Play: In the Solitude of Cotton Fields

Some plays are so beautiful to read that it's hard to imagine performances that would have the same impact as the bare words on the page.

I've found out that the first British performance (2001) of French playwright Bernard-Marie Koltes (1948-1989)'s In the Solitude of Cotton Fields (1986) was at Aldwych tube station, London. I can just imagine it played against the dirt and desolation of the city's underbelly, at night, "amid the squealing of beasts".

Dealer and Client meet and the Dealer offers something the Client tries to refuse. What the content of this transaction might be is and should remain unspoken. I've seen accounts of performances where the costumes suggest heavily it's about drugs or sex: these are all strong possibilities, but there's so much more in the text, about the nature of human relations, of the desperate negotiation within each encounter, that making it too explicit would reduce its existential impact.

In this time of minimalism and surfaces, I admire contemporary artists of any kind who're unafraid to address core questions about human nature and existence, stark and brutal as that might be, especially when they do it as poetically as in this play.

The two men speak in long monologues that become shorter and shorter as the play progresses, while the apparently reluctant (on the Client's part) negotiation takes shape and becomes inescapable. At the end we still don't know what the deal is about and whether anything will be sold or bought, whether any desire will be finally voiced and fulfilled: but the men have accepted to engage.

The language is magnificent, even in translation, as in this:

Dealer: I'm approaching you just the way the dusk approaches that first light, slowly, respectfully, almost affectionately, leaving beast and man far below the street, straining at the leash and baring their teeth so savagely.

and this:

Client: I've set foot in the farmyard and the squelch of mysteries is like shit in the gutter; and from these mysteries and this darkness of yours, comes the rule that states that whenever two men meet each other one must always choose to strike first.

and this:

Dealer: ...the true, terrible cruelty is the one by which some man or beast cuts the other off, like dot...dot... dot in the middle of a sentence, or having first met his eye, then turns away, as though that had been a mistake, like having just started a letter and then screwing it up after writing no more than the date.

or this, simple, Beckettian:

Client: Come on, come with me; let's look for some people, we're exhausted by solitude.

Film: The Band's Visit

I went to see The Band's Visit with interest but also some apprehension. The film, directed by Eran Kolirin, has won all kinds of special jury and audience prizes at a great number of festivals, which in my experience often equates with over-sentimental, well-directed, but also rather mainstream films.

In this case, however, I was pleasantly surprised.



While the story has a sentimental and feel-good factor to it, it is also beautifully sad and wonderfully directed by Kolirin, who makes airports and desert roads and abandoned city wasteland look as gorgeous as Renaissance paintings.

It's film about loss, the loss of love and personal opportunities, but also the loss of a greater, historical opportunity within Israel, that of the encounter with the Arabic culture (the conflict is not even mentioned, but its background presence as heavy and oppressive as in any war movie).

The story describes an Egyptian band getting lost in a desert settlement in Israel on their way to an Arab Culture Centre. They need to spend the night in this settlement, while waiting for the bus that will take them to what might be their last concert: formed by members of the Alexandria Police, the band has become obsolete and there are rumours that it might be axed on their return home.

Over the night they and their improvised Israeli hosts get to know each other, bond a little, share the same longing for youth and a better time.

In the morning they go their separate ways.

Not much happens, but the film is at the same funny (at times hilarious) and excruciatingly painful. Nostalgic to the core for something that perhaps never existed.

My favourite scene is when the Israeli protagonist, a beautiful woman with a complex past life we only get glimpses of through her smirk and the look of eyes that have experienced a lot, tells the band director how, as a child, she used to watch Arabic films on TV every Friday night; how she learnt to fall in love from Omar Sharif and love stories that would glue the entire country glued to their TV screens.

Earlier on she had asked him: why does the Alexandria Police need a traditional Arabic music band, anyway? His reply: "This is like asking why a man needs a soul."

And when the band finally gets to play, the soul is laid bare.

Art/Photography: Desiree Dolron

We stumbled upon the work of Desiree Dolron literally by chance, during a weekend visit to the Pataka Museum in Porirua, which usually displays Kiwi, Australian or Pacific art, or works linked to local communities.

