If you object to two or more of the following: smoking pot, gay sex, promiscuity, passivism, nudity and long hair – then seeing the first half of Hair ought do you some good. If not, you may want to catch the final ten minutes and the curtain call, when this revival at last achieves a vague echo of its original import. We hear a news bulletin that G.W. Bush will escalate troop deployment in Iraq and the tribe sing Let the Sunshine In.

The production team of Paul Warwick Griffin and the multi-talented Charl-Johan Lingenfelder, together with several of the cast, have done far better before. Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat was long on charm, Jesus Christ Superstar was at least dramatically confident. This particular version of Hair for its superficial ersatz approach should be renamed ‘Wig’. Colin Muir’s wigs are wonderful creations; several are boldly anachronistic; but just because the hairpiece fits doesn’t instantly make one a convincing hippy.

Part of the problem is how far society has shifted since the Age of Aquarius. With current films like Shortbus pushing the edge, the famous Hare Krishna (“beads, flowers, freedom, happiness”) song in which the cast strip nude, is no longer shocking or even a statement of freedom. Arguably, it is the opposite, a commodity packaged for audience consumption. The gentleman sitting next to me in the third row used opera glasses.

Overall, the female singers are stronger than the men are. Some of the cast simply can’t sing and it’s hard to figure why they’re up there. Lead Rowan Cloete is satisfactory. Bruce Little does a pleasing turn in drag as anthropologist Margaret Mead.

Very poor accent coaching has produced forced, affected, whiny voices that sound like they belong to cartoon characters. The result is that much of the dialogue and the lyrics are unintelligible.

Keith Anderson’s simple set conceptions deserve some praise.

To profess to be the ‘National’ festival for the arts is quite a claim to maintain and live up to. South Africa is still grappling with the very notion of a national identity, a debate that seems increasingly to thrust itself to the fore as an ambitious and hopeful country faces down its societal challenges.

In what sense then is the annual festival in Grahamstown national? Certainly, it is far the most varied artistically, including a literary and even a religious music festival. It is also the biggest in terms of the number of events, though no longer so in ticket sales. And it draws artists from across the country. But that’s the same as saying I’m a national because I have citizenship. Is this sufficient to define it as the ‘national’ event? Is this all we mean by and expect from such an appellation? After all, the Klein Karoo Nasionale Kunstefees carries the same tag.
It’s a question that has of late been vexing the National Arts Festival (NAF) board of directors, who take overall responsibility for the festival, and the festival committee, who select the work we finally see on the main programme. They commissioned Ernst & Young to begin the process of developing a strategic plan. One of the new driving forces on the board behind this is Paul Bannister. He says: “There has been a rebirth in the arts, the landscape is changing…We have to build on our foundation, we can’t live on the past for ever. We are taking stock of what role we need to play.”

It’s a shrewd move. The cash injections festivals bring to local economies means many communities want a chance to dance on the bandwagon. What Grahamstown has is know-how and intellectual property, particularly in the personage of Lynette Marais, the Executive Director and stalwart whose Herculean efforts have kept the event going and earned it its long-standing reputation.

The town does not have the greatest infrastructure. The accommodations are infamous, the seating makeshift, and the technical equipment mostly hired. Its position is therefore hardly entrenched and there’s no room for complacency.

Aware of this, the Eastern Cape government quickly stepped up to the plate and this year will match the Standard Bank’s considerable sponsorship, a commitment they will need to renew and improve upon. The National Arts Council too is supportive of the event’s national status. They have doubled their direct contribution to R2 million and having at last it seems seen the light, have put the money up in advance.

When the NAF started, it was the only major arts event in the country. In the past decade a plethora of performing arts festivals have sprung up. These tend to focus on a single art form or express either a regional or a specific identity, such as the gay Pink Loerie Carnival or Die Suid-Ooster Fees, which draws largely on the coloured community in the Cape. Surprisingly, there is currently no significant festival that primarily articulates the work of contemporary black artists or for that matter African heritage. The NAF has by far the most black artists. On the fringe programme, gradually, more works are performed in African languages, in part at least.

