Goats

I was excited by the prospect of a Syrian playwright presenting their work at the Royal Court, renowned for its experiment.  It was a chance to obliterate our idea of Syrians as victims and celebrate them as artists and as writers. It was an opportunity - but one that sadly failed to break even with expectations. Two star reviews have been generous.

Albeit a preview, approximately half of the audience left at the interval, which goes some way towards explaining the general verdict. Those who remained weren't exactly overawed with reward.

Royal Court Theatre

Every scene was too long, particularly in Act One, with far too many words saying essentially the same things. With less lines perhaps Abu Firas could have remembered his lines in his scene with Imm Ghassan. The scene following Abu Firas' suicide, could have given us a moment in which to ground ourselves in the enormity of the tragic truth behind the endless words thrust in our direction. Instead we're met with a huge unnecessary speech from Abu Al-Tayyib pushing the girl to stay quiet. A few stern lines would have sufficed, we understand what's at stake by this point. It might have helped him remember his lines too.

Ensemble characters had unnecessary speaking roles that really broke up the pace in the main scenes. Comments like 'that happened to my dad too' just needed to be said in the background and allow the scene to continue.

The Stage

There needed to be clearer differentiation between characters played by multi-rolling cast members. I did not recognise that Imm Al-Tayyib's was a different character than the presenter either. I could not always understand when the four boys were boys, or fathers who had lost their sons, or village men. Between the four boys there was no rapport, despite attempts from Ali Barouti. There were just saying their lines, not acting them, but maybe this comes from playing so many characters and having so many pointless lines. The scene outside Aby Al-Tayyib's home adds nothing to the piece at all. The constant back and forth between a scene of conflict that we want to see play out between a wife and husband kept being interrupted by four boys with nothing to say to one another. A waste of time.

Royal Court Theatre

There are two scenes I would like to have seen more of.

- Adnan and Abu Firas sitting side by side, lit by the light of a mobile phone, watching footage that reflects a hard truth at the core of the piece. It was a moment of let up for the father who had spent the first half saying the same thing over and over like a broken record and chance to see that there is a very real threat underneath the bleating from character and goat.

- The other is the conflict between Abu and Imm Al-Tayyib, knowing that in pushing the agenda and propaganda - their own son was put to death, using their own very words. It could have been a  powerful scene, another opportunity missed due to the interruption of four young boys. It gave us the conflict we so badly carved. I wanted to see more of Imm Al-Tayyib's struggle.

And finally...the goats. Oh God, the goats.

Royal Court Theatre

In the final scene I lost so much of what was said. The hooves of the goats were so loud that I failed to understand if the mockery was intentional or not. Either way, the wooden boards needed covering with some kind of sound dulling material - I could even hear them in the wings. On the most part I understand that the mockery was intentional, with the many words representing the voices of the world that often leave the truth silenced, the goats representing the irrational sentiments of those in power to tell the rest of us what we're fighting for, an inescapable web of lies and words and comedy that snubs honest speaking men and snuffs out good will.

The Stage

But there is a time for mockery. And when goats treading on a dead man received the most laughs of the evening, went beyond black comedy, we all applauded the cast in keeping straight faces. But the problem was that many of us began to watch the goats and ignore what was being said because the scenes were too long. They are a distraction. I liked that the use of real goats amplifies the horrifying gimmick of replacing dead sons with animals as well as acting as gimmick to pull in an audience but it was so much of a mess that the attempt to lift meaning from the rubble was smothered before we left the auditorium.

There are elements that carried weight but there is far too much on the words and characters that distract. Most importantly, it was at least an hour too long. It was messy and boring to hear the same thing over and over. It might just be the worst production I've ever seen. The lesson? When opportunity knocks, don't put on a play that manages to be 3hrs long and yet still say nothing - if you expect your audience to stay to the end - and don't invite the goats!

Links: http://www.theartsdesk.com/theatre/goats-royal-court-review-unfocused-and-muddled
https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2017/dec/01/goats-review-royal-court-london-liwaa-yazji-syria-civil-war
https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2017/dec/03/goats-review-royal-court-theatre-syria-lebanon
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/theatre/what-to-see/charming-cast-except-humans-goats-royal-court-review/

Us/Them

Our first play of the year came a little later than usual but on Tuesday 7th Feb we travelled to the Dorfman at the National Theatre to see 60mins of 'Us/Them'.

My Theatre Mates

A family friendly show about a terror attack - doesn't quite add up when you think about it does it? But the more you do, the more you realise that Carly Wijs' direction might just be genius. All too often when we retell moments of our past, we embellish and adapt - particularly when we are children - my nearly-3-yr-old niece would of course deny this entirely.
But when children witness traumatic events, how much of it sinks in? How much do they let it? Kids are more resilient than we think, but they're also like sponges, they take in the world at a rate that dizzies us as adults. So what if, in a place they all feel safe, like at school, they endure something terrible?

National Theatre

Us/Them is directed in a way that addresses this. As we begin with chalk drawings of the school's layout, a competition of information between our two leads and some essential facts to present the provenance of our piece, we are slowly lulled into a comedic security, brimming with innocence.

However, as the piece unfolds we are pulled ever closer to the truth, the REAL terror attack on these young children on a day that held them captive for 52hrs, killing 184 children and 148 adults. But we never really get there, the truth. The truth remains suspended in the well constructed strings that span the stage amidst a maze of conclusions and childhood storytelling.

