The world of festival is also the world of all of us.
And it is on fire.
Bush, forests, homes, people, futures, all burning up.
But not so much for a tiny handful of mega-rich sociopaths who have clawed and cleaved their way to the top, via the smoothest, or most ebullient propaganda, but also maximum use of rancid, specious manipulation and force.
This calamity of the polluted, impoverished, corrupted life system called Earth in the anthropocene, is of no concern to them. They are quite happy to watch us from their armed enclaves as we perish in the inferno while they dream of battening down the hatches and prepping their rockets for lift off to find another planet to fuck up.
For capitalism, in its extreme, harshest form — some say its true nature — is far too busy making more, consuming more, and destroying more.
One thing they need to keep on making all this moola is us. To do that, big capital, that miserable handful of money fascists, does not do the dirty work themselves.
For predation of the public, it uses agents.
And who best to invest and proliferate that capital better than estate agents.
In a teetering, crumbling society we are driven mad by these gargoyles of the mega-rich, the sales freaks, telesales smoothies, the disgraceful advertising industry peddling harmful ideas and products, More often, they are the agents of genocidal capital, (except when the NSRI calls).
The Agents is among the very best of 49 years or so of amazing Fringe work. The audience stood as one to give the show a standing ovation. They, we, recognised a small offering that is richer, and more illuminating than all the information mined by Facebook.
It happened right here in the Princess Alice hall now restored to its barren, sushi-less yard and sludgy side path entrance. We were back in a tiny, humble, honest space that has over the years delivered so much Fringe brilliance.
As Earth grows dense and foetid with our gases, it is of great comfort to know that shows like this are out here, entertaining, wowing us with fine performances, leading us to the spooky truth with such swinging, swingeing humour.
It’s satire, it’s physicality, it’s timing, all felt perfect tonight. It dances and stomps along, one pop-up banner at a time. The characters were hysterically funny, but also shiny, clean, shaven, crisp, and fresh as a dying daisy.
We gasp at the poor kiepie buyers trawled and hauled into the net of the grasping, craven, sales pitchers set against the horrifying reality — we are all destined for the soylent cracker factory, shuffling along one loft apartment, coffee shop, gated suburb and domed estate bristling with guns at a time.
They see us coming, with binoculars, and our stories are like cocaine up the schnozz of the Trunchbull principle agent. They lure us in with homilies and fake empathy and then feed upon our lives.
And, being the industrial slave imprisoned in a post-modern, brutal financial dictatorship ya are, you sign.
Director Toni Morkel has gone ballistic with these scenes. As society and life on Earth descend deeper into eco-purgatory, these signing ceremonies are an absolutely wicked delight.
Anyone who has bought a property will relish them. I have not laughed so hard for a long time, not so much triggered as fired from the canon. When you are the first to guffaw like this, you worry that the neighbouring festinoe might think you are having a breakdown.
This was ferocious commentary on developer and estate agent fuckery, and yet not one foul word or gratuitous moment shall you find here.
It all might sound unduly heavy, but the piece pays homage to the best traditions of theatre-making at the National Arts festival: deep down, it takes the audience so gently into the night.
In the midst of so much movement and action, I was in awe of the performances from Kyla Davis, Lisa Derryn Overy and Roberto Pombo. It was a joy to watch. You felt fluid and flawless.
We are on the edge of our seats, the pace is insanely relentless, but subconsciously I felt profoundly pleased. You gave us the confidence and inspiration to carry on.
I have seen some insipid blancmange at this wonderful, reawakening festival, but these agents of art are the very reason we keep coming back, like pilgrims and fans, to be swept up, thrilled, and taught so sweetly.
Only one show left.