Bannister, astutely, believes that “one should see the other festivals as complimentary not competitive; more collaboration is needed”. National to him means, “the best of the best gets to come”. The NAF will need financial muscle if it is to lure first-class acts. Several other festivals, especially on the fringe, are proving much more lucrative for producers.

To differentiate itself NAF radio adverts this year are running with the line that it’s the arts festival with international recognition. But part of the equation for international recognition requires that not only tourists attend but that artists from abroad apply to perform. There is hardly any presence from elsewhere in Africa – an Ethiopian dance group, a play about Sudanese refugees living in South Africa.

Sibongile Khumalo, committee chairperson, recognises this as a deficiency that needs to be rectified: “It doesn’t make sense when South Africa is a leading light in so many areas on the continent.”

This year’s opening ceremony is at the Stadium Mickey Vili in Joza. Khumalo sees this as “a vote of confidence, an important statement by the Eastern Cape government that they are serious about this event”.
Participating artists participating come from the all over South Africa. But as a national event, it is even more important that the festival pulls its audience from the far corners of the country. What will attract them is a major challenge facing the NAF.
Sibongile Khumalo, chairing the National Arts Festival (NAF) committee for the first time, puts it this way: “It is a balancing act…What is qualitative may not be accessible…And what has entertainment value is not always the kind of art that enhances the quality of life.”

Board member Paul Bannister says that although “popular work is a dimension that needs to be accommodated, by the same token we must not disregard the more classical and esoteric”. The festival he says is still bent on showing work that is on “the cutting edge”, and maintaining its “diversity of art forms”.

A look at the main programme bears out his sentiments, particularly in dance, which includes Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Ballet, Acty Tang’s Chaste about Oscar Wilde’s Salome, and Jazzart/Magnet Theatre’s contemporary dance production about slavery, Cargo. You’ll have to go to the fringe however to see Athena Mazarakis mapping her body in Coming To or this years’ other FNB Dance Umbrella sensation, 6 Minutes, which has an age restriction of 16.

The most active theatres in the country premiere their star works here. The Baxter has brought Edward Albee’s modern masterpiece Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Lara Foot Newton’s Reach. The Market presents Craig Higginson’s Dream of the Dog and the true Story of an African Choir, about a group of young black choristers who were marooned in England in the 1890s. Brett Bailey returns with Orfeus, a site-specific work performed outdoors in the old quarry. Except for the State Theatre, which is staging Paul Grootboom’s Interacial, once again the other highly subsidised state behemoths are a negligible presence, even on the fringe.

Exhibition highlights include photographers Pieter Hugo – with trenchant portraits from Messina, and David Goldblatt’s penetrating, documental Some Afrikaners Revisited. Refreshing is The Caring Namibian Man, compiled from a project that involved distributing 100 disposable cameras to rural areas in Namibia.
The musical programme is tame and rather conventional. That there is no new musical indaba this year, Khumalo hopes is “only a hiatus”. There is little relief on the fringe either, which is dominated by commercial entertainment.

Cinema buffs will be homing in on acclaimed Russian director Karen Shakhnazarov, who will attend the screening of four of his films.

The Studio for several years now has been a dedicated space for Eastern Cape community theatre, inventively described as a “melting pot of clan cultures and traditions, old and new”.

The Winter School has taken an unusual turn with a section on ‘personal spaces’, including heritage roses and emerging décor trends in London and New York.
The festival may not be able to be all things to all people, but they are certainly trying hard to make sure there is something for everyone.

Brother Number

Known for their imaginative one-man tours de force, James Cairns (Rat) and Rob van Vuuren (Electric Juju) have much in common. Both are physical theatre practitioners par excellence, but they are also able to construct layered and complex texts. It is a wonderful extravagance to have their singular talents combined in Brother Number.

