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In the moments before the event began, a digital image of a living space, like a cartoon combination of IKEA and the Sims, was projected on to the floor-to-ceiling screen at the back of the stage, a representation of the normativeness that would be shattered throughout the night.
The event was a pairing of emerging and professional artists. First, PROX:IMITY RE:MIX, a performance by a group of queer youth, aged 15-24, fresh off a two-week mentorship with MACHiNENOiSY, and second, Kinesis Dance performing Night, by Para Terezakis.
Image from MACHiNENOiSY.com
PROX:IMITY RE:MIX was an array of individual and ensemble pieces, ranging from free movement to choreographed dance, spoken word, performance art and monologue. The performers interacted with their images, which were recorded live and projected onto the screen behind them. The imagery was often colourful and created both concrete and abstract depictions of them. It was all underpinned by a rich and diverse soundscape.
PROX:IMITY RE:MIX was a synergy between imagery, physicality, sound and story. Namely, the personal stories of the youth: “My name is ______, I am ______ years old and my pronoun is ______”, was an echoing refrain throughout the performance.
It touched upon the rigidity of binaries, the process of coming out, victim blaming, the beauty of home and love, and the triumph of being your true self. It was the authenticity, the vulnerability and the strength of the youth that carried the show. Young people, telling their stories, sharing their truth, being brave.
Some youth were at the beginning of their artistic journeys, while others already had their wings and were flying. Together though, they had continuity, both working within their respective abilities and pushing their edges.
Night was a journey through the darkness, a ride through the peaks and valleys of the nocturne: excitement, chaos, lust and love, connection, shame, voyeurism and the collecting of one’s self and their things afterwards, at sunrise, to begin anew.
At its best the performance was compelling, moving and provocative, but at times also frenetic and flat. That said, it was mostly pop and fizz. The piece grappled with the sexual fluidity of roles, partners and gender, feelings of shame in desire, and disconnection from normative values of sex, beauty and attraction.
The narrative of the performance was driven by an eclectic mix of music switched, often abruptly, by different performers from a laptop sitting on a desk on stage. Stark changes in lighting and the use of each of the character’s possessions: clothing and other personal effects carried in a bag, punched through the movements and feeling of a night in many vignettes.
Its seams were left intentionally unfinished and showing, the fourth wall was broken, and the viewer, and the other dancers for that matter, was given free reign to gawk and stare at the creatures of the night, their movements communicating their intent and emotion with clarity. With red lips they embarked on a metamorphosis from dusk till dawn, the only remnants of which were a pair of red heels and a row of lipstick cases, standing on end.
Flerida Peña’s Sister Mary’s a Dyke?!, which featured at this year’s Queer Arts Festival, is a fun and energetic show with potential. Set in an all-girls Catholic school, the one-woman play follows 14 year old Abby as she adjusts to life at the Crown of Thorns Academy. We watch as she discovers her sexuality, falls in and out of love and joins a guerrilla organization founded by one the nuns (“Communal Living In Tents,” or to keep it brief: “C.L.I.T.”).
The first act is introspective and focuses on Abby’s coming out and her disillusionment with the Catholic Church. She prays to her “BFF” (Jesus) and tries to understand what two of her classmates were doing together naked in bed. It’s honest yet self-censored, like reading someone’s diary who worries their mother may find it.
The second act takes a dramatically different turn. Abby joins C.L.I.T. and parachutes into the Vatican to help Sister Mary become Pope. The action was exciting but felt at odds with the first act, almost as if the two acts were part of two different productions.
The plot is forwarded by Abby posing rhetorical questions to herself, to Jesus, and to the audience. While these concerns are valid, they becoming tiring and predictable as the show progresses. Abby wrestles with common knowledge, most of which is hard to believe she hasn’t encountered previously. For example, at age 14, she has never questioned why women can’t be ordained.
Aside from Abby, we only see other characters briefly. The play could have been strengthened by their presence, because, as is often the case, the protagonist was not the most interesting character. I craved more of El (an endearing jock and Abby’s first love) and Sister Mary (a radical, unapologetic nun). If nothing else, including more of them would have diversified the monologue format of the show.
