Travesties - Sydney Theatre Company

Photo by Heidrun Löhr (Blazey Best [Gwendolyn], Toby Schmitz [Tristan/Dada]).


“The truth is always a compound of two half-truths, and you never reach it, because there is always something more to say.” (Tom Stoppard)

A sand-yellow canvas, vaguely reminiscent of a cubist artwork, veils the stage. Geometric shapes and abstract images are linked together loosely. The warning on this packet signifies that Tom Stoppard’s ‘Travesties’ is not for those who enjoy facile entertainment. It will require you to work the cogs of your mind, connect the dots, decipher wordplay and confront your own way of thinking. If you can jump these hurdles, Stoppard’s outstanding talent infused with Richard Cottrell’s superb directing will give life to an eccentric whirlwind of a play with its haughty political rants, impetuous romances, smooth intertextuality and sharp repartee.

The play begins as an ostensibly fragmented sequence of nonsense that slowly works in the concurrent circles of Henry Carr’s memory (signified by the cuckoo clocks that constantly sound when a motif reoccurs throughout the play). Soon, however, the mess constructs meaning and a plot emerges. ‘Travesties’ is set during the onset of World War I in 1917, and the subsequent migration of some of Europe’s most influential intellectuals to Zurich, Switzerland. The superb timing and malleability of the cast’s acting allows us to travel with ease between The Zurich Library and protagonist Henry Carr’s apartment on Michael Scott-Mitchell’s turning stage.

Each character parades their large egos on stage (unabashedly emphasised by an Armani-cut, but dandyish, costume design). The decoy English Consul, Henry Carr (Jonathan Biggins), is a vain but plush, costume-loving libertarian who is cast to play Algernon in James Joyce’s resident production of Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Importance of Being Ernest’. Meanwhile, the brainchild of Dadaism, Tristan Tzara, (Toby Schmitz) who introduces himself in hilarious outbursts as “Dada”, is staging his poetic attack on the bourgeois stagnation of Modernist art by erroneously rearranging words of classic poems.

Dada soon takes a liking to Henry’s sister Gwendolyn (Blazey Best), who is infatuated with James Joyce (Peter Houghton) and his writing, willingly transcribing chapters of his oeuvre ‘Ulysses’ at the library. Cecily (Rebecca Massey), a librarian, is hatching a Soviet dream from her collaboration with Bolshevik Lenin (William Zappa), helping him prepare his thesis on Imperialism at the Zurich Library. In an unlikely turn of events, Cecily develops a soft spot for Henry Carr, who feigns his identity as Dada’s left-leaning brother in order to sniff out information about Lenin’s plan to escape, and lead the revolution rising in Russia.

The fantastic irony of the play’s situation is garnered from the omitted fact that each ideologue’s love-interest possesses, respectively opposite, political and artistic sensibilities. As this becomes apparent in each character’s reality, the social entanglement of the play escalates to humorous highs that will leave your head sore with laughter. Stoppard’s strength as a playwright lies in his ability to balance dramatic conflict and reveal the humanity behind the headstrong pretensions of each character. On another level, the play pays intertextual homage to Wilde, Marxist thought, Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’, Libertarianism, and the movements of art that gave birth to Postmodernism, and portrays the effects that each of these has had on Stoppard.

Stoppard and Cottrell’s ability to merge and evenly represent all these paradigms in one play/production, without sacrificing the structure of the script, or the layer of realism that keeps audiences entertained, is evidence that this production deserves the accolade of your spectatorship. As the fresh-faced Toby Schmitz and the other equally brilliant members of the cast came to, and left the stage, I was compelled to give more than just one encore. I thought to myself, ‘this is exactly what I want to experience from the theatre.’

Published in Edition 4 of Vertigo - www.utsvertigo.com.

Guillermo Del Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth

“It is only the dead who have seen the end of war.” (Plato)

“I’ve seen people being shot; I’ve had guns put to my head, I’ve seen people burnt alive, stabbed, decapitated . . . because Mexico is still a very violent place. So I do think that some of that element in my films comes from a Mexican sensibility,” (Guillermo Del Toro, in Tsuei, 2007, p. 227).

