This wasn’t a play I had ever read or seen before, but I turned up to the dear old Bard’s Yard on Grey’s Ave anticipating a bit of bloody mayhem betwixt the Romans and the Goths. I realise I may have gone in a little too bucolic and light-hearted, but just how bloody could it really be?
What started as a balmy summer evening, full of pleasant chatter and a sip or two of wine, flipped 180 degrees in the flash of a dagger to Titus, a stripped-down explosion of the bard’s darkest play by local theatre company Fractious Tash who really blew it out of the water on opening night.
'O, why should nature build so foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies?'
While a gentle Auckland breeze whispered around the napes of our necks and tenderly nudged the pretty rows of fairy lights in my country lane of a life, the seven-lane motorway that was taking shape in front of us was non-stop wolf-pack apocalypse; a rampant whirlwind of in-your-face tragedy, violence and revenge.
Lest you think it all grief and grimness, fear not, there were gut-achingly awesome laughs, too; when things got dark, the laughter was loud, hard and heartfelt. The actors looped and twisted around ‘real life’ so seamlessly, playing with the audience and welcoming the city in, with its sirens, revving engines, fainting people and French ladies taking phone calls (mon dieu!). Everything seemed so of-that-moment and unrepeatable; and while life is just that, zillions of unique moments, most don’t feel quite as magical or as impossibly finite.
I lost sight completely of how plays were originally performed (Titus Andronicus over four hundred years ago), raw and exposed under the clouds, so this was an eye-opener and a thrill to be part of. The light changed as the play went on and with it everyone’s energy.
Since the lights were dimmed in theatres, clearly defining our roles and expectations, our space and place in whatever world we’re observing, perhaps we’ve lost touch with the power that comes from really being part of a story.
There are limited opportunities to bear witness and be part of Titus unashamedly turning its juicy and disturbing rump to the sky, so I plead thee all, shake a leg and make the most of it while you can.
Titus is on at the Pop-up Globe, Bard’s Yard, 38 Greys Avenue, Auckland www.popupglobe.co.nz
I nearly didn’t go. Sometimes when you fly solo and there’s no one waiting for you at the other end it's easier to duck motivation than track it down, especially on Mondays.
I parked by the fish market and walked along Packenham Street West, past all the beautiful old warehouses and smart new offices. There was a buzz around the place; the overnight shift kicking in at the fish-processing plant, early evening joggers enjoying the cooler air and office workers strolling home or to the bus stop. I imagined I'd be wading through the wave break if this were me a hundred years ago ... (I'm all for mini micro adventures wherever possible). The streets felt alive and the vibe jollied me up after a day of screens.
At number 132 Halsey Street, on the corner, stands GRID / AKL, a wonderful open, communal working space with very colourful floor cushions. When I arrived there were people already milling, scented candles scattered around the place, glowing away, three tiers of beautiful cupcakes beckoning, and bottles of juice glistening in ice buckets for anyone a tad thirsty.
That’s a jolly nice welcome for anyone, at anytime, ever.
But most importantly, there were loads of people arriving – men and women, young and old (not to mention a gorgeous baby) – to share their desire for more, good conversation, real talk, and to feel entirely communal in that.
Women’s Collective is an inspirational once-a-month meet-up of like minds, and not-like minds, all believing in a purpose, a movement, to ‘foster conversations about global issues that affect our community’ and most powerfully ‘to create a better world’. I’ve felt crippled by feelings of powerlessness many times in my life, of not feeling able to really influence and shape ‘a better world’. Especially in my thirties, when the glorious, energising power of ‘I shall change the world’ started to wobble. Or when I realised The Novel That Would Change The World might be stuck in my head forever or hiding out in north west Wales, where I’ve never been and possibly now will never go. Or the very individual powerlessness that comes when a personal relationship fails, when one is bereft, and so very alone in that loss, for a time.
'Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise so I am changing myself. Rumi.'
I've learnt to seek out ways to make my contribution – of time, energy, intent – and confound some of that helpless/hopelessness. Choosing to do something is powerful, especially when you give yourself a moment to realise it. So I chose to haul ass and listen to Richie Hardcore talk about his work, life and beliefs.
