The return of The Return of Elvis Du Pisanie hit me on two levels.
Firstly that I am watching one of the most perfectly crafted and celebrated one-man plays ever to come out of South African theatre.
Secondly that I am watching this historical work of art being performed by a living historical work of art.
But I am also impacted on a third level during a one-on-one with Paul Slab himself- but more on that later.

Behind the play: Premiered 12 years ago to a record-breaking harvest of awards and international engagements. In a nut shell- it was and still is the mother of all South African one-man shows. Many top South African playwrights attribute the birth of their writing consciousness to this production. A veritable master class in conceptualisation, writing and acting. When it comes to good strong skilful drama, it seldom gets better than this.

Inside the play: Paul builds his deceptively simple tale of a working class man saved from suicide by an Elvis Presley lullaby- on the nostalgia of an Old South Africa. This is Amadeus for the Ducktail. One can literally feel the approach of Globalization, still a newborn baby waiting in the wings. In a style similar to the movie Life is Beautiful, there are sepia references to the seething political landscape. These lap so inoffensively on the edges of the narrative one is easily seduced giving more power to Paul’s vision for this play. In particular, (although I have seen this play 5 times before), the cameo of the two land locked men building a boat, still packs a pathos-filled punch. It lies somewhere between biblical fairy-tail and Faustian melodrama. Just one of the many awesomely conceived vignettes. Into this heady mix of forgotten brands and pop icons of yesteryear, he injects love, obsession, and destiny; playing an array of characters as diverse and skatty as a Tintin Annual. The passion of Presley and the passion of our Witbank hero are as prophetic as they are redemptive.

Slowly, as I observe this production in action, it occurs to me that between the first time I saw this play twelve years ago and now, Paul Slab has continued to deliver massively diverse work. Shaping, healing, liberating work. Paul has moved effortlessly from political and stage icon with Saturday Night at the Palace currently enjoying a long overdue revival, to sports icon with his kit bag full of popular sport productions, which in themselves have spawned a new generation of playwrights and audiences. In short a holistic unparalleled career many can only dream of. After Fugard surely Slab is King of South African Theatre.

Many people saw his departure from Elvis straight into Heel Against The Head as a betrayal. From high art to consumable slapstick. At its height, Heel played to sold out performances for 28 straight weeks. The people loved it. After that came the Comrades Marathon play, Running Wild- also a massive success.
But between all this are the profound Once a Pirate, the story of an Orlando Pirates supporter, and Crashing the Night, about white-collar hooligans and black drug lords.

There is most definitely a schitzophrenic audience out there when it comes to Paul’s legacy. Paul considers Fordsberg’s Finest, (a gift to legendary Marius Weyers) as his finest play. Yet those who love Crispen and Tjokkie from Heel Against The Head are likely never to have heard of it. It’s like Mel Gibson of Die Hard to Mel Gibson of Hamlet or The Passion of The Christ.

I ask, “Is it not perhaps his departure from Heel Against The Head , back to Elvis the actual betrayal- the pending career suicide? Don’t you know that people have lost their appetite for serious drama no matter how brilliant?”

Paul reckons, “It all comes down to economics I guess. The plethora of one-man shows that dot our festival programs are there for economic reasons”.

It’s a slap to me that THE Paul Slabolepszy could be “you know struggling” when he should be enshrined. After all, our youth are studying his plays as set works.

“Well don’t you think the people owe you something. The Government? Arts Pensions? After all that you have contributed,” I whine –

Paul sits back and I see that inner strength that shines in Elvis as it does in Cripsen. “ No one owes me anything”. Paul shoots my marshmallow-outlook between the eyes. And for a moment it’s difficult to tell one of Paul’s many and unforgettable characters from the other, the Artist is revealed. And my lasting impression of Paul Slabolepszy is that of a man who loves his family, his work and his public, passionately.

The foyer of The Hilton Hotel in Durban defies categorisation when it comes to interior design. Whoever was accountable for this sonnet to confused taste was clearly multitasking at the time as a modernist junkie, ordering dead wood art from a middle eastern leper on his way to the Durban July Handicap, while taking full advantage of the tiling specials at CTM. “A perfect venue for a Mind Games interview, don’t you think?”

I am nervous to meet Marc Salem of Mind Games for a coffee and a chat since I wasn’t exactly bowled over by his show. Perhaps because I grew up in a family of conjurers, surrounded by mind readers and magicians; I’ve seen plenty in my time and I don’t want this interview/review to appear arrogant or biased. But Marc makes me nervous because of the pedigree of academic titles he has after his name, (not to mention the press hype accompanying this show). Perhaps he has really learnt to know something I don’t; And I am worried he will try one of his tricks on me; Since I sometimes feel I am a clumsy crime scene littered with evidence, I fear I am easy pickings for someone who earns his keep from reading the signs.

I arrive at the foyer of The Hilton Hotel and I am disheartened to find him already there waiting: busy with his palm-pod. He has had time to prepare for me and now he is armed and dangerous.

We make our introductions and Marc immediately make me feel at ease. A trademark I noticed during his performance. “I am with you now as I am on stage.” A declaration I do not dispute. Marc makes a point of welcoming the audience into his home (the theatre) and his self-depreciating quips quickly help us kick back and relax.
After the show I notice how he shakes hands with the audience as they leave. I see they are easily seduced by his genuine charm and American accent.

So how does he enjoy South Africa and how are we as a country doing, in his opinion as a visiting minstrel? “Very well”, he replies confidently as if the results have just come in. “Baby steps; You’re a young country. Even the States, which is only 250 years old, is a teenager compared to Europe which is thousands of years old.” We talk a lot of human politics. The South, Robben Island, Chicago, District Six.

He then goes on to say how that the ANC will win but needs to explode from within for it to have real strength. “Everyone needs to own a piece of the ANC. But there are very tough times ahead.” This is said with such surety, it startles me. Tough times as in Civil War or tough times as in a 3 cents hike in the petrol price? And that is what Marc Salem’s show is sometimes about. Those rhetorical grenades he throws out. The generic all knowing comments he makes with such confidence during the show, that help secure some of his more shaky claims, knowing full well, we (or he) won’t be around to say I told you so. And while there is quite a bit of this sort ambiguity, there is still a fair amount in his show to amaze.

Suddenly we talk intensely from John Edwards to Houdini to David Blaine. I ask him what he makes of the discovery that John Edwards is a fraud. Marc side-steps this googly with such dexterity, he would do well were this a Primary Election Campaign. But he does go on to explain how that John Edwards tells you things you already know, not things you don’t know; like if you knock down the kitchen wall, of the second house you ever lived in, you will find treasure embedded in the walls.” From this I deduce Marc is not a fan of people who claim to have some form of supernatural influence to their work. For him, it’s about being hypersensitive to the coded signs that are already there. A nice angle; I hide my bitten fingernails.