For all its brilliant moments, Sister Mary’s A Dyke!? lagged behind in dialogue. Though the situation, characters and ideas are intriguing and unique, I would love to see them expanded on.
I entered the Queer Arts Festival’s opening gala art show, Trigger: Drawing The Line in 2015, not knowing what to expect. I’d attended an all-girl Catholic school for 13 years, where topics of sexuality and DIY gender were rendered taboo and offensive. Though a socially-conscious liberal arts education later broadened my initial black and white worldview, I was still unsure how I’d react to an exhibit specifically aimed at ‘triggering” its visitors with challenging, explicit artwork.
Equal parts community education and artistic expressionism, it’s easy to see why this exhibit attracts a diverse audience of all sexual orientations. Personal narratives by local and international artists highlighted some of the Queer community’s trials and triumphs, both historic and contemporary. Many artists incorporated mixed media and found objects into their work, making their stories more tangible and connected to the community at large. Curated by SD Holman, the show drew from and contributed to a long history of powerful sociopolitical arts activism through interactive performance and visual art.
I was especially impressed by Coral Short’s emotionally-laden opening performance art piece, Stop Beating Yourself Up, and Amy Dame’s thought provoking series, Fallen Heroes: Drawing the Line. As Short, armed with a pair of boxing gloves, (literally) beat herself up on stage, I was reminded of Fight Club’s unnamed protagonist, the Narrator, and his fight against his own inner demons. Meanwhile, Dame’s intricately sewn portraits invited the public to draw–or, rather, sew–their own lines across the faces of well-known Queer personalities using bright red thread. Dame’s “lines” examined the difference between shame and admiration: When can a person no longer be viewed as a role model? How far is too far?
By placing works by more than 15 radically different artists side by side, the exhibition explored some of the challenges continually faced by those who identify as Queer. From navigating identity politics to resisting ongoing violence and discrimination, the Queer community has always pushed boundaries in order to produce exciting, provocative and edgy art; Trigger: Drawing the Line in 2015 is no exception.
Trigger: Drawing The Line in 2015 (SD Holman) runs until August 7 at Yaletown Roundhouse Community Center, and is by donation. For a full listing of Queer Arts Festival events, visit the QAF website.
When I first read the summary of Cosmophony, a collaboration between the Queer Arts Festival and the Powell Street Festival, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. After all, how is an auditory representation of space manifested? How does one describe space and the cosmos through music, much less through music played only on a piano by a single artist? Would it be an epic space theme a la Star Wars‘ opening credits? Or an ethereal and ominous soundtrack that captures the vast darkness that is our universe?
Earth, photo by NASA
It turns out, it was much more than that. Pianist Rachel Kiyo Iwaasa commissioned 11 Canadian composers to create this beautiful musical journey through our solar system. Each composer focused on a different planet or space entity. The result was that each planet sparked in its audience a different affect and atmosphere. However, through Iwaasa’s beautiful and skillful musicianship, each composition was tied to the next in a cohesive performance that felt perfectly natural. Iwaasa truly managed to do justice to each and every piece she played, holding the audience captivated for the full hour-long performance.
The performance took place in Firehall Arts Centre, a space with an intimate and communal atmosphere. The set was simple: Iwaasa at her piano, with a screen playing images of each planet as the backdrop. The audience’s full focus could be on the music being performed, with pieces by composers including Rodney Sharman, Marci Rabe, Alexander Pechenyuk, Jocelyn Morlock, Chris Kovarik, Jeffrey Ryan, Stefan Udell, and Jennifer Butler. The show opens with Denis Gougeon’s passionate Piano-Soleil. From the sun, we are taken through the planets, over epic Mercury and gentle Venus, over the Asteroid Belt described by Jordan Nobles’ Fragments, and over to Gliese 581c, a faraway planet that is one of the human race’s only shreds of hope for relocation once we burn through all of our own natural resources—a theme which composer Emily Doolittle depicts with great passion. The performance is not just a piano concert; it is a social commentary on the ways in which we abuse our own planet, as well as an exploration of not only the vast cosmos itself, but of the human race’s role in the solar system.