Richie talked about the normalisation of alcohol and drug abuse, sexual exploitation and misrepresentation, the lack of any healthy discussion around consent, of sexual violence, of porn. All deeply embedded in the mainstream. And all part of the vicious circle that lies at the pit of rape culture. He also talked about his straight edge lifestyle, his belief in vegetarianism and his current life project of avoiding refined sugar. (He readily and charmingly admits he could be considered the worst possible person to ever invite to dinner.) His style is non-preachy and his passion and drive are powerful, for sure, but he is as flawed as the rest of us, and that humility felt solid. For a talk that was as confronting as it was, there was a stack of humour to boot, which felt profoundly humane and deeply refreshing, providing real and much needed moments of relief. I doubt there was a person in the room who hadn’t been impacted in some way by drug or alcohol abuse, directly or indirectly – and I doubt there were many who drove home thinking about much else.
I wept on the way home.
People can act horrifically under the influence, they can rip their lives apart, or those of people around them, or they can make silly, dumb mistakes, say the wrong thing at the wrong time, turn up drunk or as hungover as hell and make experiences less meaningful or enjoyable because of their inability to engage or be anywhere near their fullest and brightest – we’ve all been there, either right on the coalface or wielding the big old sledgehammer. And there’s something very powerful about asking whether we really want this to be our reality.
This guy was standing up and saying out loud that this does happen and it’s shit and something has got to change. We all know about alcohol abuse, which of course can and does lead to all sorts of other abuse, but how much do we accept it inherently as just a normal part of life? Most of us have probably had things happen to us, to varying degrees, and if you’re a woman then, most probably, at some point in your life, a drunken man (at worst someone you shared your heart with) has said or done something you still think about in your quieter, darker times, that is a part of who you are today.
But rather than crack on with life as usual and deal with the past by living, in whatever way that means for each of us, there seemed a very tangible moment when everyone 'stepped back' and acknowledged that yeah, this really fucking sucks and it’s shit that I/he/she/they has/have to deal with it. And that’s good. This is not business as usual. I wept for that. Because this is not how it needs to be.
Do we want our kids, or their kids, to be as exposed to alcohol abuse as we are, where it’s as ‘normal’ as a model (yes you, Heidi) or rugby stars selling us fast food by the bucket, or where sexual violence is just an accepted given? Like this:
I’ve come across the phrase ‘the unexamined life is not worth living’ many times, and I concur to the fullest, even when what you see and hear and feel is deeply confronting. This particular evening was no different, and Richie, I think, is to be applauded for swimming so hard against the mainstream (even if it means having to concede and play the game at times, as we all do).
There’s a wonderful thing about events like this one, whose soul and vibe (I am referring to this, quite appropriately I think, as a living, breathing thing) is determined by the intent of a wonderful, visionary few, and defined and shaped ever more so by the acceptance and openness of the majority who attend, by all of those who choose to bring and give their energy. And I think the world is a better place for it.
If you’d like to try it on for size, you can find out more about the collective here.
And Richie Hardcore is mostly here, here and here.
White dudes hold the record for creepy crimes, but females are strong as hell!
As a rule I don’t LOL when I watch TV. I
just don’t. But … tears!!
Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt is a total crack. If people don’t quote it endlessly - dancing is about butts now – I’ll wear jelly shoes for a week.
From the sheer joy of the whole apocalypse Indiana mole-woman thing to the effortless flip of everyday street harassment and Titus Andromedon’s exquisite Pinot Noir (one of the best things I have ever seen), the infectious exuberance, the eighties neon and the glory of watching someone come to terms so neatly with trauma ('I'm pretty and tough, like a diamond. Or beef jerky in a ball gown'), tech and the latest slang- ‘hashbrown no filter’ - it’s all so completely charming. And then there's The Breakfast Club fist pump ...!
Follow the Narnia lampposts up through the domain on a balmy summer evening, with the cicadas playing eardrum tennis and surrounded by all that intoxicating greenness, you realise what a beautiful oasis we’ve been gifted right in the heart of our city. What better place to witness Auckland Festival’s opening weekend skyrocket into the stratosphere with Groupe F’s world premiere of Skin of Fire.
With the buzzy vibe and beauty of thousands of happy folk parking it on the grass under a full moon, with their cheese and crackers and chatter, and the sweetest dub beats (by International Observer - yes!! Thompson Twins' Tom Bailey) it’s well worth making time to chill pre-show.
If you’re lucky you’ll be met at the gate with French styles accordion from Tracey Collins.