Magic is one discipline that really accelerates the suspension of disbelief. I have seen grown up academics, intellectuals and hardened businessmen toss their brains to the creepy crawly at the drop of an invisible hat. Indeed it is the one art form that still elicits real reactions of amazement from an audience across the age and cultural divide. Perhaps it is the last bastion of true live theatre. A brilliantly performed, “now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t”, will always enjoy elevated status above even the most skilled circus jugglers and acrobats.
David Copperfield remarked that the reason he became a magician when he was a youngster was because he was a nerd. A comment that gets most magicians laughing with agreement. The ability to do something that will inspire awe and amazement (hopefully in the opposite sex), and thus, to be perpetually hounded by, “how do you do that?”) The real art of the magician is to make the feat look as impossible as possible while retaining an air of ordinary humanness. David Blaine will often faint for effect.

So what does he think of David Blaine, (my personal favourite when it comes to blurring bullshit and bleeding heart boldness)? Marc casually mentions how David often comes to see his show but won’t last long in the bigger picture, what with no stage show and heavily edited television programs.
But these are all the factors I feel contribute towards making David Blaine such a subversive hero to the masses. That and his outrageous acts of meaningless extravagance! Standing alone on a tiny platform on top of a very high column for days on end in the centre of New York City, surely this is Mind Games in action, at it’s very best! And as for the edited Television shows; yes, there was a day when a heavily edited magic show spelt instant doom for that magician - especially if the edit occurred during a trick, (anyone can sneak an elephant into an envelope during a break), but David Copperfield did away with those small cardinal rules when he made the Statue of Liberty disappear before a live audience. PA-LEASE!

“There are moments in your show where it falls uncomfortably between three posts. The magician, a mind reader and a spiritualist. I wasn’t sure what you were trying to say about yourself and your skills, or what you wanted us to deduce from particular effects.” I check myself, am I taking this a little too seriously?

“I don’t want to be put in a box. I want to defy description. I want people to walk away not being able to explain what they saw. To tell their friends you got to go see for yourself.” I am not convinced by this reply. After all, this is not Kill Bill. This is about asking a member of the audience to count the cash in his wallet and then predicting how much he has.

I explain that my experience tells me South Africans want to know exactly what it’s all about before they will part with their 60 bucks. Marc shrugs and says
word-of-mouth will win them over.

Well among my circle, word of mouth wasn’t exactly a buzz on opening night. Sure there were people who could not contain their amazement at his accurate predictions; and he is smart and his tricks are polished. (To me these are a given). And there is a lot of talk about our local magicians and mentalists being able to do it as well or even better than Marc Salem.

Marc comes with a list of awards and seems to be quite a celebrity back home. I found his stage presence and patter to be quite ordinary. Are we being hoodwinked by the old syndrome of Overseas is Better? Have our critical faculties been watered down by Survivor and Pop Idols? Or is it merely that its been an entire generation since this kind of Vaudeville act strutted the stage. After all this show is heralded as Brilliant by the New York Times. And is sponsored by the Mail & Guardian!

I turn to the local professional magicians for their opinions and suddenly I hear the same old tired arguments. Most think Marc is polished and will do our local industry good. Comments I’ve heard for decades whenever a foreign magician comes to Africa.

And lets be honest, the show could really be jazzed up quite a bit.
In my opinion it’s a little too long for a start, especially without an interval. We’re talking mind puzzles here not spectacular scientific phenomenon. The predictions are too similar in their format, guess after guess. I wanted more mind gymnastics at it were. His opening warmer of calculating numbers that add up horizontally, diagonally, vertically and in groups all within 3 and a half seconds was impressive. But from there I felt it became relentless and murky.
To my mind, the neglect of the youngsters in the audience was sad; remember we are here to marvel at a live Ripley’s Believe it or Not! And considering the man has consulted for Sesame Street and other youth projects, his passing over of the many kids in the audience, was detrimental. These youngsters, as Marc himself cracked, are dying to be called up and I feel they would have delivered extra entertainment value not to mention awe and wonder even though it’s not strictly a kid’s show.

Perhaps a few slide projections onto the void behind Mark, of optical illusions such as Escher’s drawings, would have gone a long way to enhance and elevate the over all entertaining experience. Writing a prediction on a tiny piece of paper and getting the front row to read it out loud is a bit home grown for a show of such international hype.

But there are a few moments that defy belief; 1) When he guesses where randomly selected members of the audience went on holiday with attached anecdotes 2) When, blindfolded, he holds his hand above arbitrarily selected items from the audience and describes these items in detail.

“This kind of prediction puts your act into another sphere. Mind Games becomes gimmicky. I wanted to see something genuine,” I dare to venture. I feel like I want to expose him. “ Everything gives off vibrations and I am very sensitive to these transmissions, but not in a mystical fashion”. He goes on to explain how acutely sensitive blind people’s fingertips are, telling the difference between a R10 and R20 note.

But to me, this is where Marc gets blurry. How does one walk that knife-edge between being super sensitive and supernatural?

I ask him if he is religious and if he has ever been attacked by religious fundamentalists like our Sandy of SABC 3’s Numerology in Cape Town.
“ No I haven’t. But I am a religious man, my kids even more so. Coming from a Jewish background, (his wife is from Yemen and he has taught for many years at a Catholic University) I feel very grounded and secure in my spirituality”.

“Have you ever used your skills for Evil?” I was so hoping the answer would be yes, but: “No-”, he laughs and for a split second I’m sure I glimpse an evil Dr No, lurking somewhere in there.

Lets face it, if this man and his skills are genuine, couldn’t they be of enormous value to society. Imagine how his powers of discernment would speed up the criminal prosecutions in this country. Marc has been consulted on the jury selection of many prominent American court cases and he has been called upon to train many police officials to assist with their work. “But its always one person removed. I will never put myself in the position of impacting on someone else’s life or destiny. Never to judge guilt from innocence”, says Marc.

Again I am not satisfied. After all, we leave that sort of thing to a machine in the form of a lie detector test. “I know of people in my profession who do that sort of thing”. Marc says this with discomfort in his voice”.

Then he turns his attention to me: “There’s an incomplete novel somewhere inside there”, he quizzes pointing at my chest. (There it is again, that vague, nearly correct ascertainment). I wasn’t sure if he was referring to my life in general or to the 4 plays I am writing to commemorate the 10 years of Democracy in South Africa. Either way I bat this advance for six and return the focus to him.

