Theatre
Me, myself, I
by Natasha Hay
SEASON OF ONE, Silo, Auckland (to April 10).
From Tim Balme and Alison Wall to Jacob Rajan and Madeleine Sami, hungry young actors have frequently chosen the tough art of solo theatre to flaunt their wares. Of course, going solo is great exposure, but there’s a fine line to tread between self-indulgent showcase and standalone theatre with strong storytelling.
Silo’s Season of One offers three works that can be viewed separately or in a three-hour sweep. It was at the Silo that Sami first performed her exquisite gem No 2, but you won’t see the likes of Krishnan’s Dairy or No 2 this time. What you will see are three versatile young actors honing their craft in light works that range from quirky nostalgia and stoner intensity to outrageously camp.
The trigger for Kip Chapman’s Aro-ha-o-tearoa came from a serendipitous find of a slide collection in a junkshop. We are in a living room from the 60s, with floral carpet, stereogram and slide projector and it’s like witnessing a slideshow. Snaps of beaming ladies in frocks proudly displaying homebaking, chaps in walkshorts squinting in the unforgiving light and picture-postcard scenery form the backdrop for about 20 sketches of the tiny things that made us proud: cakes, committees, etc. Infused with a sense of nostalgic charm, Chapman’s caricatures evoke tearooms, groomed lawns, corrugated iron and lamingtons. Although a few sketches fall flat (particularly the pedantic Wahine survivor), the quirky songs (with musician James Milne) and slapstick comedic turns, such as a Peter Plumley-Walker drinking game and Ed Hillary sendup, work a treat.
Second up, Edwin’s Wright’s Bruised is a freewheeling work that recounts the strange events of one night when a stoned young man stumbles into an Irish pub. Originally a three-person show with seven characters, Bruised sees Wright play the lot. He expertly flits between them to give a superb study in paranoia and druggy myopia. The setting is an excuse for Wright to segue into some lovely lilting blarney and Yeats-quoting, but it’s hard to get a genuine sense of place. Fortunately, when the tale moves to the women’s toilets – cue scatalogical and masturbatory humour – Wright is so captivating that you can forgive anything. He’s the actor of the evening, displaying the greatest range and intensity. Pity about the writing, though, which swerves chaotically from manic to lyrical to absurdist.
But the standout show is Shane Bosher’s shamelessly self-indulgent A Star Is Torn. It’s the tale of a deeply untalented, overweight, gay egomaniac with mother issues who gets passed over for a role in the Wanganui Dramatic Society production of Les Miserables, so retaliates with a solo show, Gotta Sing! Gotta Dance! Shaped around a series of star turns and alcohol-fuelled musical numbers, it’s a lot like watching a car crash. Gobsmacked and appalled, you can’t quite look away. Bosher massacres songs with glee, heaves and puffs in a pink Lycra bodysuit and later – gasp – a silver jumpsuit as he performs with all the talent of a NZ Idol first-round reject and a rasping, adenoidal voice that could shatter concrete. Richard Head is a fabulously camp comic creation that draws inspiration from those Dynasty big bad bitches with big bad hair from his childhood. There is an art to making great bad art and Bosher happily surrenders to excess and does it his way.