On opening night we were blessed with jazz, the soulful husk of Frank Yamma and David Bridie, and the most beautiful and stirring kapahaka from Western Springs College. On Friday night Kalaga’la and Pacific Underground take the stage, followed by the sweet melodies of Tiny Ruins on Saturday. The kids in the coffee cart are stoked they’ll have better work stories for at least three days.
Groupe F create a feast for the senses from the get-go, with dreamy fairy light people, appearing from white, snowy tussocks to roam the crowds. The waves of light, sound and fire build and just keep coming, gentle and pretty one minute, raw and pulsating the next. You feel it in the earth beneath you before it explodes into the sky in, frankly, the biggest ass firework display you’ll EVER see. It’s really not shy. ‘Wait, what, there’s more?’ Why yes, there is … look over here …
It is the most exhilarating sherbet fest for every sense you’re blessed to have. Dump your smartphone I say. You’ll never do it justice. Using the Auckland War Memorial Museum as a mighty sandstone canvas, Groupe F leads us through animal kingdoms, over the frontline and into urban cityscapes, from raging volcano to the cold functionality of a qwerty keyboard.
Your eyes will be wide, and your mouth will hang open. I promise.
Creative director Christophe Berthonneau and his team have created a stunning homage to Auckland and our festival. You’ll have seen the insta/twitter explosion, and rightly so. Don’t let the weather put you off. This is a once in a lifetime. I can guarantee you will say (quite a few times) ‘I’ve never seen anything like it’ as you drift spellbound back into the city.
Skin of Fire is on at Auckland Domain on Friday and Saturday night. Gates open 6.45pm. Show starts 9pm.
Je suis dans le ciel! That’s right. I Am In Heaven at The Alliance Française French Film Festival ...
Tu Veux ou Tu Veux Pas
Gloriously stylish romp com Tu Veux ou Tu Veux Pas / Sex, Love and Therapy. Great date movie!
Lambert (Patrick Bruel) is an ex-pilot and a recovering sex addict, attending group therapy in the back room of a Parisian launderette and channelling his recovery, resolutely and quietly, into his career as a couple’s therapist.
Judith has just been fired from her sales job in Singapore after attending to one too many of (most of her) clients’ needs, and has returned to France, via the Charles de Gaulle arrivals hall where she is swept away in a sea of naked men. Yes, Judith is a nymphomaniac.
And so ensues a very sexy and funny-as-heck tale of the hunter and the hunted. Bravo!!
It’s super quirky and so cleverly restrained – an inch or two more (yes, Lambert is asked to check a client’s penis size) and it could topple over into the English seaside, but director Tonie Marshall keeps it beautifully slick and chic (she co-wrote too). The opening title graphics are just as slick and marvellous – all tongue-in-cheek cookie pop art eighties. For the life of me I can’t find out who
created them (like all silent, faceless warriors of great cover art). No one mentions the opening title design. Ever. But they say so much when they’re done so well!!
The mother of all moving typography. I geddit. Saul Bass would be proud.
And extra super stars for showing a woman in all of her fullest of glories, embracing her sexuality without shame or self-reproach. I’m not sure this could ever have been made in Hollywood but more importantly it would definitely pass the Bechdel test. Viva la difference!!!
It’s hard enough, even in the most crucial of moments,
to remember what happened on any given day - nevermind the raw, accurate detail - so imagine the scale of that undertaking when the past is built around a winding labyrinth of endless and dark half-truths. Add to that rampant narcissism and a very healthy dash of male ego. How lost we would feel trying to pinpoint
anything certain or real …
Julien does not want for anything but we soon learn how little he really has. Every aspect of his life is manufactured,
so much so that he can’t remember what’s real and what’s not. As he tries to
reconstruct the truth of his life, in the most critical of times, particularly the facts of his affair and what it ultimately leads to,
a fog beds in, and we don’t know which way is up.
Julien's bitten and bloodied lip, initially a symbol of passion, becomes increasingly stark, dark and poignant against the backdrop of Julien's flashbacks and the
clinical persistence and hammering of a psychologist determined to piece together the truth.
We know Julien and Esther’s stories will be
inextricably woven together forever, at least answering one of Esther’s earliest and
most fateful questions with some sort of resolution, but aside from that we’re
never really sure. La Chambre Bleu is
the most compelling of psycho-thrillers because Amalric never lays out the answers for us, and there is never a tidy conclusion. Don't expect to drift off easily to supper afterwards or think about much else for a wee while.
