Autocannibalism as a form of protest (It’s oh-so provincial)

‘Twas the season of awards, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse… And then a less-than-magnificent river of shit changed course and hit the theatre community, changing crisp new-year clothing into smeared rags that reeked equally of hubris and disappointment. The Naledi Awards (for theatre excellence in Gauteng, or some such bullshit) announced the nominees who performed and created above and beyond the call of duty. Yaysies! The hurumph-hurumphs in Cape Town began immediately. Several Facebook Fuck updates from Twitter Twats and their ilk indicated their dismissal of the Naledis as a celebration of over-produced, artless, non-progressive theatre shows. (Because Cape Town, dear reader, is the main hub for “important” theatre shows… be careful not to roll your eyes too much and cause them to veer out of control and fly out of your head and into someone’s steaming cup of Vida Mucho Americano.) A few people were enraged that not enough Cape Town-originated shows were nominated and claimed inequality because only the shows that could afford a run in Johannesburg were considered for an award. Yes, dickhead, that’s how it works.

How Cape Town hated the Naledis for a few days. How Cape Town unified and proclaimed their support for one another and the importance of their work. How we all loved one another. Jesus H. Christ, there is nothing better than a bad-guy to bring us together and make us forget that we are part of a crumbling, PC, class-based mediocrity-factory.

Then someone took a Fleur Du Crap on the chest and face of that unified community. The Fleur Du Cap Awards (The Cape Town equivalent of the Naledis, but more, y’know, Democratic Alliance-y) announced their 2011 nominees a couple of days after the Naledis “pissed in the mouths of real, hardworking actors” – a tidbit of bitterness I spied on someone’s Facebook wall. The nominations contained a few delightful surprises, but in general they adhered to expectations. As has become habit with the Fleur Du Caps, stars ruled the day (in South African terms. Let’s not get excited), broad appeal work was celebrated, personal work was ignored, and box-office generally seemed to indicate quality. I say this not out of spite or malice, I am merely stating the obvious.

The thing that inspires this author’s surprise is not the disappointment or resentment of the Fleur Du Caps, but the theatre world’s preternatural instinct to turn on itself. The arguments became not about the validity or importance of the awards, but about who didn’t rage enough about the awards; who raged too much; who celebrated (nominees were scorned for feeling flattered); and who refused to comment. Everyone seemed to pick a fight that week, and the Fleur Du Caps stopped being the issue. Grudges surfaced, old wounds opened up and people began to take sides where there were no sides to be had.

Very few of my peers celebrate the Fleur Du Caps. They, and indeed I, feel the awards have absolutely no place within our work. The awards do not hinder us, nor do they promote us. Once again, that is not criticism, just apathy. However, some people who are left out of the Fleur Du Cap (and Naledi) kingdom are enraged by the exclusion. So, every year those feelings fester, they are put on a slow boil and come early February, the steam is released. Unfortunately, as with most things in the theatre world, it’s so unfocused that it serves only to hurt colleagues and friends. It is unclear whether this habit of implosion exists due to a flaw in the cosmogony of the theatre community, or whether the fault lies within the continuing evolution of the art and its practice.

We should not abandon our anger, especially if it kicks up dust and causes new ideas to form and ancient practices to subside. The issue should be the work, not the civilian parades designed to stroke egos and validate what should already be dear to us. If a practitioner measures his/her value by what a panel of free-ticket hogging, network obsessed judges think, then the work is not good enough for an audience anyway. And that is who we serve: the audience. Not in cow-towing terms, or adhering to their whims and certainly not to impress Fluer Du Cappers or Naledi-ites. But in presenting, perhaps, something new, something unforeseen, something uncomfortable, something that an awards panel might not comprehend. Isn’t that what brings about progress?

If one is admired by everyone, it might lead one to think of one’s self as admirable. If one is hated by everyone, one will endeavor to inspire only hate. We give what we get, but that river of shit flows both ways.

A Tale Of Two Trinchados

There exists a great divide, beyond mere geography, between theater in Cape Town and theater in Johannesburg. Both cities conform to the same theatrical construction, so the difference does not lie in the obvious practicalities of theater-making. The two competing cities possess theaters of varying degrees of historical success and countless works from a variety of authors have been staged within the respective auditoriums. The fact that both cities produce and lure audiences to witness live performances from trained professionals and share a country and its people would make it seem as if the difference between the two could not be all that different. And yet, a profound number of theater practitioners and audiences would agree that a difference exists and that this difference is related to the philosophy and the type of work being done.

