imMEDIAte Age rated: Under-18 Alan Parker and Gavin Krastin enter the Critter kitchen. They are tired, wired from their show, On Seeing Red and Other Fantasies, which ended a few minutes ago. Nothing is sacred, everything is sacred? A bit of both, says Alan. Are you pissed? (He downed a bottle of wine as part
The best-kept ticket buying secret in town is a little drive-through office in Fiddler’s Green. There is one lonely, frozen woman on her cellphone sitting in a red-brick mausoleum (the old ticket office) behind a window which is barred on the outside with a cardboard interface on the inside between you and her. Using telepathy
imMEDIAte: We ask the questions, you answer, we post. Joanna Evans, 25. joanna evans What are you? It’s a big question. I go by theatre-maker, performer, writer. In that order. You have an issue with order?
Finally! A post-modernist epiphany for schmucks. Hirsch, a tyrant, a prick, a genius, a holocaust “hollow ghost”. The boy, a foreign national fleeing post-Nazi Poland, who chose the farthest place in the world. Canada, where the ghosts of his arts community, his mother’s laugh to the death, inspired a great little theatre.
The use of the word creative as a noun, as in “I am a creative”, or “creatives make it happen”, irks me. The assumption is that a creative is someone who makes a living, or functions professionally, in the creative industry, which is booming, we are told. The Department of Arts and Culture’s first creative
We don’t cry during The Year of the Bicycle because it is soppy. We wail because it so damn defiant. We know South Africa has become a shit pit. In Inkandla we see our freedom, our dreams, our Mandela memories putrifying. Somebody obviously forgot to tell Joanna Evans and crew that that we are not
Guy Buttery plays at the The Crypt at at 3pm today. (See below for all his remaining performances.) You love accoustic? You are selfish? You can have a world virtuoso almost all to yourself. I did. OK, shared him with 15 others at 5pm in the basement of the St George’s Cathedral last night.
Guy Buttery played a few chords and I tjanked into my last cup of coffee. Guy is a South African and global musical treasure and I enjoy finding SA identity in his compositions. But these unmanly tears were, in fact, more of an aftershock. A few minutes earlier I was part of a silent bunch of
Is Marcel Lucont’s surname misspelt? As in silly bunt or the cat? Or did someone simply forget to take out the Eurotrash?