“Shatter”, by Trina Davies, at the Walterdale Theatre

I dedicate this play to every shadow lost to tragedy. Every voice hurt, silenced, or blinded by this tragedy. Every person in our community and the world right now who is hurt, silenced or blinded by our recent tragedies.  May you find your hope. May you look forward towards the future. And may you find peace in putting these shadows to rest.
— Josh Languedoc’s “Director’s Notes” to Shatter

With all the coverage of its centenary the last few days, a Canadian would have to be living under a rock to not have some awareness of the Halifax Explosion.  For those few who might have missed Canadian History class (like the young lady next to us last night at the Walterdale who was unaware of German involvement in the First World War) here’s a little encyclopedia entry about the inconceivable event that shattered Halifax on the morning of December 6th 1917.

The good people of the Walterdale took good advantage of a commemorative opportunity by having opening night for Trina Davies’ Shattered on the 100th anniversary of the explosion that is the catastrophic spark for the action of the play.  At least two expat/former Haligonians were in the audience and in tears last night at the show, personally remembering the landscape described in the play.  That shattered cityscape was made vivid with words for the rest of us on the dark, mournful, minimalist set designed by Pierre Valois.  Shattered is a powerful, relevant play with solid performances from the Walterdale volunteers and effective direction from Josh Languedoc in his directorial debut.

Although there were a few first night glitches with the system projecting newspaper headlines and the German text of Elsie’s letter, the projector was a very effective way to quickly get background information to the audience.  Although 1917 Halifax may seem at first blush a vast distance from 2017 anywhere, Shattered disturbs us with a reminder that even in one of the most Canadian of Canadian cities, Just under our veneer of “I’m sorry!” courtesy lies the ethnic scapegoating feeding the horrors of Rwanda, the former Yugoslavia, the Holocaust, and, yes, the twitter feed of the Trump Administration.  As Languedoc writes in his “Director’s Notes”:

The tragedy presented in Shatter is as relevant today as it was 100 years ago. Who do we turn to in times of tragedy? Who are our real friends? Who is to blame? Who can we really trust?

Shatter is an intense, powerful, timely play. In the hands of amazing, dedicated Walterdale crowd it is wonderful commemoration and tribute to the “Shadows” of  all tragedy everywhere.

 

Shatter plays at the Walterdale Playhouse until December 16 (2017).

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The Guavalhalla: a Tiki Drink for the North

I’ve been thinking about Tiki drinks lately, probably because I recently stumbled on some kitschy Tiki mugs and because I’ve long had a strangely obsessive nostalgia for the remembered exterior of The Beachcomber restaurant, long, long vanished from Downtown Edmonton.  In my researching (some say “hoarding”) manner, I began to gather what seemed to be typical ingredients and began to consider some Tiki Experiments.

For those who don’t know, Tiki drinks are an invention of the mid-Twentieth Century in America and they have all the naive, colonial, appropriating, and, most important, happy elements of that mid-Twentieth Century (White) America. They’re mostly tropical fruit juices and garnishes, usually rum(s), touched with exotic syrups, topped with paper umbrellas and other frills, and usually served in a faux-Maori, glaring-face “Tiki Mug”.  They can be intolerably sweet sugar drinks but ideally are intensely refreshing confections of spirits and essences of tropical holidays.

For some reason I had bought some Guava nectar although I found it hard to find a Tiki drink recipe that used the stuff.  So, I needed to invent something, didn’t I?

What did I have? Guava. What to do with it? Name the cocktail, of course! I needed a name that included the word “Guava” which I was determined would be the major ingredient of my Tiki drink. As I drove through Edmonton one afternoon last week, I rolled the word Guava around with the rest of the English language. The English language is, of course, a product of multiculturalism just like this city I live in and, inevitably, the name came from a fusion of very different cultures.

“Guava” is likely ultimately a Taino word, transmitted to English through Spanish. What to do with it? “Guava . . . Guava . . . ” I said “Aguava . . . Aguava . . .” I said. “That’s like Aquavit, the Scandinavian caraway infused spirit” I said to myself. “Aguavavit.  No.  Guava . . . Guava . . .  . . . Guavahalla!” At a stroke I had the name and the principal spirit for my Tiki drink, a Viking-Tropical fusion.

The rest was mere details.

