On Saturday, I was privileged to go to see a dance narrative using covers to tell the story of failure, regret and redemption at the Hilbrow theatre. It is an initiative to take kids and using art to give them a place to be safe and express themselves. This most trite of motives in the world. One of those take the ghetto liberal guilt programs guaranteed to make my skin crawl. You see as you sit in judgment of things you have heard. I was roundly reminded that such arrogance will come back to bite you in the arse. A lady– yes I mean a lady- called Alta and two people run the program. I heard that she gets funds from an anonymous donor, but often from her family to continue what she feels is God’s work. I know the creepy hears its head again. Like you might keep it at bay until the tale unfolds to the end. The story is one of Grace (her name and the state). A young girl waiting with her friends waiting for her matric results realizes her name is not one who passed. Distraught she goes home to be faced anger as the family shuns her. With depression mounting, she contemplates suicide. In one of the most moving scenes (as she is about to commit suicide) her baby sister arrives and knocks on the door. Teddy bear in one hand and tea in the other she brings the cup of tea to her. Dusting herself down she tries to retake the exam, with the same result. Finally, she gets a job at a pizza joint where erstwhile friends mock her. Then, the he classic flash over substance scene unfolds. Tussle with good and evil results. Obviously good triumphs - The end. Whether Shakespeare, Puccini, Gershwin or in Grease (both the movie and the musical) all writers take inspiration from their view of life and their experiences. Normally a team of people translate it into the vision from this. Whether the words bloom as an exact replica will depend on the ability to communicate it to the team. Even a one man show is very seldom one man. Budget, drive and resources can make a difference to the final product. The difference in the show was one person created the story, made all the props, knitted the beanies from cheap wool as the price of R10 was too steep, choreographed 80% of the show, travelled miles in her clapped out car to fetch te kids who lived far as the taxi fares would have crippled and then spent three days a week rehearsing the 48 children. Not bad? These are not trained dancers. In fact, most them haven’t ever tried before. With precision reminiscent of a semi-amateur version of Jersey Boys I was entranced. If you remember the Queen Radio Gagga video, this had an element of that. No copy, it was a dance capturing her envy, as the classmates became executives and others lived a better life then her. A cardboard rectangle black with silver spray-painted became briefcases as they marched past her. They were too involved to see the server giving cardboard pizza boxes. In a rendition of Thriller, the entire cast filled the stage. The monster shuffle is now part of our meme, but the graveyard writhed with zombies while the rest of dancers hip-hopped to create a hell Dante would instantly recognize. The male lead was mesmerising athletic, rhythmical with a presence difficult to ignore. He failed matric last year and his struggle is the in inspiration. I found out later he had not danced until last December. Now I feel live a double nana. First I dismiss the effort, then wax lyrical. Truthfully… it was not a show you would love on video. In fact, you would have me committed as a criminally insane. I suppose you had to be there. When I walked in the smell took me back to my time working in a ramshackle governmental hospital. There is an unmissable smell to poverty. The desperation of knowing this is the line. A naïve painting of a donkey sat next to a counter trying to pass itself as a tuck-shop. To call the brown woven threadbare fabric lumps furniture would be a stretch. A semblance of their previous life had been beaten out of them. Like some movie version of a P.O.W released after being tortured, they had literally had the stuffing taken out of them. If you can imagine this, you will know how it contrasted to the last few shows I saw on Broadway and in Johannesburg. It is futile compare this production with Aladdin with its squillion dollar spend, the craft of Neil Patrick Harris or the magic of Pippin. What I can tell you is I cried the same way, my applause was as loud and by hands were as sore as in I was on the great white way. My blessings are too numerous to count, for this I profoundly grateful. Being there on Saturday was a combination of hope, humility and true awe at how the transformation we glibly proclaim can be real. Another thing was the way the religious angle in the piece bothered me initially. Not because I am not religious, far from it, the WASP in me shrinks away from anything from anything to earnestly missionary. As I left, I realized what a complete clot I am. I can sit through Misa Criolla (albeit with a push) without objecting to the profoundly Christian messages, Pie Jesu well sung always make my hair stand on end, Kol Nidre with its haunting vow and the Swing Low Sweet chariot which I choose to is a coded message on the underground railway, but not the openly celebratory gospel hip-hop. If it were Motown gospel I would be bopping with Gladys or Marvin. What a crock? To the kids who put their whole into their performance, thank you. You made me think, emote and look at my life in a different way. Fundamentally what art should do.
Posted on: Tue, 13 May 2014 13:46:44 +0000
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