I can rejoice! There is excellent theatre to be had. A least when the Indians combine their forces with forces from Japan, Uzbekistan, and Iran.
With great trepidation, I wandered forth to see Performing Women: Medea, Jocasta & Clytemnestra at the NSD tonight. I thought I’d walk, for the exercise and the view. As with every time I try to walk anywhere, I got horrifically lost and, with 10 minutes to spare, I hailed an auto-rickshaw with a really nice driver who was willing to let me ride for free (meaning he got a really big tip instead of a fare).
I snuck into the theatre a little late, but I only missed the introduction. What I walked into was a stunning display of beauty all over the stage.
Outside of the fact that all three play are about Greek women, there were elements used to tie all the stories together. All three plays were performed in their native languages, but luckily there were sur-titles projected on the back of the stage, neatly framed by red curtains. Bookending each story was a wild chorus (instrumental and vocal) of all the performers, highlighted by the three titular characters singing their fates, transforming one story into the other. I can’t describe it any more than that. I’ve tried. Let’s just say it was magical and seamless and very pleasurable to watch and hear.
The first story told was the Uzbekistan Medea, written and directed by Oviyakuli Khojakuli (who is actually from Turkmenistan), who is incorporates Central Asian aesthetics into his work, such as traditional storytelling and Sufi aesthetics. There were puppets of Medea and Jason used to tell flashbacks. For me, puppets are *it*. That was all I needed for a good night. Medea (Zulaykho Boykhonova) created an incredibly powerful presence onstage and had a wonderful voice, both singing and speaking, to match. The story was told with a great deal of vocal, instrumental and physical displays from all the actors, telling the tale with great clarity in a very beautiful way. The costumes looked like colourful, tailored quilts, but in a good way. Quilts can be sexy. Except for the tiny quilts wrapped around red feathers that were flung onto the stage when Medea kills her kids. That’s not sexy. That’s just a great way to end the story.
Iran presented a modern retelling of Oedipus Rex, Jocasta next, written by Mohammad Charmshir and directed by Mohammad Aghebati. This was the part of the show where a fair amount of audience left, I’m assuming due to the whole mother-fucking story line. The story was more of a series of nightmare snapshots, with eerie intakes of breath in the darkness between scenes. Jocasta (Elham Korda) was another striking figure, especially when contrasted with a weak, confused Oedipus (Saeid Changizian Fooladi). A whole different series of stunning visuals were presented, this time with more emphasis on one thing becoming something completely different. There was a great accident when someone was throwing shoes from off-stage and one of them landed square on the middle of the table, in perfect profile. On the costume front, clothes were fitted closer to the body (for the most part) and Oedipus looked just like an ordinary middle aged man, nothing out of the ordinary about him. This play also had one of the most dangerous (yet awesome) things I’ve ever seen to blind Oedipus. While sitting on a table (facing back), Jocasta ties a silken robe over his face and then proceeds to bind his entire body with yards of silken cloth. Then, Oedipus stands up on the table and turns round, removing the cloth from himself and around his mothers neck. Then he spends the rest of the play wandering around with the robe still tied over his face. This might be why they covered the lower level of their playing space with soft mats. This story had the least song and dance of the three plays. There was something that made me think of Beckett, possibly the tape recorder the two characters used to hear their stories. There was a sequence involving two people holding a screen so that all you could see were legs doing different things. This meant, from my fourth row seat, I couldn’t see the sur-titles, so I’m not entirely sure why I was looking at feet.
The final story was Clytemnestra, written by Sujith Shanker and directed by Abhilash Pillai. I guess that, since it was in Hindi (with bits of English, Urdu, Malayalam, Assamese, Marathi, Punjabi, and Bengali thrown in), they decided not to use the sur-titles (except for a few choral moments). This was bad for me since I don’t know the story or the language. I was able to pick up that they set the story in a post-apocalypse and gave the story strong political undertones. The costumes were exciting, combining traditional Indian elements with modern ones (and everyone in full body suits). The women were painted metallic to match their dresses. The men had pieces of military garb and facial prosthetics which made them look interesting, rather than ugly. The story was told with a tremendous amount of gesture, song, dance, and overlapping monologues. Much physical control was required by all the actors since a lot of the movements were slowed down. Clytemnestra was played by a tiny, golden statue of a woman (Manjushree Kulkarni) with an amazing voice that shouldn’t be able to fit in something that small. I feel the men stole the show from her though, perhaps because they dominated the text and the front of the stage.
The set and lighting design is where Japan came in, Daisuke Nakayama to be precise. Those Japanese guys can design some fantastic lights, that’s for sure. He also gets a thousand gold stars for being able to set all three plays in a way that’s just plain installation art. Each story (and I’m sure each director) is very unique, and to make everyone happy must have been a great challenge. It was simple, and stunning, and effective. I think I’m in love.
My trip home was also eventful. I was trying to call a taxi (the numbers I was given refused to work!!) and was approached by a journalist who recognized me from the Israli music thing, and is curious about the Canadian working in children’s theatre in India. Or he thinks I’m hot. Whatever. I gave him my e-mail address. A thousand years later I got hold of a taxi company and while I was waiting I bought some leftist books at a stand by the gate. Fifty years after that, I made it home, tired and cold. But nothing could shake the feeling of what I had seen on stage.
Oh! In all, it was so beautiful. One can only hope to be part of a production that creates that much beauty continuously onstage.
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