Philippos Philippou on Ubu Roi

I  basically love the play.

When I started my masters at the University of Edinburgh, one of the books we studied was the Olga Taxidou’s Modernism and Performance: From Jarry to Brecht. I wondered, and I said to myself: “hmm: I know Brecht but who the hell is Jarry?” After all, I am a stage director, I have to know. That’s one of my obligations: to study, to learn, to experience new practises and theories on theatre.

What I am trying to say is that I am always curious and open to the new; I am questioning everything around me. So I went to the library, and literary I “sucked” the Ubu trilogy in a few hours. I was shocked when I discover that Alfred Jarry was 15 years old when he wrote the first draft of the play. He was just a child and he came to change the nature of theatre.

The play is very diverse and is loosely based on many classical theater plays. One can see Shakespeare’s Macbeth along with traces from Moliere and Racine. It is magical, based on slapstick humour, Grand Guignol fantasy and extreme imagination. It is a stream of images that achieved to shock and alienate the critics and the audience.

Moreover, I am fan of cartoons and animation. The play offers the chance for experimentation in its most extreme form; and for me this is what animation and visual theatre does as well. However, the play appeared at a time when Europe and France was overwhelmed by naturalism. During its dress rehearsal the play was interrupted several times. Supporters of Naturalism, artists and critics were swearing, throwing chairs etc, which made me think that there are two significant reasons to stage Ubu Roi nowadays: to see whether a play from one hundred years ago could still speak or even shock the audience today, as well as to find a new way to tell its story through the incorporation of puppets with new visual media.

So after I submitted my Master’s thesis on Ubu Roi, I decided to give it a try:  To experiment with the play/toy of a child in order to study classic theatre and New Media.

Butterfly @ The Arches

Against the the scale and majesty of the source opera Madam Butterfly, Ramesh Meyyappan’s tale of love disappointed is a gentle and subtle response. Converting the story to a love triangle, with a butterfly catcher and a kite-maker replacing the American sailor and the Chinese mother, Meyyyappan pulls out the themes of male jealousy and aggression, slowly unfurling a tragic ending through a dream-like atmosphere.

Both the kite and the butterfly become symbolic of the battle between earthly reality and airy ambition: Meyyappan’s butterfly-catcher is more child than man, taking delighting in capturing the fragile creatures and applying a similar logic to his sexual relationship: the kite-maker, victim of another man’s rapacious desire and the catcher’s unreasonable jealousy is pinned (quite literally at one point) and destroyed by male aggression. The mixture of physical theatre – a choreography based less on than a developed mime vocabulary – and puppetry allows the story to become a series of episodes, each one revealed as much about the characters as the narrative.

With the overarching story familiar enough, Butterfly focuses on the underlying motivations.  Even in the halcyon days of the love affair, the immaturity of the man and the naivety of the woman are obvious. When the catastrophe happens, his response (of anger) is predictable: Meyyappan has crafted a character that is coherent and brittle, and the story evolves naturally from the competing personalities on stage. Charming, sensitive and thoughtful, Butterfly illuminates the opera, but stands alone as a meditation on emotional vulnerability.

Robert Morgan: Animated Nightmares

Robert Morgan’s website claims that he lives in a haunted house, and was born in ‘the cursed town of Yateley’. It’s appropriate for an artist who has pursued the darker side of animation, and follows a tradition that combines horror and psychological terror.

‘If I had to align myself with anything, I’d say that it belongs more to a weirder, arthouse tradition in horror films exemplified by the likes of David Cronenberg, Polanski, Lynch, Svankmajer, or the weird fiction of people like Thomas Ligotti, or the weird art of people like Alfred Kubin,’ he says. ‘But that’s a pretty rag-tag bunch.’

For manipulate, Morgan presents Animated Nightmares which brings together his award-winning work (his website has an impressive list of successes) and other work that has impressed him. Svankmajer’s Meat Love makes a welcome appearance, as well as a idiosyncratic horror that introduces unicorns to the genre.

‘I certainly think stop-motion animation lends itself to horror, in numerous ways,’ he says. ‘Other types of animation, I’m not so sure. But stop-motion is inherently an uncanny medium. It deals with bringing dead – or lifeless –  things to life, but it brings them life in a strange, mechanical, uncanny way. Personally I’ve always found that it lends itself more to weird and disturbing stories than the comedy its mostly used for.’

Svankmajer has undoubtedly demonstrated the uncanniness of stop-motion animation; his fragmented narratives evoke surrealism, but the disjointed movements and lurching puppetry lend his films an undercurrent of anxiety and absurdity.

Morgan’s films tap into that same anxiety, using the monstrous as a metaphor for inner turmoil: if the images aren’t frightening enough, their implications are.

