Published in the Mail & Guardian, December 17.

It has been a fraught year for theatre in Cape Town. Late in November, the Fugard Theatre, which opened in February this year, expelled its resident repertory company, Isango Portobello, following what Eric Abraham, the theatre’s British benefactor, called “the discovery of certain financial irregularities”, formally suspending creative director Mark Dornford-May.

It was all very dramatic. Members of the troupe carried placards and toyi-toyied loudly outside. Videos of their protest were uploaded on YouTube.

London newspapers carried the story, with the Guardian running the headline: “All-black South African acting company evicted from theatre”, and the District Six Museum offering the performers temporary use of their Homecoming Centre.

The repertory company’s sole underwriter, Abraham, who likes to take the opportunities his patronage affords him to trumpet his activism in the 1970s, suddenly found himself on the receiving end of protest action.

In the heat of the moment, the acting company — headed by Dornford-May — issued a regrettable press statement likening their lockout to the forced removals from District Six under apartheid. The comparison is odious; this is a dispute about money.

It reflects a wider lack of sensitivity to South African history, and a willingness to exploit the legacy of the past, which has been a niggling hallmark of Isango Portobello since its inception.

Renewal of District Six
One night at the theatre, an elderly English patron on holiday remarked to me that he was stunned by the renewal and development in District Six. When he had last been “out here, it was all flattened”, he said.

He was one of many foreigners misled by the theatre’s marketing, which boasts that the theatre building is one “frequented by generations of District Six seamstresses and tailors”.

The Fugard has the original Congregational church hall in Caledon Street as its entrance, situated on the very periphery of what was District Six. The company and Dornford-May, who arrived in South Africa a few years ago, have no logical connection with that history.

The theatre has failed to build any significant relationship with coloured audiences — if anything, it has ignored them. In what is a smart but belated move, the theatre announced this week it will participate in the Suid-oosterfees next year, a major event on the local Cape cultural calendar.

When I spoke to Athol Fugard in February, then directing the world premiere of his play, The Train Driver, to launch the theatre that officially bears his name, he was uncomfortable with being an eponym. “I’m just going to call it the District Six theatre,” he told me.

It had taken the theatre’s then-executive director, Mannie Manim, months to persuade the playwright, who now lives in San Diego, California. Reportedly, he said: “I’m not dead yet.” As news of the protest action spread, someone in Vancouver tweeted, “Athol must be rolling in his grave”.

The visitors
At the gala opening in February, cabinet ministers and national politicians, such as Trevor Manuel (who is official patron of the Fugard Theatre) were present, but significantly not the Cape Town mayor or Western Cape premier.

What having Deputy President Kgalema Motlanthe present at opening night is meant to achieve for the theatre troupe is hard to see. Several theatre luminaries from England were treated to the green room, while prominent Cape Town artists were left out in the foyer.

During the press tour given in January when the paint was still wet, Dornford-May repeated no less than three times that, with the exception of the Fugard play, the theatre would be performing only his company’s work.

Abraham and Manim (who unexpectedly resigned this week with immediate effect) seem to have had their own ideas — the theatre has staged work by other directors, including Sean Mathias, Marthinus Basson, Lara Bye and Pieter Dirk-Uys. Abraham put R18-million into creating the theatre, while Dornford-May worked with architect Shaun Adendorff on the design and supervised the construction.

Abraham is married to the Swedish Tetra Pak heiress, Sigrid Rausing, the daughter of Hans Rausing, whose estimated net worth of $10-billion places him as the 64th richest man in the world on the latest Forbes list. Sigrid Rausing’s charitable trust (which is not involved in the Fugard) has an annual philanthropic budget of £20-million and does some stunningly good work in the area of human rights.

Cultural commentator Sandile Memela wrote a letter to Business Day in February congratulating Abraham for having “finally launched the ‘home’ of black theatre”.

The 270-seat theatre is beautifully turned out, but, from its large communal dressing rooms to the small stage with only one entrance and no wing space, it is custom-built for Dornford-May’s ensemble work.

‘Street fighter’
Guest artists, including Sir Ian McKellen, who recently preformed at the theatre in Waiting for Godot, find themselves partitioned off by a curtain in the female dressing room. As stalwarts of the theatre, they don’t object, but it is a telling detail.

When speaking to people who knew Dornford-May in London, the phrase “street fighter” regularly crops up. His moodiness earned him the nickname Dark Mornford.

Members of Dornford-May’s previous South African theatre company, Dimpho Di Kopane (DDK), say the director changed radically during his tenure.

