Festival Theatre
THE FOOLIGAN Tall tales by candlelight COO
Al Seed displays an enviable gift for storytelling alongside a physical prowess to rival Max Wall in this one- man show. A vibrant series of clowning tableaux breaks up this atmospheric tale within a tale. as Seed recounts the exploits of one of the world's greatest storytellers, travelling across the universe and venturing through conversations with children and kings.
A pale-faced and black-mouthed Hanoverian Tweedledum. Seed‘s lolIOping gait resembles a stuffed bullfrog on pencil legs. his Striking appearance adding to the shadowy humour as he seamlessly transforms from one grotesque character to another. As Seed is expert at controlling the machine of his body. this is as much an exploration of the physical nature of the self as it is a dark tavern tale, smoky. dank and candle—lit. Each wave of the hand or twitch of the pitch-stained mouth transforms the space. just as the storyteller's words invade, take shape and grow in the mind.
If it all ultimately seems a bit lightweight in its concerns, Seed's remarkable performance does more than enough to prevent boredom in the solitary darkness. (David Laing) I Pleasance Courtyard, 556 6550, until 24 Aug (not I I, I8), 3.40pm, $8439.50 (£6437).
FINISHED WITH ENGINES Well-written vignette scratches the surface of America’s new militarism 0..
There's a tried and trusted theatrical dynamic in the idea of two characters irritating; each other in an enclosed space. In Finished With Engines, a kind of Dumb Waiter on the water, this formula is engagineg explored.
Two sailors observe a troubled landscape from the conning tower of a Submarine. as its inhabitants endure a grisly political upheaval. Voyeuristic commentaries on the violence before them leads to further speculation on
, surface. (Steve Cramer) I Traverse Theatre, 228 1404, until 10 Aug, times vary, £74—L‘76(£71—£‘70).
the geopolitics of the crisis, the nature of the institution they belong to and the sailors' own private lives.
Alan McKendrick’s production of his script features strong performances from Stephanie Viola and Drew Friedman, formerly of The Riot Group. as a series of sight gags and crisp one liners are dexterously delivered. But the piece feels more like a vignette than a fully fledged examination of the ideological issues it raises. and merely scratches the surface of a bigger conversation about America’s new militarism. All the same, there's something quite haunting about the finale. in which the madness of the world view explored here breaks
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THE IDIOT COLONY
Beautiful, shocking indictment of an all-too recent past .0.”
The opening scene of this intense, beautifully constructed piece of physical theatre lingers, unsettlingly, for days afterwards. Three girlish figures in pretty white dresses, perfectly in sync with each other, sway to a ragtime number, their faces completely obscured by shining, glossy curtains of hair so it looks like their heads are on backwards. As an image, it’s reminiscent of the iconography of Japanese horror movies. What follows has more in common with One Flew Over the Cuckoo ’s Nest, but the horror is a very specifically British one, made all the more chilling by its mundanity.
The Idiot Colony, a damning indictment of the system which branded hundreds of women in the 19405 and 19505 ‘moral defectives’ for grievous crimes like homosexuality or having a baby as a result of childhood rape, locked them up and forgot about them, is full of
68 THE LIST FESTIVAL MAGAZINE 7~14 Aug 2008
DEATH BY CHOCOLATE
At least there’s chocolate .0
This interactive murder mystery looks great on paper. The audience, cast in the role of student police officers, are charged to sift through trays of evidence at a murder scene, interview the suspects. and solve the case. Not only is this a chance for the civilian to play detective, there’s free chocolate
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thrown in too.
The crowd delves straight into the deliciously twisting histories of the suspects, getting so absorbed in the case that you can almost forgive the fact that too many people have been crammed into a small, stuffy room, and that the fleeting hour we're given to solve the mystery is all the more constrained by having to wait our turn to see evidence and suspects.
Murder mystery fans will appreciate that the gasp of realisation as the solution is finally revealed makes the time and effort spent on wrestling with the mystery worth the wait. So it is inexcusable when, after a fairly enjoyable hour with admittedly fantastic chocolate. the audience are informed that, for no obvious reason, we won't find out whodunit until the end of August. After all the suspense, the sense of anti-climax is gutting — the satisfaction of the audience is cast aside without a thought.
(Sarah Redhead) I Zoo Souths/d9, 662 6892, until 24 Aug (not 11 8 72, 788 19), 6pm, £72.
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similarly beautiful, stark moments. Joy, Mary and mute, suicidal \fictoria are left to fuss over each other’s hair in a mocked-up salon, enacting only the tamest aspects of female sexuality in bum-shaking dance routines. All three performers convey whole worlds with their faces, expressing sheer bleak confusion and sharp comedy with tiny, perfect grimaces.
The horror comes with the gradual recognition that these women have been suspended in time. The stories they reveal in flashback or reminiscence are at odds with the 1980s pop music they dance to and the chatter over the pearls in Lady Di’s wedding train, and then you realise, with a jolt, that these are not women in their late 305, as the ages of the actors would suggest, or their teens, as their mannerisms indicate. They’re old. They’ve been locked away for 30 or 40 years, as though someone pressed pause on their development at the point where each was institutionalised. (Kirtsin Innes)
I Pleasance Dome, 556 6550, until 24 Aug (not 72, 79), E8—E9 (£6.50—L‘7. 50).