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The Guavalhalla in a non-Tiki glass

The recipe for my Guavahalla (Guavalhöll in Norse)

In a cocktail shaker with lots of ice shake vigourously:

1.25 ounces Aquavit (I used Brennivin from Iceland)
0.5 ounce White Rum
0.5 ounce Jamaican Rum
2 ounces Guava nectar
1 ounce pineapple juice
Juice of half a lemon
0.25 ounce orgeat syrup
a splash of ruby red grapefruit
a scant splash of passion fruit syrup
a dash of pimento dram
a little coconut water

Serve over copious amounts of ice

Garnish with a pineapple wedge, citrus slices, cherries, lingonberries, cocktail umbrellas or whatever you have lying around.

Enjoy (responsibly) the northern caraway peeking through all those tropical flavours as our northern winter rises on our horizon and our wonderful Edmonton elms begin to drop their leaves again!

“Mad Fantastic Maid of God: Joan of Arc” at the Edmonton Fringe Festival

I was a little uncomfortably unsure what to expect from Kenneth Brown’s retelling of Saint Joan of Arc’s story when we first sat down in the third row of La Cité Francophone’s l’Unitheatre. We looked up two stories and saw Ellie Heath looking quite angelic in white robes but mundanely hobnobbing from above with audience members. “Seems kind of unprofessional” we whispered to each other. What we didn’t realize until sometime after the play finished, was that the play had already begun.  Heath had been in irreverant character from the moment the doors opened and the audience started filing in.
This is not a run-of-the-mill treatment of Joan of Arc. Risks are taken here, almost all of them on Heath’s side.  Not to say that Melissa Blackwood plays it safe as Joan: she’s pure intensity and passion and downright scary leading her invisible French army into battle. Blackwood’s Joan is the half of the play we expect, a version of the Joan of Arc we know from film and story. Blackwood plays it straight and very, very well. 

Heath’s protean performance as Joan’s Voices, the Saints of her visions, as English  French and Burgundian soldiers, as the Dauphin, and Joan’s inquisitor and executioner — this performance is the risky bit, the bit that may leave you asking yourself “what’s she doing? is this just too flippant?”

But wait. Stick it out to the end. You’re part of Joan’s story. Her story is our story still today. Heath’s characters ignore the fourth wall, or rather, push that wall to the back of the house, making this stage all the world. Here the opportunistic still betray the passionately dedicated and then reclaim them for the team after the execution. This is the problem the play asks us to make sense of.  It is we who condemn Joan to the stake. And centuries later we canonize her. 

I’m not sure every detail of Mad Fantastic Maid of God works, but the whole package is an exhilarating and challenging thought provoker.  

Another Edmonton Fringe Festival gem.


“Wooster Sauce” at the Edmonton Fringe Festival

Just before Jeeves came in, I had been dreaming that some bounder was driving spikes through my head — not just ordinary spikes, as used by Jael the wife of Heber, but read-hot ones.

— P. G. Wodehouse, The Code of the Woosters

If you don’t laugh at Bertie Wooster’s Bionically allusive description of one of his frequent hangovers, you might not enjoy John D. Huston and Kenneth W. Brown’s adaptation of a pair of Wodehouse’s Jeeves stories (and you almost definitely don’t have a very refined sense of humour). It is with one of these hangovers that Wooster Sauce begins, and Huston marvelously brings to life both the lovably obtuse and frequently hung-over Bertie and the preternaturally competent Jeeves, his valet and the inventor of a miraculous hangover cure that actually works. Bertie’s initial hangover is the beginning of a wonderful introduction to the remarkable humour of Wodehouse. If you’ve never read Wodehouse, Wooster Sauce will make you want to seek him out. If you already have had the scales taken off your eyes, your life improved, and achieved something like Enlightenment through Wodehouse, Wooster Sauce will be a happy, happy homecoming.

I’m three-for-three at the Edmonton Fringe this year, taking in nothing but winners. After the dark and challenging duo of Oleanna and Prophecy, Wooster Sauce is a wonderful piece of joyful folly with a great performance from Huston in all the varied roles. It’s a laugh a minute, whether you are familiar with Wodehouse’s writing or not. Paraphrasing Wooster Sauce would be pointless, like having to explain a joke. Go see it if you can get in. If you can’t, find a book by P. G. Wodehouse.

I have to add thanks and kudos and praise to Holy Trinity Anglican Church for the amazing job they do as a BYOV (Bring Your Own Venue) Fringe space. Not only does the Church host three venues in marvelous spaces,  there was a beer and wine and snack tent on the lawn and free barbecued chicken pita sandwiches available while we waited in line for the show! I can’t express how happy I am to have had a little bit of an artistic association with this community-building community.  The Wooster Sauce people are so fortunate to have found a home for the Fringe at Holy Trinity!