Andile Kosi, who was with the company from its inception (he now works for Boss Models) and is still very proud of the work he did there, says Dornford-May changed from an incredibly “generous” man who looked after them as though they were “fragile eggs” to someone who became increasingly authoritarian. If anyone questioned him they were summarily dismissed.

South Africa has been good to Dornford-May. He lives in a historic Cape Dutch manor house he has extensively renovated. He refers to his marriage to co-director and leading lady Pauline Malefane as a “mixed-race couple”.

They have children at elite private schools — a son at Bishops and a daughter at Herschel.

This is not the first time Dornford-May has been given a theatre home. When he arrived in South Africa from the Broomhill Opera, the Enthoven family of Spier, like Abraham, embraced him and gave him wholehearted commitment. Sources closely involved say tens of millions were spent on projects. Dornford-May has gumption and is able to sell people on his vision, one South Africa has been crying out for — a world-renowned black performance company.

Irregularities
Spier created a 200-seater venue at Lynedoch Eco Village. It opened on January 31 2006 as the repertory home for Dornford-May’s DDK company. In Dick Enthoven’s words at the time, it was part of the Spier Arts Trust’s dream to “enable the discovery and nurturing of new and exciting talent”. By June that year it was closed.

At the time, sources close to the events said financial irregularities in the form of unauthorised expenditure were the cause, but accountant Ralph Freese, who wound down the DDK company, says all the audits were passed.

The bad blood in DDK came to a head after the worldwide acclaim for their film, U-Carmen eKhayelitsha. Kosi says Dornford-May told them “we will all be rich”. The company went to welcome him at the airport on his triumphant return from the Berlin Film Awards. But despite its success, the promised financial returns did not materialise and deep unhappiness set in. One member asked why they could not melt down the Golden Bear statue the film had won and share that out among themselves.

The company’s trust in their director was irrevocably broken, despite him swearing to them on a Bible that there was no money to be had, says Kosi.

“We also had to buy our food from the canteen run by Pauline’s [Malefane] family,” a former DDK member says, “otherwise we would get looks.”

DDK made a second film, Son of Man, winner of the Festival Award for Best Feature at the Pan African Film Festival in Los Angeles 2006. When members of the company asked who collected the prize and how much it was, Dornford-May “turned red”, says Kosi, who played Jesus in the film. Once again, there was no financial reward for the company.

Amid financial inquiries, first Malefane resigned, then shortly afterwards Dornford-May. The company tried to continue without him but its back had been broken. Spier was left to mop up the mess. Enthoven hired director Bonnie Rodenie to help the cast find new work.

Defence
Camilla Driver, formerly in a management position with DDK, says she wishes Dornford-May’s latest company, Isango Portobello, wasn’t dependent on a sole funder, but could have a diversity of backers to continue the work she describes as exceptional.

Dornford-May, after his initial reaction to their expulsion from the Fugard, went to ground and did not respond to attempts by the Mail & Guardian to reach him. Abraham has a reputation for being litigious.

“We would not have the support of people like District Six [Museum] if we were conmen,” Dornford-May volunteered to the Cape Times (November 24).

At the time of the DDK collapse, members of the troupe wrote to me in an email that “the whole DDK thing was a big fat lie and fake” and said Dornford-May is “a fat Englishman [who] made a lot of money out of exploiting their being black all over the world”.

“Huge amounts of money were spent to fly and put up English artists in hotels in South Africa”, while the cast were sent back to their homes in the township. “Where is Mark? In townships? No, hiding somewhere in his expensive house”.

This time, the company seems to be supporting Dornford-May in the spat with Abraham — not much thanks for a man who has sunk R30-million into them during the past four years.

When I met Abraham last week, he said he felt “betrayed”. There’s that excited energy about him that fighting words bring.

“An act of empowerment, affirmation and enabling became an expensive and cancerous growth of entitlement, opportunism and arrogance … I feel most sympathy for the cast. They were misled and manipulated by their management.” But, says Abraham, “some 60 performers have over the last four-and-a-half years of my support become professional … I am enormously proud and admiring of what they have achieved. This should not be forgotten. I regret that none of their productions was performed in their hometown of Khayelitsha.”

‘Not the best contribution’
Keeping a loss-making company of that size going indefinitely to indulge one director’s vision does not seem to be the best contribution that can be made to theatre. It would have been sufficient to fund the Baxter theatre with its many projects for 10 years, something Abraham makes plain he is sensitive to.

In the Cape Times in November, just days before Dornford-May’s latest production — the R600 000 The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists — flopped, he claimed that his company was a victim of a white audience mentality that thinks “that non-white theatre work is somehow inferior”.