Mercury, photo by NASA
Through this journey, Cosmophony manages to encapsulate multiple themes: human awe at the vastness of space, the continued exploration of space, the mysteries of the cosmos, and the environmental havoc that we have wreaked upon our own planet. Whether you are a space buff, a classical music fan, a lover of community art, or a combination of the three, Iwaasa’s stellar performance and the beautiful collaboration of talent managed to create something that will speak to everyone.
In 19th century France, Paris Salons were the predominant way in which the bourgeoisie could view art. The Salons were heavily censored, as they were juried by the Academy of Fine Art. Pieces that were rejected by the Academy–pieces that didn’t uphold the standards of what constituted as ‘traditional’ art–were displayed in the Salon des Refusés. As a result, the Salon des Refusés of 1863 housed the works of many important Impressionist and Realist painters.
With this at the forefront of my mind, I had certain assumptions about what I would find at the Queer Art Festival’s Salon des Refusés, co-presented by Little Sister’s Book and Art Emporium. I was surprised to discover that Little Sister’s was, in fact, a sex shop. The show itself consisted of a single line of photographs hung on a wall above some objects depicting male and female figures performing erotic and sensual acts–nothing like the Salon I had expected to visit.
When Little Sister’s Book and Art Emporium was established in 1983, it sold banned magazines and books to the gay, lesbian, and bisexual communities of Vancouver. Since then, Little Sister’s has become a landmark case for the Supreme Court of Canada in the fight against censorship and discrimination; the history of the shop itself can be seen as avant-garde. Once I realized this, it became increasingly obvious that the exhibition wasn’t meant to be a literal translation of the original Salon; instead, it represents the values and intellectual freedom associated with the Salon des Refusés. Salons–whether they take place in a sex shop or not–challenge the way in which viewers engage with art by placing it into an unexpected context.
Just as Impressionist painters began to observe the world using light and colour, Salons provide visitors with an opportunity to alter their perceptions of how art ‘should’ be viewed. The viewer’s gaze shifts from a pair of handcuffs to a black and white photograph of a man in bed, then back to a 16” double dong. In this way, looking at sex objects and looking at art become parallel acts, such that ‘art’ is translated into the vernacular. In this context, art becomes widely accessible in a way that the works displayed in the traditional Paris Salons never were.
Salon des Refusés runs until August 7 at Little Sister’s Book and Art Emporium. For a full listing of Queer Arts Festival events, check out the festival website.
I’d never heard of Mungo Thomson before last Tuesday, when I stepped inside the air-conditioned lobby of the Contemporary Art Gallery for a break from Vancouver’s heatwave. In that cool recluse, I discovered Mungo Thomson: Time, People, Money, Crickets—a stunning compilation of some of the LA artist’s latest work—and now I can’t get his name, or the exhibit, out of my mind.
Time, People, Money, Crickets experiments with sound, film, print and space to create an interactive gallery experience. The exhibit features several large-scale mirror works from Thomson’s TIME series, a musical score based on the chirping of crickets (Crickets, 2012-2013), and my personal favourite: a 132-page collection of photographs of gallery visitors viewing seemingly invisible artworks (People, 2011).
June 25, 2001 (How the Universe Will End), 2012 March 6, 1995 (When Did the Universe Begin?), 2012 Enamel on low-iron mirror, poplar and anodized aluminum, Installation view, Gavin Brown’s Enterprise, New York
Expertly curated by Nigel Prince, the exhibition cleverly inverts roles of artist and visitor; photographer and model; creator and observer. Upon entering a large, white room, I found myself surrounded by mirrors emblazoned with the iconic TIME Magazine logo. The mirrors faced each other, creating an unending string of reflections. It was hard not to be self-conscious in that space; standing amid a hundred selfies, there were so many versions of myself that I began to feel claustrophobic. The experience was also distancing; I could feel my identity, my entire concept of self, becoming fainter and fainter with each subsequent reflection. Mirrors—I realized—reflect, but they also warp and obscure.
