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Self-forgiveness is the first step to reconciliation–to love others, you must love yourself. This is a reoccurring theme in Ken Brown’s Balance 2.1, a weaving of two interconnected possessive narratives between a father and a daughter. The former of the two is off at sea while his daughter remains in her family home. Both are in need of one another’s forgiveness, but are geographically separated – and so, firstly, both parties are forced to work things out within themselves.
Balance 2.1, although feverishly cerebral and intelligent, lacks a spread of aspects that help support theatre. It’s lacking character development, realism, and a forefront focus. It can be understood that the piece is meant to be one sided, meaning one of the two leads has a dynamic projection – however, the balance is lopsided, and at times, too “yelly”.
But Balance 2.1’s reconciliation is its originality. I truly haven’t seen anything quite like it. And that, in itself, makes this play worth remembering.
The Traveller
The best part about lone travel is also the worst, which is a perfect environment for a self-reflective piece of performance art.
That’s just what The Traveler articulates. The internal battle of right and wrong, one path from the other – growth and change, these are themes that are quite evident in this play. Max Kashetsky, the lead and only role, delivers an hour long, almost flawless monologue depicting life on the lone road, and the challenges you face when you go looking for something “raw”. The script is beautifully written. Wonderfully romantic, but also cerebral – this play is captivating. Instead of a soundtrack or cued transitory recorded tracks, Kashetsky brings his own acoustic guitar and harmonica to the narrative – bringing an intimate dynamic of a broken-hearted bar show. Feelings elicited by this performance, are accompanied by the acoustic melodies, and delivered almost instantly to the audience. The Traveler is also a little vague, and that’s okay, for travel is intrepid. Nothing is of solid state, everything is changing – and nothing is ever the same.
Had things shaken out differently, Louis Riel could’ve been the Canadian John Wayne. In a fairer world, he should have spent most of the 20th century plastered across lunchboxes, t-shirts and movie posters. His personal biography seems expressly written for a biopic or spaghetti Western: he led two Métis resistances against the Canadian government, was consequently tried and hanged for treason, and spent some time in between in exile at a mental asylum.
Despite the impressive, kinda-bonkers biography, Riel has instead mostly languished in Canadian history textbooks – a genre uniquely suited to sucking all cultural interest out of even the most amazing stories. That is, of course, until now.
Enter Fringe icon Ryan Gladstone, who shows us Louis Riel – heretofore obscure historical figure – re-imagined as seven pop culture archetypes: outlaw, murderer, madman, hero, traitor, prophet, and legend. Gladstone’s impressions run the gamut of genres – taking the audience from hardboiled film noir, to comic book saga, to Harrison Ford epic – with a deftness that belies how hard this must be to pull off. Adding to the show’s impressiveness: he plays all parts by himself, supported only by lighting cues, an antique trunk, and a handful of dollar store props. He brings a loose, comic energy to the role, which makes the show a pleasure to watch. The overall effect is of seeing your smartest, goofiest friend do impressions in his living room – accompanied, of course, by a group of about fifty other people.
But although Gladstone is plenty friendly, the show is not necessarily for the uninitiated. He makes repeated reference to semi-obscure bits of Canadian history, which my fellow audience members – bafflingly – all seemed to understand. Still, it cannot be considered a flaw when a show compels you to go home, break out your laptop, and Google – of all things – “nineteenth century Manitoba politics.”
The New Conformity
“What does it mean to conform?”
“How can we reconcile societal pressures with our unique personalities?”
“Dude, how do I avoid becoming, like, The Man?”
These are all questions posed by many an obnoxious undergrad in many a smoky dorm room. However, most of these baby Nietzsches don’t turn to their friends and say: what if we explored these questions, but through juggling?
This is how I like to imagine the creative process that went into The New Conformity. And although I wish I could impose a moratorium on dudes telling me their feelings about society, I’m more than happy to listen as long as they use circus arts as a medium. Cause & Effect Circus has here built a fresh, interesting show around some long-tired questions; integrating martial arts, clown, and juggling into a tightly organized piece of physical theatre.