As my party made their way down the plush Playhouse staircase away from Marc Salem’s Mind Games, I noticed a laminated yellow A4 sheet with the following challenge. “Standing reward of 100000 dollars is offered by the producers of Mind Games to any person who can prove that Mark Salem utilises plants, stooges or concealed electronic devises to aid him in the remarkable events of this program”. Quite a dare in a country of such massive unemployment as Sir Alex Ferguson will tell you!

I swear I saw him using a Swami Gimmick for many of the predictions and a Himber Wallet for the Spy- Challenge; After all, if he is so confident about his predictions, why not write down the answer to a question, hand it over to a neutral person and than let’s share the answer together. The predictions are in his hands till after the results are out. But hang on, getting a bit too serious again when it all comes down to a bit of light-hearted entertainment really. And probably I would want to bust him if he claimed to be a person with superhuman powers. But at the end of the day my lasting impression of Marc Salem is as a man who has found another wonderful career later in a life that’s been peppered with remarkable events. A dad to three grown sons and a grand-dad to two little girls; Making him potentially one of the coolest grandpappies this side of the Sahara.
I suppose the biggest Mind Game of all is to get us to believe that this is a superior world class act. Tell me what you think.

Every once in a magical while an event is born and takes off. An event so unique that it really does change one’s life. So powerful that it goes down in history as the event that defines an époque. For Durban’s conscious elite, that event must surely be Red Eye.

That unmatched, unparalleled art happening begun back in 1998. The only local event other than international music concerts and festivals, worth travelling the length of the country to attend. Enchanted outbursts such as Red Eye, are dependent on an explosive concoction of strong personalities, ethnic mix, the economy, the location, climate(?) and finally, a healthy dose of serendipity.

This orgasm of creativity held initially on the first Friday of every month, was kicked into orbit by a handful of powerful people. One in particular worth mentioning is the unstoppable Suzi Bell.

This modern child with mike in hand, would educate ignorant audiences as to what they were observing. Who will ever forget her blood red devil horns and multi cultural, post religious wardrobe? Suzi was a key figure on the Durban artistic and creative map, pushing boundaries and in particular that of the Durban Designer Collection, (DDC.) One year she insisted in hosting the fashion show in Kings Park Swimming Pool. The next year the DDC was held in the-still-under-construction skeleton of the gigantic Gateway Shopping Centre. Fashionistas were asked to don a hard-hat, good walking shoes and to sit on builder’s scaffolding. They risked a sprained ankle to view Durban’s finest fashion in an event potent enough to kick the yawning global couture scene in the teeth! Sadly Suzi left Durban, the DDC has been suitably neutered and sanitised, and its profile has diminished accordingly. The event is as bland as a Pop Idol dressed by Edgars!

But under her “Why-not? Who-says-it-can’t-be-done?” attitude, and the direction of many other visionaries, you can imagine how Red Eye flourished! A hedonistic mix of commissioned art meets sculpture meets performance art meets food art meets dance meets interior design meets fashion meets photography meets visual arts meets YOU! You name it, it was on show, rubbing shoulders with other art forms that in themselves, tickled through the elegant internal organs of Durban’s City Hall.

But as events of this nature grow, so to their life cycle and experiences begin to feed back into themselves. Red Eye was an essential shot in the arm for Durban’s hungry hip and happening cutting edge alternatives. Nothing creates more hype like honest word of mouth. Curiosity among the broader spectrum of Durban’s public was piqued and soon the madams from the suburbs with their paunched husbands in Lacost golf shirts came to ogle at this monthly spectacle. And ogle they did. At the unbelievable work of both Bailey’s, Brett and Beezy. At the scintillating Siwele Sonke Dance Company, at Piet Pienaar, at the magnificent food by Christa Van Onselen, the shenanigans of the Actor’s Cooperative and many more. The curator of the gallery Carol Brown, also one of the founding members, was ecstatic. Art in all it’s glory was the winner! Never had Durban’s art (both living, edible or nailed to the wall), been stared at by such a cross section of viewers in such volumes. Then came the madam’s children.

Senior school going teenyboppers with cell phones to SMS each other or dad to come fetch them when it was over. Another victory for the art gallery! Never had so many young people come to see and experience art in such close proximity and under such irreverent circumstances.

But as they say, “familiarity breads contempt.” These whimsical events have a most finite and fragile life cycle. In order for them to maintain their credibility, edge and appeal, they need to die or to be reinvented as other things. Red Eye began to ebb and soon once a month was too much for an easily bored populace. Once every three months had to do and now it’s held once every six months. Dare I say for now, this makes brews an even more potent event.

Red Eye moults for the 50th time on Friday 12 December. Wonderfully entitled, Red Eye IGNITES! The title is double-edged. Blowing away the years past, and making way for the year 2004.

Red Eye IGNITES will link up with the urban renewal project iTrump and will be painting the town red for Christmas of course. The awesome party begins in the Durban Art Gallery before taking to the streets and parks of central Durban. Artists and performers will showcase spectacular light sculptures and multi-media displays specially commissioned and curated for the event by the razor sharp Storm Van Rensburg of the NSA gallery.

Among those taking part will be the mind boggling Milijana Babic, Thando Mama, Jan-Henri Booyens, Dean Henning, Rike Sitas, Marklyn Govender, Clint Singh, Clive van den Berg and the godfather of Duran Art, Andrew Verster.

In true tradition, Red Eye will start at the Durban Art Gallery where the audience can saunter up the legendary red carpet steps in their glamorous gear to experience a fantastic line-up before moving back onto the streets.

The various galleries will play host to Siwela Sonke Dance Theatre and other companies curated by genius Jay Pather. The 2003 Standard Bank Young Artist Award winner, Berni Searle will also be there, that in itself should not be missed. The I-TRUMP City Renewal exhibition, a video screening of Peet Pienaar's controversial "Circumcision" performance earlier this year, fabulously funky fashion from Linea Academy, DJ's and lots, lots more!

A highlight will be a photo exhibition of the 50 Red Eye events which have been held since 1998 - a definite must see for those who fell in love and dated as a result of Red Eye! Some of the photographic highlights feature Steven Cohen's award winning performance, Brett Bailey and Beezy Bailey's "Blue Zulu", Peet Pienaar's popular untitled performance, lots of dance by the country's major dance troupes, visual art highlights, fashion and of course, social pics of Durban's most glamorous set.

And as if that’s not enough, - from the gallery the party moves round to West street and Medwood Gardens - an oasis in the city centre where the central fountain will provide a focal point where Red Eye pledges to set the night alight with a spectacular line-up of art, music and entertainment for everyone. If you missed the last one then this is your chance to catch-up!

