Those readers who feel compelled to point out that, as a writer and commentator, I should perhaps be more able to coin multiple phrases rather than overusing the one, will be politely directed towards the fact that I'm simultaneously:
- Trying to write a 2500 essay about Jack Kerouac's contribution to modernist literature while seeing as much of MIAF as I can;
- Juggling the demands of my day job as a newspaper editor;
- Chairing the Arts Development: Creation funding panel at Arts Victoria over the last couple of days (I'm sworn to secrecy about the outcomes of the meeting and which applicants will receive funding, of course: bribes should be presented in increments of $1000);
- Looking for a new General Manager at Melbourne Fringe while wearing my Chairman of the Fringe Board hat; and,
- Contemplating the fourth draft of my novel after letting it simmer away at the back of mind for the last couple of months.
Anyway, given that this post is supposed to be about my experiences at MIAF to date, rather than me justifying the paucity of my words in this particular blog entry, I suppose I should get on with it, shouldn't I?
Due to the usual chaos which is my life (see above) and a slight bout of festival burnout post-Fringe, I haven't been MIAFing as frenetically as I'd planned, but fear not gentle reader - those events I've been unable to attend have not seen my tickets wasted, thanks to the joy of SMS technology and a direct line to the festival publicity office...
But enough late-afternoon three-hours sleep brain-wandering waffle: ART!
We begin, gentle reader, with the opening night of the festival proper, last Thursday (yes, I know I'm behind in posting, I am trying to catch up, ok?) and the opening night of Robert Wilson and Bernice Johnson Reagon's The Temptation of St Anthony, which was followed by an excellent opening night party at the Melbourne Town Hall, which I sadly left relatively early due to work committments the next day.
I'm not here to review the nibbles and drinkies and conversations though (which Born Dancin' used to do before his blog got all high-falutin' and/or surreallistically You-Tubey) but to discuss the show. So I'll try - and without many more of these tangential asides, which are starting to get quite silly.
Based on Gustave Flaubert's story of the ascetic St Anthony, whose travails have also been illustrated by the likes of Hieronymous Bosch, among other medieval artists; and who believed that isolation is the truest form of worship, this was a rich, luscious production in which the subtle grandeur of the cathedral-nave-like set contrasted beautifully with evocative lighting, costumes and sound. Using gospel music to highlight the battle between faith and reason struck me as a delightful conceit, although I was less taken by the staging, which felt somewhat old fashioned in the way that the performers were arrayed: almost clumsily or awkwardly blocked. It's a stylistic thing of Wilson's, I know, but it left me unthrilled.
This was the first production at MIAF I described as 'sporadically sublime', because there were moments of truely transcendent beauty on display; at other times, due to the lack of a defined narrative and my lack of familiarity with the story, I drifted, letting the show sweep over me rather than focussing upon its details. In short, I was occasionally engaged, once or twice transported, but also a little restless at various times.
And did I mention the party?
2 comments:
Did you calculate how many fringe companies could've been funded by this party?
No anon I didn't. As a rule, the opening nights of arts festivals tend to be based on sponsorship deals, ie booze is donated, not paid for from cash that could be better spent elsewhere; unlike corporate-managed events.
Besides, when the room's full of starving artists hoeing into the free food and booze, I tend to think of it as money going to a good cause...
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