It would have been a highly satisfying visit anyway, with Rick Maynard's stunning exhibition of photographies about contemporary Aboriginal life in Australia and Joanna Margaret Paul's lovely drawings and watercolors. But when we entered the small room where Desiree Dolron's series about Cuba, Te Di Todos Mis Suenos, was displayed, we became breathless with surprise.

Only real art gives you this kind of emotional reaction.

Mounted on large, glossy, canvas-sized frames, the photographs are like carefully constructed paintings that capture the real sense of the place while rendering it intensely poetical, as in the simple, shabby interiors of "Cerca Concordia":



and "Cerca Industria":



Or in the photo of eerily empty streets caught at unspecified times of the day, as in "Cerca Villegas":



Since the exhibition I have searched her work and I know the Guggenheim in New York and the Victoria and Albert Museum in London have some in their permanent collections. It is amazing that a Porirua, NZ art collector had some of these beautful and very pricey works, too, and lent them to Pataka.

Her art is very varied: each series shows a different approach and technique, as well as a specific sense of what the series is about. I very much want to see her Xteriors series, influenced by classical Dutch art of the 17th century:


Xteriors VII

But all of her photographs appeal to me. Hopefully, I will stumble upon more of her works casually scattered around the world.

Theatre: "Heat"

As always, the most interesting theatre comes from alternative, off-beat venues. The BATS production of Heat is a surprise hit of the STAB season at that small, experimental theatre.

Written by Kiwi playwright Lynda Chanwai-Earle and produced with enviromentally sustainable resources, it tells the story of a husband and wife scientists who spend a winter in a remote science station in Antarctica, in complete isolation, while studying the environment and a colony of emperor penguins. The experience is supposed to help them heal from the death of their child.



As the long, dark winter comes, claustrophobia and isolation cause their relationship to deteriorate, bringing to the surface their hidden guilt and resentment. Moreover, the wife develops an obsessive attachment for one of the penguins, who has been rejected by the community: she literally adopts him and takes him to live with them. He becomes a substitute for the loss child, but also, incredibly, almost a lover.

The relationship between the couple of the penguin is both the most comedic and the most tragic element of the play, bizarre, yet strangely touching at the same time. The bird/fish is played by an extraordinary actor, Brian Hotter, whose only costume/prop is the paint that covers his otherwise naked body.

While the couple constantly talk to keep themselves from drowning in their sorrow and loneliness or from being overwhlmed by the terrifying beauty of the Antarctic landscape, the penguin communicates through gestures and movements. At the end he becomes the sacrificial victim that allows the couple to reconnect (a little too abruptly in my opinion).

Not a masterpiece by any means and it could have seriously done with some editing, but I found the detailed set reproducing Antarctic base very intrguing, a perfect match for the technological, scientific language that is naturally incorporated in the dialogue. And Gareth Farr's soundtrack suggests the presence of the vast, open space of ice that lies beyond the fourth wall, where the audience sits.

Theatre: "The Little Dog Laughed"

I'm becoming a bit hard to please when it comes to theatre. I saw the Downstage production of The Little Dog Laughed.



This American play by Douglas Carter Beane had a very successful run on Broadway in 2006, receiving critical acclaim and a number of awards, including GLAADs and Tonys. Yet, I found it a bit predictable, with characters who resembled more stereotypes than people, especially the female ones.

I suppose it says something still relevant about appearances and the power/necessity of the closet in the American film industry, but it seemed a little dated from New Zealand.

It was a good production, with a talented cast, even if I found they were directed to act a little too broadly at times. I liked the set, with giant HOLLYWOOD letter all scattered around the stage that became various props during the action. Especially beautiful the use of the two Ls that united to become the bed where love and lust met, allowing the male lovers to almost connect, for a while.

One line I remember, because it reflects my thoughts on the so-called "bravery" of straight actors playing gay roles: "If a perceived straight actor portrays a gay role in a feature film, it's noble, it's a stretch. It's the pretty lady putting on a fake nose and winning an Oscar. If a gay actor does it, he's bragging."