That such attitudes exist is correct, but the problem here is much more likely to lie with the actual work. Local critics have never given Dornford-May the critical acclaim he desires. The Cape Times critic, Theresa Smith, described the latest production as “a history lesson”, and Biz Community’s Daphne Cooper left what she called “a worthy lecture” at interval.

As a theatre critic, I have always felt Dornford-May’s directorial vision doesn’t ring true for South African audiences; it is that of an outsider overshadowing the contributions of the actual talents involved. But the British press are won over by the insertion of causes célèbres such as HIV/Aids and what they describe (in the colonial and patronising terms we are accustomed to from them) as “greeted by tribal song and dance”, “an explosion of African colour” and praise for the “raw panache” of the performers.

I think Dornford-May is delusional about his contribution to black theatre. There were black opera singers and productions with large black casts before he arrived. It wasn’t a “radical” idea, as he asserts.

Foreign directors often pose as somehow coming to the rescue of destitute township artists whose “raw” talent they have mentored into international stardom. Dornford-May’s casts have often included professionals trained for several years by others who go unacknowledged when touring overseas as it doesn’t fit the rags-to-riches narrative he wants to tell.

According to the press release issued by the company on November 22, they have secured funding for the coming year for what is now called the Isango Ensemble. Well-placed sources say Dornford-May has found a new patron.

Manim said he would “pursue his career in the theatre as a producer and lighting designer on a freelance basis”. Daniel Galloway has been appointed in his place. If Abraham is able to keep the lights on at the Fugard, he will be making a valuable contribution to the country.

The Fugard, he says, “will honour its iconic location in District Six by finding ways to connect with the remaining members and descendants of this tragically displaced community”.

A season of Fugard plays is being planned to mark his 80th birthday in 2012. An Afrikaans version of his play, The Captain’s Tiger, translated by Antjie Krog, will open on January 19.

The debacle down at the Fugard makes for a sad story out of which none of the key players emerges unscathed. They have only themselves to blame. Hopefully all parties will continue to contribute to our cultural life having learned how vital integrity is at all levels for the artistic enterprise.

Meanwhile the New Space, launched with much goodwill in Long Street in December 2008, has closed. Benefactors who lent their names and made financial contributions to the NewSpace Trust, a public benefit organisation that was to run the theatre in the spirit of the legendary Space Theatre of the 1970s and 1980s, feel duped. The owners, Indigo Properties, have not accounted properly for what went wrong or why they reneged on this promise.

Trevor Manuel has subsequently resigned as patron of the Isango ensemble.

I knew I had seen a play about it before. I vividly recall the final image – a giant light of a train bearing directly down on us in the audience. Since Athol Fugard’s The Train Driver was staged earlier this year, it has been driving me absolutely nuts for months now. I asked various people; nobody seemed to know. I hazily recalled it as a work by Geraldine Aron. Hunting through Aron’s plays on the internet I could not find anything that reminded me of that work. Perhaps I’d got the author wrong. I searched for keywords such as ‘play’, ‘train’, ‘suicide’, ‘South Africa’ and all that came up was the Fugard play and news reports on train jumpings.

Finally, I found time this weekend to rummage through my enormous collection of theatre programmes. And there I found it. Geraldine Aron’s Rustlers deals with the same incident as Fugard’s play, and Aron had also dedicated her play to “Phumla Lolwana and her children Lindani, Andile and Sisanda”. It was performed here at Artscape Theatre in March 2003. Diane Wilson lead the cast. Mystery solved.

Athol Fugard

Photo: Ruphin Coudyzer

Athol Fugard’s latest play, The Train Driver, which had its world première here, is his most intriguing since the advent of democracy. It is not as resolved a work as Exits and Entrances; it suffers the same monologue-heavy, undramatic radio play quality of Booitjie and the Oubaas, but it is braver, less contrived, far more on target than either Victory or Coming Home. It is also ingenious.

Roelf Visagie (Sean Taylor) is a train driver with post-traumatic stress disorder after a black woman with her baby strapped to her back committed suicide by placing herself under his engine. The true story on which this is based is even more horrific. The suicide (Pumla Lolwana) took two more children with her, one of whom she pulled back on to the tracks when the child tried to escape. Perhaps this created too many moral ambiguities for Fugard, but Roelf (and Fugard) is strangely neglectful on the dimension the death of the infant should bring; his beef is with the mother. Tracking down her body to confront her ghost leads Roelf to a Godforsaken graveyard outside Motherwell, where Simon Hanabe (Owen Sejake) buries the unclaimed corpses of the nameless. Packs of feral dogs and equally ferocious gangs of dehumanised young men prowl the area.