Red Eye takes place on Friday the 12th of December from 6:30 pm till late at the Durban Art Gallery and Medwood Gardens. Cover charge is R20 and R15 for students with valid student cards.

“This kind of prediction puts your act into another sphere. Mind Games becomes gimmicky. I wanted to see something genuine,” I dare to venture. I feel like I want to expose him. “ Everything gives off vibrations and I am very sensitive to these transmissions, but not in a mystical fashion”. He goes on to explain how acutely sensitive blind people’s fingertips are, telling the difference between a R10 and R20 note.

But to me, this is where Marc gets blurry. How does one walk that knife-edge between being super sensitive and supernatural?

I ask him if he is religious and if he has ever been attacked by religious fundamentalists like our Sandy of SABC 3’s Numerology in Cape Town.
“ No I haven’t. But I am a religious man, my kids even more so. Coming from a Jewish background, (his wife is from Yemen and he has taught for many years at a Catholic University) I feel very grounded and secure in my spirituality”.

“Have you ever used your skills for Evil?” I was so hoping the answer would be yes, but: “No-”, he laughs and for a split second I’m sure I glimpse an evil Dr No, lurking somewhere in there.

Lets face it, if this man and his skills are genuine, couldn’t they be of enormous value to society. Imagine how his powers of discernment would speed up the criminal prosecutions in this country. Marc has been consulted on the jury selection of many prominent American court cases and he has been called upon to train many police officials to assist with their work. “But its always one person removed. I will never put myself in the position of impacting on someone else’s life or destiny. Never to judge guilt from innocence”, says Marc.

Again I am not satisfied. After all, we leave that sort of thing to a machine in the form of a lie detector test. “I know of people in my profession who do that sort of thing”. Marc says this with discomfort in his voice”.

Then he turns his attention to me: “There’s an incomplete novel somewhere inside there”, he quizzes pointing at my chest. (There it is again, that vague, nearly correct ascertainment). I wasn’t sure if he was referring to my life in general or to the 4 plays I am writing to commemorate the 10 years of Democracy in South Africa. Either way I bat this advance for six and return the focus to him.

As my party made their way down the plush Playhouse staircase away from Marc Salem’s Mind Games, I noticed a laminated yellow A4 sheet with the following challenge. “Standing reward of 100000 dollars is offered by the producers of Mind Games to any person who can prove that Mark Salem utilises plants, stooges or concealed electronic devises to aid him in the remarkable events of this program”. Quite a dare in a country of such massive unemployment as Sir Alex Ferguson will tell you!

I swear I saw him using a Swami Gimmick for many of the predictions and a Himber Wallet for the Spy- Challenge; After all, if he is so confident about his predictions, why not write down the answer to a question, hand it over to a neutral person and than let’s share the answer together. The predictions are in his hands till after the results are out. But hang on, getting a bit too serious again when it all comes down to a bit of light-hearted entertainment really. And probably I would want to bust him if he claimed to be a person with superhuman powers. But at the end of the day my lasting impression of Marc Salem is as a man who has found another wonderful career later in a life that’s been peppered with remarkable events. A dad to three grown sons and a grand-dad to two little girls; Making him potentially one of the coolest grandpappies this side of the Sahara.
I suppose the biggest Mind Game of all is to get us to believe that this is a superior world class act. Tell me what you think.

I have to meet Justine Nurse for coffee. He is in Durban to launch his new Laugh it Off Annual, South African Youth Culture. It’s not easy planning an interview with this kind of agitator. How would the man prefer to be dined? His reputation suggests anything franchised would be out of the question. So does one take him to a trendy foodie for a poached egg on health toast, or to the warm golden-brown bakery around the corner for a coffee and croissant?

We settle on Sprigs the breakfast heaven of Kloof run by a pair of angelic gourmet twins. Deliberately I take Justin past the table where crystal jugs of water are crammed full with ice and bits of fruit. We pour ourselves a glass of flavoured water. He is delighted and impressed by this novelty; I deduce the man has a taste for the finer things in life and for the unusual.

It’s a beautiful late Spring morning and we sit out on the deck even though he is a non smoker. It’s difficult to tell with these activists. Either they smoke which is part of the soul activist image, or they don’t which is part of the spirit activist image. Just who and what exactly, is Justin Nurse?

Small talk while the waiter arranges our cutlery: Justin was born and raised in Cape Town and already in Std 7, was the Editor of the school magazine.

Justin orders a lentil omelette with basil pesto and chilli chutney. I order a poached egg on health toast and of course, I notice his T-shirt.

What initially looks like a red smudged graphic soon focuses into the T-shirt that caused all the trouble. Only this latest edition has the appropriate bits censored by blunt black lines and disfiguring square blocks, (the kind they use on TV to hide the identity of criminals.) The SAB nightmare has turned into pure art. I covert this T-shirt as I compare my poached egg to his gourmet omelette.

For those of you who never got to hear the tail end of the SAB case, well that’s because it isn’t finished yet. Justin lost that case but won the right to appeal.
Miraculously SAB’s sales for 2002/2003 were not affected by the naughty T-shirts so they couldn’t win on defamation charges, but rather on the judge’s ruling that the T-shirts were too close to hate speech? (Go figure.)
The nasty bit is that SAB now want written securities that their legal costs will be covered or they won’t permit the case to proceed to appeal; a point that pisses Justin no end, concluding that now only the rich can dictate whether a case may proceed to the next level. The bill for this round of fisticuffs is due to set SAB back approximately R260 000. Should the case be heard on appeal the cash register khachings to R350 000. Justin tucks into his omelette with vigour. I sip contemplatively on my orange juice, “that’s a lot of T-shirts!”

I mention how word on the street is that even though SAB won their case, they definitely lost the war in the PR department. This is not news to Justin. He goes on to inform me of breaking news; the revelation of SAB’s devious tax evasion schemes freshly reported in Nose Week (ardent supporters of Justin) not even 72 hours prior to our meeting. (Watch press for details.)

A: There is a growing assumption, with this court action against you, that your T-shirts only target companies with dubious business track records?

J: Not true. Take the Domestos ad in the Annual. We wanted to do something about domestic violence and we found a product that embodies domesticity and with the kind of name that we can turn on its ear. My mission is to get people to look and think again. In the case of the SAB, when they attacked me, I had to defend what I stood for and that made me do some serious research into the company’s practices, which opened my eyes to draw even more unsavoury conclusions about the corporate world and how it operates.

