Looking at you kid

Having recently moved to rural Tasmania I have quickly learned that
one must makes ones own entertainment. There are few cultural outlets
in these small towns. Not even a cinema. So culture is mainly confined
to the library and the video shop.

Country people are therefore forced to rely on their own efforts, as
we do not get the pleasure of, for example, the TSO or Bell
Shakespeare Company coming to our little town. Into the breach steps
our own Sorell On Stage (SOS) theatre group. This is a lively group of
enthusiastic amateur thespians. Being, as my wife reminds me, an art
snob, this is not the sort of theatre I would produce, if giving the
chance. But I am only too happy to support the group. To this end I
went along to their most recent production 'Murder in Casablanca.'

This was organised with the support of the local RSL club. With the
addition of kitchen and staff, the theater group and the RSL were able
to create two evenings of dinner theatre. 

So on a crisp and damp winters end evening I went to the Sorell
Memorial Hall (SMH) to see the play, and to help out as a waiter. As
this was written and directed by a member of SOS I did not know what
to expect. 

The Sorell Memorial Hall is a pretty little building built in an art
deco style, with wide horse flanks curving away from the
street. Boasting a pretty little entrance way in the linear geometric
style favoured of the art deco, a little bit of Broadway in old Sorell
Town.

I will dispense with the bad aspects first, as they are few and are
mostly a function of being an amateur theatre group in a small
town. In all these sorts of productions the talent is not uniform. As
this play was a musical in the best of all possible worlds there would
be a small band playing to add texture and depth to the music. Alas
this is not possible. But the keyboard player was very good, and it
was nice to see his interactions with the cast. The play itself was
not so much of a narrative arc, as a skeleton on which to hang a
series of songs and set piece actions. The lighting was not used to
full effect, this is something SOS may want to concentrate on in the
future. With only a small budget for sets and costumes effective
lighting can with illumination hide a multitude of sins.

On a deeper note the plays produced are non confrontational, and do
not force the audience to engage too much with the works. There is no
Brechtian ideas of Theatre of Alienation, or Beckett absurdity, these
comments however say more about me they do of the group.

Without challenging ideas of theatre as an art form, or challenging
the audience to look at their assumptions of everyday life, in their
locally written and performed play Murder in Casablanca the group did
a good job of subverting many ideas of performance. The production was
a sort of homage to the classic movie Casablanca, and the songs of
that era, not so much a play as a series of songs hung together round
the conceit of all the women that Rick Blaine had known in his life coming
into his bar. This allowed the various lovers of Rick to tease him and
to sing songs of the film noir era, sadly resulting in the murder of Ilsa.
The director broke the convention of the proscenium arch, smashing the
illusionary window which separates audience from performer. As this was dinner
theatre and people were eating and drinking it was important to mingle with the
crowd and so keep their interest. So the play took place both on the
stage and around the stage, slowly melding and melting into the
audience. Like an old time rave when the crowd was of more interest
than the music. This was very interesting and in a word, cool.

The limitations of money and time allow for amateur theatre to stand
above the 'real', the professional. In professional theatre much of the
decisions made, and this is true for many of the professional arts,
are made for commercial reasons. Either to find a nice neutral piece
that will not offend, or for some artists a desire to offend as an end
in itself. With small town local theatre the decisions may be made due
to money issues, but they are not commercial issues, a subtle
distinction. But outside of the city art market, art can be made for
the purest reason, the greatest reason, because it is fun, and it is
what we want to do. In small town art the barrier between audience and
performer is naturally broken down. The person singing on stage one
day will then be found at the local antique shop the next
day. Everyone is a neighbour and the crowd are free to chat and mix
with the cast after the show. When is one allowed to chat and rub
shoulders with Geffory Rush after a performance in the alienating
theater market place of Melbourne, were the distinctions of artist and
plebeian are stark and unavoidable.

In all a better event than a performance, but still a fun time and
most importantly a social event, a time to get together, not to create
more distinctions. For this reason alone we should support the local
artist in the same way that we desire to support the local butcher or
bakery, as a way of turning on back on the impersonal market.

So Many Particulars

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One part Lucian, one part Brecht, three parts Arrian. And as Oscar would say 'all garbage all the time.' However it tickled my fancy, so read it or ignore it as you wish, I have already moved on.

---

Euoi, Euoi, Saboi!
The ecstatic raging followers
Of the loud roaring, ivy wreathed
God chanted and danced, and the songs
Reverberated the forest glens
And quiet coverts of the wide flooding
High banked river Indus. Icy cold
Waters tumbled from glaciered vast
High mountains. Closer to the world
Encircling river than the laughing
Shouting drunken god the myriad
Companions did march. Strong Herakles
Cursed and kicked the barren ground before
The most steadfast Sogdian rock.
Macedonian soldiers grew wings,
Flew up the cliff face in the murky night,
And so conquered what stymied Herakles.