The characterisation of Simon is rudimentary and uncomfortable; he is the familiar, epigrammatic rustic with a common sense that is at once comical and full of wisdom. His dynamic with Roelf often feels antediluvian, but Sejake has a gigantic stage presence and is utterly compelling.

For his part, Taylor is hammy, and when Roelf mentally breaks down early on, Taylor elicits laughs. Very oddly, Roelf keeps bursting into Afrikaans and then translating in English; it rings false, destroying our suspension of disbelief. Taylor these days seems to have a hard enough time just doing a South African accent. The play would be stronger in Afrikaans, with Roelf speaking in his mother tongue.

But the ingenuity of The Train Driver lies in that collision between the unstoppable subject and its immovable object. What Fugard has uniquely articulated for us at last, like no other playwright, is the dilemma of white guilt and its existential anguish; the counterintuitive truth that we are responsible for the destruction we cause but over which we have no control.

Coming Home

It is a most unenviable assignment to write a negative notice for the latest play by our greatest playwright. More the pity, since none of Fugard’s last five plays has had as much care and love lavished upon them as in this production by director Ross Devenish. The attention to detail is extraordinary. Designer Saul Radomsky’s set is an aesthetically accomplished work of art in its own right, transporting us to the very heart of the Karoo. Fugard should be pleased.

Unfortunately, no amount of direction except the right to cut at will, can rescue a play that although inoffensive in its errors, is overwritten, repetitive, sentimental and prosaic.

Coming Home concludes the sad life of Nieu Bethesda’s prodigal daughter, Veronica Jonkers (played by a lacklustre Bronwyn van Graan), started in Valley Song, Fugard’s first play after democracy. Much of act one is an unnecessary and contrived retelling of that story. The play picks up thereafter, thanks to Devenish accomplishing the difficult task of extracting a largely convincing performance from Devan Walbrugh in a substantial part for an 11-year-old actor, and to David Isaacs as the chuckleheaded Alfred Witbooi, who does a highly commendable job swimming against a tide of dull nostalgia for an imagined past.

Fugard proceeds to tick off the issues of the day, giving each distant and thinly informed treatment: Veronica has AIDS; her husband was killed in a xenophobic brawl; her child, a budding wordsmith, must assume the head of the household.

The most poignant result of Athol Fugard’s Coming Home is that it reveals just how far from home its author now is. At one point, he seems to criticise his own dotage, asking, what is the value of a whole lot of useless memories? He has not given us a satisfactory answer here, except to suggest that hopefully a grandson will write a better play.

Photo: Costas Economides

Photo: Costas Economides

Written when he was at the centre of the vanguard of a new generation of South African playwrights in the 1960s, this watershed work in Athol Fugard’s oeuvre, Hello and Goodbye, is not only one of his best plays, but a play that can rightfully take its place besides such powerful works as Beckett’s Krapp’s Last Tape or Pinter’s Homecoming. A script of such emotional complexity and philosophical substance, yet always simply and powerfully expressed, it cannot possibly be done justice in this small review space.

Hester (Dorothy ann Gould), hardened and cheapened by a life of prostitution, returns home after fifteen years. However, this prodigal is unrepentant and still defines herself by her hatred for her father, her origin and the Calvinist God. She has come to claim her inheritance, her father’s work accident compensation money, she believes remains hidden somewhere in the house. She finds her reclusive brother Johnnie (Michael Maxwell) has spent his life tending to their bedridden father. As she ransacks the family home, they unpack their personal histories, the world they were born into and try to come to terms with the potentially devastating consequences of recognizing themselves.

Ultimately it is a miraculously redemptive work, a signature trait that has always distinguished Fugard from his bleaker peers.

Mark Graham’s incisive direction allows us to glimpse the children still buried within Hester and Johnnie, and at one point, subtly, even Johnnie’s brief incestuous thought. Superlative performances make this one of the best productions of the year.

victory

Addressing the Cape Town Press Club earlier this week, a theatrical Jacob Zuma (being a good sport he wore on his lapel an ‘Evita Bezuidenhout for President’ badge I’d given him at the start of the luncheon, although he is suing several other satirical commentators who also happened to be in the room) declared, ‘Crime is the singular most critical issue [for South Africa]’. Poverty was second on his list that day under the giant crystal chandeliers of the Table Bay Hotel ballroom. And now at last, we have a play with the bitterly ironical title, Victory, by indisputably our greatest playwright, Athol Fugard, tackling ‘the crime issue’ head-on with anger and despair.

