The National Rob van Vuuren Festival

Yeah.  So Rob van Vuuren, or Twakkie* as many of you Souf Afrikans will know him, is pretty much running festival.  Well that’s the way it seems.  It feels like every single show either stars him, or is directed or produced by him.  Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, since the man is a fukken legend.  I’ve succumbed to the hype, and seen a few “Rob van Vuuren’s” myself.  And as tempted as I am to dismiss him as an arrogant toss, he’s actually a machine.  His body, his face, are like putty.  He just moulds himself into whatever character he’s playing.  I think I have a little crush.  He must be buggered.  I cannot imagine how he’s doing it.  But dammit, he’s definitely got the festinos talking…

 

 

But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

 

I’ve seen 10 shows so far.  And I’ve got another 4 to go.  And I’m feeling faintly guilty that I didn’t squeeze one more in yesterday afternoon.  But Fest Fatigue is setting in, and I’m getting a bit jaded about stuff.  I’m starting to get that:

 

“Ja, dudes, it was, like, lank powerful, but you know, the motif of the caged bird was just to passé hey.  Like, there are so many other ways you could explore the zeitgeist of our subconscious denial of self, with out alienating the audience and their experience, man.  Sjoe.”

 

So it’s time to stop booking stuff and just enjoy what’s left.

 

In short, after the Dando/Kitchen/Max Normal/Ray Phiri thing and then Romeo and Juliet, I saw:

 

Raiders: The Daily Lama 

No Festival experience is complete without a visit to the latest Nick/Luke Ellenbogen romp.  Hilarious audience participation comedy, this year’s ridiculousness was about one man’s voyage to the Himalayas to save a vulture.  Or something. Plot is irrelevant..  Audience members are given roles and costumes and cues to come in on.  The father and son duo of Nick and Luke ham it up.  No one is safe from Nick’s roaring stage voice, hurling insults and suggestions and commentary.  The obligatory corpsing.  It’s really, really funny, in a really, really silly way. Always worth the price of the ticket.

 

Brother Number

One staring “RvV” and James Cairns.  A physical theatre piece about The Department of Home Affairs.  Odd. But beautifully characterised.  With some seriously funny moments and an outrageously good use of set and lighting.  Typical to a lot of small festival shows, the boys played a range of characters; each one conceptualised and delivered with beautiful attention to detail.  I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a comedy or not.  But I laughed, and was strangely moved.  

 

Electric Juju

A one man play starring…um…yep…RvV.  He blew me away. Completely.  Again, a fantasy, physical theatre piece with an utterly minimal set and Rob playing about 7 characters, it was whimsical and tender and gorgeously acted.  Some pieces were a bit rushed and jumped, but each character had not only a individual voice and tone, but a physicality that was mesmerising to watch – and Rob’s ability to jump between them to weave the story….flip.   I could almost smell the market and taste the salt on the ocean air.

 

Jutro

A story about love.  Set in a bombed out basement club in Poland in the second world war.  Also lovely and sweet, with moments of beautifully executed timing and stage craft, the play was a gentle look at the power of love in the midst of disaster and horror.  I much preferred the male lead, James Cunningham, who was excellent (Keren Tahor just felt like she was trying a little too hard).  And I wasn’t particularly satisfied with the end.  But I suspect that had a lot to do with the play being my fourth of the day!  Amazing use of set though (apparently they won an award).

 

Rob van Vuuren is Ron van Wuren

An hour of stand up from the man himself.  Watching this after Electric Juju clinched the crush for me.  He’s funny.  Very funny.  In a self-deprecating, physical, sweet (tales of sharing a tent with his granny and his mom) way.  Well ok, the pavlovian arsehole stories weren’t that sweet, and more self-defecating!  The show was a kinda review of his acting life, with little vignettes from his farm based childhood and stories of how he and Louw Venter (Corne) lived in a bakkie for a year, touring the Most Amazing Show.  The story about how they accidentally burst in on a funeral, thinking it was the corporate gig they’d been hired to work, ending in Corne licking the priest’s bald spot, had me knyping for fear of wetting me knickers.  He’s a funny, talented boy.

 

Skin

One of the few international acts (but, daaahling, of course in collaboration with South African folk), this dance piece was cool, but not mind blowing.  Divided into two parts, the first bit was a multimedia piece which, while technically excellent and with an astounding stage and light show, was a bit soulless. The second piece was inspired by Africa….and just felt like a cliché of everything African dance is supposed to be.  A good performance, but in the context of the wild, passionate stuff of Romeo and Juliet, I was a bit underwhelmed.

