The concept behind Romeo n Juliet Unplugged – an uncluttered, edgy, funky version of Shakespeare’s romantic tragedy aimed at Grade 12 learners – is certainly worthy. The dependable Robin Malan has prescribed an excellent, fast-paced abridgement of the full play. Some members of the cast, such as Pakamisa Zwedala and Lungi Phinda, are usually quality players. But this is an excruciating 80 minutes in the theatre.

The performances in the Romeo and Juliet roles are so amateur as to be dismissible. One is tempted to chime in with Juliet during one of her merciless screams: “past hope, past cure, past help!” Each member of the ensemble plays numerous parts, with minor costume and changes in accent, though unless the pupils know the play well, they may find these rapid shifts baffling.

There are a few provocative directorial touches. The warring Capulet and Montague families wear black and white versions of COPE and ANC insignias, but it is hard to see how this production will achieve its objective in proselytizing Shakespeare.

Photo: Ruphin Coudyzer

Photo: Ruphin Coudyzer

Despite programme notes that try to throw the net wide, the plot, various references in the text and a portrait of Robert Mugabe on set, locates Paul Slabolepszy’s sketch of a new play, Freak Country, pretty firmly in present-day Zimbabwe.

Aaron Blakey, a quintessential Slabolepszy shmo, after knocking one too many back during his flight, while in transit to the Comoros for a film shoot, fills in his custom’s form facetiously and as a result is arrested by the authorities. Colonel Moyanga, played by the wonderfully inscrutable Jerry Mofokeng, reads the film script, ‘Operation Wildfire’, as a coup plot. Soon, Blakey, now accused of being a real mercenary, observes “the part begins to play you”. The dark humour of such a situation is comic dynamite, but the script falls far short of its potential.

The opening 20 minute monologue by Blakey to a stone-faced soldier Ndlovu (Peter Mashigo) is superfluous. The jokes are only mildly amusing and it robs the piece of its prospective dramatics for the next 30 minutes; all the pertinent information initially conveyed about Blakey and his situation is subsequently repeated, but without the benefit of our curiosity.

Antony Coleman is 15 to 20 years too young for Blakey. Although on the facts (we learn he matriculated in 1988) he is correctly cast, his frame of reference and outworn slang places him in Slabolepszy’s carefree baby boomer generation, and one keeps wishing the playwright had rather pursued this.

An ill-judged extrication in the form of a contrived escape plot takes over the last 15 minutes of the play.

The real conflict of interest here is between the discourse of a free society, where Blakey can tell the president “to kiss my ass” and the impoverished discourse of a dictatorship, where such an exertion of a fundamental right to free expression will get you before a firing squad. The slippage between the two is ripe for dramatic dark comedy, but Slabolepszy only touches on this and fails to get to grips with what is after all the heart of the scenario.

Photo: Toast Coetzer

Photo: Toast Coetzer

Arriving at the theatre to see the conspiracy of clowns’ Pictures of You, one is given a button- badge that says ‘listen with your eyes’. To this could be added ‘look with your ears’ for James Webb has created a loaded and evocative stereo soundscape that accompanies the mimed action throughout this theatrical gem.

Liezl de Kock (as Janet) and Dorian Burstein (as Frank) wear larger-than-life character masks that seem to change expression in the chiaroscuro of the spotlights playing on their rich dappled surfaces. A simple but effective revolving set, together with the masks and a puppet designed by Janni Younge, complete the theatrical kit with which Rob Murray has devised an innovative and riveting 70 minutes of pure theatre.

The themes of security and freedom within love and of that love within the world, forms the basis for exploration for the piece. Frank and Janet are a regular suburban couple. A criminal attack upon Janet in their home derails the relationship, but what it in fact does is bring to a head the routine rut into which their relationship has lapsed. Frank drinks and has fantasies about another woman, brilliantly evoked by a picture on the wall that comes to life, until he realises that Janet is the woman he truly desires.
The story itself is fairly obvious, but the layered rendering and the stage business makes this an elevating theatrical treat.

The violence distinguished by its xenophobic character that spread like a bushfire through communities in May last year is now out of the public eye, but the wounds inflicted have not healed and the core issues fester unaddressed. While our politicians wrangle around an upcoming election and a corrupt Department of Home Affairs continues to mismanage immigration, there are ominous threats of it happening again. The country’s self-image is permanently fissured and the tarnish on its international aura lingers. This year Infecting the City, Spier’s annual performing arts festival, will facilitate how ordinary Capetonians, at least intellectually, think about this traumatic aftermath.

Criminal violence against foreigners has been on-going for many years. Sometimes the State itself sets the example. A few months before the mob riots, the police conducted a brutal midnight raid on the Methodist Church’s refugee centre in central Johannesburg without a warrant. Foreigners were pepper sprayed and beaten even though they did not resist arrest. Numerous civil society organisations condemned the abuse and detentions especially those of children and pregnant mothers.