Victoria (Ameera Patel) is so named being born in the same month of 1990 when Nelson Mandela was finally released on the promise of a future for the country. We first meet Vicky drinking stolen whisky and trashing a white man’s house in the present day. Together with her delinquent loutish boyfriend Freddie Blom (Wayne van Rooyen) they’re after a wad of money (‘a big fat bundle like lavatory paper’) to get them to Cape Town escaping their small Karoo town ‘kakhuis’. Blom wants to join a gang, he thinks the ‘Big Time’, where ‘all the members got a gun’ and take Tik that makes ‘you feel so strong you can do anything’. He is not committed to Vicky, his possessiveness is that he doesn’t wish her to defy him.

The plot unfolds as a botched robbery. There is no money in the house; the owner, Lionel, apprehends them; Lionel’s revolver changes hands; Vicky and Freddie can’t agree on what to do with him. In the ensuing stand-off, we uncover the twisted emotional ties and intractable historical circumstances that bind the people of this country together.

Anna (Vicky’s mother) and Sally (Lionel’s wife) were friends, even deciding together on Vicky’s name in utero. Anna continued to work for Lionel after Sally’s death, trying to ‘shake him out of his apathy’ until she too died. As in Fugard’s Sorrows and Rejoicings, the women make life possible for the disintegrating male who still believes nonetheless that the world revolves around him.

Lionel, retired teacher, listless man of letters with a notebook in his pocket, played by Cobus Roussouw with appropriate brittleness, dominates the script to such an extent with his monologues that it threatens to become an apocalyptic polemic on the state of the country. The dialogue is littered with phrases for ‘us’ and ‘them’. Freddie speaks of ‘white man’s promises’ and ‘white man’s arse’, while Lionel says it was only a question of time before ‘it would be my turn for you or somebody else like you to come along’. Fugard may articulate it unusually well through Lionel, but this is the story as it is reported daily, told and retold, reality as it is perceived and lived by thousands of traumatised South Africans. It is the least interesting point of view for a play about our current situation.

Perhaps it is the terms in which his character’s think, but unfortunately, like Riaan Malan, Fugard is in danger here of racializing crime, which obscures crucial issues and makes it about black on white violence. It is unsurprising that the play is being read as the white man’s epitaph on Africa. Yet, Fugard isn’t some sensation seeking contrarian. We watch as Freddie urinates on Lionel’s books, among them Tolstoy’s Resurrection, which has forgiveness as its theme. But Lionel has given up. ‘The real mess’, he tells Blom, ‘isn’t on the floor…it’s inside me.’ It feels as if Fugard too hasn’t the stamina anymore to wrestle with the full dimension of this crisis. What about rich black victims of crime and the resentment felt towards them by the masses? What if Freddie pissed on Long Walk To Freedom?

We never approach what drives Blom’s hatred and bitterness. Circumstance, suggests Lionel, ‘given the poverty among your people’. This is paternalistic liberal humanism reminding me of Nadine Gordimer’s account of when she was attacked in her home and noticed that the thug trying to wrestle the wedding ring from her finger didn’t yet shave poor thing. The production doesn’t help, for although Wayne van Rooyen is a solid actor, he is miscast. Our empathy for him does not arise despite the character as it should, but because of the actor, who for all his frothing at the mouth is unable to disguise his effete, natural charm. Sophisticated Patel is far too mature and self-aware for sixteen-year-old jailbait.

Fugard’s lamentable reclusiveness and distance as the years creep up on the great man shows in his increasingly meditative style. We believe Boesman and Lena, but Freddie and Vicky are oddly bookish, perhaps more a fault of this prosaic production than the script. In their mouths the odd Afrikaans word, like ‘mos’ and ‘stront’ thrown in, or at one point ‘aikona’, rings false, but will work well as locators for an overseas audience.
I hope Fugard will be better served by the Theatre Royal Bath and the Peter Hall Company in their upcoming production in August.

If Fugard wasn’t so bound to the theatre of the poor, we could have had the three-act play the nation desperately needs written, perhaps starting with Sally and Anna on stage. It is Vicky – vacillating, undecided, orphaned – not Lionel, who should be the fulcrum of this work. It is how the oppressed absorbs the psychology of the master and unleashes it with sadistic violence; how the Freddie’s of our world have cruel, high-living gangsters, not pathetic, downtrodden fathers as role models.