 

The Insatiables

SA acting legends, Tim Plewman and Johnathan Rands in a play about greed, friendship, corruption and ethics.  Brilliantly acted.  A great script.  But a bit heavy handed with the “morality is grey and a slippery slope” message and sadly let down by the woman playing the young psychologist who offers the foil to the stories told by the two leads.   I like seeing stuff that really plays with the boundaries of theatre and performance art, but it’s really nice just to see a good proscenium arch play well acted by two well known guys, who know what they’re doing and really deliver every line cue perfect.  Thoroughly enjoyed it.

 

Swazi

Another “stand up” comedy show (directed by….da daaaaaa….you guessed it, Rob van flippin’ Vuuren).  I use the inverted commas, because that’s what it was billed as, but it felt more like a scripted one man show.  Mark Elderkin is a Swazi national and spends the hour telling pretty damn funny stories about his life growing up in the country of Richard E. Grant.  His characterisations of the Swazi people, white and black, are hilarious.  And his timing great.  His story about being held up by incompetent robbers, while his mum prays and his step father is frightfully British, is seriously silly.  And his comment that most Capetonians want to smoke him made me laugh, because I’d assumed the show would be about Swaziland’s best export myself.  Nice to be able to laugh out loud.

 

So it’s Friday morning, and I’m almost done.  It’s been fab, fab, fab.  I love this crazy town and this crazy time.  It’s made me feel human again.  Just four more shows to see and then I head back to home, to the delicious LB and my own little mouse house.  All filled up with the magic of the beautiful lie.

 

*Of Corné and Twakkie fame, and their stuff in the Most Amazing Show.  Guy. 

Festival Fever

The National Arts Festival.  Man. Even thinking about it makes me a bit leapy and excited.  I love it. Always have. The raw talent. The shite.  The motley crowds of arty, studenty, poncy, hippy, culturedy types.  The mix of classical and contemporary.  The jazz.  The dance. The comedy. The drama.  It’s my yearly treat to myself.

 

The getting here was a bit of a mission.  LB outdid himself by taking me, happily, to the airport at the crack of dawn….and buying me breakfast and helping me deal with the endless fekkin’ frustration that is traveling in South Africa.  One plane ride, a couple of hours to kill in the airport and a hair-raising drive to the sleepy town of Grahamstown got me from bed to there in just about 7 hours…I could have driven up in 9.  Oi.

 

But I was delighted with the surprise news that my mate Melon, who is hosting me with her amazing furry husband and delicious 2 year old son, has booked us to see Evan Dando.  Him of the Lemonheads fame.  Delicious boy, crooner, rock god. Yum. 

 

 

So, with that news, I was over the fekking shiteness that was getting up at 5am and then flying SAArse and enjoying a crisp, blue, gorgeous Eastern Cape day, with the prospect of a night on the town with some of my favourite people, seeing one of the seminal artists from my youff strum his stuff on the stage.  Yay.

 

And off we went.  Wrapped up in a million layers against a fah-fah-fah-ha-reeeeeezing Eastern Cape June night, we wandered down to the TapHuis, found seats and were told that there were actually 4 artists on for the night.  Bonus.  Syd Kitchen and Ray Phiri were on the lineup, including some outfit called Max Normal.

 

And Max Normal stole the show.  Hilarious Afrikaans rappers, using multimedia and dressed in the oddest collection of outfits, they took the piss out of everything in their “high energy hip hop show; in die huisie, julle”, but with a subtle, clever humour. I luuuuuuurved them.  Their collaboration with Sid Kitchen, at the end of their set, inspired by the soundtrack of Juno, was just beautiful.  Cheeky and sweet.

 

“That’s why we love the Dassie” is now officially my phrase de jour.

 

Dando was faintly disappointing.  Technically brilliant, with the soulful voice I remembered.  But absolutely not interested in engaging with the audience.  I could have just listened to a CD.  At one point the audience was actually calling for Ray Phiri to come out.  Ouch.  Though, to be fair, Phiri was his usual brilliant self.  We didn’t stay to the end…Dando was pissing us off…but SO much more than we’d expected and a brilliant start to my ’08 Fest.