The Stage

Our leads are enthusiastic and convincing in their confidence, as well as in their coyness. As they traverse the stage energetically, we are drawn to them even if we never really know much about who they are. Chalk drawings and imaginative commentary provide the basis of the all-too-familiar 'Us and Them' argument, with seemingly no understanding of why 'they' are 'them'  and'we' are 'us' - or of why they are being held hostage in their own school.

As a family show, Us/Them definitely helps broach the subject of death in the family if you don't have a pet that's likely to kick-the-bucket anytime soon. But it's also a fun show that incorporates dance with energy that never really allows for sombreness or pain in a concentrated quantity. It's full of imagination, both in script and staging but it's story holds a truth that makes it as devastating as it is entertaining - that is if you take a moment to Google the Beslan Massacre.

Exeunt Magazine

Read more about the production and the real event here: http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/review-usthem-dorfman-national-theatre-london-the-story-of-beslan-makes-for-a-remarkable-harrowing-a7539296.html

href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beslan_school_siege">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beslan_school_siege

Pomona

Delayed post from Nov 2015 

timeout.com

It's been a while since I've been to the Temporary Theatre. This time we arrived to see a piece staged in the round, with high hopes of tension and unease for our Saturday night entertainment. 

It started well, with heavy whirring sounds and strobe effects. We are met with a tale that hangs in the balance of chance, it seems, as our protagonist rolls dice to summon the answers she's looking for. The opening scenes show a man who seems to be homeless, throwing his ego around with a bag of McNuggets in hand, as a young girl approaches him whilst searching for her missing sister. We get the sense that there is more to this man than we first think. 

timeout.com

The tension soon dissolved with the arrival of the loveable, comical Charlie who offers a lust for adventure and friendship.....The slick entrances and exits were the only thing keeping the momentum going as we spiralled towards the end.

The story however, became less and less chilling and more and more confusing. We follow our characters through endless rounds of Dungeons and Dragons unsure of whether to take them as a metaphor for this make-believe, elaborate concrete jungle. 

We never really know where our leading lady ends up, what the purpose of her journey has been. as she escapes the clutches of whatever lurks beneath the hatches and doors of Pomona - although I'm aware that's probably the point. Has she pondered through the dungeon to find her sister or has she, all this time been looking for herself? All seems not to be quite as it should. By this time the masked monster has lost its horror, as we meet the meek woman underneath the mask and understand that she is in fact as naive as we are. It was a little underwhelming by the time the ending came - it seemed that no-one, wherever they were in the chain of command, had any idea what was really going on here - which of course meant that we as an audience remained ignorant too.

timeout.com

That meant that the tension that had been created at first, soon diffused to nothing and all we were left with were some fast entrances and exits, a lot of hearsay and the revelation that the McNugget man is implicit in this apparently menacing unknown plot.  It's a shame it didn't quite live up to its Lovecraft tin, but at another roll of the dice. Perhaps it might.

Collabo

Yesterday night, my friend invited me to celebrate 10yrs of East London Dance at Stratford Circus event, 'Collabo'. It was an evening of live interpretations, collaborations, hybrids and even Jade Hackett's brilliant #dancemarch film. It explored everything from deepest fears, to passing stories through generations and a brilliant duet 'Musiac' in which the dancers seemed to transform into music themselves.



It was a night that gave voice to what dance can do, that inspired energy and expression and even left me attempting to express myself as I got back to a lamplit flat. Here's the nonsense that tumbled out my brain...

Underground
Does it ever feel like, the world's run rife with pain,

And whe'er you look you see the city's blood freeze cold again,

And savaged saints are running wild, tear strips from one another,

Friends turn on friends in protest of their hate upon 'the other'?

Do you ever see a world beyond the smog that skies may shatter,

A world where lives are precious metal, raised above the chatter?

The noise of man so in demand so overwhelming and

The sand of time, runs right through hands clutched hold of distant foreign lands

Is this sensational idea worth man's life or two?

A man pry eyed, widening divides, that trap me against you,

Rhythm ensues, power rises, within this golden Trojan,

Be not mistook, for where you look, I stand among the chosen

We spill our blood at money men on glass eyed plinths of steel,

Ask, arms outstretched if a greed-filled globe can be a beast less real,

We plead our dreams are silent in a city bright with flame

Of innocence shunned and blunted, among corrupted ideas of fame

Well amongst our concrete shields I raise my arms, as my heart wrote,

I clear my throat for this heist of heaven, of words aloft, afloat,

And biceps scarred, release themselves from tension, hate and noise.

I hear the cherubs sing and men on men retreat their poise

My poison slain, heart beats again, its hands pummel at my breast,

And now this smothered city sick of noise begins its rest,

For a world brimmed bold with pain regains the love it once did feel,

For moments shared with people, nothing cold, no lies, just real.

Tamed tentacled technology weeps, as man's flawed fingertips

Take hold of wonder, taste their tears and brandish softened lips,

We, the shadows, the mirrors of time, claim silence as our own,

We clasp our hands, signal the strays and dance our reflections home, 

The gales of gluttony whisper as they seek the sense of sound,

As stifled sobs much louder burst, erupt through cracking ground,

On this our night, this concrete cave fills dark with echoes of life,

Breeding deep within the city sick. Calling always to you, and to I.


We forget ourselves too often in a world consumed by social media, by money, by fabricated versions of ourselves. I didn't realise how angry I was at how it stifles us until I wrote this. I might not be able to dance but you don't need to, to be inspired by an event like Collabo. Here's to 10 years and gone and the many more to come!