The show opens on three men, dressed in identical grey suits and juggling in tandem. Their synchronicity is impressive; but soon, one of them becomes fed up, and starts pulling out some moves of his own. The result is an hour-long, vaudevillian saga, in which his fellow jugglers try – and fail – to bring him back in line. Not plot-heavy stuff by any means, but it’s a joy to watch the three actors pull off some impossible-seeming tricks with a minimum of technical assistance.
Although it’s impossible to convey the power of the performance without being there to see it, I leave you with one more piece of praise. On a rainy Saturday at two p.m., in the unfriendliest city in the country, a room full of Vancouverites gave the three a standing ovation. Indeed, the New Conformity won out against brunch – and with an endorsement like that, it has to be good.
On opening night of the Accordion Noir Festival, I sat in an airless room on the top level of the Western Front, an artist-run centre just off Main Street. The wood paneling and stuffiness felt fitting for an evening of bellows-driven music—everything about the space seemed to call back to a time before air conditioning and electric guitar. My fellow audience members were a smattering of what could loosely be called East Vancouver types: affable-looking men and women who dressed for the space in breathable layers, and who had the presence of mind to bring cash for the improvised bar. I felt like a rube, I probably looked like one, and I was very quickly losing the appetite for whimsy that had brought me to an accordion festival on a Thursday night.
Thankfully, for whatever else they may be, accordionists are a punctual bunch. Shortly after the listed start time, a fedoraed emcee came out, said a few words, and badabing-badaboom—we were in business. The first performance was a “spoken word opera” devised by a band of local upstarters: Elysse Cheadle, Elliot Vaughan, Aryo Khakpour, and Jonathan Kim. According to the program, the opera was “an examination of the weightlessness of dreaming, and the gravity of waking,” which sounds like it could be right. They made generous use of experimental lighting cues and sound effects—I can still hear the slurping noises that accompanied a particular birth scene. At this point, my worst fears seemed like they were coming true: this evening was going to be weird.
Fortunately, next came a palate cleanser in the form of Steve Normandin, a traditionalist. He is described as a master of traditional French chansons, and his background boasts credits with the Quebec Symphony Orchestra and the renowned playwright Robert LePage. The word “accordion” automatically calls to mind amiable, sturdy-looking Europeans; on this, Normandin absolutely delivers. After warming us up with a few songs, he led the audience Pied Piper-style to the sidewalk, where we did our best collective impression of a Parisian street corner. At this point, the evening’s early swelter had mellowed, and the sky had turned a lovely, bruise-y purple. The coupled among us felt compelled to dance – everyone else swayed by themselves – and my terrible mood began to crack. The combination of the night and the accordion felt a little bit perfect—Normandin could perform exclusively in East Van alleyways from now on, and he would probably do quite well for himself.
The final performer was Angélica Negrón, a Brooklyn-based musician and composer, whose accordion was rounded out by the xylosynth percussion of Shayna Dunkelman. Negrón is all bangs and glasses, the kind of person who seems like she can make any hobby seem cool simply via its proximity to her. One wonders if she chose a deliberately old-fashioned instrument simply to test the limits of her powers. In any case, both performers were very, very good. The blend of electronica and accordion felt – for lack of a better word – floaty, and just a touch menacing. The songs themselves spanned far-reaching, upbeat topics such as “The Disappearance of a Young Girl” and “A Happy Song About Death.” These were perfect for sitting alone in a public space and contemplating the future. Despite my early doubts, I deemed the alone-at-an-accordion-festival experiment a success.
If you love the idea of an accordion festival, I’d say you should go. If it sounds stupid and terrible, go anyways. Next year will mark the 9th year of Accordion Noir Fest in Vancouver; whatever your ultimate thoughts, I can predict that it will most definitely be An Experience.
SAD Mag’s Nana Heed reviews Beira-Mar, Los Hongos and A Loucura Entre Nos, three stunning films from this year’s Vancouver Latin American Film Festival. Violence, humour, heartbreak, despair–this years festival lineup was not to be missed.
