I'm never sure who's living inside me,
Who's loving whom inside me,
Or who's laughing at me
From inside me.
But I do know this -
And I know it so well
That it is not afraid to tug at my hair till it hurts -
There is something inside me
That has recently grown just a bit in size,
That's oddly shaped like a pear,
But behaves whetstone-like with my wants,
Sings Beatles songs in the night time
And smells of kahlua and rain,
That would, if it had to,
Let the whole world be damned
And damned again the next day
Simply to fulfil a wayward whim.
And sometimes, it scares me.
Even though it's pretty.
20 November 2009
13 October 2009
Swami and Friends
I recently wrote an adaptation of R. K. Narayan’s Swami and Friends as a play. The play was a co-production between Landing Stage and The Madras Players. The first set of shows was performed at Sivagamy Pethachi Auditorium in Chennai last weekend (9, 10 and 11 October) to mark Narayan’s 103rd birth anniversary, which was on 10 October.
Four shows were performed to four full houses. The response has been nothing short of absolutely phenomenal. Droves of people were sent away without tickets everyday - not something I am used to doing! For hours after the show, people waited to meet the cast and crew and share their thoughts. Emails and calls have arrived in hundreds (from perfect strangers!), appreciating the efforts of the director and her team. A set of repeat shows is already being planned.
The idea to do Swami and Friends as a play was not mine. The director, Aruna Ganesh Ram, read the novel for the first time early this year. Four chapters into the novel, she called me and said, ‘I can visualise this as a play already. Let’s do this.’
To be honest, I was doubtful. Swami and Friends is a favourite of mine and has always been. But my immediate objections were three-fold.
Firstly, Narayan’s lilting style is descriptive. His narrative is gorgeous, studded with adjectives and a sense of irony. But it is a style may not lend itself to the stage, I reasoned. How is one to recreate the charm of his prose visually? Like Dickens or Austen, I was convinced that Narayan was meant to be read, not seen or even heard.
Secondly, the novel tends to be episodic, like several novels in the children’s bildungsroman genre. A broken structure that works in a novel can affect the linear and dramatic structure that theatre is endowed with. I was unsure.
Thirdly, Narayan lovers already have Malgudi and Swami in their mind’s eyes – I was not sure how accepting they would be of the Malgudi and Swami of my mind’s eye. Reading Narayan is often a deeply personal and individual experience. I find that it is difficult not to be drawn into his Malgudi. Every reader tends to have a personal map of the town and has mentally trod the path from Ellaman Street to the Sarayu through Nallappa’s grove. Readers have met Narayan’s quirky characters and have ideas about how they look and what they might say. Why would they accept my vision?
When I expressed these reservations to Aruna, she laughed them off. It would work, she said. She was right.
The writing process began. It began with reading the novel again and again and again until I knew it inside out. For me, like for many Narayan-lovers, the whole of Malgudi is a familiar terrain; setting scenes in Malgudi, therefore, was a comforting and intimate process. It was like setting scenes in a place that I grew up in.
My real challenge lay in translating paraphrased narrative to dialogue, for Narayan tends to be minimalist with direct speech. His remarkable characterisation came to my rescue here. Often, I would only have to close my eyes and allow myself to enter his Malgudi. Once there, words flowed freely for me – and though almost all the dialogue in the play is my own, not derived from Narayan, I did not have to struggle to capture the grammar of his characters.
Writing this adaptation sometimes felt like trying to cram as many chocolates as possible into my fist. The novel is so filled with wonderful moments that it was hard to decide what to keep and what not to keep. Often, it was even a question of how faithful to be to the text. I think I’ve struck a gentle sort of compromise with Narayan in this regard. I wrote this adaptation first as a reader, then as a writer.
The man has written a story that simply begs to be told and retold. I hope I have done it justice.
Review in The Hindu: here.
Four shows were performed to four full houses. The response has been nothing short of absolutely phenomenal. Droves of people were sent away without tickets everyday - not something I am used to doing! For hours after the show, people waited to meet the cast and crew and share their thoughts. Emails and calls have arrived in hundreds (from perfect strangers!), appreciating the efforts of the director and her team. A set of repeat shows is already being planned.
The idea to do Swami and Friends as a play was not mine. The director, Aruna Ganesh Ram, read the novel for the first time early this year. Four chapters into the novel, she called me and said, ‘I can visualise this as a play already. Let’s do this.’
To be honest, I was doubtful. Swami and Friends is a favourite of mine and has always been. But my immediate objections were three-fold.