People, 2011 Full color magazine, 132 pages. Courtesy the artist.
A collection of open cardboard boxes stood, seemingly neglected, among the mirrors. Go ahead, grab one, a gallery attendant urged me. Inside was People: a magazine without words, filled with photographs of galleries without art. All that was left, of course, were the people themselves, caught in the act of observation—an act which, when the image has been removed, appears stranger and stranger with each turn of the page. Thomson did phenomenal work editing the photographs, and the effect is very striking. It was an eerie experience—observing people observing things—one that became even eerier when I realized that I, too, was being observed—not by others, but by my own, unending reflection.
December 26, 1969 (Is God Coming Back to Life?), 2012 February 5, 1996 (Is Anybody Out There?), 2013 Enamel on low-iron mirror with poplar and anodized aluminum. Installation view, Mungo Thomson: Time, People, Money, Crickets, SITE Santa Fe, 2013 Photo: Kate Russell
I ended my visit in a small room, almost hidden from view in a nook under the stairs. There I found Untitled (Margo Leavin Gallery, 1970–) (2009), a Super-16mm stop-motion film animation that flips through all the contacts in the business card rolodexes of Los Angeles’ Margo Leavin Gallery (founded in 1970 and closed in 2012). There was something very soothing about the sound of the softly shuffling slides and the repetitive nature of the footage; something meditative about revisiting this now archaic organizational tool. But there was also something disturbing about watching the index cards fall—it was so easy to forget what these cards represent. Before me, I realized, were hundreds of people, each with their own stories, relationships, roles: artists, framers, electricians, collectors, customs agents, florists, critics, exterminators. Untitledis not just an examination of some outdated technology, but an archive of real, three dimensional human beings. Just as the TIME mirrors emphasize and obscure the identity of the person they reflect, these index cards seemed to both celebrate and overlook the individuality of the people they document.
Shaken but inspired, I left the Contemporary Art Gallery and stepped back out into the July blaze. I noticed a chill down my spine that had nothing to do with the AC.
Organized by Contemporary Art Gallery, Vancouver and SITE Santa Fe, Time, People, Money, Crickets runs until August 30.
On Thursday, June 18, the front page of the Vancouver Sun illustrated the results of a recent Angus Reid poll of Vancouverites with four bright yellow emojis. One with the beaming smile represented “happy”; another, less enthused smiley stood for “comfortable,” another for “uncomfortable,” and finally, one for “miserable.” The poll focused on how Vancouver residents felt about their current housing and transportation situations. Someone with my demographics (a renter aged 18-34 with a university education) was apparently inclined to be thoroughly miserable. The “happy” category described my parents: retired with no daily commute and living in a mortgage free home purchased before 2000. Would I only achieve happiness in some kind of Freaky Friday scenario where I assumed the lives of the people who raised me?
Photo courtesy of Sagmeister Walsh
As luck would have it, I was headed to the Museum of Vancouver that night for a Happy Hour talk on Money and Happiness. Researcher Ashley Whillans, who works out of UBC Department of Psychology’s “Happy Lab”, presented her findings on the relationship between money, time and happiness in a twenty minute lecture. Her first core finding was that those who use money to outsource tasks they dread experience a boost in happiness. Technology has made it possible for those with the time and inclination to connect with those who are willing to pay for comfort. Whillans’ conclusion seems especially relevant given the rise of Uber and the sharing economy.
Maybe money can buy happiness after all? Whillans’ research certainly seems to suggest it does; she presented data from another study in which study participants demonstrated a greater increase in happiness when they spent money on others rather than on themselves. Interestingly, these participants were horrible at predicting what would make them happy. Given the choice between spending their money on themselves or on others, the majority predicted that spending the designated cash on themselves would yield the greatest boost in well-being, when just the opposite proved true. Perhaps I need to stop looking to Hollywood for happiness; the answer might be as simple as hiring someone to scrub my toilet next weekend while I treat my nearest and dearest to mimosas.