 

“Prophecy” by Jessy Ardern at the Edmonton Fringe Festival

Le vrai héros, le vrai sujet, le centre de l’Iliade, c’est la force. . .

La force, c’est ce que fait de quiconque lui est soumis à une sélection. Quand elle s’exerce jusqu’au bout, elle fait de l’homme une chose au sens le plus littéral, car elle en fait un cadavre. Il y avait quelqu’un, et, un instant plus tard, il n’y a personne. C’est un tableau que l’Iliade ne se lasse pas nous presenter . . .

— Simone Weil, L’Iliade ou le Poème de la Force

 

The second play of my Fringing this year was something called “Prophecy”, a one-woman show written by Jessy Ardern and featuring Carmen Niewenhuis. I had read something promotional about it that said something about it telling the story of the Trojan War from a view point we’d never heard: the Trojan Women.  Somehow Euripides thrust himself to the front of my memory shouting, “Waitaminit! Hecuba. Andromache. The. Trojan. Women. For Heaven’s sake! Don’t they count for something?”

Well, that’s marketing.  The play’s the real thing, isn’t it?

I was a little excited as I walked into Strathcona Baptist Church to be seeing something rooted in the Classics. I confess, however, I was a little nonplussed as I walked into the church’s gymnasium, a few arcs of folding chairs and a remarkable bare set to welcome me. There seemed to have been no effort at lighting. Everything was janitor’s storeroom and homespun cloth.

I don’t know why I was surprised or nonplussed. I love minimalist productions. This is the Fringe. The play is the thing!

Guess what. As soon as Niewenhuis turned on the little lights behind the homespun cloth in the pitch black gymnasium and became Cassandra and the God Apollo in dialogue, I was hooked. This is a play of light and shadow, of words and meaning, of flesh and force.

With respect to Euripedes, this is a view of the Trojan War we’ve not seen before. Niewenhuis takes on the persona of the victims, Briseis, Andromache, Hecuba, and most importantly, powerfully, and forcefully directed at our time, Cassandra.

The Trojan hero Hector is played by a string mop. Helen, the face that launched a thousand ships, is an empty can. Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, is an empty Ben & Jerry’s tub.

The force and the flesh of Prophecy are the survivors, the Trojan women, Cassandra, doomed-to-be-disbelieved Cassandra, most of all.

There were moments that I thought the script could have used a little more development, times when I wasn’t sure whether the tone should have been a little less comic. But when Cassandra stood behind the audience, the house lights up and the room again a church gymnasium on 84th Street in Edmonton, Alberta Canada — when Cassandra stood there in that room, warning us of what lay ahead for us, for us in the 21st Century, and shouted at us “Do you believe me?”

I wanted to yell, “yes!” as I thought of the cesspool that is politics in the age of “Social” Media.

But I didn’t.

 

But I think I nodded my head a little.

What a rogue and peasant slave I am if I didn’t.

 

 

Oleanna, by David Mamet, at Edmonton’s Fringe Festival

In Oleanna land is free,
The wheat and corn just plant themselves,
Then grow a good four feet a day,
While on your bed you rest yourself.

Beer as sweet as Muchener
Springs from the ground and flows away,
The cows all like to milk themsleves
And hens lay eggs ten times a day.

Little roasted piggies
Just rush about the city streets,
Inquiring so politely if
A slice of ham you’d like to eat.

–from “Oleanna”, translated from the Norwegian by Pete Seeger

Well. That was an intense, prejudice-challenging piece of theatre.

Full disclosure: Eric Smith, the director and one of the two stars of Get Off The Stage Productions production of Mamet’s Oleanna (brilliantly) directed my Guenevere earlier this year at the Walterdale. Maybe I’m prejudiced.

Smith and Cristina Falvollita are riveting as they perform the signature Mamet interrupt-and-talk-over dialogue, the intensity increasing steadily and uncomfortably through the two counterbalanced acts.  Here the interruptions are power-differences manifest in speech: the powerful male professor repeatedly asks the female undergraduate what she thinks and just as often interrupts her to tell her what she thinks, and, more important to him, what he thinks. In the second act, the interruptions shift across the stage as the power shifts.