Firstly, Narayan’s lilting style is descriptive. His narrative is gorgeous, studded with adjectives and a sense of irony. But it is a style may not lend itself to the stage, I reasoned. How is one to recreate the charm of his prose visually? Like Dickens or Austen, I was convinced that Narayan was meant to be read, not seen or even heard.
Secondly, the novel tends to be episodic, like several novels in the children’s bildungsroman genre. A broken structure that works in a novel can affect the linear and dramatic structure that theatre is endowed with. I was unsure.
Thirdly, Narayan lovers already have Malgudi and Swami in their mind’s eyes – I was not sure how accepting they would be of the Malgudi and Swami of my mind’s eye. Reading Narayan is often a deeply personal and individual experience. I find that it is difficult not to be drawn into his Malgudi. Every reader tends to have a personal map of the town and has mentally trod the path from Ellaman Street to the Sarayu through Nallappa’s grove. Readers have met Narayan’s quirky characters and have ideas about how they look and what they might say. Why would they accept my vision?
When I expressed these reservations to Aruna, she laughed them off. It would work, she said. She was right.
The writing process began. It began with reading the novel again and again and again until I knew it inside out. For me, like for many Narayan-lovers, the whole of Malgudi is a familiar terrain; setting scenes in Malgudi, therefore, was a comforting and intimate process. It was like setting scenes in a place that I grew up in.
My real challenge lay in translating paraphrased narrative to dialogue, for Narayan tends to be minimalist with direct speech. His remarkable characterisation came to my rescue here. Often, I would only have to close my eyes and allow myself to enter his Malgudi. Once there, words flowed freely for me – and though almost all the dialogue in the play is my own, not derived from Narayan, I did not have to struggle to capture the grammar of his characters.
Writing this adaptation sometimes felt like trying to cram as many chocolates as possible into my fist. The novel is so filled with wonderful moments that it was hard to decide what to keep and what not to keep. Often, it was even a question of how faithful to be to the text. I think I’ve struck a gentle sort of compromise with Narayan in this regard. I wrote this adaptation first as a reader, then as a writer.
The man has written a story that simply begs to be told and retold. I hope I have done it justice.
Review in The Hindu: here.
24 August 2009
MPTF 2009: Reviews, Part II
Three Reviews:
Citizen Josh on 14 August 2009 by Quixotic Projects from New York:
Citizen Josh is rife with interesting moments: there are moments of startling clarity that are surprisingly insightful; there are moments of genial good humour that provide bursts of relief and familiarity; there are moments of blunt straightforwardness that lull you into a warm sort of intimacy with the artiste on stage; most importantly, there are moments of poignancy that give you reassurance and disquiet simultaneously. Unfortunately, when all these little moments come together, the result falls painfully short of the expectations set by the individual moments.
Josh Kornbluth plays himself and describes a college thesis that he undertakes a little late in life. The thesis is the very monologue that the audience watches. Certainly, the thesis is not of an academic bent – and one does not expect it or even want it to be so. But it also provides no framework for any sort of theoretical, informed or intelligent discussion either. Indeed, it does not even seem to be bound coherently by any inclusive thematic concern. Rather, it seems a series of random events loosely interpolated with a smattering of humour thrown in for good measure, but without serving a larger purpose of any sort. The moments of clarity do little to contribute to the overall perspective – if such a perspective exists at all.
Published in part in The Hindu: here.
The Skeleton Woman on 15 August 2009 by Quaff Theatre from Mumbai:
If, inside every writer’s mind, there exists a space which serves to both cultivate and suffocate creativity, director Nayantara Kotian creates that space in The Skeleton Woman in ways that perhaps the words do not. By themselves, the words in the play are quirky and evocative, but often redundant; it is the directorial touch that transforms the play from what could easily have been the tedium of interior monologue to the arresting, conflict-ridden turmoil of interior dialogue. She creates levels, uses simple props and frequently pauses the play with startling visuals as though she is giving the audience time to digest it. Best of all, she recreates the temperamental and warped nature of the mind with the inspired and often uneasy music that the imagination is endowed with. Having created such a familiar ambience, she lets the play take its course gradually.
Yet, the plot is problematic. For the character of the writer, stories struggle to find an end. Almost mirroring the situation, the play speeds up to its end, conveniently copping out of showing the audience how exactly it got there. How does the writer find the courage, motivation and strength to finally finish his story? The play simply cuts to the final moments of his story, where the problem has been resolved, and one cannot help but wonder how and why the writer even gets there. It poses a problem and shows its resolution, but the journey is entirely missed.
Published in part in The Hindu: here.
