We've got it all right here, folks! Everything that's ever been written up, photographed, and discussed on the Sad Mag website. Enjoy browsing our archives!
I showed up to Arts Umbrella at precisely 8:03 to see The Distance Between New Brunswick and Toronto, not realizing that a) it was after 8:00 and b) there were absolutely no late entries to Fringe shows. As the friendly lady behind the table apologetically explained that she could not let us in, another volunteer interrupted, with the kind of aggression that led me to flinch in surprise,that you can’t be late and no, we can’t give you a refund. Lesson: be on time.
Flustered, I proceeded to the box office, where a very nice volunteer said he would be happy to help us find another show. He recommended The Inventor of All Things and at 8:08 we power-walked in the direction he had pointed, hoping to get there in time for the 8:15 start.
We arrived at 8:11, only to learn another lesson: the Fringe Festival is a credit or cash only affair. Thankfully, I’m friends with real adults, who can be counted on to have more than a debit card in their backpack. Tickets obtained, memberships purchased, and with a few minutes to spare, I took a deep breath and reached for a program. On it was a man in a tub, holding a knife in one hand and a puppet in the other. “What’s this…?” I asked. “It’s the show!” the woman behind the table replied, convinced I was a moron, but determined to be nice to me.
By 8:31, I’d arrived at the conclusion that the nice man at the box office had been looking at the schedule for the previous day when he recommended the show to me. Written in chalk on the stage before me was an outline of what this play would be about: puppets and murder. Nervous and full of dread, I took my seat and prepared myself for what was to come. But to my surprise, Baker’s Dozen: 12 Angry Puppets had me laughing, smiling and nodding in agreement from start to finish.
The Baker has been found dead in a bathtub, the Candlemaker has disappeared but was definitely at the scene of the crime, and the Butcher is on trial for murder. Twelve puppets are summoned for jury duty to determine whether the Butcher killed his husband, the Baker. With their snap judgements, biases, and even indifference, those puppets had me hoping never to find myself at the mercy of a jury.
I had expected for the puppeteer to be hiding in the darkness, dressed all in black. Adam Francis Proulx, however, is very much a part of the show, without distracting from the periwinkle puppet on his right hand. Armed with only his voice, facial expressions, body language, and a single puppet, Proulx switches from one character to another with ease. Reaching into his jury box for different wigs and facial features, he creates new personas, all while moving to dramatic music. When he returns to the chair at centre stage, he–and his puppet–are transformed. With humour and creativity, one man and one puppet tell a story that reminds viewers that juries can be fallible.
And this brings me to the most important lesson I learned at the Fringe this year: if you think puppet shows are not for you, you’re wrong.
Baker’s Dozen: 12 Angry Puppets hit the stage at this year’s Vancouver Fringe Festival, which runs until Sept 20. For a full listing of Fringe events, visit the festival website.
While sitting and waiting for The Wonderheads‘ new feat of wordless maskwork, The Middle of Everywhere, to start, the kindly gentleman sitting next to me asked me if I knew what the show would be about. Not expecting my unprofessional lack of research to be exposed quite that quickly, I stammered that I thought it was about “space and time and stuff?” After spending an enjoyable hour in the world of The Middle of Everywhere, I’m afraid I’m not any closer to answering my neighbour’s question.
Have you ever been stuck on public transit and imagined what would happen if some vague, unspecified disaster took place, and you were stuck with the people on your Seabus/Skytrain/bus stop for a long period of time? You would have to overcome obstacles and fight bad guys; deeply hidden aspects of your personality would come to light; and inevitably you would need to commit unspeakable acts of cannibalism to stay alive? I’ve never imagined that either. But a much cuter version of this nightmarish premise is the base of the plot of The Middle of Everywhere, in which two disparate characters meet at a bus stop and discover a strange radio dial-like device that sends them to nooks and crannies of the universe. The professor Winston (Emily Windler), wearing a sweater-vest to signify his fuddy-duddyness, finds Penny (Kate Braidwood), a young girl running away from home and described by the narrator as “whimsical.” Along the way they encounter an adorable, furry monster named Angus (Andrew Phoenix) who becomes part of their ragtag gang.
