EDWARD GANT'S AMAZING FEATS OF LONELINESS
Edward Gant's Amazing Feats of Loneliness, La Boite and Sydney Theatre Company at Wharf 1; June 16-July 23, 2011. Photos: Brett Boardman.
In a 2009 Q&A in The Guardian, Scottish playwright Anthony Nielson was asked: “What's the greatest threat to theatre today?” His answer: “The idea that it's an educative tool or a debating chamber. Theatre is entertainment, not a branch of philosophy.” Bear that in mind and you won’t be surprised at falling headlong under the spell of his 2002 play Edward Gant's Amazing Feats of Loneliness. If, on the other hand, you disagree with him, then you may not be as charmed, but hey ho.
Arriving in Sydney fresh from its successful premiere run at La Boite in Brisbane, there is much to savour in this small yet sumptuous production. First of all, there’s an impressively confident main stage directorial debut from Sarah Goodes. She has been working away quietly for some years now, paying her dues and obviously taking on board everything she’s experienced. Edward Gant wouldn’t have been an obvious or easy choice – but it’s an ambitious one – and she’s pulled it off with intelligence and wit.
The casting is another pleasure and a direct result of the tie-up with the Queensland company. The introduction to Sydney audiences of two fine actors, already well known to Brisbane, in Emily Tomlins (Madame Poulet) and Bryan Probets (Sgt Jack Dearlove), is a rare treat; while the delicious Paul Bishop (Edward Gant) is seldom seen here. From the other end of the Pacific Highway, La Boite’s importation to Brisbane of Sydneysider Lindsay Farris (as former child star “Little” Nicky Ludd) offered the Near North a taste of his prodigious talent as well as – ironically – giving him his long overdue STC debut.
Nielson’s play is an anachronistic curiosity, a work of imagination and originality that’s hard to pigeonhole: a silly comedy that stabs the heart, a flight of fancy that says a lot about life and burlesque; and a slyly simple piece that toys with the nature of theatre itself. (Sorry Anthony, it’s not just entertainment.)
In essence, it’s 1881 and the idea of the sun ever setting on the British Empire is absurd even though the disastrous Charge of the Light Brigade should have been seen as a sign of things to come. Two of its survivors now plod the lower reaches of British showbiz in a tawdry tent show of the freak and frights variety. At the upper end of the class structure is Edward Gant, a showman with sequined top hat and a paunch well plumped by porter; at the lower end is the gaunt-faced Sgt Dearlove whose demeanour suggests a spaniel who’s had one too many shotguns fired over his head. He has a fractious relationship with “Little” Nicky Ludd, one time child star, now no longer child nor star, and the two jostle for the spotlight with increasing hostility as their master pulls the strings. And the sweet if deceptively ineffectual Madame Poulet, whose particular skill lies in the laying of eggs, completes the company of mountebanks and charlatans. But, of course, Mr Gant and Mr Nielson aren’t satisfied with a mere freak show: stories will be told, morality plays acted out and the hapless trio must do it all.
In Edward Gant’s words, “You will gasp, you will marvel,” you will probably want to throw up too as Poulet is transformed into the tragic Sanzonetta Tutti, an innocent young woman whose pustulent cheeks finally produce not pus but pearls; and you will weep and hiss as her wicked sister takes advantage and all the ensuing loot. But wait, there’s more – not content with prancing and pouting as the wicked sister, Lindsay Farris morphs into Ranjeev the Uncomplicated, a fakir and Victorian music hall absurdity whose wisdom comes from a long line of fridge magnets. And so it goes on.
The show looks spectacular, in a ratty, rotten, unkempt and awful kind of way thanks to the much publicized costume designs of fashionistas Romance Was Born (Luke Sales and Anna Plunkett), with set and costume consultation by Renee Mulder and lighting design, Damien Cooper. Composer and sound designer Steve Toulmin adds layers of circus and pathos and all in all, the Wharf auditorium is transformed into the gimcrack magic place that theatre used to be before digital SFX. The final scenes are a scarcely believable mixture of cheap and cheerful horror and post-modern distanciation as Little Nicky calls his employer’s bluff and walks a thrilling tightrope with the audience’s willingness to go along with him. Spectacular stuff that eventually proves Mr Gant’s observation that “the truth of life lies least of all in the facts.”
