Theatre: Bone

Bone, written by John Donnelly and directed by Lara Macgregor.



I saw this play at Circa, one of my favourite theatres in Wellington, NZ. It's a very recent one-act British play. Three characters - a middle-aged woman, a 30-year old man and a 20-something man - deliver three parallel monologues which intersect only thematically, their storylines never connecting, if not by the power language and the fact that the three actors share and negotiate the same stage.

They represent countryside (the woman who's dealing with the aftermath of the destruction of her farm and the subsequent death of her husband in the wake of the foot and mouth disease), town (the loutish and racist young man who spends his last night before military deployment in Iraq drinking and trying desperately to get laid, but who's also heartbroken for having been unable to protect his sister from tragedy), and London (the man who works in the city, has lost his youthful hopes/dreams, is unable to accept the break-up from his ex-girlfriend and harbours fantasies of violence and self-destruction).

Although a little long and repetitive, it's a very compelling work, where the author creates three very distinctive voices, from the woman's poetic memories, to the adult man's self-deprecating irony, to the younger man's uneducted, yet vulnerable brutality.

In terms of acting, it's a tour the force, and the three performers - Donogh Rees, Phil Brown (both Shortland Street regulars) and Colin Garlick - are outstanding in their roles. In particular, I was mesmerized by Brown's performance, which ranged from ironic to tragic, always perfectly timed, controlled, moving.



The theatre being so small and the seats only one or two metres away from the stage, we were able to see the facial expressions, which Brown used brilliantly in all ther variety: rakish smiles, embarassement, tears, etc.

A simple stage design with three benches and the floor covered in sand, a subtle but haunting score and effective lightning all helped to tell three personal dramas inextricably linked to contemporary events.

And even in the darkest hour, there's some hope left, if only in the acceptance of human resiliance against all odds.

Poetry/Music: Book of Longing

Words and images by Leonard Cohen and music by Philip Glass



I've been listening to this work that Glass composed on a selection of Cohen's images and poems from his Book of Longing for over a week.

I wish I could say I love it, because the Cohen/Glass combination sounded irresistable to me and I greatly regretted being unable to attend the live performance of the song cycle when it came to the International Festival of the Arts in Wellington this year. Perhaps, on stage, in a theatre/festival setting it's more fulfilling.

Cohen's poetry is beautiful. I've read a few scathing reviews, calling is banal, but I find it moving, perfectly crafted, with a multitude of cultural references to make it interesting and challenging, but also the simplicity and precision I like in all types of writing. I thoroughly recommend this as a book.

The images are lovely and some of them even haunting. I wish I could see them in their real size.

I like the music, too, both for the songs and the instrumentation. Overall, I think the combination could have been perfect, if Glass had not chosen opera voices to sing it. The performers are good, but I don't think that the style of singing does the words (and the music) any favour. In fact, I found it a little jarring, at times quite boring, and this from someone who loves opera.

This is why, to me, the most effective moments are when we hear Cohen's own narrative voice recite his poetry over the score. I would be very interested to hear the whole work re-arranged and performed again in non-operatic style. It could be terrific.

Film: Lars and The Real Girl

Lars and the Real Girl, written by Nancy Oliver and directed by Craig Gillespie (2007)



It's a very sweet, heart-warming and the same time quite melancholy (in other words, right up my alley) film about loneliness, the desire for love and a community that goes to great lengths to show they care for one of its most "excentric" members, Lars, played by the wonderful Ryan Gosling.

Gosling should be showered with acting awards and so should be the rest of a perfect cast, from Emily Mortimer to Patricia Clarkson, to the less known actors who play quirky, but real characters, all trying to live and perhaps find some happiness through their varying degrees of loneliness.

This is independent cinema that's both accessible and, if not quite daring, at least fresh and unpredictable. In my opinion, both screenplay and direction would have benefited from a tighter editing, even if this had meant a film shorter than the standard 1hour and 45 minutes. But this doesn't detract from the sincerity and overall success of the project.

As well as the terrifc ensemble performances, I loved the use of the winter landscape, the grey-sepia photography, the brownish, old-fashioned interiors and clothes, all elements that reinforce the sense of desolation of the Northern American small town where the story is set, but also the beauty that lies beneath the surface, under the snow, inside people's hearts.

Luckily for Lars and those who love him, the thaw finally comes.

On the Willow Branches

I wanted to post this poem by Salvatore Quasimodo on the 25th of April, anniversary of the Italian resistance against Fascism and the Nazist occupation, but I couldn't find an English translation. I've finally found it, so here it is. The translation is by Allen Mandlebaum, but I have modified it slightly.

On the Willow Branches

And how could we sing
with the foreign foot upon our heart,
among the dead abandoned in the squares
on the grass hard with ice, to the children's
lamb lament, to the black howl
of the mother gone to meet her son
crucified on the telegraph pole?
On the the willow branches, by our vow,
our lyres, too, were hung,
lightly they swayed in the sad wind.

The Italian original:

Alle fronde dei salici

E come potevano noi cantare
con il piede straniero sopra il cuore,
fra i morti abbandonati nelle piazze
sull’erba dura di ghiaccio, al lamento
d’agnello dei fanciulli, all’urlo nero
della madre che andava incontro al figlio
crocifisso sul palo del telegrafo?
Alle fronde dei salici, per voto,
anche le nostre cetre erano appese,
oscillavano lievi al triste vento.

Meanwhile, in the rest of the world...

Short story, nimble goddess

"The novel is a capacious old whore: everyone has a go at her, but she rarely emits so much as a groan for their efforts," he said. "The short story, on the other hand, is a nimble goddess: she selects her suitors fastidiously and sings like a dove when they succeed. The British literary bordello is heaving with flabby novels; it's time to give back some love to the story."

Alex Linklater

I hope it's not just a sign of laziness, but the older I get, the more I prefer short stories to standard-length novels: the balanced structure, the crafted sentence, the perfectly chosen word.

The fragment even, where the unsaid is perhaps more important than what is on the page.

Not that I don't enjoy the experience of the long, epic read, the unfolding of the tapestry requiring patience, time. But very often I feel that the "standard" length of the fiction we read these days is more a convention than a necessity.

So much could be said more effectively in fewer words.

Or many more.