The Wonderheads’ ability to convey character through their giant painstakingly constructed masks is magical, and the level of choreography necessary to be able to interact, perform physical comedy, and even dance (in one entertaining sequence set at a disco) while wearing the heavy masks is pretty incredible. Equally creative is the use of music, sound, and lighting cues to create an imagined world in the audience’s minds–we can instantly locate the characters as they flash between a dozen different settings, despite using few props and a nearly bare stage. The use of the spotlight is best in a literally dark scene which veers between horror, comedy, and Punch and Judy, as Penny and Winston search for the monster that is never where they are trying to look.
Various indignities are heaped upon poor Winston – he puts his back out while dancing, is shot at, and gets pooped on by an invisible bird, but of course he learns to confront his fears in the ACDC-soundtracked crowd-rocking denouement. Winston and Penny travel to many strange places on their adventure. Even if The Middle of Everywhere doesn’t really go anywhere, it’s fun, sweet, and it just might make you see the stage in a new light.
The Middle of Everywhere hit the stage at this year’s Vancouver Fringe Festival, which runs until Sept 20. For a full listing of upcoming Fringe events, visit the festival website.
For the Vancouver Fringe Festival this year, I really wanted to see some comedy. After scrolling through the program guide I came across Peter n’ Chris (Peter Carlone and Chris Wilson) and their self-written play Here Lies Chris. These two Canadian comics are veterans of the Canadian Fringe circuit and have also appeared in the Just for Laughs Festival.
The show took place at the Pacific Theatre on 12th Avenue, a very cool space tucked away in the corner of an old church building. The crowd was warm and friendly, a solid group of typical smiling Fringe-goers. I sat high up the risers and waited anxiously to see what would come my way.
Peter and Chris walk out while performing a lip sync and dance number set to “Some Nights” by Fun–a perfect introduction to the folly of these two comics. Their sketch show is loose and leaves lots of room for improvisation. First an foremost, Here Lies Chris is an initiation into sketch comedy as a genre (they begin with a ‘lesson in sketch’). But as the show opens up, it transforms into an intergalactic journey.
There’s a touch of the chaotic as Peter and Chris run up and down risers, talking from off-stage during the performance. After much drama–and even an on-stage shooting–the audience learns that Chris has recently moved to Toronto, leaving Peter alone in Vancouver. This heartbreak moves the play towards its conclusion, which ends with Peter and Chris grieving their separation.
It was clear from the moment I sat down that Peter and Chris are seasoned improvisers. With great timing and writing, Here Lies Chris is enjoyable to the tragic end.
Peter N’ Chris Present: Here Lies Chris is part of the 2015 Vancouver Fringe Festival, which runs until Sept 20. For a full listing of upcoming Fringe events, visit the festival website.
An aerial rope is a surprisingly diverse prop. Accompanied onstage by only two plain white folding chairs, some sheets, and a small blue ball, the aerial rope ascends into the rafters, drawing the eye up and revealing a terrifying mass of negative space. In CLIMB, Esther de Monteflores commands that space with ease, twisting the aerial rope to her every need. De Monteflores’s range of expression with a singular rope is both impressive and stunningly beautiful, bringing meaning to the constant coiling and uncoiling of the rope. At times a cradle, a crutch, and at others a restraint, its tail end thumps against the stage like a unifying heartbeat.
De Monteflores’s acrobatics are accompanied by Meredith Hambrock’s brilliant writing in the form of voice over, bringing five different moments to life through movement, sound, and story. Hambrock’s vignettes are equal parts poetic, profound, and tragically hilarious. The decision to alternate narrators was refreshing for such a visual performance, though it did impede slightly on the cohesion of the different stories. Nonetheless, each narrative was compelling in its content and its interpretation by de Monteflores.
While the story for Adolescence was my personal favourite (it’s too good to be spoiled here), de Monteflores’s treatment of Old Age was nuanced, a delicate balance of vulnerability, delicacy, and grace. The choice to switch from aerial rope to slack rope here was apt. The switch over made for a fitting conclusion, though it would have been nice to have seen more slack rope throughout the performance, considering de Monteflores’s mastery of it.
De Monteflores’s physical performance and Hambrock’s story are strung together beautifully by Aaron Read’s score; the tension and drama of the string instruments function as a perfect parallel to de Monteflores’s use of the aerial and slack rope.