Nothing could stop, no one could stop
The conquering god-king Alexander.
Not the wide fast flowing rivers,
Not the lazy streams flowing to marshes,
Not the dizzying gorges, not the cloud
Gathering mountains, not the howling
Jangling deserts, not the walls of island
Proud Tyre, not the mysteries of sand
Blown trees of the oasis of Siwa,
Not the massed cedar built long boats
Of purple clad Phoenicia,
Not the fire worshiping magi,
Not the mud built bitumen mortared
Walls of Babylon, of Susa,
Of Persepolis, not the seven walled
City of stars Ekbatana, not the
Rabbis of Jerusalem, not the Gates
Of Persia, not the battle fleeing
King of Kings, not the tattooed
Boulder hurling liberty loving tribes,
Not the craggy walls of ancient Thebes
Where only darling Pindar's house remained,
Not the foot stamping naked Buddhists.
Nothing could stop, no one could stop
The god-king Achilles reborn.

Naught but the sorrow of the hosts, the ones
That marched and fought and explored and said
Finally this far and no further,
For we are tired and our dear ones
We miss, our wives, our children, our aged
Fathers and mothers. For we have been
From home for as long as Menelaus
Before the walls of windy Illius.
This far we go and no further.

Only thus was Alexander stopped.

SOS

---

The local theatre group, Sorell On Stage put on a production of the
play 'Beyond a Joke' at the local memorial hall. So we packed up the
children and headed out to see the piece. This is as much me having
a conversation with myself, and trying to solidify some thoughts, as 
it is a review. Either way it was a good opportunity for me to get 
upon my hobby horse and ride the queen's highway. 

What is Art?  

Many people, mostly smarter than myself, have wrestled with this
question for a long time. My own fragment of a contribution sees art
as being primarily a social activity. Colour, Line, Melody, Speech how
ever one describes art, however one looks at art, it all comes down to
our species being, our socialness - zoot politikon as the philosopher
would say. Even the archetypal Proustian character, after sleeping
through the day and sitting alone at night in his sound proofed room,
typing his life into art, is working in a social context. Indeed this
tension between the individual and social drives much of what we
call culture. 

Why Social?

Going back to the very misty olden times plays were performed in the
open air, in public places, and the clans and tribes would
gather. Music, dance, painting, and poetry. All this and more come
together to create theatre. Even a modest production requires many
hands and many heads. As the German playwright Bertolt Brecht once
famously asked, 'Who built the seven towers of Thebes?' 

Why Theatre?

More than other art forms theatre shows us clearly the social nature
of art. In the charming agricultural proscenium auditorium memorial
hall of Sorell the local theatre group performed Derek Benfield's 1979
play 'Beyond A Joke.' A Sweeney Todd blood fest of modern life. A
quiet couple, in a quiet house surrounded by many blossomed trestles,
in a quiet village. Tradesmen enter, but do not leave. The son in law
over hears a conversation between the husband and wife and assumes the
worst. Was it only a series of unfortunate accidents, or was there
murder at the heart of this cosy family? In the best traditions this
question is never resolved, allowing my wife and I to have an
illuminating conversation with our children concerning unresolved
tension.

Why Local Theatre?

Art is more than smooth lines, more than cut and dry grammar, more
than tightly controlled hexamatres, more than even what the creator
knows. If Stern was correct in his opinion that writing, properly
managed should be but a different name for conversation; then small,
local, intimate theatre can be seen as the acme of art. When we
consider the affection masters of conversation such as Dickens and
Joyce had for amateur theatre, we can gain a greater respect for what
is being done by these small regional groups.  With thin budgets the
play becomes the thing and audience is happy to be swept away in
clouds of suspended disbelief. Functional lighting and simple set
designs allow the conversation to sparkle and minor mishaps and slips
of the tongue and miscues are overlooked in the same way that a chat
over the water cooler is filled with wicked grammar and slang
shorthand where information is readily passed from one to the
other. Understanding that the city is the place to be, we must also
admit that big budget block busting productions give the appearance of
extravagant baroque art, but are all too often no more than thin and
insipid conversations full of sound and fury.

What of Errors?  

Portals of discovery, slips into new realms, a brief glance of the
future, at what could be. Nothing to be feared. Feared only if a
smooth lamination is your only goal. Honest roughness beats a basket
of contrived sleekness any day.

In short not the play I would have produced, but I am sure my choice
of titles would only lead to empty seats and even more empty
wallets. I confess to an enjoyable afternoon where even more than a
play we got to see a community come together. Parental joy (again a
social activity) when the children laughed and listened intently and
broke their necks for a clearer view. An afternoon of light hearted
murder comedy of errors. That then I scorn to change my place with
kings.