SIZWE BANZI IS DEAD
The Pit, London EC2
Opened 9 May, 2007
***
It's one of those statistical quirks: sometimes, several productions of
the same play crop up in a clump. The RSC is currently showing (though
it has not yet admitted reviewers to see) what is England's third
flagship-company production of Chekhov's The Seagull in less than a year. In
the mid-1990s, it felt as if I were reviewing a new Miss Julie every fifteen minutes or
so. In this year's BITE season at the Barbican, director Yukio Ninagawa
was prevailed upon not to stage the same Shakespeare as Cheek By Jowl
(their Cymbeline opens later
this month; Ninagawa opted instead for Coriolanus, seen a couple of weeks
ago), and now a production of Sizwe
Banzi Is Dead arrives less than two months after another visited
the National Theatre.
But talk about clash of the titans: the earlier production of this
two-hander starred John Kani and Winston Ntshona, who created the roles
and co-wrote the play along with Athol Fugard in 1972, and this second
one is directed by Peter Brook, the nearest thing the world of theatre
has to a Dalai Lama.
Reviewing the Kani/Ntshona production in March, I called it "heritage
theatre" (adding, "But what a heritage"). The apartheid regime and its
hated passbooks, which limited black South Africans' movement in their
own country, are things of the past. No Sizwe Banzi now needs to steal
a dead man's passbook, name and identity in order simply to go where he
can find a job. Kani and Ntshona had obviously lived many of the
experiences they depicted, and their production evoked that bleak past
era.
But Habib Dembélé and Pitcho Womba Konga in Brook's
production are not of that era or that region (Dembélé
cannot pronounce the characteristic "clicks" of the Xhosa language),
nor do they play the piece as such. (It is played in French, with
surtitles which consistently misspell both "Banzi" and the surname of
the person whose identity Sizwe assumes.) They are clad in contemporary
clothes, Dembélé's hair worn in corn rows, and at one
point a photographer character advises his subject on striking an
assured pose, "Imagine you're Sarkozy [also misspelt!], the new French
President." The interpolation may be intended to link the oppression
depicted with our contemporary world, but its effect is rather to
emphasise the disconnect. In keeping with Brook's minimal "empty space"
style, the piece is staged with minimal set and props, so that no
particular world is physically evoked; it may as well be fictional.
And then, just as my views on the production were beginning to set
firm, one of those moments occurred which make you reassess the entire
evening and more. Towards the end of the play (edited here to an
economical 70 minutes), Sizwe asks his friend Buntu how long the false
identity will work. As long as he stays out of trouble, replies Buntu,
for trouble means arrest, fingerprints and thus the truth. But, cries
Sizwe, "Our skin is trouble." In this exchange, Dembélé
as Buntu was close to tears. I thought this excessive and out of
keeping with Brook's avoidance of affectation.
A couple of minutes later, the extent of my mistake was revealed.
Throughout the several curtain calls, Dembélé was clearly
racked with emotion and was being physically comforted by Konga. This
world that I thought alien to the actors, almost fictional, had
connected directly and shatteringly with one of the performers even
though no such intensity of display was called for – rather, in Brook's
productions, it is eschewed in favour of working from the core
outwards. And so I am left with a paradox: I continue to feel little
urgent impact from this production, but the evidence is also that I am
very wrong.
Written for the Financial
Times.
Copyright © Ian Shuttleworth; all rights
reserved.
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