Another unexpected delight was the decision to keep de Monteflores on stage during costume changes. The choice makes sense from a practical standpoint, but also brought an intimacy to the actions. These moments turned audience members into voyeurs, enhanced by Hambrock’s eerie narration: “at any given moment you are being watched.”
For both veterans of acrobatics, and newcomers like myself, CLIMB offers a compelling, intimate, and lovably weird alternative to the way we normally experience stories and will certainly be a standout at this year’s Fringe.
CLIMB is part of the 2015 Vancouver Fringe Festival and can be seen at the Cultch Historic Theatre until September 20. Tickets are available online. For more on the Fringe, check out the festival website.
This is Gay Propaganda: LGBT Rights & the War in the Ukraine follows several Ukrainian LGBT activists in the aftermaths of Ukraine’s Euromaidan revolution, as they fight to survive in the face of gay propaganda laws in some parts of Ukraine. The laws, like those in Russia, label any sort of positive communication about LGBT rights and issues as “gay propaganda.” Spreading or engaging in “gay propaganda” is punishable by jail time.
The film ties together multiple themes. There is Toronto-based director Marusya Bociurkiw’s personal story, of her Ukrainian background and her identity as a lesbian. “Sometimes I felt like the only Ukrainian lesbian in the world,” she says in the film. She looks at how so many of us have our identities fragmented by circumstance.
The film focuses on the fight for LGBT rights but also heavily focuses on the intersection with the feminist movement in the Ukraine and on the violence that more masculine-presenting women experience at higher rates. After the movie, the director Skyped in from Poland for a Q&A. An audience member asked her why she focused on so many female LGBT activists, to which she chuckled and responded: “that’s sort of a hallmark of my work.”
There is the backdrop of a country at war. Ukraine in particular is a country very recently torn apart by revolution and the tug-of-war between the Western influences and the Russian ones and, as such, there are stark differences from place to place in the country, something that the film explains with such clarity.
There are the stories of the LGBT activists she interviewed: some are running away from families trying to kill them, some had to hide their whole lives and continue to do so, some got death threats from strangers, many were beaten and abused.
And then there are the scenes of hope: of a country that has organized and revolted, a people that are clearly capable of powerful change, of activist organizing of feminist film festivals and LGBT safe houses.
To watch this mere weeks after Vancouver’s city wide pride week, our richly sponsored parade with politicians, police, banks and thousands of people in attendance, is startling. Canada is not perfect. Not by a long shot. Discrimination based on gender identity is not protected by the Charter; queer POC and trans* communities are often left behind; and LGBT youth are still experiencing higher rates of bullying, substance abuse and homelessness, to name just a few issues. But watching This is Gay Propaganda is a chilling reminder of the kinds of state-sanctioned violence that activists around the world are up against. To watch it is humbling.
On August 22 the CBC Studio 700 will be taken over by the second annual Movin’ On Up-Staged Readings. Movin’ On Up presents the new works of two local, emerging playwrights and puts them on stage using top-notch, well known actors. This years works include Strip by Christopher Cook and Rogue Horizon by CJ McGillivray, directed by Brian Cochrane and starring Allan Morgan, Deb Williams, Emmelia Gordon, Yoshie Bancroft and Georgia Beaty. The event will be hosted by local comedian Adam Pateman!
Sad Mag recently had the chance to interview playwrights Christopher Cook and CJ McGillivray over email to get some insight on their writing process and the upcoming presentation of their works.
Playwrights Christopher Cook and CJ McGillivray
Sad Mag: Can you tell me a little bit about yourselves and your experiences with theatre?
Christopher Cook: I grew up here in Vancouver, and I swore I would never live here as an adult. (I’ve lived here for the majority of my adulthood so far–I really do love this city.) I studied theatre in Montreal, at Concordia University, and in London, at LAMDA.
My focus was always performing, and I came to writing later–I’ve been writing plays for about five years now. At the moment, I am working on an MA in Counselling Psychology by day, and playwriting by night.
CJ McGillivray: I am a young interdisciplinary artist who was born and raised in Vancouver. I went to theatre school at Capilano University because it allowed me to keep writing, acting, directing and making music. I was able to combine all of my creative passions with an interest in behaviour, psychology, interpersonal relationships, and human nature. Theatre has always been a platform for me to explore fearless expression, compassion, and absurd thoughts.