Justin tells how that there are hoards of brands that now want a piece of him because of his T-shirts but they are all polite enough to wait in line. The final ruling on the SAB case next year should collapse their card castles either way.

Justin eats his breakfast with a passion that implies he is doing the food a favour by assisting it to fulfil its destiny and suddenly I feel small. Like I am talking to a young prince who is oblivious to the power he may yet yield. He talks strongly about poverty in South Africa and when asked about how optimistic he is about this place he reaches for the chilli chutney. He says the loves this country and I believe him. While his mates are safe guarding themselves by working for pounds in London, Justin believes this is the place to be. The opportunities here abound.

A: I don’t know any 26 year olds mature enough to tackle corporate conglomerates for such “ethereal” reasons, let alone face them for weeks on end in court.

J: It’s been hard. Every day in court is a day away from my work. I am tired.

And as we eat and chat he doesn’t live up to the anti establishment enfant terrible
I thought he would be. He cares deeply about wealth distribution and corruption. He wants a family (all in good time) and a small place in the Transkie. The Transkie?!!

But his heart felt question strikes me deeply. How does one affect change? Does one keep doing social work or does one make tons of money and employ 10 social workers to do the work with you? He is clear eyed about how far his T-shirts can go and their limited shelf life as socio-fashion items. (I wonder if the thundering SAB could ever have considered this argument.)

Trying to impress him, I tell him how disappointed I am that a subversive activity such as skateboarding has been bought, packaged and branded and the kids who skate can’t even see it. I tell him how convinced my son is that a pair of R800 Globe shoes will enable him to do that double kick flip he has been desperate to pull off.

Justin agrees. “The revolution has been bought, romanticised and sold back to the public as fashion. Images of Che Guevara are now fashion icons.” How prophetic? Little did I expect that after breakfast, I would see the cover of the latest edition of SL, with a picture of Steve Biko stretched over a babe's magnificent breasts. I can’t for the life of me remember the attached catch phrase.

He shrugs off the imitations to his T-shirts as inevitable. While Laugh It Off opened the South African door for expression on anti globalisation and brand subversion, all Joe Blogs really wants are the T-shirts that will get him laid. (Another point SAB overlooked?) I find his market research techniques fascinating.

J: Two T-shirts, (corrupting a food chain) were printed and sold next to each other. One read, “Sperm! Good for you!” the other read, “Spend! Good for you!” The first T-shirt outsold the other by hundreds.

But it’s not all bad as far as I can tell. Capitalism has been the longest running and most successful political system in history. Capitalism has enabled Justin to buy music from all over the world (a telling reference!) But perhaps it should be curtailed in some way. Justin then goes on to tell stories of exploitation, apparently volunteered by SAB employees, about some questionable SAB business practices on the ground; while the MD of SAB walked home with a pay check of 13 million rand last year…

I ask him if he has ever met a rich man he was inspired by and after careful consideration he says flatly, no! Even Bill Gates who gives gazillions to AIDS and poverty has been responsible for monopolising and pressing smaller companies out of business.

Breakfast has met its gastric fate; Justin sits back and checks his SMS’s. We get onto the Annual.

It is a beautiful book that feels great in your hands. And perhaps because it was recently my birthday I felt like it was a present. Published by Double Storey Books and Laugh It Off Media, it is a compilation of poetry, short stories, articles, cartoons, interviews and photographs. The contributions are bold and as one reads, one gets a strong sense that there is great mental and artistic power emerging among this country’s youth.

The lay out if modern and the concise nature of each chapter is an asset, especially for a flighty reader. Like a shot of caffeine; enough to keep your mind busy for the rest of the day.

I am particularly struck by the Mc Donald’s cartoon by Patrick and Alex Latimer, full of pathos and rudely underwritten by a naive menace most sinister. Among the many contributors, Kgafela Oa Magogodi, Andy Davis, Tom Eaton, Jak Koseff, Peter Machen, Steve Blues, Toast Coetzer, Karen Zoid and Zolani Mahola are all powerful and revealing. The veteran of the pack, Pieter-Dirk Uys (god father of this Annual) writes simply yet profoundly about the ravages of AIDS among the youth. I was honestly moved.

A: How about getting this Annual into schools as a Matric set work?

J: We are making moves in that direction. Not easy but we are trying.

A: So how did you get young writers and artists to contribute to this Annual in the first place?

J: I posted an ad on our website. We gave people who responded a month to come up with a contribution and then we began pruning. My hope is that more and more people will want to write for this Annual in the future and that it will be seen as a prestigious reference.

Judging from this edition I have no doubt this destiny, like Justin’s breakfast, will be fulfilled. Our Cappuccinos arrive.

But the Annual has cost Justin. He is tired of deadlines and checking for spelling mistakes and the last three months have turned him into a keyboard koeksister, something he would rather not be doing. The desk job has kept him away from other passions like sports and relationships. He is a fine rugby player he tells me. A comment I find most intriguing since isn’t playing rugby about drinking SAB beer and drinking SAB beer about playing rugby?

J: And the joy of the Annual was lived in its initial compilation. Now it’s the schlep work of getting it distributed. Exclusive Books and CNA have come on board and at R120 a copy (the price of a CD) makes a brilliant Christmas present don’t you think?

A: I agree.

It is as we sip the dregs of our Cappuccinos, and conclude our interview that I catch a glimpse of the real Justin Nurse. His disgust for how far branding has reached into our hearts and minds. Nothing is sacred. How dare Diesel pronounce themselves the sponsors of Happiness? Is this poetic advertising license? Or is this overstepping the human mark. I tell him that’s nothing; our local radio station was the proud sponsor of summer surf, the sun and the sea!

I shake hands with this brave man I will be keeping track of and I pay for Breakfast.
(A supportive gesture considering what the man has been and is going to go trough.) When I get home I turn to the desecrated Diesel ad in the Annual on page 104. “Inadequate is how the media make you feel so that you will buy what they are selling…” Its almost like a preach, but it’s also the kind of stuff I keep yelling at my kids.

Extra Mild Mark

If you love stand up comedy but are tired of hard core in your face stand ups that bully you into laughing at yourself, then head on down to The Catalina Theatre and catch the 007 of current comedy, Mark Lottering. I for one was keen to see our legendary Mark live since my only reference for him has been tele-visual. From the iconoclastic Nando’s ads and his own talk show, to the televised opening of the Cricket World Cup ceremony earlier this year.

In he saunters, smooth as a Ferrero Roche bomb of the finest chocolate with hair to match, those lips, and those non-existent hips. Dressed in a black suit with glittering red pin stripes Mark’s opening volley is impeccably cast, immediately reeling in the residue of die-hard sceptics in the auditorium.