Guillermo Del Toro’s film Pan’s Labyrinth reclaims the fairytale form set during the tumult of the 1940s Spanish Civil war and Franco’s regime. The film is a testament to the power of human imagination, exploring its fantastical ability to both confront and escape the trauma of war, hatred and corrupted power. We peer through the central protagonist, Ofelia’s eyes into a magical underworld kingdom. She confirms her royal link to this world through three tests of fate which are given to her by Pan, the underworld’s messenger and guardian of the portals between worlds. Similar to the nature Goddess Persephone she is given a double-vision of reality (that of death (the underworld) and life (human existence)). Her world is engendered by a merging of the threatening reality of Franco’s Regime as represented by the psychopathic Capitain Vidal, the efforts of its leftist resistance, her mother, Carmen’s birth-complication, and the imaginative reality of her subconscious; the Kingdom under the ground. It is her task as protagonist to be tested in this reality, to see beyond the blinding light of the sun; the horror of the real by overcoming her own human foibles with her imagination.

Del Toro’s cinematic expertise is horror, and in Pan’s Labyrinth, he inverts horror to represent real life, and inextricably links it to its usual repository, the fantastic realm of the imagination. Through animatronics, special effects and filmic breaks in verisimilitude Del Toro takes us into the metaphysical and oneiric space of Ofelia’s experiences in another world. Early in the film, the camera works in deep focus, and extended shots to highlight the gap between Captain Vidal’s stronghold where Ofelia sleeps and the verdant forest where Pan’s Labyrinth lies. However, this gap soon dissipates in the film as the setting is structured by the narrative thrust of Ofelia’s imagination, and the battle scenes between Vidal and the resistance are depicted in the forest. She is given the ability to make passage ways with a magical piece of chalk given to her by Pan advising her to “make her own way.” Using the interiority of camera angles, masked cuts, a contrast of blue and red-yellow filter lighting del Toro coalesces the two realities, and the extrication between Ofelia’s imagination and reality is broken. He creates an enchanting neo-gothic aesthetic. These give the narrative a highly portentous symbolism, casting a platonic shadow across the audience. Del Toro merges two worlds in one diegesis, emphasising and celebrating the importance of the imagination in our materialist realities, and highlighting his prominence and ingenuity as a filmmaker.

An increase in the use of animatronics and special effects to depict the various mythical creatures in the film such as the stick-insect-come-fairy, Pan, the pale-man monster, the Mandrake that safe-guards her mother and the toad under the tree constantly subverts the naturalism of the film fusing the imagination and the horror of the real. It also increases the vividness of the “child-witness/protagonist point of view” (Smith, 2007, p.6) juxtaposing it against the horror of war allowing the audience to historically re-remember the socio-political situation but also access the vivid symbolism and harrowing innocence of Ofelia and her experiences. The continuity of narrative between these worlds is evidence of del Toro’s expert plot-setting and the mastery of his story-telling technique. Del Toro portrays the way in which the power of the imagination can reorder and confront the horror of the real just as film can re-represent the real, and remember the historical: “Fantasy is made proportionate or compensatory to the real,” (Smith, 2007, p.8). Evidently, the success of Pan’s Labyrinth lies in del Toro’s ability to cinematically capture the human capability to dream beyond and in confrontation of the horror of the real.

Del Toro mixes mythological allusions and intertextual references to other films such as Snow White, the Wizard of Oz, and Alice in Wonderland to reinvent the Hollywood Disney spectacle exporting us away from the conventions of the clichéd fairy-tale. His film takes a leaf out of Guy Debord’s philosophies, whereby the contrast of the horror of the real and the imagination align with the assertion that the fairy tale should not simply provide a spectacle; “a social relationship between people that is mediated by images… the self-portrait of power in the age of totalitarian rule over conditions of existence,” (Debord, in Zipes, 2008, p.240). Del Toro is purporting that fairy tales should challenge the spectacle’s structure and pierce its escapist and societially-esconced nature. In this way, the very politics of his cinematography critique the socio-political nature of mainstream filmic fairytales.

Del Toro does not shy away from showing children the realities of the world they must confront and the hope that all humanity possesses – “I know for a fact that imagination and hope have kept me alive through the roughest times in my life,” (del Toro in Zipes, 2008, p.239). His film does not simply follow the suit of the escapist forms of spectacle that support a certain ideology or utopian ideal. In this way, Pan’s Labyrinth is a film that transcends the conventions of mainstream cinema, and provides an audience of all ages with a stimulating and deeply moving fairytale; a testament to hope and the power of the human imagination and the salvation of sacrificial love.

References

Zipes, J. 2008, ‘Video Review – Pan’s Labyrinth’, Journal of American Folklore, vol. 121, no. 408, pp. 236-240.

Smith, J. P. 2007, Pan’s Labyrinth (El Laberinto del Fauno), Film Quarterly, Vol.60, No.4. pp. 4-9.

Tsuei, H. K. 2007, The Antifascist Aesthetics of Pan’s Labyrinth, Socialism and Democracy, Vol.22, No. 2, pp.225 -244.