Beira-Mar (“Seashore”)
After debuting at the Berlin Film Festival earlier this year, directors Filipe Matzembacher and Marcio Reolon brought Beira-Mar (“Seashore”) to Vancouver screens for the 2015 Latin American Film Festival. Their first feature-length film, Beira-Mar, presents a sweet inspection of sexuality, youth, family, and liberation.
Following his grandfather’s passing, our young male protagonist, Martin, and his friend Tomaz venture to southern Brazil to collect a document from distant extended family. The trip prompts the two boys to explore their relationship, while also providing Martin an opportunity to heal old wounds with his estranged family. Finally, the protagonist learns to overcome his tumultuous relationship with the sea.
Unfortunately, the slow pace of the film prevented it from inspiring the audience completely. I found it hard to stay engaged, even when I could tell the scene was meant to be meaningful for Martin. One conversation with his grandmother, for instance, is exceptionally long and communicates very little–though this moment of reconnection is clearly an important one for their relationship.
Despite its shortcomings, the film has the right ingredients and intention to be an insightful foray into adolescence. The stripped down nature of the scenes enhances the remoteness and despair Martin feels during his trip. Meanwhile, the rough, bare bones cinematography uses the qualities of the landscape to enhance Martin’s feelings toward the less-than-promising meet-up with his family.
Los Hongos
Los Hongos is an engaging film about two young boys, Ras and Calvin, immersing themselves deeply into the subversive world of street art. The film is set in Cali, Colombia, and the colours of the city alone make the film vibrant to watch. The story follows both boys home to their respective neighbourhoods, and then brings them back together to unfold a shared passion for something forbidden by civic authority. By the film’s conclusion, audiences will have developed an affection for both protagonists, as well as for many of the supporting, equally likeable characters.
Throughout the film, Calvin cares for his grandmother, who is battling cancer. The old woman is stunning–she easily wins the audience’s love–and the relationship between wizened elder and caring grandson is inspiring.
Ras’ mother, meanwhile, worries about her son and tries unrelentingly to bring him into the fold of her church. She disapproves of his street art, something that is hard for Ras to deal with. But as the film progresses, we learn that Ras’ mother is as lost as her son and in need of a beacon of hope. For her, this is provided by the church, while for Ras, it’s painting that provides him with this gateway to feeling alive–an escape from life’s sinister moments.
There is a sense of urgency to the film that concentrates itself in certain scenes. At one point, police crack down on a painting session and become violent with the artists; at another, graphic footage from the Arab Spring protests inspire Ras and Calvin’s artwork. The two boys are later arrested while out painting. These moments of serious tension remind the audience of a collective struggle to survive and overcome oppressive systems; these scenes bring Los Hongos close to home.
A Loucura Entre Nós (“The Madness Among Us”)
The documentary by Fernanda Vareille takes place in Bahia, Brazil within a psychiatric hospital. Criamundo is the name of an NGO run inside the hospital that works to reintegrate previously committed patients back into society. We listen to various patients, with a focus on two women, and get a sense from them what life is like within the walls of the psychiatric wards, what it’s like working within the program, and what their lives entail beyond the walls of the hospital.
Vareille’s depiction of her interview subjects is sensitive to avoid exploiting a vulnerable minority. Elisangela is one of the two main interviewees with a powerful voice, a loving relationship to her daughter, and a strong desire to work hard and preserve her dignity in life. With Elisangela, we walk through the psych ward on a ‘normal day’ and see where she sleeps, who else shares the space, and other things that happen while Vareille’s camera is rolling. Seeing a combination of prepared interviews with various people who access Criamundo as well as what was caught on camera after Vareille seemed to have left it rolling in front of a gate, or walked through the halls holding it, builds a sense of trust towards her explorations of ‘normalcy’ and the struggle to be alive in each of us.
The film rolls along in such a way that you can be moved by each moment–there is a spectrum of humour, heartbreak, and critical commentary. Not once is the film overly fixated on a person’s mental illness as the main point of inspection. We become more invested in where the different interviewees wish to take us–be it the struggle to find work, or the internal struggle to identify as a person with a mental illness among other things. I was so moved by watching this documentary and would highly recommend trying to track it down!