What follows is a tight selection of contemporary jabs at South African life complete with references to shopping bags, TV commercials, grunge kids, vegetarians, airports, ugly relatives and ex-pats living abroad. (Phew! Not a single politically incorrect joke masquerading as “funny” any where in sight!)

Stuff you may have thought you’ve heard before. But it’s the foundations from which Mark delivers this particular show that reveal his craftsmanship. The underlying motif is a strong family bond with parents and siblings all of whom appear throughout the show and either sing or moer their way into your heart. Family is in and nostalgic. Everyone nodded with affectionate cooing at those hilarious references to house hold brands Rama Margarine and Holiday Inn. Even shopping bags from Woollies and Shoprite Checkers are part of a clan. It’s in these sequences that the glittering red pin stripes in his suit burst into flames!

Constantly smiling and with a gentle self-effacing attitude he glides around from topic to topic. Embellishing on the previous statement, comment or jib, undercutting the punch line and with a flourish, delivering the final blow. One imagines Mark would make a fine chef or painter. He is sensitive not only to the pallets of the audience but also to how the dish is being prepared. At times the speed with which he layers his patter and anchoring remarks (upon which he later builds) is so fast and the results are so dense, his work almost takes on a Baroque quality. Just when you think the ETV sign language routine was a highlight, he later adds that to Rebecca Mahlope’s twelfth official language. Mark’s effortless delivery is reminiscent of listening to the coolest Jazz in the smoochiest environment.

There are stand ups that shoot from the hip. Then there are stand ups that shoot from the computer, learn the lines and then shoot them from the hip. Both have their place and depend on the performer’s temperament. Mark’s delivery leaves one unsure as to his modis operandi and there were no hecklers in the audience to test his skills any further. But his energy leads with grand visions of seeing him firing from both guns as he flies through the air. His physical comedy is minimal thereby enhancing the effect. I will not easily forget his hilarious silent performance as he recounts the moment he saw in the newspapers, a picture of the lady who was to become politician Peter Marais’s “lollipop”.
But there were a few dead moments. Being a sensitive performer that Mark appears to be, I put those dead moments down to site-specific cultural references. And they weren’t crushing, more like the silence between tracks on your favourite CD. While his departure to the piano for two shrewd songs was wonderful, his foray into the three character sketches didn’t fare as well. The ill-mannered audience used these interludes as cues to leave the theatre to go to the loo. (Are grown ups really expected to hold it in for a full hour!)

Perhaps it’s just that character work requires something different from an audience. Suddenly you can’t just laugh uproariously; instead you are required to construct a puzzle from the pieces he is giving you one by one. (And later, the Avril Levin generation did not reach a satisfying conclusion either.) I would rather have just listened to the man make me laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

I was relieved Mark never abandoned us there but came back and delivered more bouts of tight comedy and what telling and better compliment than when suddenly its over and everyone complains, “What? 90 minutes already?” Forget the movies this week baby! 90 minutes of magic, mellow and marvellous Mark is time much better spent.

Move or I’ll Moer You!

Just when you think South African theatre is losing the plot, along come Corne and Twakkie. These two guys take the plot, throttle it, kick it in the goolies and bury it under a ton of bullshit. In fact their Breakfast Bonanza is the biggest load of crap I have ever seen and I just cannot wait to see it again and again and again! It is crap of the finest vintage, the stylings of which you will seldom see in this country. And as South Africa ponders whether she looks nicer in a global or local identity, these guys remind you just how wonderfully revolting it is to be of the South African species. On an artistic level however, these guys are sharp and their work flies in the face of everything we consider to be good and proper fourth wall theatre.

One arrives at the arty-farty retro restaurant, Home, to find the guys literally kipping on a couch. You feel like you’re the one who’s woken up in the middle of a jam-packed Margate caravan park in the middle of Easter. No make shift stage, curtains, lights or wings. OK, so this isn’t going to be a creative cabaret with an aging alcoholic queen at the piano!

The Breakfast Bonanza is high-comedy-trailer-trash-interactive-theatre where the audience are the theatre through a series of skits and episodes meticulously honed to make one and all look as charmingly ridiculous as possible. The show is a road trip and you might just end up as road kill!

The apparent hap-hazard flavour to their work is presented by two performers of mind boggling talent who possess a clear driving vision of the Long Term Scenario. So committed are they to reaching Cult Status by the end of next week that they don’t grant interviews as Rob van Vuuren and Louw Venter (oops!) At every public opportunity they are Corne and Twakkie.

So there they are, Corne and Twakkie walking around in their hand me down sleep gowns with all sorts of enhanced body parts suddenly exposing themselves like terrorists. The feeling is reminiscent of the first time you ever saw some porno, how you just couldn’t help watching! Corne in particular with a “package” to rival the Titanic, brushing his teeth from a mug my wife realises in horror may have been the same one from which she later had her coffee.

The guys are masters at finding exactly what it is that stands between a performer and an audience; and like surgeons on coke, they hack these stumbling blocks away until its just you and them in a Tarantino face off commissioned by Abba. They walk the tightrope that distinguishes Buffoon from Clown with the agility of a Vervet monkey on a telephone line. A compulsory master class for every drama student serious about comedy. The smallest mask in theatre vocabulary is a smudge of red paint on the tip of the nose. These guys wear their red noses on their dicks! This is dangerous ambush theatre at its very best.

So often people dread attending stand up comics for fear of being verbally abused. But in this show the assault is reassuringly holistic. Being picked on or insulted by Corne or Twakkie is akin to receiving a blessing from a Hindi Yogi. These guys are so on top of their game and to my mind, more sensitive than a bat’s radar. They squeeze in an insult or compliment in such an underhanded manner you feel you are being secretly shown a fist full of black market diamonds. My teenage daughter was told in public that she was a sexy foxy bitch. She grew two inches taller right there and then!

I, along with a few other mortals got thrown into the arena when Twakkie was looking for bodies to assist him in a physical warm up demo. I thought with my healthy tan and good looks, that I coped with the star jumps and push-ups rather well. But the floppy fish was the limit! (I will leave that to your imaginations but lets just say Jane Fonda was never able to do that one.) And then the benediction; Twakkie lets every female participant know the tight buns she has, are a direct gift from his work out. But for me? Apparently my boobs are looking great which was bizarrely comforting considering how very sensitive I am about my atrophying pecks, as my wife and kids will tell you.