The use of puppets not only allows Morgan to make fantastic creatures (Bobby Yeah is part-human, part demon), but imbue them with life and movements that are not quite recognisable, not quite alien. The atmosphere becomes tense, even as the characters perform the most mundane tasks.

This tallies with Morgan’s ideas about the potential of stop-motion, and connects him to ‘a rather vague tradition’ of film-makers who are intrigued by the darkness lurking beneath the mundane. Animated Nightmares showcases some of this work, celebrating technical skill but promising an unsettling evening.

MACBAG (TUESDAY 3 FEBRUARY Time – 6:05PM Price – FREE)

‘MACBAG is about the Creative Process, it’s a look at how we create work and how we can change our way of thinking and creating work,’ explains Leigh McCalister. ‘We started almost two years ago, working with Tim Licata, and the Macbeth story was one that just kept coming up.  Then last year we were lucky enough to get funding to work with Eszter Marsalko, a Hungarian dramaturg.  The work at manipulate is the result of ten days rehearsal and many weeks in the workshop, creating characters from recycled handbags.’

Clydebuilt Puppet Theatre has been making work since 1997, and has built a reputation for making accessible performance that is as at home in schools as it is in theatres. Leigh McCalister, artistic director does not make a strict distinction between the two sets of audiences: ‘We don’t really play schools any differently to theatres, we just need to take more stuff to make it work.  It’s never going to be the same as a theatre situation, but if you can make your performances work in a school, then a theatre is easy.’ With their sharing at manipulate, however, the company are exploring new territory.

‘Macbeth has always been with us,’ he says. ‘We met at a performance of Macbeth, Clydebuilt performed our first improvised workshop using the Witches from Macbeth.And it is such a good story: we wanted to see if we could adapt ‘the story’ rather than the play, but of course it’s hard to get away from the lines, so taking them out altogether was a bit of a challenge!’

Their sharing –  a free event – will allow McCalister and Steve Smart of Clydebuilt to discuss their process, along with Marsalko, as well as presents parts of the work. Certainly, their approach (‘the Witches are made from plastic bags and lights,’ adds McCalister) demonstrates the ingenuity of contemporary puppet making, and the possibilities it can offer even to the most familiar scripts.

‘Puppetry is fascinating, it is unlike any other art form as it combines so many skills together in one piece,’ McCalister continues. ‘Art, design, making, technology, observation of movement, writing and performing.  Actors can be restricted if their face ‘doesn’t ‘fit’ the part, puppeteers can be anything or anyone, all that is required is imagination and perseverance, it’s a hard way of life physically, but ultimately very rewarding.’

The Seas of Organillo (Phil Wilson)

It’s somewhat difficult to pinpoint exactly what’s taking place between Stephen Mottram’s bizarre aquatic puppets as they entangle themselves in myriad sexual metaphors. There’s an overbearing suspicion that you probably don’t want to know, either.

Touted as the place ‘where babies are made’, The Seas of Organillo gradually becomes a demonstration of sensual subjectivity – where some visual cues will clearly correspond to ‘traditional’ definitions of sexuality among the audience, others seem to make little sense.

This introspective sensation is fuelled by the otherworldly compositions of Sebastian Castagna, filtered through a homemade organillo. Once the curtains have drawn and the carnal waters vacated, the audience are treated to a dissection of this very instrument.

There’s a certain bravery to be admired about addressing a crowd moments after employing an assortment of mismatched objects, in a bid to articulate intimacy. As the instrument is unstripped under a spotlight, there’s an uneasy suspicion that the puppets were just the foreplay to a masturbatory encore.

As Mottram details the intricacies of executing a fluid piece of music, through an assortment of pipes, orifices and blustery bellows, the organillo seems as sexually suggestive in its mechanisms as the preceding performance. It certainly lasts long enough, at any rate.

Through multiplying schools of fish, intrepid anthropomorphic swimmers and the lengthy subdued unwrapping of an egg; the entire show is both an endearing and trying foray into the utter perplexity of creation.  And then some.

Bestiaires (Phil Wilson)

It turns out Cupid is a comically jaded, peroxide blond. Contrary to many a sickly sweet painting, the god of desire comes swaddled in a dishevelled suit, a vibrant thatch of facial hair and punctuates his colloquy with animated nips from a poorly concealed half bottle.

But more importantly: his feet remain firmly on the ground, often in a bid to adroitly manipulate a slew of unnerving, inanimate foam deities.

If this is sounding anything akin to poorly formed negative criticism, then I apologise; it’s actually poorly formed positive criticism. Duda Paiva Company’s contemporary twist on Greek mythology (financial crises, throbbing underworld electro music and loaded six-shooters present and accounted for) is an enlivening feat of dedication, precision and intricate puppetry.