Yet, the government’s ranks are full of people once exiled. The grassroots are ideologically Africanist. Many of today’s citizens were under apartheid labelled ‘illegals’, and have first-hand experience of dehumanising bureaucracy and arbitrary deportation.

Was the May violence a reinvention of similar divisions and dynamics in our recent past, such as existed between squatters, township and hostel dwellers, between fresh rural migrants and those who already held temporary permits, coloured and black, ‘witdoeke’ and ‘comrades’, shack lords and rival landlords? In May 1986, the community of old Crossroads, an icon of resistance to apartheid supported by such organisations as the Black Sash, went on the rampage against the surrounding squatter communities, methodically killing, burning and displacing over 70 000 people in a matter of weeks. In 2008 there were no signs of a third force, only the shameful omissions and political intriguing between the DA held city and ANC controlled province.

What are the lines we draw between self-preservation and empathy? What defines community? How do governments think about their people: as IDPs, aliens, voters or as individuals? How do we make sense of such gross betrayal and tragedy in our midst?

The festival’s artistic curator, Brett Bailey, has taken “Home Affairs” as the theme this year. He emphasises that most events are free, site-specific, in public spaces and, although pushing aesthetic and artistic boundaries, accessible.

Infecting the City kicks off with three site-specific works – Exile, Amakwerekwere and Limbo – the fruits of collaboration by performers, theatre directors, filmmakers, choreographers and fine artists from South Africa, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Netherlands, United Kingdom and France.

Sam Pearce, who holds a PhD in Human Diversity Studies and was intimately involved in the crisis, co-ordinated a course for the visiting artists, which included having them ‘arrested’ and thrown into the back of a police van. They saw conditions for themselves – queuing at the Nyanga Home Affairs office from 5am, visiting the Soetwater and Blue Waters Refugee Camps. Each group was accompanied throughout by ‘guides’ from Congo Brazzaville, DRC and Zimbabwe, all members of the Joint Refugee Leadership Committee. In Masiphumelele township, the only community to publicly apologise to its foreign residents, the documentary Baraka was screened for locals for the first time. It centres on Abdi Sirej, an amicable Ethiopian shopkeeper, who was shot dead last November. A local pastor facilitated a lively discussion between the artists, local matriarchs, youths and refugee leaders.

The festival officially opens with a spectacular noon show at Riebeeck Square by three renowned French aerial performers from Retouramont, suspended from a crane in a sculptural trapezium of rope.

The German avant-garde theatre group, Rimini-Protokoll, in collaboration with the Callcenter Descon in India, make their South African debut with an intercontinental phone play, Call Cutta (currently also running as part of Urban Scenographies at the Drill Hall in Johannesburg).

In Fleet of Art, 12 artists will transform the backs of pick-up trucks into ‘invisible’ performance installations. The bakkies will roam the streets of the CBD displaying their “poignant and idiosyncratic loads”.

Another unusual event is Talking Heads, where members of the public have the opportunity to sit and talk to 4 out of 60 experts, randomly selected by ticket draw. This year’s participants include architects, politicians, Jungian psychologists, writers and agents provocateurs.

Other productions include Erf [81] Cultural Collective’s An Historical, taking audiences on a quirky, reinvented tour of The Castle. Magnet Theatre presents Ingcwaba Lendoda Lise Cankwe Ndlela (The Grave of the Man is Next to the Road), featuring Faniswa Yisa directed by Mandla Mbothwe. It sings the plight of South Africa’s migrants, “the physical, emotional, spiritual and intellectual dislocation of young black South Africans whose origins lie a long way down the N2 in the Eastern Cape”. In Eyton Road, Australian-South African Talya Chalef meditates on her grandparents’ flight through the concentration camps of the Holocaust to her own experience of shifting cities.

The site specific nature of the works also draws inspiration from the ghosts of yesteryear and invites Capetonians to discover their city. The artists were intrigued to discover that the Camissa River still runs from Table Mountain to the sea and fish swim in it right under our feet beneath the asphalt. Hippopotami snorted in a vlei now covered by Church Square, and Thibault Square was once the Roggebaai fishing harbour.

Photo: Ellie Kurtz

Photo: Ellie Kurtz

Many great directors, among them Richard Eyre, believe Shakespeare’s The Tempest can be interpreted as ‘a play about colonialism without the least distortion – which is not to deny that it is about other things: fathers, daughters, power and magic’ and theatre itself.

This is perhaps optimistic. The hiccup for a modern audience is that The Tempest read through a colonial lens turns Shakespeare into a racist by anachronistic reduction, in the same way that The Merchant of Venice is anti-Semitic and The Taming of the Shrew is seen as sexist.

When Roy Sargeant last year set the Merchant in fascist Italy he torpedoed the happy comic ending which requires Shylock to be a villain, for after his humiliation how could we celebrate the petty love intrigues amongst a bunch of selfish and vainglorious fascist kids?