SM: What got you both into theatre in particular? Did you have your own local theatre moments to inspire you when you were younger?
CC: I was desperately shy in high school, and closeted–it was the 90s, and I knew I was gay, but I didn’t feel comfortable letting anyone else know. I felt incredibly isolated. I got involved with the students that were rehearsing plays after school so I wouldn’t feel so alone. It really helped. I made some of my strongest teenage friendships through theatre.
CM: I enjoyed expressing myself through music and saw theatre as a way to explore my creativity further. I found that studying drama in high school could be a positive method for developing confidence and empathy. Theatre is the one place where anyone can feel at home in a strange environment.
SM: How have your writing styles changed since first starting writing? Did you have any ‘aha’ moments that changed your perspective? CJ specifically: can you speak to the influence the LEAP program has had on you?
CM: I have so much gratitude for the playwriting mentors who have supported me so thoroughly in the past number of years. Through guidance and experience, I now focus less on being clever and put more emphasis on the value of honest writing. So much of that insight and self-awareness was developed under the mentorship of Shawn Macdonald through the LEAP playwriting mentorship in association with the Arts Club Theatre.
When I was younger, I pushed away from the absurdity of my writing but then it occurred to me that I could cultivate the quirkiness instead. I stopped apologizing for being eloquent.
CC: My “aha” moment as a writer is still happening–I feel like my “aha” moment is lasting for years. With each play I write, I become more and more comfortable with myself as a writer, and get a little more courageous. I am beginning to question assumptions I always had about my writing, particularly about structure and form. I am asking myself questions like: “What shape is the story I am telling?” “What sounds does it make?” “If I took it out on a first date, what would it wear, what would it be like, and where would it want to go?”
I find these are the questions that now interest me, compared to questions like: “What’s the rising action?” There’s nothing wrong with asking about a play’s rising action, but I am beginning to think of it a bit like asking about someone’s favorite color–ask a bland question, get a bland answer. And I suspect that bland questions are death in the play development process.
SM: Describe your ideal writing set-up. Do you have a favorite writing location or music playlist?
CC: A room in the woods with skylights and huge windows. No music, but the sounds of running water and nature. I usually settle for my East Van apartment–an old chair by a window and a good cup of tea.
CM: I create a playlist for each script that I am working on. The playlist for Rogue Horizon features contemporary blues and alternative folk music from Pokey Lafarge, Mumford and Sons and Jasper Sloan Yip.
SM: Where do you grab inspiration from for your plays and their subject matter?
CC: A lot of my inspiration comes from personal experiences–my plays aren’t autobiographical, but at the heart of their stories is always a personal experience. My way into my plays is through the characters–they are what I start with. I hear their voices in my head, see them together in various environments, and start writing. A version of this play, Strip, and these characters, first came up for me three years ago, after I took a trip to Vegas with my partner.
CM: I am often inspired by imagery, song lyrics, old photographs and moments of observation from people all around me. In regards to Rogue Horizon, having an older brother gave me support and laughter throughout my childhood. But the concept of sisters is so foreign to me. I wanted to explore the tensions and beauty of a relationship that I have never personally had but have embraced through close friendships.
SM: Both of your plays seem to centre around complicated and dysfunctional women. Is there something particularly appealing to either of you in writing about flawed characters?
CC: I don’t see my characters as dysfunctional–I think they’re all functioning pretty well, given their circumstances. As for flawed characters, I don’t think I would ever want perfect characters in my plays. I wouldn’t know what to do with them. I wonder if perfect characters might be reserved for commercials, and selling products.
Flawed characters are the ones I want to meet, cry and laugh with, and maybe carry with me. When I am writing a play, it’s like a romance–I fall in love with the characters, each of them, all at the same time. Really, I do. I look forward to spending time with them, and getting to know them better–and if I could meet them at a bar for a drink, I would in a heart beat.
CM: Our character flaws and personal struggles are what make people individually beautiful and compelling. Of course people are complicated and dysfunctional by nature. People run away from vulnerability and connection. People kick and scream. Theatre reflects our universal flaws in order to strengthen our compassion and understanding of the human condition.
SM: What’s it like to be able to showcase your work locally in a space like the CBC?