Amid farcical infatuations, flamboyant dialogue and enthralling dance, is a towering taste of the sinister: a complex sequence of physical surefootedness depicting, in her full serpentine splendour, Medusa (puppet) throttling the flailing Athena (living, breathing human) is a difficult image to brush aside.

This could be a result of the show’s mechanics appearing in such a transparent manner. Cupid spends a large portion of his performance elbow deep between Persephone’s breasts in order to contort her torso in such a way as to reject his advances. It’s quite a sight.

Such a sight, in fact, that the audience is invited on stage, post-performance, to inspect and claw at the prone puppets themselves. As such, I can now proudly state that I’ve playfully tickled the distended belly of Hades.

By its very nature, Bestiaires is a lesson in excited disarray – although masterful in its physicality, its facetious tone threatens to unravel some of the tightly choreographed atmosphere. A lengthy, blunt monologue on the versatility of the word ‘fuck’ (pondered by the jiggling head of Zeus) feels abjectly misplaced.

However, even this one, tepid, criticism becomes somewhat moot when the same musing cranium later regurgitates Athena moments before she flourishes into celestial dance.

Bestiaires is an indefatigable, cracked examination; not only of Greek mythology, but also of the intricacies of humanity through its fascination with lust, desire, power and brutality – albeit, by way of divine beings.

Technically mesmerising and relentlessly enjoyable, it’s a performance that’s difficult to forget, and all too easy to admire; if only for Cupid’s fully loaded Eastwood moment with his shooter..

 

 

My Top Five Manipulate Moments

Coming in at number five, we have the invitation by a bewigged Cupid to the audience to ‘come and have a feel of the puppets’ (Bestiares). Only moments earlier, when the performers took their bow, I turned to Elliot Roberts and asked ‘where are the other two?’ before realising that Hades and Persephone were, in fact, the foamy objects on the stage and not, in fact, real people.

At number four, it’s Paper Doll Militia’s name. Sure, they are great at the aerial action, swinging on silks and spinning through the air, but the mash-up of hardcore action and gentle childhood toy makes their name one of the most evocative tags since cabaret-punk or progressive rock. But unlike the latter, they delivered on the promise.

An odd entry at number three: not getting tickets to Grit. I might have been sorry to miss the show – a moving reflection on war and childhood, but it is wonderful that a Scottish based company are selling out at a festival that has plenty of international presence. 

In at two, there’s Lonely Bones in the Tilt your Thinking compilation of animated shorts. I have always wanted to know what would happen if Nick Cave made a feature with David Lynch, and Rosto’s disorientating journey through multiple animation techniques, leering ghosts and vague occultists felt like a jam between a group of surrealists and the cast of the grand guignol.

But coming out at the top of the charts, it has to be the monstrous moment of monolithic mayhem when Planet Luvos went underwater and the five dancers became twisted creatures with hands for legs and bottoms for eyes. Neither horrific nor soothing, the contortions went beyond being impressive to staking out new ground for manipulation of the human body.

Bestiares (review by Sophie Macdonald)

People may have their doubts about puppet shows for adults but Bestiares would soon put those to rest. Its highly adult theme intertwines comedy, uncomfortable sexual scenarios and classic Greek tales set against the rocky background of Greece’s current economic climate. As always where Greek Gods are concerned, chaos quickly ensues.

The comedy isn’t for everyone – perhaps a little pantomime-ish, a strong  contrast to the mature content of the performance, but there are some subtle gems; Cupid’s more restrained, reproachful looks are hilarious and familiar and Persephone’s quest for love is both heart wrenching and funny.

Certainly not for the faint hearted, Bestiares involved some (rather crude) scenes, in one of which the head of Zeus essentially just said “fuck” as many times as they thought they could get away with, and another that had some rather questionable – but rather entertaining – nods towards bestiality, which quickly turned uncomfortable and sinister, much like many of the traditional Greek tales.

None the less, the performances were beautifully executed, it didn’t take long until you found yourself emotionally empathising with a foam puppet over unrequited love, the skill the performers had to control these larger than life props while making them appear autonomous is something to be marvelled at and I’m very excited to see what the Dudapaiva Company have up their sleeve next!

Grit (review by Marina Tselepi)

Grit; small loose particles of stone or sand: ‘she had a bit of grit in her eye’/ (with numeral) indicating the grade of fineness of an abrasive: ‘400 grit paper’/ courage and resolve; strength of character: ‘I’ve known few men who could match his grit’.

Having watched Grit by Tortoise in a nutshell, I left the venue with two controversial and complementary feelings; the emotional pain of a recently sharpened razor blade opening my soul, along with the fulfillment and euphoria that always embraces the audience of great performances. The story was moving in its truthful simplicity: Amy, a war photographer’s daughter is experiencing a trip down down memory lane, having discovered her late father’s archive. She elaborates his memories with her own, employing her imagination to understand his difficult task better and reconnect with him.