By using extensive directorial license Janice Honeyman is more successful in negotiating such pitfalls for the Baxter Theatre and Royal Shakespeare Company’s co-production of The Tempest.
For modern audiences it is necessary sometimes to sacrifice the textual integrity of the work for accessibility, for what is lost or contradictory in the narrow confines of such readings is compensated for by the enjoyment and understanding brought in the fresh experience of the play.

At the time of writing the play (around 1610), Shakespeare was probably only referencing reports from the briefest and very first tentative, mostly failed, attempts to establish colonies in the Caribbean. The frequent references to freedom can only be ahistorically read as identifying with the aspirations of colonial subjects. Shakespeare was more concerned with freedom in his own society, with moral and creative freedom, freedom through love and willing servitude.

The colonialist reading makes our response to Prospero complex and more fascinating, for he is now the villain, a cruel, irascible, ignoble conquistador screaming and wielding a sjambok. Providence Divine he believes has given him the island, which he in fact stole from Caliban, now his slave. Antony Sher’s emotional reinterpretation of the role does keep our sympathy and ultimately succeeds with his ‘De Klerk’ moment in which he abrogates power and in the last two lines asks, “As you from crimes would pardon’d be / Let your indulgence set me free.” Something which didn’t exactly happen in the colonies, but did in South Africa.

John Kani delivers a first class performance as a humane if foolish Caliban for whom we feel great compassion, but the post-colonial construal makes his job problematic. So Honeyman cleverly has Prospero address the closing couplet to Caliban, and Caliban the last figure on stage.

But if Caliban represents the aboriginals, it is grossly insulting, despite Kani’s empathic characterisation in chains. The Martinican poet Aimé Césair tried to ‘correct’ this with his play Une Tempete told from Caliban’s perspective. Scholars of course disagree among themselves, but some commentators hold Shakespeare’s Caliban as responsible for justifying the British establishments patronising view of the colonised.

Not only does Prospero describe Caliban as subhuman, but the whole play constructs him as subhuman and irredeemably recidivist lusting after Miranda who by his own admission he wants to rape. A ‘thing of darkness’, a ‘beast’, a ‘monster’, ‘thy vile race’ freed from superstition and witchcraft by Prospero, who has taught him ‘how to name the bigger light, and how the less’. Of course, the first nations had perfectly good languages of their own. Caliban’s rebellion is comic ignorance, pandering after false Gods. Unlike Prospero he has no Mandela moment or Gandhi quality.

The effect is to shift the primary relationship. This Tempest revolves around the dynamic between Ariel and Prospero. In a handsome performance, Atandwa Kani, as the native sprite and politically correct reading of the colonial struggle, takes centre stage and steals the show, abetted by Neo Muyanga’s superb musical compositions.

Visually the production will stun audiences, especially in the UK where it will tour. Extensive use of colourful African fabrics and costumes designed by Illka Louw, giant Bamako-style puppets by Janni Younge and African masks, almost overwhelm the performances. Pantomime can so quickly supplant allegory. Though not illegitimate in our post-modern world, given the colonial reading, there is some irony in this as it is of course unavoidably faux, an appropriation of African culture and ritual objects, decontextualised and limited in function to exotic appeal.

The sheer visual density of the staging means audiences will be rewarded on a second viewing.

In one or another guise the archetypal story of Beauty and the Beast has been with us since Apuleuis’ Cupid and Psyche. For a particularly imaginative retelling readers might want to refer their children to Bellinda and the Monster as told by Italo Calvino. The stage adaptation of Disney’s animated film is of course the cutesy version.

The producers, Pieter Toerien and Hazel Feldman, and resident director Alan Swerdlow, must be congratulated on pulling off a local production that tops the Broadway version. Perfectly cast, Jonathan Roxmouth (Gaston) is in an elite class; Talia Kodesh (Belle) more than measures up and can kick like a burlesque chorus girl; and comic Neville Thomas (Cogsworth) is faultless.

Aimed specifically at children as it is, of the corporate family musicals this is probably the best in terms of having something decent to say. It is about otherness, the courage to be different, about looking through the superficial and the fashionable, and it encourages the reading of books. However, in competition with video games (global sales of which now surpass DVDs and CDs in turnover), the high tech effects endeavour to create a complete illusion that leaves nothing to the child’s imagination.

The critic may gasp at its visual gaudiness, chafe at the over amplification of the orchestra which removes its live quality, may wince at the script’s endless corny puns, yawn at the derivative, cloying and formulaic score, but children, and probably most adults, will be captivated by its ebullience and irresistible pantomime charms.

Cheap in comparison to what you’d pay elsewhere in the world, tickets are nevertheless expensive for South African families, but audiences should consider that there are probably only two theatres on our entire continent that can stage this high-tech spectacle. Cape Town should count itself lucky to be able to pull of such a feat in a relatively small venue.