Like a never-ending Van der Merwe joke, except funnier, the show unfolds. You realise resistance is futile since everyone in the room including the chef, are all going to die a humiliating death at the hands of these two gladiators. The poor lady who ended up eating bacon, mouth to mouth with Twakkie on the couch, (I swear he let the bacon drop into her cleavage on purpose!) The poor guy who helped Corne with his nightmare-ish pelvic warm up exercises by having to lie on top of him. I admired how cleverly and gently they got another reluctant guy with panic written all over him, to throw an entire glass of water all over his own face, and no, I don’t think Corne holding a crowbar behind his back was ever a persuading factor!

But did they have to pick the only poor Indian man in the audience to be the coffee boy? Absolutely! But wait it gets better (or should that be worse?) The stirring teaspoon comes attached to the fly on the poor chaps apron! Then Martha Stewart meets Marilyn Mason as they concoct remedies for anyone with a hangover. And trust me, these remedies really work! Once you have died from a Tabasco poison overdose, you will never get another hangover ever again!

But why and how do Corne and Twakkie manage to tickle our funny bones so well without actually groping us? Least of all I think it has to do with the political landscape. Most of all, it has to do with their consummate skills as performers and their enormous hearts as human beings! These guys know and understand the dynamics and laws of theatre. They subvert them and carry that through to the Nth degree. Their theatre never ends! Even when the show is over and you make your way to the car, there they are ready to give you the most pelvic hug you will ever get without being able to press a lawsuit. All this in front of the car guard!

It is interesting to decipher our national consciousness from the current trend of jokes on offer. Why since the change of government do we have a plethora of blonde jokes? And since when did the changing of a light bulb, or the case of the road crossing chicken become so important? Closer to home, where have all the Van Der Merwe jokes gone? I am sure they are still out there if you look in the right wing places. And while we are on the subject of old Van, it has been interesting to note the depiction of the stereotype white South African male when it comes to recent theatre.
For years Van was translated into a thousand productions as a khaki clad watermelon farmer or postal worker. And to some extent he is still out there on our television screens in the form of the Castrol okes.
Playwright powerhouse Paul Slabolepski has been the undisputed champion of Van. His Heal Against the Head leads, Krispen and Chokky are descendants of his profound Return of Elvis Du Pissani, a turning point in South African theatrical history. And since then he has given us many permutations of this dying breed in his farces and other sports plays. These in themselves have spawned a million rip offs with far less talent and much fewer insights.

I wonder if Corne and Twakkie are not positioning themselves in our imaginations to receive the baton from an older generation who have become too removed to make an impact. While Krispen and Chokky were hen pecked husbands full of bravado when away from their wives, Corne and Twakkie happily help themselves to these same wives seated in the audience.

To end the show there is a Cook-Off between Corne and Twakkie’s hand picked teams. The rules are majestically lopsided and yet there they were, my own family and friends ready to kill each other over a tiny piece of cheese that would improve their recipe and make their captains Corne or Twakkie proud. And If I wore a bra for my sagging chest I too like the willing waitress would have sacrificed it as table decoration! That is how devoted the audience become.

Not too dissimilar to what Mike Meyers offered the planet with his Wayne’s World. The Breakfast Bonanza forms part of a sparkling inbred family of productions such as The Most Amazing Show and The Love Ship Aquarius. The work is pioneering and begs to be turned into a TV series. One without a government stamp of approval or with Jim Carrie and Adam Sandler playing our leads. Every time you catch it, it will be different. And catch it I urge you!

These Love Doctors stand ready in the wings to hug South Africa into healing wholeness. And while I considered Roy Sargeant’s recent Cry the Beloved Country to be a work of national heritage, I hope to see Corne and Twakkie among the statues in the forecourt pointing the way!

BEHOLD OUR BELOVED COUNTRY

Recently South Africa celebrated Heritage Day, which coincided with the Proudly South African Week campaign. This momentum towards self scrutiny did a lot to get tongues wagging about what that all really means. “What - how are you teaching your children to be South African?”, challenged a friend. While some celebrated cultural heritage and diversity with parties, others boycotted these oeuvres with anti violent crime protests.

It was with this debate fresh in my mind that I attended the first morning performance of Alan Paton’s Cry the Beloved Country at the Playhouse Drama Theatre, for senior school students to attend. 450 of them! Front rows, Crawford College and Durban Girls’ College; Back rows, Verulam Secondary and as fate would have it, I ended up somewhere in the middle surrounded by Vuleka School for the deaf.

I find deaf people energising to be near. They are a constant bubble and squeak of physical communication to which I can never be a part and I couldn’t help wondering if it was courageous or cruel to bring these kids to a play.

Maxwell Anderson’s and Kurt Weill’s masterpiece; the musical adaptation to Lost in the Stars launches the play and from its rich mournful tones one knows it’s going to be a moving trip. The deaf kids sink into their seats as if they are picking up the mood from the base of their backs.

But I am still asking myself whether this audience will stand for a high drama, 2 and a half hour long play about politics. Teens are easily bored, harder to impress and they have a very low tolerance for anything that smacks of insincerity, and sentimentality. How was this play going to hold up in the gaze of these modern kids?

The self assured pace, magical use of props and the physical dexterity of the actors’ opening scenes quickly set the tone for the rest of the show. It is so confidently displayed that it whips the carpet from under one’s feet. And that is where we stayed, humbled and almost on our knees at the beauty and pain on exhibition.

Nhanhla Mavundla, Roger Dwyer, Chris Gxalaba, Thobeka Maqhutyana, Matthew Wild, Morena Medi, Adrienne Pearce, Wiseman Sithole, Leon Liebenberg, Nkuli Sibeko and Johan Vermaak make up the bulk of this highly disciplined and polished cast, each a pleasure to watch. Skipping through various rolls like a boozy Sophia Town musical. Landing with conviction to the point that even their features appeared altered with every different character they played.

The two sides of the fence are played by Joko Scott and David Muller. I felt this was an uncomfortable pairing but hey, isn’t life like that? David Muller gives his James Jarvis a high pitched vocal efficiency which keeps the world at bay. It is with hands in pockets that he digests the news of his son’s death. But the production rests on Joko Scott as Absalom’s father, the Rev. Stephen Khumalo.

His stick like body and fragility registering every trial and tribulation he encounters as he searches Jozi for his son. In the second half, like whizzened Atlas dragging the world by his shoulders, one seriously worries the man will snap in two and not see the end of the play. His performance gave me untold satisfaction in that although I admire Hollywood legend James Earl Jones, he doesn’t come close to the depth of performance perfected in the role by our Mr Scott.

Then half way through the show all the Muslim boys in the audience have to leave the theatre to attend Mosque. Reluctantly and with commendable silence they leave.