For more information about the Vancouver Latin American Film Festival, visit the festival website.
“I’ve always had a purpose to my creativity,” says Pomona Lake, a Vancouver graphic designer and artist. She found that purpose fast and early, when an image from a high-school art project went profoundly, monumentally viral.
Pomona Lake by Grady Mitchell
This particular picture shows the back of a woman’s legs with her skirt pulled up. Running up her left leg is a sequence of markings, each labelled with a different qualifier, starting with “matronly” just above the ankle and finishing with “whore” just under the cheeks. It was a simple and scathing commentary on sexism – “I think that art came out of feeling my sexuality for the first time,” Pomona says, “feeling sexualized by external people,” – and it understandably took off.
Just 18-years-old, fresh into her first year of design at Capilano University, she suddenly became to thousands of people worldwide the face of young feminism. She was inundated with messages, both caustic hatemail and proclamations of support from likeminded supporters worldwide. She was interviewed by major publications like The New Statesman and cited in university classes across the globe. At one point it took her to Belgium to battle a racist group who co-opted the concept for their own agenda.
Pomona Lake
Few creatives get such an all-encompassing response to their work, especially as a teen. And even people decades older would have been hard-pressed to handle it with Pomona’s level-headedness. While the outpouring of support was empowering, she didn’t let the anonymous attacks faze her. “It’s really easy to see through the hate mail,” she explains. “They’re just scared.”
Although she’d been declared an expert, the unexpected success of the photograph was what actually sparked Pomona’s activism. At the time the piece came out she didn’t even identify as a feminist, she was just working off her own experiences. “I realized I was completely ignorant and needed to know things,” she says. She embarked on a serious self-driven education, focusing on feminism but spiralling into other areas, and hasn’t slowed since.
Today Pomona makes a point of offering her design services to deserving people and companies that otherwise couldn’t afford them. During business hours she works at Yulu PR, which she describes as “the Robin Hood of PR firms.” Off the clock she helps out worthy causes.
Pomona Lake by Grady Mitchell
Through her work she hopes to change the flawed and unbalanced system of capitalism by gaming it from the inside. It’s not that she thinks the system is run by some cat-stroking, monocled super villain. She just recognizes that most people are looking out for themselves – “everyone’s just dumb, not evil,” – and with a little readjustment life could be a lot more fair for everyone.
She’s a proponent of “liberating funds,” using money earned through her work in responsible ways like shopping at small, local businesses, finding alternative ways to meet needs, and re-investing in the community. It’s all part of her life mission, which she’s honed down to this: “To open eyes and ears and bring people together.”
She pauses for a second, thinks, then nods. “And fix bullshit.”
I walked into Stephen Cone’s Henry Gamble’s Birthday Party at last week’s Vancouver Queer Film Fest jaded by a history of over-indulging in cheesy, vaguely LGBT films. At best, I hoped the coming-of-age film about a 17-year-old white boy and his Christian family might be cute, maybe even entertaining. But instead I found Henry Gamble’s Birthday Party to be sweetly orchestrated, intricate and smart–a meaningful commentary on what it’s like to go up against an entire community.
The film centres around young, fresh-faced Henry Gamble on his 17th birthday. Our protagonist is a blossoming gay individual and is emotionally wrought over his equally fresh-faced, straight best friend. Over the course of one day and one big pool party, Henry ushers in a new year of living and, ultimately, learns how to be himself. The film alternates between adorably funny moments and disturbing ones. Audiences will remain engaged by what makes each character tick through each scene.
Cone takes the audience to some pretty dark places, examining the heavier sides to growing up gay (or even just different). This is especially true for one of Henry’s guests, Logan, whose troubles are concentrated by a lack of real understanding from his church community. Everyone tiptoes around him because of an incident that happened at church camp and now, when he is most in need of true connection and support, he is left to fend for himself.