The script holds all the clues, but they operate under the radar, undeveloped. At one point, we have a play within a play. To appease Freddie, Vicky dresses up like the coloured meid; she wears an apron and doek and cooks him a meal; Freddie, holding the gun, describes himself as a ‘fucking hardegat Master’ and Vicky allows him to abuse her.

After Anna died, Vicky’s father started to make sexual advances. Vicky projected these on to Lionel as her true oppressor. Mommy, Vicky tells us, ‘knew how to talk hope’. It is the abuse of women and the degradation of what the feminine represents that Fugard neglects in favour of Lionel’s outrage and collective guilt.

Yet, Fugard’s instincts as a playwright seem infallible. Vicky get’s the last line. Abandoned by Freddie, alone, helpless and crushed, she cries, ‘Mommy!’

Currently on in Peter Brook’s atmospheric old theatre on boulevard de la Chapelle is the adaptation of Athol Fugard’s Sizwe Bansi is Dead into French by Marie-Hélène Estienne with direction by Peter Brook. Unfortunately this erroneous title, ‘Banzi’ not ‘Bansi’, has survived in to the translation. ‘Sizwe’ means ‘people’ and ‘bansi’ means ‘great’. Fugard intended the title as a political statement, but when the play first went to the UK a typo on a poster resulted in ‘banzi’, something only corrected in later English editions.

It’s inevitable that comparisons are drawn when one sees a foreign version, but it is not that comparisons are unfair, but rather that they are unhelpful. However, curiosity demands. The setting remains South Africa, and the script is relatively faithful to the original with some additional explication. The stage is bare using only the paint-flaked walls of the Bouffes as backdrop. Back, metal clothing-rails on wheels serve as doorways; props include a couple of chairs and two rubbish bags. Whereas the South African productions have tended to be more literal, Brook decorates the photographer Styles’s studio with ink wash impressions on cardboard to represent photographs.

The greatest difference from the recent revival with John Kani and Winston Ntshona, is in the physical presence of the actors and their interpretation of the rôles. Habib Dembélé is a slight man with a ponytail and an almost camp joie de vivre, an effeminate streak noticeable but greatly downplayed by Kani. In contrast to Ntshona, Pitcho Womba Konga (Sizwe) is a giant of a man with the silhouette of a door. Both actors handle their characters with sensitivity and humour. As a South African, it’s affirming to see Fugard’s remarkable script succeed as well in Paris as Cape Town.

BooitjieOubaas
Athol Fugard’s latest play is about the irresistible compulsion to tell one’s story in order to obtain release. The same compulsion seems to have taken hold of Fugard for he has blandly adapted a short story from his collection Karoo and Other Stories for the stage. It is the story of a certain Booitijie Barends he knew in his beloved Karoo town of Nieu Bethesda.
‘Booitjie’ is an uncommon (even bizarre) spelling of the diminutive ‘boykie’ or ‘boytjie’. In the play, Booitjie explains that “because I was small I ended up ‘booitjie’ and now no one calls me by my real name”.
Set in the 1950s, the ‘non-white’ Barends (Christo Davids) is nurse and carer for the farm’s oubaas (Marius Weyers) now debilitated by a stroke. In typical Fugardian imagery, it is as if the patriarch is “a big bloekomboom” struck by lightning.
Early on, the two men enjoy a moment of bonhomie, an intimacy rarely found across the racial strictures of that time. But the oubaas needs more: to confess his terrible secrets. As he says, “You don’t need God to judge you and send you to hell. You can do it to yourself.” Unlike Soekie Fortuin (Mary Daniels), the day nurse, who is far more candid about how things stand, the compassionate Barends has “learned to understand” the oubaas.
In the end, the two men are able to put aside the apartheid appellations of ‘booitjie’ and ‘oubaas’ introducing themselves as Gerhardus Daniel Lottering Strydom and Adam Barends. With understanding comes equality of respect and acceptance.
Despite the compelling clarity in the writing, it would have been far better for Fugard to dramatise the story with a full cast, rather than only dramatize the story telling. The vision and horizons for our theatre keep shrinking. Yet having the story related in this manner mitigates the melodrama – miscarriage and paralysis, plotting murder and family suicide, an illegitimate pregnancy through incestuous adultery are among Strydom’s secrets.
The only truly dramatic conceit – which many patrons didn’t understand – is the gentle transition Weyers makes until we are hearing the oubaas as Barends does – not the slurred murmurings in the opening scene caused by the left-brain stroke.
It is a function of theatre to give the audience a catharsis; it is a misconception of drama to try to make a play out of pontificating about this necessity.