Interview with Tropfest Winner, Genevieve Clay

The Indie film fest atmosphere was in full swing. As dusk fell the sky glowed orange, and the Botanic Gardens bats were swirling above. There was a sense of prescience in the air as David Wenham came to the stage. A random on something from Happy High Herbs broke the suspense shouting, “Will you buy my bus ticket home?” David Wenham was quick to give the hint, “No, I won’t buy your bus ticket for you.” In a Surry Hills cafe, Genevieve recalls the moment: “There was an eternity between when he (David Wenham) was saying that and when I realised that it was a line from my film… all I did was scream. It was a real relief.” The surprise was filled with UTS pride as our very own MAP student took the pineapple, and $100,000 dollars worth of prizes, smiling radiantly in an eye-catching red dress.

Meeting on a sunny Sunday, Genevieve hadn’t forgotten her university, leaving a gap in her Tropfest-winning schedule to talk with Vertigo. She arrived clad in a ‘50s-style dress patterned with popcorn kernels, hinting at her betrothal to cinema: “At seven I was determined to be an Oscar award-winning actress,” she reveals. Her modest Parisian elegance gives this impression. “Soon I learnt that I was better at making stories than being in them,” she muses as she briefly touches her coiffeur, short and reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn.

Raised by her grandmother and mother in South Cardiff, a small town near Newcastle, she was brought up with the altruistic values that inspire her filmmaking and her vision for how she wants to affect the industry. “It can be such a self-driven, self-motivated industry. People write stories for themselves. I wrote my ‘Be My Brother’ script for someone. I’m writing my next script for someone,” she reflects. “I think it’s definitely important to have a sense of servitude in your career; helping others who’ve helped you or helping others just because.”

Her approach to film is far more centred on the thrust of story telling and pursues a social justice mission. She wants to see a greater focus on writing in film; “a good script, no matter what you shoot it on, no matter what technical faults, will shine through… I think that it is vitally important for the Australian industry to focus on script development and finding, supporting and celebrating good writers,” she says, sipping a latte.

Some have criticised her film for not being as stylistic as the others, yet Genevieve sees film as much more than a cinematographic ego-stroke. “I was thinking if we just get best actor for Gerard then that’s my job done... That’s something that Gerard has been dreaming of for a long time, and it’s really great that it came to pass,” she says.

Gerard O’Dwyer, the down-syndrome thespian that touched the audience showcases his bard-like flare in the film. His character quotes lines from Shakespeare, The Lion King and a Frank Spencer comedy, and breaks down the prejudices of an estranged brother by charming a girl at a bus stop. Genevieve’s ability to see this spark of humanity in Gerard is evidence of her skill to write cinematic realities that hold true human value.

Her decision to explore the universal themes of rejection, prejudice and the healing power of love and her ability to construct a slice of life that warms hearts impressed judges. It doesn’t seem to be a show of philanthropy for Genevieve; it’s an important part of sharing her experience and without undue cliché, being true to herself: “… In high school, I was rejected a lot. I think you reject yourself internally a lot of the time too. I got to points where I thought ‘I’m no good,’ and you have to make the choice to overcome it,” she reflects.

It is this inner integrity that propels her, and her education at UTS helped to develop a voice and fostered her passion for film. “UTS definitely laid down the foundations and gave me a lot of support,” she says.

She provides this piece of advice for uni filmmakers who want to make it in the film industry: “The thing about studying film is that you’ve got to do it yourself, you’ve get outside the boundaries of your uni and find your own work experience; that is how you should use the course to your best advantage,” she muses. It wasn’t all self-driven. She lists Michel Gondry and Steve McQueen as auterist idols. When she first moved to Sydney she worked in a bar, which Baz Luhrmann often frequented. “I used to sit down with him and have a glass of champagne... He was really kind and very encouraging. He said that if you want to do this (be a professional filmmaker), all you’ve got to do is make as many films as you can. It was great having him there and having him to look up to,” she reflects.

Her vision for the future remains ambitious. She says she already has four projects on the backburner including a documentary series, a comedy, an Australian miniseries and a feature film in the works. When describing the underlying aspect that draws all her work together she muses: “No matter what you’ve done, what you go through, who you are… you can still achieve your dreams and have the life that you hope for… it [the message of my work] is all about hope.” Her other more audacious goal is to establish a production company with this message in mind.

She smiles at me with her pert affect. It seems in this grim global climate, Genevieve hasn’t lost any of her mettle: “I want to challenge and inspire people and uplift them with my stories.