Russian one night, nonsensical the next
In the foyer there's a sign that says: The Department is performed in a nonsensical language. And it is. Like spending 70 minutes with the Swedish chef. Except that they're Norwegian, and darker than the muppets - yes, it's true. At one point they find new shirts in a cavity below the floor, put them on excitedly and with pride, marvelling at the identical little holes in the left breast pocket of each one and sticking their fingers through in comical wormy ways. It all comes to an abrupt end when they discover matching exit blasts in the back of each one.
The wall of pigeon holes to one side of the stage is bursting with screwed up pieces of paper and seems an entirely appropriate full stop to a first day back at work largely spent filing emails in a labyrinthine system of creatively named virtual folders. One burgeoning folder I already feel quietly chiding me. It's labelled "for follow up".
In a 24 hours hard to imagine under circumstances other than an arts Festival, I've also sat among a mix of smiling, passionate Russians and the self righteous Sydney arts core. The Russians in the first row of the circle were drawn forward and closer to their countrymen on stage at the expense of people in the rows behind, left only with surtitles and glimpses of upstage action. What ensued was a display of personal assertiveness at the same time politically correct and viciously snide on the part of the arts core and knowingly yet smilingly ignorant from the Ruskies. Stalemate. The core were thwarted in much the same way as the advances of ardent Orsino on stage. In moments when my eye and my mind wavered between the surtitles and the golden comings and goings of the second act I thought these things: what fun it would be to run into the Russian company at the Festival bar one night; who designed this theatre anyway; will I be able to sleep after consuming two bottles of Solo in quick succession; why can't everyone just see that there are two of them? and now I remember what I find so frustrating about Shakespeare.
The wall of pigeon holes to one side of the stage is bursting with screwed up pieces of paper and seems an entirely appropriate full stop to a first day back at work largely spent filing emails in a labyrinthine system of creatively named virtual folders. One burgeoning folder I already feel quietly chiding me. It's labelled "for follow up".
In a 24 hours hard to imagine under circumstances other than an arts Festival, I've also sat among a mix of smiling, passionate Russians and the self righteous Sydney arts core. The Russians in the first row of the circle were drawn forward and closer to their countrymen on stage at the expense of people in the rows behind, left only with surtitles and glimpses of upstage action. What ensued was a display of personal assertiveness at the same time politically correct and viciously snide on the part of the arts core and knowingly yet smilingly ignorant from the Ruskies. Stalemate. The core were thwarted in much the same way as the advances of ardent Orsino on stage. In moments when my eye and my mind wavered between the surtitles and the golden comings and goings of the second act I thought these things: what fun it would be to run into the Russian company at the Festival bar one night; who designed this theatre anyway; will I be able to sleep after consuming two bottles of Solo in quick succession; why can't everyone just see that there are two of them? and now I remember what I find so frustrating about Shakespeare.
posted by noonie at 12:24 PM
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