Ms. Whillans also referenced Vancouver’s last place ranking in a nationwide poll of happy cities, along with The Economist’s recent pronouncement that our city is “mind-numbingly boring”. Part of the mandate of the MOV’s Happy Hour talks is to foster dialogue and mingling amongst our citizens. The palatable length of the presentation and the presence of a bar created an informal vibe. But the true inspiration for the Happy Hour concept comes from the Museum’s current exhibit, Stefan Sagmeister: The Happy Show, curated by Claudia Gould. The exhibit, which opened on April 23 and runs until September 7, displays the award-winning Austrian designer’s decade long exploration of what happiness is and his own quest to attain it. With a giant inflatable monkey, walls covered in academic study results and clips from Sagmeister’s upcoming documentary The Happy Film, the multi-media show engages visitors in a myriad of ways. Museum-goers are invited to experience a personal journey towards happiness, filled with memories and musings unique to Sagmeister, but end up recognizing his yearning as their own. The exhibit taps into a universal struggle: it seems that as long as there have been people, people have had a problem being happy.
Courtesy: Museum of Vancouver
I may not have exited the museum that evening with a prescription for happiness, but I did have many new ideas to consider. My friend and I stood in a surprising summer rain shower and contemplated what bus route to take back to our rented apartments. A yellow taxi approached and without much deliberation, we hailed it. For a few dollars each we got to forgo a long damp ride on transit. As I watched our wet, boring city glide past from the back seat, I was happy. For a while, anyway.
When I first laid eyes on the works that comprised Kate Duncan’s ADDRESS Assembly, I felt that I had walked into someone’s home. A very stylish someone. Certainly not my home or any I’ve been in before, but definitely some place I would like to live, or at the very least visit. It looked like something from Pinterest, which for those who may be confused, is the highest form of compliment I could offer. A collection of things so beautiful, you’ll want to remember them when you finally have a grown-up home to decorate and a budget that allows you to shop somewhere other than IKEA.
Photo by Sagal Kahin
Mouth open and eyes wide, I resisted the urge to touch everything. Ceramics by Heydey Design were a highlight. Made to look as if woven from cloth or straw, they were so convincing that I felt obliged to touch them all and confirm that they really were made from porcelain. The Hendrik Lou blanket knit from wool and rope made me wish everybody else in the room would leave me to nap. The side table which doubled as a terrarium; the speckled Lissu Linen pillow cases; the thumbtack stools; the ring dishes–I wanted all of it, including the plants I know couldn’t ever actually keep alive.
The works complimented each other so well, one might have thought they were made to exist here in this sun filled space. Together these pieces, made by a collective of 15 makers and designers, brought outside in. So did the light, which flooded the room thanks to the Waterfall Building’s floor to (two-storey) ceiling windows. Wood. Leather. Clay. Wool. Glass. It was picture perfect, but approachable. All together or on their own, these were works I could see occupying spaces in which real people lived. And yet the rugs were so beautiful they forced me to wonder (a few times): are we supposed to take our shoes off?
ADDRESS is an assembly of designers/makers, deeply dedicated to their craft presenting expertise and exceptional work. The 12 day home and design show is part-gallery, part-pop-up shop, and part-showroom, curated and produced by Vancouver-based furniture designer/maker Kate Duncan. Located at the prestigious Waterfall Building, 1540 West 2nd Avenue, ADDRESS runs from May 20-31st 2015.
The poetry scene in Vancouver is huge, and the amount of local talent staggering. On May 16 at the People’s Co-op Bookstore, poetry fans had the opportunity to experience some of the coast’s best poets with The Poetries: 5 West Coast Poets. The intimate night of readings featured work by Vancouver poets Jordan Abel, Jordan Scott and Chelene Knight, as well as Seattle poets Elizabeth J. Cohen and Deborah Woodard.
