Theatre Archive

Profile: Market Theatre makes its mark

In a dim, low-ceilinged National Arts Festival venue at the top of a hard-to-find staircase within the maze that is the Victoria Girls School complex, I watched a community theatre group stage a play called The Red Flag some years ago. It was before The Critter was founded in 2014 and I was then writing

TrueLies: Ask me no questions…

What makes you mad? Not angry, but crazy? Or are the two interlinked? TrueLies raises this question in a story where a young man, who is cross about a lot of things – like, all the things political, religious, social – is sent for psychiatric evaluation. His fury is labelled insanity. Something is absurd here,

La Chair De Ma Chair: Buried in good intentions

Oh dear. One of the most anticipated theatre productions on the Main buries itself under a pink plastic pastiche of detritus. Literally, the mass of objects which includes metres-long tapestries and enveloping costumes, all in an eye-watering palette of fuschia, engulf the talents of Klara van Wyk and Buhle Ngaba while the mass of intertextuality

The Little Prince: Place for play

Adults are so busy ‘adulting’ in their reasonable, abacus-driven world of doing things of ‘consequence’ that they belittle, dismiss and patronise the childhood world of creative play and artistic endeavor. The parental voice shouts: “Do your homework, Stephen, stop that scribbling!” And for a lonely child, the imagination becomes fertile ground in which to find

The Train: Godot? Oh god no

The Train is the most absurdist little play you should never see. From five minutes in it was a question of what the fuck? Only in this case there was no question of wanting to know the answer. Waiting for a train that never comes, will never come. It’s Waiting for Godot. As a three

Jungfrau: A glittering bait ball

Ameera Patel is in my face, getting undressed. She is utterly mesmerising. This is our introduction to Jessica, Jess, and as per the play note, “Jez”. And what a Jezebel she is! Morphing from the virgin into the whore repeatedly, and imbuing Jungfrau with its discourse on coloured identity with her own skin. It is