The direction by Heinrich Reisenhofer was, bold and true. Opting to blend observation with dialogue is not a new concept but in this production it is done so seamlessly well and at all the right points, I still struggle to defy his judgment. Giving Alan Paton the epilogue via video recording filled me with new respect for the author. And the device of having a “school boy” wander from the auditorium onto stage to observe the unfolding drama up close and personal, only later to play the slain Jarvis’ son, was a stroke of genius.

One miniscule gripe that would be easy to remedy. The false slap that Mrs Jarvis senior gives her husband upon hearing of their sons’ murder, rang false. I didn’t buy it and neither did the audience. It was an old fashioned theatrical moment and although a small point it really deflated an emotionally charged scene.

Peter Cazalet’s set is the earth and Kobus Rossouw’s lighting are the heavens. Creatively conceived their symbiotic relationship works like a dream. One moment an urban waste land, the next the green hills of Natal, and when the rain comes, one can almost smell it.

Sculpting a play from a novel isn’t easy yet Roy Sergeant’s adaptation is of the highest order. Modern and bordering on filmic; a strong frame upon which to hang this epic. It is a thrown gauntlet to any theatre company in the world but beware, it is relentless as it consumes its actors.

And wow! How contemporary the play came across. How prophetic was Mr Paton. This love letter from him speaks so inclusively and so compassionately to all of us in 2003 about our history, the crime, the hunger, compassion, morality, rage, politics and forgiveness. Its like he knew we would see this one day and its like he knew that it is all these things that make us up to be South Africans.

And as an under twenty year old audience leapt to their feet in a standing ovation, dare I say a look of astonishment and wonder flashed across the faces of the cast, as if they felt the audience hadn’t been paying attention. But believe me they were! The speed of sign language among the deaf, ran dangerously close of breaking the sound barrier. It seemed though, that all the kids really enjoy the production despite being forced to attend.

And I left the theatre encouraged. If Durban’s dead and dying theatregoers couldn’t be bothered to see this profound piece of theatre by night (30 people booked) then their loss! Children from across the country are coming by day and they are hungry for it!

This is indeed a work of National Heritage and highly exportable, (will someone with a cheque book please send this overseas!) At a time when productions with singing and dancing South Africans tour the world speaking of the soul of this country, Cry the Beloved Country is a production that conveys it’s heart.

Proof that a Play about Maths can score Top Marks.

I don’t ever remember getting a boner from doing maths. But I can understand how some people do. There is something beautiful when a sum containing lots of numbers, letters and squiggles by Picasso multiplies, divides, adds and leaps itself perfectly into the desired or imagined result. Proving that life is futile and we are all going to die anyway. I loved maths (honest I did) but from the outside, like a peeping Tom. I found it too difficult to grasp and perhaps my dyslexia had something to do with it. But in Proof, maths is about love and sex. Those theories and complex calculations that make that other person up to be the ONE. And like a childish puzzle of one plus one equals two, Proof is deceptively simple. And for me that’s where maths, truth, love and life begin to blur.

Simply put, Proof is about Catherine, the daughter of a once brilliant Chicago mathematician who in his final years suffers a devastating breakdown. An invaluable Proof is discovered among his papers to which Catherine claims authorship. Her less talented sister Clare, and Hal a maths post-grad cannot find it in themselves to accredit the work to the young and moody Catherine. And through it all, one is left to wonder how much of her father’s genius or madness she has inherited?

There are 5 stars in Proof. In no particular order, star number one is Frantz Dobrowsky as Robert a maths genius who succumbs to lunacy and then later dies. His brooding performance as the maths-maestro living in Chicago, is suffocating. One feels gnawing panic every time he’s on stage, like a final maths exam when you don’t have a clue. Fraught with tension, and claustrophobic to the point of despair. Asking me to buy into his limited tenderness towards his daughter was like asking me to walk across a silk sheet covering broken glass. Every open gesture he makes runs the risk of running on with rage and insanity. I found it difficult to cut through my prejudice and to relax into the affection of those moments which is exactly what the scenes needed. And yet how I loved him as my own father. His delusional moment outside in the snow, was so layered and compelling that although I knew, that I knew, that I knew he was insane, I got suckered in anyway.
I have always felt Frantz is something of a National Treasure when it comes to stage performance. This performance only serves to confirm my sentiments. I suspect he could easily hold his own on stage with the heavyweights of Broadway and the West End, perhaps even earn himself a Tony.

Star Number 2: Clare Mortimer plays the older of his two daughters, Clair, living in New York, working as a currency analyst. Her opening steps through the French doors, was a brief master class on how close an actor can skate to realism and downright affected snottiness. There was just the correct tilt of the fingers as she prodded a damp croissant, her nose at the slightest degree of snob to the sun. One moment a tight arsed corporate cookie, the next a party animal with a hangover the size of a cougar. Put these all together and you get a performance that is satisfyingly wide in range and highly watchable. And I don’t know if it is her fragile and melancholic features, that betray her stoic intensions, but on a few occasions I was overcome with compassion for her proper character.

Star Number 3: Neil Coppen plays Harold Dobbs, a maths post-grad that worshipped the professor. Neil proposes an understated and tender opening scene. So precisely does he place his big feet in that delicate scene, one can just feel the audience, melt with respect and affection. His suitably incongruous wardrobe and lanky attitude reminded me of real young Americans with heart and a life ahead of them other than the Beavis and Buttheads we’ve become accustomed to. A tiny bit blustery when he sees things for what they are in the final scene but that is to split that wonderfully matted hair of his and to detract from a solid and well placed performance.

The fourth star is Olivia Borgan. She plays the genius second daughter Catherine, around which the play revolves. Olivia oozes an uncanny ability in realism and I would love to see how her craft translates into serious film work. She has a kind of trashy schoolgirl energy that is so articulate, sexy and free. Like Craig Davids, she makes it sound so easy. The scene where she reads her dad’s insane entry in a journal left me speechless and everyone in the audience in a self satisfied uproar, as if they had discovered the answers without her help. For those eternal few seconds, she rests in the power of the play. She does nothing but look down into her soul and one can hear the girl’s heart break into a thousand little pieces.

The 5th star in Proof is the script itself. And although I don’t want to kiss ass by proclaiming how great it is, (like it needs my endorsement), it is a gorgeous lesson in minimal script. God is in the detail, especially the argument about Pasta. There is no big emotional pay off at the end that is typically associated with narrative/character driven plays and therein lies its power. Just when you start looking for answers you realise they ain’t comin’. You suddenly find yourself at the end of the play and the wave has broken; you got drawn in and dumped ages ago and you didn’t even know it.