Jordan Abel kicked off the evening with a performance piece from his book Un/inhabited, a collection based off of passages from 91 Western Cowboy and Indian themed works. Abel selected words relating to the politics of land and ownership from these books to inspire his poems, paying particular attention to the terms “frontier” and “colony.” Rhythmic recordings of Abel’s voice intermixed throughout the performance, in sync at times, overlapping at others. The performance was humbling, with multiple voices resonating throughout Abel’s politically charged work. I’ve seen Jordan Abel perform before, but the way in which he hypnotizes his audience is always astounding.
Jordan Scott is another poet who reads his poetry with humbling beauty. Scott’s poetry plays with words and setting. He read from his most recent publication, Decomp, an “extended photo–essay and prose poem” written in collaboration with Stephen Collis. In contrast to Abel, Scott stood alone in front of the audience with his poetry on sheets of paper. But his poetry still read as performance; words bounced off the walls, forming vivid imagery in the mind to a rhythm like no other.
Chelene Knight, a graduate of SFU’s Writer’s Studio, was the third poet of the evening. Knight opened with a poem dedicated to a deceased friend and then moved on to read from her first book, Braided Skin. With a liquid voice, Knight read a selection of work focused on issues of race. She was expressive as she moved through her poetry with ease, reading also from her upcoming collection, Dear Current Occupant, which promises to be as exceptional as Braided Skin.
Next up was Elizabeth J. Cohen, the first Seattle poet to read. Using lyrical essay in poetic form, Cohen incorporated elements of biography and prose. Cohen is a magnetic performer; her poetry created an intimacy with the audience that was simply captivating.
Deborah Woodard, a Seattle-based translator and a poet, read last. Woodward uses erasure, a form of poetry that involves erasing words from existing texts, to create new works from borrowed words. Reading first from her own work, with poems such as “Maiden Flight” and “Gorilla Girl,” Woodard then moved on to a translated collection by Amelia Rosselli. Though originally written in Italian, the poems did not lose their eloquence when recited in English. Her vibrant performance was a strong finish to an incredible evening.
When I found out I would be reviewing the new musical Miss Shakespeare, my thoughts went immediately to Virginia Woolf’s story “Shakespeare’s Sister” from A Room of One’s Own. Woolf imagines what it would have been like had Shakespeare had an equally talented sister named Judith who “was as adventurous, as imaginative, as agog to see the world as he was…Perhaps,” Woolf muses, Judith had “scribbled some pages up in an apple loft on the sly, but was careful to hide them or set fire to them.”
Tracey Power’s musical picks up right where Woolf left off over 84 years ago, though Power’s Judith finds a much happier ending than Woolf’s. Miss Shakespeare is the story of Shakespeare’s youngest daughter who refuses to play the part of the average housewife, choosing instead to travel to London, have affairs with men, and most importantly, write plays.
The Cast of Miss Shakespeare: Erin Moon, Tracey Power, Pippa Mackie, Amanda Lisman, Caroline Cave, Susinn McFarlen, Medina Hahn. Image Emily Cooper.
At first I was unsure of what new things the play would have to say about women’s roles in the creative world. After all, the play is set in Shakespeare’s time; beyond employing an all female cast it wasn’t immediately clear what road Power would take to speak to a modern audience. As the show went on however, it became increasingly obvious that even though Judith and her friends were dealing with a situation very much specific to their time, their fight for creative freedom is very much a relevant topic to modern women as well. At one point, Judith lashed out at her famous father, saying, “You write about us [women] like you know who we are.” My thoughts went immediately to the recent controversy surrounding Joss Whedon and his representation of women in his films; suddenly, I was grateful for playwright Tracey Power and the play’s other contributors and supporters.
There was much more to endear me to the play other than simply the novelty of seeing a whole troupe of female performers on stage. Miss Shakespeare is optimistic, charming, and most of all, fun, thanks to its exemplary cast.
Judith, played by Amanda Lisman, was perfectly endearing. I was won over early on by her performance of a song entirely about the fascinating powers of an actor’s ass, but Lisman was truly at her best when directing her witless companions.