Sizwe bansi revivalsizwe bansi

1 – Sizwe Banzi is Dead – revived

Thirty-one years ago, shortly before the Soweto uprisings, two young black South African actors – Winston Ntshona and John Kani – made Broadway history. It was the first – and to this day the only – time that in winner-takes-all America two performers shared the first place for best actor at the theatre world’s Oscars – the Tony Awards. The play was Sizwe Banzi is Dead – devised by the actors together with Athol Fugard. It was a morale-boosting coup that cast the international spotlight on the cruel bonds of red tape that underpinned draconian apartheid.

The story of the honest rural black man battling a dehumanising Kafkaesque bureaucracy, who cannot find employment, because he does not possess a pass, and must assume the identity of a dead man to survive, struck a universal chord.

Now firmly cited as a classic of South African theatre, it is still widely referred to, performed and was even published in book form incorrectly as Sizwe Bansi – due to a misspelling on a poster that was sent to the Royal Court Theatre, which neither Fugard nor the actors bothered to correct, according to Brian Astbury, progenitor of the legendary Cape Town Space Theatre, which premiered the work in 1972.

Overseas success soon brought political heat. After a performance in Umtata in 1976,
the puppet Bantustan regime in the Transkei rather capriciously arrested Ntshona and Kani, for what the vulgar tinpot despot George (brother of Kaiser) Matanzima called the “vulgar” language in the play. It caused international outrage – thanks to that Tony. But harassment didn’t let up – even in 1979, the police managed to stop the opening night when the play returned to The Space after its international accolades and its 1978 run at The Market in Johannesburg.

In the 1970s Ntshona and Kani bravely toured Sizwe Banzi and The Island to schools, community halls, churches – any venue they could find in the black townships. Known collectively as the Statements plays they originated at around the same time from Fugard’s Port Elizabeth troupe – The Serpent Players. Sizwe Banzi’s reputation as a ‘watershed’ production breaking new ground was established.

Its revival in 2006 at the National Arts Festival appropriately returns the work to the Eastern Cape and features the original cast – Ntshona who turns 65 this year and Kani who is just three years younger. Theatrical facilitator Mannie Manim says they’ve been talking about doing Sizwe Banzi ever since they started their highly successful revival of The Island in 1995, and have been touring it to the capitals of the West ever since.

Director of the current South African revival Aubrey Sekhabi has not worked from the published text, but from a BBC recording made in the late 1970s. According to Sekhabi this is the version that won Kani and Nsthona the Tony.

The cast describe their rehearsal period at the State Theatre as a rewarding process of sharing. Although the ‘old boys’ – who are lifelong friends – often knocked off early, Sekhabi says they are committed, seasoned professionals – in stark contrast to many of the lackadaisical young actors he has to deal with these days. Kani’s penchant for telling stories seems to have occupied a fair portion of their time. On the opening night in 1972, Kani’s improvisation, which starts the play, went on for an hour and half, until Fugard sent a furious Ntshona on stage in the middle of yet another yarn.

The revival is doubtlessly a great commercial idea. Representing it as commemorating the thirty years since the Soweto uprisings, is a tempting hook, but stretching things rather unnecessarily. A revival of a classic work with the original cast is a perfectly legitimate activity and the producers should feel quite secure within this. Only the sourest of audiences would not wish to indulge them.

In their press release Ntshona comments that the play allows today’s audiences to experience life as it was in the “dark period of this country’s history”, while Kani maintains it is a vivid portrayal of “what it was like to have been black in South Africa at the time”. In his original review, American critic Stanley Kauffmann, rather dismissively wrote that the play was “only about the troubles of South African blacks”.

What then of its contemporary relevance. I put the question to Sekhabi, who replied that it has a significant message for “anyone living under an oppressive system anywhere in the world”. Director Peter Brook who is currently staging the work in French as Sizwe Banzi est Mort and touring it everywhere from Jerusalem to Dublin, told The Economist that the play is for him “about a fundamental lack of respect for the African” – which exists to this day in the world.

In an academic paper, Andre Brink feels ambiguous about its infusion by Fugard with European existentialism, and Anne Fuchs in her Playing the Market Theatre Johannesburg 1976-1986 regards it as “too white-oriented”. These are misgivings that should be aired and interrogated in an on-going debate about the interaction between today’s demographically shifting audiences – in terms of language, culture and age – and protest works developed under the previous dispensation.

But the proof of its enduring popularity, arguably due to its Fugardian existential transcendence of socio-political themes, and its almost continuous performance in one part of the world or another, speaks for itself.

The production moves to the Baxter Theatre, Cape Town after the National Arts Festival. It will then travel to the State Theatre in Pretoria, The Market Theatre in Johannesburg and will also be seen at the Hilton Festival.