 

There were hangovers. 

 

And today, through the pain, I watched Romeo and Juliet, an interpretive dance piece by a company I saw last year interpreting Macbeth.  That performance was powerful and mesmerizing.  This one, even more so.  I was blown away.  Set almost entirely to pieces by Vivaldi and Bach, it was emotional and breathtaking.  Dada Masilo, creator, lead and this year’s Standard Bank Young Artist for Dance, was in.cred.ib.le.  Every movement exploded out of her lithe, supple, toned body.  I was riveted.  Described in the programme as “a unique fusion of ballet and cotemporary techniques”, it was half raw, kinetic dance and half the fluid grace of ballet. Gorgeous.

 

And now I’m sitting in the kitchen of Melon and the Furry one, eating outrageously good home made soup and deciding what to watch tomorrow.  Before having a stupidly early night.

 

Bliss.

 

*GRIN*

Fondly Fabulous Felicitations

May the choruses sing and the corks fly…it’s the birthday of the incomparable Kyknoord.  Hurrah and Huzzah!  With highly polished brass knobs on!

I wish you mountains (both sides) of presents you actually like, buckets of tea, much blog fodder and more hits than you know what to do with.  

*birthday mwah*+

 

+Do tea drinking demon’s get jealous?

Beetle

In the palm of my hand is a small creature.  A tiny insect beast.  Sturdy carapace.  Brown armour.  Antennae waving.  Legs tickling over the pink of my skin.  A life so small, I wonder at its purpose.  The purpose of this energy, bustling over a monstrous terrain.  The valleys, plains and slippery contours that make the panorama of my hand.  The comparison of us.  Large and small. And I wonder if I seem small, insignificant, to some other being.  If my bustling and strife seems inconsequential.  And I breathe into the moment.  Laughing at my own self-importance.  My stupid ego.  Huge and railing and the unfairness of things.  Happy to shrug off the mantle of want.  The responsibility of getting it right.  Happy to smooth the wrinkle of day to day zealousness from my forehead.  Content to just sit in a warm patch of winter sun and watch the clumsy stalkings of a beetle.

The “It Never Rains but it Pours” Theory.*

Today I’m interested in the cyclical nature of stuff. Stuff goes well. And then stuff doesn’t go so well. You revel in the former, and then you curse and mumble about the latter. And all along, the stuff just happens. Whether you want it to or not. Fekkin’ stuff. Leaking skylight, rabid colleague, shocks and boot strut** stuffs. Random feedback, endless email decision-by-committee stuffs. Not enough time to blog stuff.

Well, I have one thing to say.

Stuff off stuff.

I’m pouring a glass of wine and ignoring you.

Until the good stuff comes back.

 

*Or the “Murphy is a bugger” Conundrum

** What the hell is a boot strut?

Head Stuff

Click at your own peril caveat: Totally self-indulgent, shouldn’t-even-post-this, ridiculous stream of consciousness whinge. Does not require “the world is full of rainbows” comments. Begs to be derided as drivel and left to rot on the sidewalk. Capishe. Good. Now where was I…

 

Friday the 13th: Lasher*

Gillian flopped down onto the couch and surveyed the chaos around her. Moving into the house had taken three friends, 42 boxes and countless trips from the flat in the city. She’d always loved this neighbourhood. Longed to live in the quiet, leafy lanes of a suburb steeped in history and character. And she’d finally bought the old Victorian cottage with the ubiquitous brookie lace and high ceilings that nestled on the corner of 12th and Stanley. The fireplace in the lounge, the scarred hardwood floors, the strange pantry-like cupboard in the hallway; she loved every inch of it. It was going to need serious work. But she was in no rush. It was hers and she planned to be here for a very long time. A place of her own.

An Inspired* Corset Friday

As an acolyte of the delicious Nurse Myra, I offer this as a nod to her fabulous Corset Friday* series. 

 

In fact, we lured the equally gorgeous Daisy Fae into the same meme, so hide the children and grasp that crucifix, people.  The girls are gettin’ feisty.

 

 

 

Kite (for LB)

Frinky found him. But I have to share. 

 

Watch Rives.  He’s astounding. 

 

 

For those who can’t do the YouTube thing.  Here’s the “page for the stage”.  (For LB, who makes me feel like this.)

 

Kite

I mistook a garbage truck for thunder.