Without venturing too far into the validity and quality of the two cities’ plays, the question has to be asked as to whether the one is better than the other.

Johannesburg has a tradition of political theater (read: struggle theater) and this tradition continues for the most part at venues like The Market Theater, with revivals of “Siswe Banzi Is Dead” and “Woza Albert” being staged alongside modern struggle plays like “Truth in Translation.” Cape Town, although dabbling in struggle-centric productions and PC profundity on occasion, offers one more of a chance to experience, through theater, political viewpoints that are either foreign or, dare I say it, unpopular. This does not make Cape Town theater better in that regard as one can see from the various colonialist productions whose message seem to be that the troubles of the British Empire or the New World journey towards a (American) dream are oh-so-very-important to us, the conquered (by the colonialists of the empire or the capitalist Yankees.) The question of which city’s theater is most politicized becomes a Red Herring that confuses the plot as to whether any of this work is actually any good, which it very often isn’t.

Another point likely to be made by those in the know, is that Johannesburg is the home of the musical and that no straight, non-musical play with the ability to throw its size around can have a life beyond the two week run the producers have paid for up front. This seems to indicate that a straight, non-musical play will have a better chance at a prolonged life in Cape Town. This, dear reader, is false… in a way. The point is not that a play without song and dance numbers, but with size on its side, can do better in Cape Town than Johannesburg, but that a play like that would be booked in Cape Town at all. What is true in Jozi is true in the Mother City: if the play is not an immense crowd pleaser, which musicals often are, then there is very little hope of it being performed in either city. There are various factors that can guarantee a straight play (of appropriate size or financial backing) some success and it has nothing to do with the quality of work on display. It should feature a star, e.g. Anthony Sher and John Kani in “The Tempest”, a disastrous, infuriatingly lazy production, or it should bring with it some history of excellence, e.g. “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”, which turned out to be a showcase for almost-has-been stars and an exercise in directorial flimsiness. Both shows, however, were successful in reasonable, South African terms. But for all that supposed pedigree, a musical would’ve sufficed. At least it would have been done well – again, by South African standards. Those shows were booked in Cape Town for the same reason “Rent” started its run in Johannesburg: to make money from the pre-conceived notions of the theater world; big musicals start in Johannesburg, big straight plays start in Cape Town.

Small plays, on the other hand, suffer rape and pillage at the hands of both cities. It is true, smaller plays and new work has a better chance of success in Cape Town. That can’t be argued. The sheer number of smaller productions and new plays in Cape Town outweigh Johannesburg’s. Cape Town has more of a theater going populace than Johannesburg because there simply are more small theaters (I do not count cabaret bars, stand-up comedy venues or band stands) and they are affordable. The average price of admission is between R50 and R100 for a small theater, and it always depends on whether well-known actors/directors/writers are involved. A R50 ticket in Johannesburg is almost unheard of, and if you do find a play that cheap, chances are it will reflect the price in the work. That does not mean that these small or new productions that litter Cape Town’s theater world are necessarily going anywhere. They are almost never accepted by any of the big theaters, they never make money (those damn cheap tickets!) and the only way they will make progress in this country is if they are award-friendly, accessible, complacent, PC or preachy works. It is theater as a franchise wannabe restaurant; just another “Spur” in the making.

The difference between Cape Town theater and Johannesburg theater is comparable to the two cities’ approach to a Portuguese dish known as Trinchado. The basics of the dish are the same in both cities: a saucy, meat dish containing cubes of beef fillet in a spicy, red wine sauce. The difference lies in the viscosity of the sauce. In Cape Town it is thin and red, like a consommé, and in Johannesburg it is creamy and thick with a slight orange tinge. Those who frequent Diaz Tavern in Cape Town will swear that the Trinchado they serve there is the best, while those who eat at Nuno’s in Melville, Johannesburg will testify that theirs is better. I have tried both, and I too have a favorite just as I have a favorite theater community. But to argue about it would be moot. It’s all about taste, experience and one’s enjoyment of the moment. Yes, the recipes differ, but the dish remains the same.