The first impression when we meet our two protagonists, the brothers Stan (Van Vuuren) and Harvey (Cairns), is that we’ve entered the familiar world of Beckett: a windowless, timeless room where two men are engaged in what appears to be some absurd, Sisyphean administrative task. We recognise too the green South African identity documents they are processing. By touching an ID to his forehead, Stan seated in a chair on top of a desk that appears to be stuck between floors, can see into the world of its holder, while Harvey creates and assigns each a unique number, apparently garnered from the floor.

How they came to be there and what exactly it is that they are doing is the business of the rest of the play, which follows a Kafkaesque journey through the labyrinthine world of the department of home affairs. Or ‘home of fears’ as we used to call it pre-1994. Sinister forces are at work at every turn. In the final minutes, the convoluted plot is somewhat clumsily unwound, resorting to the worn out classic movie formula where the villain tells all while buying the hero enough time to triumph.

Brother Number grapples with numerous ontological questions. How is our conception of ourselves determined by our genetics? What makes us unique? To what extent is our existence defined by today’s bureaucratic state?

Both performers are superb and rewarding to watch regardless of whether the audience understands the metaphysical comedy at play. The characters are appealing and there is a fair amount of clowning, even some satire, but this is a sophisticated work aimed at an intelligent audience.

Photo: Charley Pollard

Photo: Charley Pollard

As part of his writing residency at the University of Cape Town drama department, Mike van Graan gave a public lecture in which he wondered why we have moved from protest theatre to the theatre of conformity. Are we too confused by our past loyalties and the complexity of our current problems to feel justifiably outraged? In the same lecture, Van Graan singled out Pieter-Dirk Uys as one of the few who had remained true activists, who “aimed his barbs at the current wielders of power as much as he did to the previous government”.

What a welcome boon it is then to have Van Graan following suit and entering the satirical scene. Always the activist, Van Graan finds much to be dissatisfied with and therefore to satirise in the new South Africa. His latest production, Bafana Republic, is inspired by the impending 2010 FIFA World Cup, and its subtext is the question: are we in danger of becoming a banana republic?

Van Graan has composed a dozen sketches. Director Lara Bye has drawn impressive versatility from actress Lindiwe Matshikiza, whose delivery is closer in style to that of John Leguizamo (Mambo Mouth) than Uys. There are fewer visual jokes, but each character has a distinctive and recognisable voice – the coach Raymond Hack, Chardonnay the footballer’s abused wife, and Jorge, Carlos Perreira’s BEE (Brazilian Economic Empowerment) partner who collects the coach’s salary in two large suitcases. The text is dense with puns and the sprightly word play we expect from Van Graan, which makes it worth seeing a second time.

It opens with a proudly South African welcome for the fans arriving in 2010 when Zuma is President and nothing works. Soon we meet Martine van Schalkwyk conducting township tours and the Bhamjee entrepreneurs selling 2010 magic wands that eliminate poverty and crime (no refund). Some portraits are more biting, Pahad (read Essop) suppressing dissent and Kabouter who has a remarkable resemblance to Wouter Basson.

Van Graan, as a columnist, knows how to produce pithy vignettes, the most successful are those that have a dramatic vehicle to deliver them – a roller coaster, Bafana idols, match commentary and a climactic farewell song, a re-lyricised version of De La Rey that goes:
Van der Spuy, Van der Spuy
Sal jy ons hoere kom vry want ons lei Van der Spuy
Ons is kaal kom betaal
Dan mag ons eet nog een maal
Asseblief Van der Spuy

Passion of Winnie

We all regret things we’ve said. Politicians tend to deny ever saying them. Until, that is, someone plays the video or the tape. The usual defence follows – it was out of context. Some eventually own up. Winnie Madikizela-Mandela was unapologetic about her infamous speech at Munsieville outside Johannesburg in 1986: “Together hand in hand, with our boxes of matches and our necklaces, we shall liberate this country.” The incident has been rehashed numerous times, and as a reflection on the personage today is hardly controversial. After all, we have Members of Parliament widely believed to have personally executed people. The question that divides us, is whether we believe they killed for us or some other’s cause.