Judith recruited what can only be described as a rag-tag group of misfits, including a pregnant woman, a bastard, and a married virgin. This is where the play really came together, transforming from a story about creative freedom of expression to one about female friendship and empowerment. The troupe’s renditions of the stories of Venus and Adonis and Pryamus and Thisbe rivaled those of Shakespeare’s own sorry group of players in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Characters Hannah Storley (Pippa Mackie) and Isabel Loxley (Tracey Power) provided big laughs with their wonderfully incompetent acting, while characters Margaret Moore (Erin Moon) and Katherine Rose (Medina Hanh) kept things grounded with a perfect balance of emotion and candour.
Caroline Cave & Amanda Lisman in Miss Shakespeare credit Emily Cooper
One of the most compelling parts of the story, though, was the relationship between Judith and her sister Susanna (Caroline Cave). Cave brought nuance, humour, and depth to her character. I loved the interplay between Judith and Susanna; my only wish is that I could have seen a bit more of it.
The songs were well written and kept the story from getting too preachy or sappy. The musical component achieved a perfect balance between being appropriately crass and beautiful, delivering laughs, yet still allowing for moments of sincerity.
The cast clearly didn’t need the help of any male actors, with Hahn, Mackie, and Moon each taking turns playing a single male character. Employing a rotating cast for this male character championed the importance of women and their relationships with each other in the play, rather than their relationships with men.That said, I loved Susinn McFarlen’s appearances as Shakespeare, which provided motivation for Judith’s character and delivered some well-received knocks at the Bard himself.
After seeing Miss Shakespeare, I was pleased to return the next night to see what the women could bring to their adaptation of Julius Caesar. Though the contrast between the two plays couldn’t be greater, the cast again proved themselves highly capable with their emotionally charged performance of J. Caesar.
Seeing the two plays back-to-back like this was made it feel as if Judith’s company of players from Miss Shakespeare had banded together once again to prove that female actors can not only carry a play, but make one.
I particularly appreciated the way the adaptation was handled, with all male pronouns switched to female equivalents. This change was simple and impactful, turning Caesar’s Rome into a matriarchy far more interesting than a traditional all-male power structure. Julius Caesar was an apt choice for a gender swap, allowing for a hard-hitting representation of female power in which women are freed from competing for male attention. The pronoun switch gave tired aphorisms from the original play, too often ungenerously interpreted, new meanings and depth.
The J. Caesar Cast, credit Emily Cooper
As with Miss Shakespeare, the play was perfectly cast. Cave was especially notable in her role as Brutus; her scene with Portia (Erin Moon), was perhaps the most emotional and beautiful scene from either of the plays.
One detraction from J. Caesar‘s success, however, was the music. Considering that the songs from Miss Shakespeare had been some of the play’s highlights, I was dismayed to discover that most of the music for J. Caesar was electronic. The choice made sense thematically; the play required a grittier sound to match the tone of the play and the futuristic look of the costumes (those I did love – especially the matching knives that Brutus, Cassius, and Casca wore in their hair). The integration of a DJ into the performance—who remained visible in a loft-like area above the actors, lit by an ominous, red glow—was a brilliant choice; but while everything worked in theory, the execution was lacking. I was grateful for the moments of silence that allowed for intensity built off of emotion, rather than scenes in which the music was too aggressive for me to connect with what was happening. Actors’ voices were looped throughout the play, an element of the music I thought worked well; however, technical difficulties at the very end of the play drew me out of what was an otherwise rousing finish.
For fans of either Shakespeare or local theatre, both Miss Shakespeare and J. Caesar are not to be missed. Miss Shakespeare is perfect if you’re looking for laughs, while J. Caesar should please even the Shakespeare purists. The most rewarding option, of course, is to see both.
You can see Miss Shakespeare and J. Caesar at Performance Works until May 17 or at Kay Meek Centre from May 21-29. More info about the productions and other works by The Escape Artists can be found here.