Another strength of Henry Gamble lies in its ability to poke fun at the fact that it’s so clearly situated within the upper class, white, Christian perspective. When wine is smuggled into the party by a longstanding church member and referred to as ‘medicine,’ I couldn’t help but smile. In another scene, the pastor (Henry’s dad) and a fellow church member fumble frantically for the remote control when a movie suddenly gets “inappropriate.” They heave a sigh of relief after finally switching the channel to good old football, and I laughed out loud with the rest of the audience.
Both focussed and honest, Henry Gamble is the kind of movie about young people growing up I wish I’d had as a young person growing up. Even watching now, in my mid-twenties, I felt I could take a lesson from the struggles of some of Henry’s guests, slightly older but equally well-portrayed as the younger ones.
It all begins with a rainy car ride: a hauntingly beautiful scene framed from the backseat of a van; and after laughs, tears, and a standing ovation, it all ends with that same foggy drive. However, nothing else remains the same.
A Girl at My Door is South Korean filmmaker/screenwriter July Jung’s portrayal of a young female police officer and her new job in rural Korea. The film was borrowed for this year’s Queer Film Fest, but has the energy, talent, and aesthetic to reach any audience spanning from VIFF to the NY box office. To prove this, it’s already premiered at Cannes, and has been nominated for multiple screen awards. It is also worth mentioning that the film is complemented by the music of Jang Young-Gyu, a regular contributor to the musical landscape or Korean film.
During the film, a relationship is formed between a police officer (Bae Doona: Cloud Atlas, Jupiter Ascending), and an abused girl (Kim Sae-Ron: Blue Dragon Film Award for Best New Actress). Jung creates characters, and lays out situations that are both profound like a drama, and elastic like any classic foreign animation film. Kim Sae-Ron’s performance is what really hits home in this film, as her character deals with some very raw, honest, and almost cringe-inducing scenes that offer a window into a broken world. Bae Doona’s character has her own struggles, dealing with a budding alcohol addiction, heart break, and homophobia – making her an easy protagonist to root for.
Although this is a two hour run-time film, it feels as if it’s a four hour movie. Some easy trimming would have made this film a little more captivating than it already is. Also, more time could’ve been spent on secondary characters to further enhance the storyline of the lead ones. As human as July makes these characters, they still seem a little stiff at times in the film. Nonetheless, July Jung’s feature film effort is nothing short of beautiful. Thought provoking, unhesitant, and human–A Girl at My Door is a masterpiece that will stir up your soul with both visuals and content.
Liz in September (Liz en Septiembre) is the story of life, illness, the fluidity of sexuality and the complexity of female relationships.
Eva and her husband are still trying to cope with the loss of their young son when they go on a trip. Eva leaves a day earlier but her car soon breaks down and she is sent to the one hotel in town that has room: Margot’s, a seaside paradise where the women who live there drink lots of wine, go swimming, and have the most Bechdel-worthy conversations of all time (where do I sign up, amirite?). Eva soon discovers that what she at first thought was a hotel is actually a haven of lesbians. Liz (Patricia Velasquez of The L Word), the commitment-phobic player of the group, gets a bet going that she can sleep with the new, straight girl within three days. But Liz, a stoic and tough gal, is also hiding a secret from the group: she has cancer and she is deteriorating.
The plot of Liz in September is predictable, with few original twists or surprising character arcs. Most of the characters don’t get explored very deeply, and few of the women’s relationships are really portrayed in depth. In fact, the one sex scene of the film is between Eva and her husband, which is an interesting choice for a movie about lesbians, especially considering there are only two male characters (both supporting).
Despite this, the movie does deal with a number of themes that aren’t usually seen in mainstream Hollywood films–or at least in a way in which they are not normally portrayed– which is always refreshing. It explores life and death, relationships, friendships, love– all with a full female cast.
All in all, Liz in September has a lot of topics it touched upon that could have been explored further. However, it has its moments, and manages to successfully maneuver the sensitivity of humour in dark places, which is not an easy feat. This, along with the breath-taking scenery, make the film worth checking out.
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.