Take this treatment – Winnie sings:

For what I’m about to do
Oh Africa, my Africa
I know I will be demonized
And hated in my day
But what now I proposed we do
Believe me, I have thought this through
Rise up and take a stand
All our husbands sons and daughters
Are now rotting in their jails
By the rubber tire necklace
By the burning petrol necklace
With a box of common matches
We will liberate this land
We’ll find freedom
We’ll find freedom, ah!
Viva Mandela!

Chorus:
You said it mama,
And now you are done
It’s far too late to say “why oh why?”
It’s late at night
And the dark fight has begun now
All your secrets
Your hidden silent schemes
And your wildest dreams
Your dark desire
Feeds the comrade’s fire
Your wildest dreams they are one now

This then the climactic last song in The Passion of Winnie (Part 1), a new opera by South African composer, Bongani Ndodana-Breen, with libretto by South African-Canadian Warren Wilensky. June 8 sees its world premiere in Toronto.

Any writer who has attempted a biopic will know life doesn’t always provide a well-structured drama, and such endeavours are made particularly complex when the subject is still alive. David Kramer, having seen several treatments over the years for proposed musicals on Nelson Mandela, says they tend to struggle with the Robben Island period. What does one do – have a 27-year interval?

The Passion of Winnie ducks the problem by painting the past with the broadest of brushes. True to opera, it is preoccupied with narrative action and not the psychology of the characters.

We start in the village where Winnie Madikizela was born. Her father, Columbus, warns her about the outside world. She boards a steam train for iGoli to the refrain“You strike a woman, you strike a rock”, and a backdrop of South African landscapes. She stumbles into a first-class carriage and is ejected.

In Johannesburg, she beds down in a dormitory at the Helping Hand Hostel, where she chances upon Nelson. Wisely, Madiba isn’t a character part. Only Winnie, played by Chantelle Grant, who has a remarkable resemblance to the young Winnie Mandela, and her father, Columbus (Mxolisi Welcome Ngoli) are solo parts; the other rolls are covered by chorus members.

Sharpeville and the passbook protests are shown in archival still. Winnie’s own chilling arrest is played out in darkness with sounds only.

This is Ndodana-Breen’s second ‘digital opera’ (the first was Orange Clouds with filmmaker John Greyson) fusing film, digital media and opera. Five projectors create a montage of archival footage and images captured by Wilensky in rural South Africa on three screens custom made for the production. At times film sequences interact with the live performers. A chamber orchestra of 16 musicians and 8 vocalists, hidden behind a scrim backdrop, are at times lit to make ethereal appearances during the show.

Ndodana-Breen’s modern classical style incorporates traditional Xhosa rhythms, Cape Town jazz, township jive and anti-apartheid street chants. This young, debonair composer has rocketed to success. His work is performed around the world; last year, the Miller Theatre, New York, put on a programme entirely of Ndodana-Breen’s compositions.

It remains to be seen how overseas audiences will respond, especially the rightwing expats of Toronto. Canadians are less familiar than ourselves with damaged individuals. However, Madikizela-Mandela is well on her way to rehabilitation. Awards and glowing tributes, recently by Carl Niehaus on Mother’s Day (following hard on the heels of his obsequious apologist plea for Mugabe) have been rolling in. In many ways, this is a natural response to tragedy. Countless persons suffered and suffering is not a competition; scores of people paid the ultimate price, but Ma Mandela is undoubtedly an elite member of the few subjected to sustained periods of sadistic brutality. Yet, through her own flawed actions, she has not reaped the rewards others have, in many cases quite disproportionate to their efforts in the struggle.

As dissatisfaction with the success of the national democratic revolution spreads, perhaps there is finally a broader appreciation, even from unlikely quarters, of what she embodies.

Part 2 though is going to be far trickier for Ndodana-Breen and Wilensky as they enter muddier waters and the grim activities of the Mandela Football Club. Brett Bailey once had plans for a musical about Winnie called Ipi Stompie? Carl Niehaus won’t approve. But hopefully, we all regret things we’ve written.