The most impressive thing was that the whole story was unfolding by using the visual vocabulary of a photographer’s daily routine. The procedures of absorbing different and sometimes very controversial images in sequence (family pictures with Amy and dad in front of a big cake following pictures depicting child-soldiers with guns and children with bandaged faces), projecting photographs and highlighting important details through playing with focus, clarity, blur and net, image formats, zoom ins and zoom outs, hanging photos on a string as in a darkroom.

The performers are at the same time puppeteers and invisible actors, even their clothes the same colour as the cardboard boxes that filled the stage.They were narrating multi-leveled visual stories through a puppet Amy, they were handling paper sketches and little puppets with astonishing coordination and at times they broke the invisibility convention and become actors themselves, affected by the cruelty of the conflict between the notions of war and childhood innocence they were representing, sharing their horror with the spectators in a creative and playful dialogue of silhouette and transparency.

The soundtrack was riveting, using flutes, drums and city hustle and bustle to create a touching sound map that connects eastern and western culture. The only verbal narrative was the photographer’s short and descriptive notes on his tape recorder.

The stories of children that became soldiers, killing and being killed without realizing how they got to that point, is depicted in a beautiful and clever way: they play in a field of grit that turns subtly into a battleground.Visual elements like windmills and shells were connecting different optical surroundings, as happens in a dream. A city is created from scratch out of reversed cardboards and paper rolls that depict buildings, roads, vehicles and human figures, including Amy and her father, in a black and white sketch aesthetics that recall the illustrations of Marjane Satrapi. 

 Inevitably, tanks invaded the city producing mass destruction and massacre. And there came the moment that I saw as the visual punctum, as described by Roland Barthes in Camera Lucida

, the moment that terrified my soul; a dead kid that could be Amy’s brother, sketched as a juvenile doodle, was hanged by a shaking puppeteer’s hand on the string. Pause. The audience faces the horror of our times. A child, alone, hanging from a thread for some terrible seconds. Just hanging there, on a string in mid air.

Children’s’ drawings are hung next to it. The audience is still in the silence that follows grave events when nobody knows how to react. Everybody’s breaths are synchronized. After that, a single shot brings the photographer down, to find his place on the string. In full silence. The performance ends with silent tears followed by enthusiastic applause.

Bestiaires by Dudapaiva Company (Traverse Theatre Edinburgh, Review by Elliot Roberts)

“Stay very still.”

Cupid, resplendent with a blonde comedy wig to jar beside his auburn beard, appears out of the darkness. As he stands there, elevated, toying with the bungee cord from which his microphone hangs, his stand-up comedian-esque patter washes into the audience. After a potential Freudian slip, in which we are thanked for our currency rather than our generosity, a sensitive question is broached.

“You have heard about the financial crisis haven’t you?”

This image comes to haunt Bestiaires: touches of the serious and the great, sparked with the irreverent and the absurd. The incongruity of this image, of a stand-up style introduction to antiquity by a Greek perched on a crate marked fragile gives a decent indication of the tone throughout. Immortal figures of Antiquity are awoken from their slumber amongst formations of rubbery rock to chide, undermine, and chase each other through dialogue shot through with modern colloquialisms.

What’s more, as we are told, a tint begrudgingly, in these times of trouble even the Greek Gods must do their bit to aid their beleaguered homeland. Cupid trades his bows and arrows in for a revolver, the underworld domain of Hades rings with the beats of a basement nightclub, the disembodied head of Zeus rhapsodises on the linguistic malleability of the F word, Hades is sold off to China against his will, Medusa bests Athena in a power-walking race, Hades returns to the pantheon again with a gut bulging large enough to merit a slapstick routine, and Persephonê in grief divests herself of her own puppeteer and echoes the oddly corpse-like resemblance of her own form

There are many examples of fine puppetry, with the three-strong company exhibiting skills as dancers, singers, performers and puppeteers. One strikingly powerful moment occurs between Athena and her puppet rival Medusa, as a violent scuffle breaks out, causing Athena to thrash and writhe, with each movement arcing into the puppet body of the relentless Medusa, whose hands close menacingly around her throat. As the brawl between slows to the point of stopping, and we fear her succumbed to the curse of stone, unfolding are stopped in their tracks by Cupid: “what are you doing? This isn’t even in the chapters of Greek mythology!”

As to whether reverence can or should be the reply to irreverence is a question for another time, there is still an unmistakable joy in seeing the company play. In hauntingly ventriloquist tones, as Hades croons his sorrow at being crammed into a packing crate, Hell, and by extension their antiquity, they tell us in apologetic tones “is our bestselling export.”