice becomes a monster that can consume choice simply through its existence.

Ultimately I wonder if I’m digging too far. The challenge of modeling yourself after a great work like Waiting for Godot is that you’re inevitably bound to live in its shadow. Though this performance presents many pockets of light – well executed comedy, delicately constructed characters, philosophical musings, and a compelling set design – as a whole it just doesn’t shine. With one foot stuck in Beckett’s world, and the other undecidedly wavering between clowning and Law and Order, it just doesn’t quite have a solid base to stand on.

Alias Godot
Tarragon Theatre
30 Bridgman Ave
April 22 – June 1
Tickets $20-$38 (Sunday matinée PWYC)

review: palace of the end | canstage at berkeley

No matter how we look at it, the war in Iraq has become part of our daily lives. It is interwoven in our conversations, in the news, and for some, the connection is far more direct with loved ones facing real-life crises at the hands of the war machine. This is what Canadian playwright Judith Thompson attempts to give a voice to in Palace of the End, now playing at Canstage’s Berkeley theatre.

            The play’s structure is quite simple: it is a series of three monologues, each uncovering a different experience based around the war. A West Virginian soldier-turned-paper-pusher, a British Microbiologist, and an Iraqi mother each tell us their personal stories. In voicing their experiences, they are each drawn back into the thick of their involvement with the war, and while they retrace their steps, they shed light on small corners of a puzzle that is the very real conflict in Iraq. Playwright Thompson uses the stage to convey the humanity that sits at the roots of this conflict – a conflict that can seem distant through newspapers and newscasts.

            The audience is first swept into the office of a mouthy, Southern, all-American soldier. Played by Maev Beaty, she haphazardly stamps documents while vocally bulldozing her memories of the war into the audience. Her aggressive attitude betrays her as slowly the audience learns that she’s confined to this office – it is a comfortable cage that she’s been assigned to after being convicted of torturing prisoners of war in Iraq. The soldier is caricaturized, though, and becomes a somewhat troubling generalized version of the American as envisioned through the eyes of director David Storch.

            The transitions occur in darkness, and as the lights go up, they reveal the infamous David Kelly – a frail, old microbiologist, in this play played by Julian Richings. Kelly is most known for speaking out against the accusations of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq – a choice that was soon followed by news of his suicide. Playwright Thompson explores Kelly’s state of mind only moments before his death, attempting to unveil the human behind the intrigue. 

In the final segment, Arsinée Khanjian plays Nehrjas al-Saffarh. An Iraqi mother, al-Saffarh recalls her experience with the Palace of the End; an elaborate center designed to strike fear in the hearts of Iraqis – a center of brutal torture that houses some of al-Saffarh’s most haunting memories. Khanjian’s presence is deliberate and strong throughout, but unfortunately the transition into character occurs onstage. Once actor and character merge, however, al-Saffarh’s troubling story is able to reach painful heights, and one can discover what brutal reality lies behind the walls of the Palace of the End.

            Conceptually, the script works beautifully. In pitting three unique experiences of the war against one another Thompson creates a powerful perspective: beyond all else, and no matter how you approach it, this conflict means daily struggles with morality. Each character touches on moments where a breach of morality became necessary, if only for a fraction of a second when people’s lives hung in the balance. Thompson’s piece begs the question: is there such thing as ethical involvement in the war? By opening up the reality of these three people’s lives, The Palace of the End turns its lens back on the audience and questions about one’s own allegiances surface. Each character is influenced by their conditions. How have we been conditioned? At its foundation, this play is an impassioned call to question one’s own position. 

            However, the true impact of such a current issue is somehow lost in the mechanics of the production. Director Storch’s conception of Thompson’s work remains somewhat unclear. On stage, hills made of sheets of metal break the stage, but to what end? The connection between the actors and their respective characters are generally convincing, but the stagnancy of their movement around this stage is apparent. The tragedy is that this lack of movement makes their words fall into a predictable cadence. Storch’s staging turns these characters into two-dimensional suggestions of perspective, never really breathing life into their tragic accounts of the war.

Nevertheless, this play succeeds at pointing out something that is genuinely troubling – a feeling that creeps across one’s skin despite the monotonous pace of this play. We all recognize the references, and as I look around and realize that there’s not an empty seat tonight, it becomes clear that we’re all here because we’re facing the same questions, the same uncertainty regarding our own motivations, the same feelings of wonder, of subtle regret, and perhaps even the stunting realization that we’re constrained. We, like the characters in Palace of the End, are hanging in the balance, waiting for something to break 

- Kat Fournier

Palce of the End
CanStage
26 Berkeley St, Toronto
jan 24 – feb 23
tickets $20+