CC: I really believe that opportunities like Movin’ On Up are essential for emerging writers, and for the play development process. To be able to work with actors and a director, and share my work with an audience before ever thinking about the logistics of a full production allows me to really focus on the script, and gives me the chance to take risks and experiment. I never really know how an audience is going to respond to my work, and getting the feed-back of a live audience is so hopefully in the development process. To be able to do so in the CBC space, with a company like Staircase Theatre is thrilling–I count myself very lucky!
CM: There is nothing more valuable than hearing how an audience reacts to something.
SM: What do you hope people will get out of your plays?
CC: If someone has never asked questions about gender and the many assumptions around gender we have in North American society, I hope this play offers them a way to start asking some questions, if they want to. I also hope that this play reaches out to people and says, “Yes, loving your family can be one of the most challenging things. And loving your family may often require a leap of faith–faith in them, faith in you, faith that you’ll all still be there in the morning. But still, why not leap? Go on, I dare you. Try some faith.”
CM: Curiosity? I want people to embrace the sensations of escapism, aimless confusion, nostalgia, compassion and the universal longing for home in an unfamiliar place. I want people to feel compassion for my characters even when they are brutal to one another.
SM: In 5 words or less, what can people expect from your play?
CM: Heat, sarcasm, nostalgia, escapism, and tension.CC: How to love strangers (i.e. family).
Reserve tickets for Movin’ On Up (Aug 22) here. More information about Staircase Theatre can be found here.
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.
For the past seven years Vancouver has been home to the Queer Arts Festival. Originally a small community event, QAF has grown dramatically since it’s inception. It now celebrates a wide range of artistic expression—visual art exhibitions, musical performances, and workshops. Held at the Roundhouse Community Arts & Recreation Centre in downtown Vancouver, the festival continues to challenge gender and sexual norms through unabashed, intimate Queer art.
Must-Sees for the 2015 Queer Arts Festival
By Sad Mag
Queer catholic schoolgirls, musical queens, and everything in between—this year's festival is absolutely stacked. Finding it hard to choose? We've whittled things down to our five top picks, just for you.
TRIGGER: Drawing the Line in 2015
By Sad Mag
In 1990, a collection of Vancouver artists put together a boundary-pushing exhibit called “Drawing the Line”. Now, 25 years later, a curated exhibit of the same name pays honor to the spirit of the original project. The show pairs works by 19 different artists with ones from the 1990 exhibit.
Queerotica
By Sad Mag
Expect to be titillated by this evening of steamy, literary reads. Steeped in anti-censorship rhetoric—and of course, saucy scenarios—Queerotica is not to be missed!
Sister Mary’s a Dyke?!
By Sad Mag
This one woman show takes the classic coming of age story and queers it in a major way. Abby is a Catholic school girl who falls in love and is forced to reexamine everything she thought she knew. Drama, drama, drama!
A Queen’s Music: Reginald Mobley in Recital
By Sad Mag
Throughout history the amazing work of both gay composers and people of color has been nearly lost. In A Queen's Music, composer Reginald Mobley and musician Alexander Weimann stage some of the work that has been pushed aside for centuries.
Salon des Refusés
By Sad Mag
Not your grandma’s art exhibit! This community art show features a selection of explicit art by queer local talent. Its name pays homage to the Parisian Salon des Refusés of 1863. Held at Little Sister’s Book & Art Emporium, the exhibit is entirely by donation.
Still finding it hard to choose?
By Sad Mag
It's worth checking out QAF's Flex-Pass deal. Hit four shows for $69. Bring a friend (or three), or enjoy all four shows yourself—you deserve it!
The 2015 Queer Arts Festival runs from July 23 – August 7. For a full event listing, visit the QAF website.
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.
An aerial rope is a surprisingly diverse prop. Accompanied onstage by only two plain white folding chairs, some sheets, and a small blue ball, the aerial rope ascends into the rafters, drawing the eye up and revealing a terrifying mass of negative space. In CLIMB, Esther de Monteflores commands that space with ease, twisting the aerial rope to her every need. De Monteflores’s range of expression with a singular rope is both impressive and stunningly beautiful, bringing meaning to the constant coiling and uncoiling of the rope. At times a cradle, a crutch, and at others a restraint, its tail end thumps against the stage like a unifying heartbeat.