 

The morning after the first night we made love,
I dreamt thunder was chasing rain
through your neighborhood,
flooding the streets and keeping the two of us
indoors for days or even weeks,
until some old prophet could drop, by in an ark,
to take us and the rest of the paired-up animals
to a very high place, or an island maybe,
where we could just
sleep naked for a living.

 

But the thunder was a garbage truck.
And when my eyes woke up
a note on your pillow said:
“Good morning, Sparkle Boy!
I’ll be back around noon.
You–make yourself at home.”
And so I did.

 

Maybe.

 

I’m saying maybe I put on your slippers,
which were as comfortable as bunnies
because they were bunnies,
and then shuffled over my new favorite
hardwood floor to the bathroom
where maybe I took a bubble bath,
which is not something I can do at my place
because, frankly, my tub is way too skanky
to ever sit my bare ass down in.
And then maybe I got so caught up in the romance of the suds
I started quoting old Latin poetry from my college days
like: “fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles…”
You know: “Verily a bright sun does favor me this morning…muthafucka!”

 

And then maybe I…played with myself.
But it’s not what you’re thinking–
I’m saying possibly I just sorta
stuck my hand up from the water, going:

 

 

(HERE I HOLD MY HAND UP LIKE A SOCK PUPPET
WITHOUT THE SOCK AND MY HAND TEASES ME
IN A HIGH, SMUTTY VOICE):

 

HAND: “Somebody got laid last night!
Ha-ha-haaaa!
It was youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!!!”

 

Or whatever.

 

And then maybe I…played with myself,
and it’s exactly what you’re thinking.
But if I did, it was only to put
the mental motion picture of our naked night together
on replay and replay and replay
so touching myself was just like…
Tivo in a way.

 

And yes, I was still wet when I borrowed your bathrobe.
And yes, I baked apples in your oven
and then ate them with your honey, honey.
And yes, I scared the birds away from your balcony
with my antics, dancing full-blast
to your old Prince CD’s–
but please let’s just keep that my little secret,
because nothing is as private as a solitary dance
unless–maybe–it’s standing in front of a full-length mirror
in a borrowed pair of bunny slippers,
slipping off a bathrobe and then wishing to a lightbulb
that my name, or my game, or my whatever were bigger,
wondering: “What kind of woman wants this skinny kid for her warrior?”

 

And so I made for you a kite, enormous,
out of coat hangers, brown paper bags
and the masking tape from that drawer in your kitchen,
and I hung it in the hallway
where you couldn’t hardly miss it,
and I tagged that kite with my words,
I wrote:

 

Just so you know–

My weird mind wanders and my brave heart breaks.
I’ve nailed some milestones, but I’ve made mistakes,
Cuz I got more faults than a map of California earthquakes.

I am taking a nap beneath your covers.

Wake me if you like me.
Wake me if you want me
Wake me if you need another poem.

 

Your once and future lover
has made himself at home.

sunday in obs

One thing I love about living in Obs in Cape Town is that it’s full of artists, hippies, weirdoes and whack jobs.  Often talented ones at that. 

 

 

Living in its streets could mean naked chicks, mozzies or overfriendly barmen, often all at the same time.  Any number of interesting fringe stuff happens in the bars and cafes and second hand book shops.  

 

 

I might be a wee bit old for this suburb*, but it never fails to cheer me up.  Wandering about this Sunday afternoon with my delicious lover, LB, recovering from a fab evening of drinks at my local, MUCH spoilage in the birthday present department, and a low key lunch with my mum, we spotted the following street art and posterage, which I share here for your enjoyment and edification….

 

The perils of graffiti statements; running out of wall space (doh!)

 

St. Chihuahua; patron of handbag multitasking everywhere

 

And while you’re down there….

P.S. Jesus drinks Jack….nice!  I might reconsider this whole atheist thang.

 

I just love phat titties, don’t you? 

 

 

It makes my heart all warm and fuzzy.

 

*It’s close to the University.  It’s filled with bars and clubs on its high street.  The wheel of karma has turned.  Now I’m that woman leaning out the window at 3am screaming “shut the fuck up”.  *sigh*

 

P.S.  Could I have three tequila’s and a barfight for the birthday woman in furry slippers! Happy happy happy, Ms Fae.  I hope it brings you everything you heart desires, <i>and</i> some extra manflesh thrown in, just for fun.