Smith and Fallvollita make the brutal climax inevitable, unexpected, and I would hope,  painful for any audience. Oleanna argues forcefully, harshly, and, I think, correctly, that there can be no Utopia in which everyone’s rights and responsibilities are never compromised, in which middle-aged men with power never make unwitting but disastrous mistakes, where Political Correctness is always correct, or where pigs willingly sacrifice themselves to become our ham sandwiches.
The world is a messy spatter-painting in infinite shades of grey. Mamet’s Oleanna forces us to face that world.

But will we see it?

I found it a strange thing as the house lights came up to hear the young ladies seated next to me, ladies very probably much like Fallavollita’s character Carol, I found it strange to hear them say “I liked it.” They had just watched two people destroyed on stage before them. Violently dismantled emotionally, psychologically, and physically, and: “I liked it”?

I was the last of the audience out of the theatre this afternoon. I stayed to shake Eric’s hand (with great respect as he and Cristina Fallavollita are also performing in The Sinner’s Club at the Fringe this week). Eric asked me,

“Did you like it?”

And, actually, yes.

Yes, I did like it.

You have three chances left to see Oleanna at the Edmonton Fringe: August 22 at 8:30, the 25th at Noon, and the 27th at 6:00. All performances are at the very appropriate Venue #9, the Telus Phone Museum.

A Merry Romp with the Freewill Players

I’m a sucker for Shakespeare done in the out-of-doors.  When old Will’s words are performed in the Heritage Amphitheatre beside the lake in the heart of Edmonton’s central River Valley Parks, it’s hard for a company to do wrong by me.  I admit, however, that, even after the Freewill Players‘s salvation (in the face of a last minute catastrophic loss-of-venue) of Willy’s irredeemably misogynistic Taming of the Shrew a few seasons ago, I wondered if Artistic Director Marianne Copithorne and the cast and crew could make the fat-shaming Merry Wives of Windsor palatable to a contemporary audience.  After seeing the riotous yet gentle performance this evening, I’m joyously gobsmacked and now excited to see in a few days the Freewill redemption of the extremely problematic The Merchant of Venice.

The weather was beautiful as the happy audience of all ages, from newborn to a few even older than me strolled across the lawns to the gate.  The Moon was rising, the Sun very slowly setting (we’re closer to the Pole than the Equator, after all). As always there were 50-50 tickets to be purchased (again I didn’t win) and nifty Freewill t-shirts and undershorts with Shakespeare’s face printed on them available to take home for a reasonable price. And local beer (and wine) and lots of snacks and popcorn (for the perennial squirrels, I think). As I sat in one of the eleven hundred or so best seats in the house, I snapped a picture of the set and sent it out over twitter saying that I felt that summer had now truly arrived for me because I was at Freewill.  Perhaps it is a sign of thespian focus and professionalism that one of the cast “favourited” my tweet from the green room during intermission.  Truly, that moment of electronic connection is a hint of the deep connection the Freewill Players and their audience feel with each other. Every member of the cast, from the semi-retired John Wright to the newest members of the company seems like a friend or a buddy.

I can’t help but imagine that something similar must have been the relationship between Shakespeare’s company, the Kings Men, and his audience around the turn of the 17th Century.  London in 1600 had about a fifth the population of Edmonton today.  I suspect Edmonton has at least five times as many theatre companies and theatre-goers as London had in Shakespeare’s day.

But that’s a discussion for another day . . .

I’m not going to give anything away about Freewill’s wonderful production of The Merry Wives of Windsor except to say it is a truly wonderful production, full of joy and laughter and teasing and surprises and a very satisfying reconciliation for all at the end.  The performances are uniformly outstanding, from the smallest bit to Robert Benz’s absolutely brilliant turn as Sir John Falstaff. Everyone shines, the costumes are stunning, the multi-level, angular set is marvelously utilized . . . you get the picture.  And the show was an over-the-top merry romp that left everyone as jolly and carefree as Jesse Gervais’ pharmaceutically enhanced Host of the Garter Inn.

The only shortcoming of the production — and I mean that: the only shortcoming of the production as witnessed by me tonight was technical trouble with the actors’ headset microphones/sound system. I understand this has been an intermittent problem throughout the run so far. I hope, of course, that the problem is rectified soon, but I must compliment the cast: every word carried throughout the amphitheatre, whether the mics were working or not.

Thank you, Freewill Players. You have become a joyous and joy-giving part of the fabric of Edmonton’s civic life.

The Merry Wives of Windsor plays, alternating with The Merchant of Venice, until July 16, 2017. If you like being happy, go clap and laugh along with The Merry Wives and their friends, please.