2 – Opening night Grahamstown 2006

Revivals are always dogged by questions of contemporary relevance, but the tyranny of “why now?” needs some deflating. Sizwe Banzi is Dead is a defining work in South African theatre, and last night’s triumphant opening night featuring the original cast was a celebratory occasion.

Sexagenarians John Kani and Winston Ntshona acquitted themselves brilliantly before an adoring public. Neither man lacks vitality. Their seniority has deepened its pathos, especially considering that the actors – now venerated – were subjected to many of the shocking degradations the play relives from apartheid’s ugly past.

‘Sizwe’ – means ‘the nation’, and ‘banzi’ means ‘large’ or ‘broad’. The implication of the title was political dynamite when performed during the 1976 student revolt. Today we believe – or at least hope – we do not have a revolutionary climate. Yet the story of the honest man forced to negate his integrity by a cruel and inhumane system is always germane to the affairs of man. Playwright Athol Fugard wrote in his notebooks that, “Survival can involve betrayal of everything – beliefs, values, ideals – except Life itself”. This existential dilemma is the reason the play still speaks to people today.

Since the plot involves specific apartheid laws, it is firmly set in the 1970s. The trickiest part of performing in the present is the opening soliloquy, which historically was an improvisation on the day based on current news stories. Yet the past has many echoes, including an objectionable USA president. Then it was Nixon.

Director Aubrey Sekhabi, working from a 70s BBC recording and not the published text, has perhaps been too faithful. When the lively Styles (Kani), bearing his humiliations with humour and dignity, finally has revenge on his bosses deliberately mistranslating in Xhosa their orders to the factory workers, Sekhabi has chosen to stick to the original text and relate all of this in English. Given that a significant part of the audience here speaks Xhosa, and the rest of us should be learning, it seemed polite, but anachronistic.

Surprisingly, the age of the performers only jars when Sizwe, played by the somewhat frail Ntshona, is told he could make head message boy in fifteen years, and when it’s suggested he apply to work in the mines.

But why is such a beautiful play in need of reviving at all? Although it is a regularly prescribed for students, there have been almost no local professional productions in nearly thirty years. The Market Theatre last staged it in 1978.

A disheartened Wim Vorster at South Africa’s Dramatic, Artistic and Literary Rights Organisation (DALRO), says that despite many requests, permission has never been granted for a professional production. “Athol always says go ahead, but John (Kani) always says no.” Last year the Liberty Theatre on the Square begged to stage it with the vibrant young talents of James Ngcobo and Vusi Kunene. A production I would have loved to see. The world really is big enough for both. Curiously, the current run in Grahamstown is licensed through the William Morris Agency (New York), and not DALRO.

“It is sad that a great script like Sizwe Banzi has been unseen for so long,” says Vorster. The younger generation only know it in text form, published with the erroneous spelling – Bansi. At last the generation caught in the political veldfire of the Soweto Uprisings, can see Sizwe Banzi revived.

3 – Sizwe Bansi is Dead – review Baxter Theatre

The watershed South African play Sizwe Banzi is Dead, has at long last been taken out of mothballs. The original cast (from 1972-78) John Kani and Winston Ntshona acquit themselves brilliantly before an adoring public. If anything, their seniority has deepened the play’s pathos, especially when one considers that the actors – now venerated – were themselves subject to many of the shocking degradations the play relives from apartheid’s ugly past. It’s a moving experience.

Kani is at his best, delivering the opening monologue with winning charm. The last time he performed this well was in his own play Nothing but the Truth. Sizwe Banzi is clearly his natural habitat. Ntshona, now stiffening somewhat in the joints, uses it to maximum effect with precision comic timing. Surprisingly, the age of the performers only jars when Sizwe, played by the older Ntshona, is told he could make head messenger in fifteen years, and when it’s suggested he apply to work in the mines.

At a time when many whites have gone into denial and are stubbornly hard-hearted and resistant to accommodating the on-going hardships of those previously classified as non-white, the use of the words “white’ and the “white man” will come as a shock from the past. The play is a timely reminder to whites who cherish their amnesia just how brutal the system was they benefited from and presided over.

The story of the honest man forced to negate his identity and his integrity to survive in a cruel and inhumane system is always germane to the affairs of man. Playwright Athol Fugard wrote in his notebooks that, “Survival can involve betrayal of everything – beliefs, values, ideals – except Life itself”. This existential dilemma is the reason the play still speaks to people today. Sizwe Banzi is not only a South African classic, but a beautifully written work.