Medea and its Double on 16 August 2009 by Seoul Factory for the Performing Arts from Korea:
The Medea of Euripides describes a conflict that reflects several struggles in human history – between the centre and the periphery, the occident and the orient, the self and the other, the coloniser and the colonised. It is full of startling dualities that teeter dangerously between being sharp binary polarities and more balanced dichotomies. In literary context, therefore, it makes perfect sense for Medea to have a ‘double’, for with every external struggle that the play espouses, an internal one needs treatment.
Seoul Factory’s rendition of the play also champions just such a struggle – between stylisation and realism, comedy and tragedy, the masculine and the feminine – in such a way that its ambiguity almost tends to border on an absurd inconsistency and, often, incomprehensibility. Had Limb sought to make his Medea accessible, he fails, because the play not only assumes a knowledge of wild Medea’s story and its interpretations, but also stubbornly refuses to contextualise Medea's angst, making her seem as wanton and depraved as the Corinthians thought she was.
The play’s greatest saving grace is its accompanying music that ranges from thunderous percussion to soft yodelling, creating moods with an ease that belies even the need for surtitles. Visually too, it is charming, alternating between the playful and the tempestuous in yet another swinging duality. But these are surface realities, while Medea calls for a deeper understanding.
Published in part in The Hindu: here.
Other Links:
The Metro Plus Theatre Festival (or MPTF): here.
My review of 2 plays at the MPTF 2009: here.
Citizen Josh on 14 August 2009 by Quixotic Projects from New York:
Citizen Josh is rife with interesting moments: there are moments of startling clarity that are surprisingly insightful; there are moments of genial good humour that provide bursts of relief and familiarity; there are moments of blunt straightforwardness that lull you into a warm sort of intimacy with the artiste on stage; most importantly, there are moments of poignancy that give you reassurance and disquiet simultaneously. Unfortunately, when all these little moments come together, the result falls painfully short of the expectations set by the individual moments.
Josh Kornbluth plays himself and describes a college thesis that he undertakes a little late in life. The thesis is the very monologue that the audience watches. Certainly, the thesis is not of an academic bent – and one does not expect it or even want it to be so. But it also provides no framework for any sort of theoretical, informed or intelligent discussion either. Indeed, it does not even seem to be bound coherently by any inclusive thematic concern. Rather, it seems a series of random events loosely interpolated with a smattering of humour thrown in for good measure, but without serving a larger purpose of any sort. The moments of clarity do little to contribute to the overall perspective – if such a perspective exists at all.
Published in part in The Hindu: here.
The Skeleton Woman on 15 August 2009 by Quaff Theatre from Mumbai:
If, inside every writer’s mind, there exists a space which serves to both cultivate and suffocate creativity, director Nayantara Kotian creates that space in The Skeleton Woman in ways that perhaps the words do not. By themselves, the words in the play are quirky and evocative, but often redundant; it is the directorial touch that transforms the play from what could easily have been the tedium of interior monologue to the arresting, conflict-ridden turmoil of interior dialogue. She creates levels, uses simple props and frequently pauses the play with startling visuals as though she is giving the audience time to digest it. Best of all, she recreates the temperamental and warped nature of the mind with the inspired and often uneasy music that the imagination is endowed with. Having created such a familiar ambience, she lets the play take its course gradually.
Yet, the plot is problematic. For the character of the writer, stories struggle to find an end. Almost mirroring the situation, the play speeds up to its end, conveniently copping out of showing the audience how exactly it got there. How does the writer find the courage, motivation and strength to finally finish his story? The play simply cuts to the final moments of his story, where the problem has been resolved, and one cannot help but wonder how and why the writer even gets there. It poses a problem and shows its resolution, but the journey is entirely missed.
Published in part in The Hindu: here.
Medea and its Double on 16 August 2009 by Seoul Factory for the Performing Arts from Korea:
The Medea of Euripides describes a conflict that reflects several struggles in human history – between the centre and the periphery, the occident and the orient, the self and the other, the coloniser and the colonised. It is full of startling dualities that teeter dangerously between being sharp binary polarities and more balanced dichotomies. In literary context, therefore, it makes perfect sense for Medea to have a ‘double’, for with every external struggle that the play espouses, an internal one needs treatment.
Seoul Factory’s rendition of the play also champions just such a struggle – between stylisation and realism, comedy and tragedy, the masculine and the feminine – in such a way that its ambiguity almost tends to border on an absurd inconsistency and, often, incomprehensibility. Had Limb sought to make his Medea accessible, he fails, because the play not only assumes a knowledge of wild Medea’s story and its interpretations, but also stubbornly refuses to contextualise Medea's angst, making her seem as wanton and depraved as the Corinthians thought she was.
The play’s greatest saving grace is its accompanying music that ranges from thunderous percussion to soft yodelling, creating moods with an ease that belies even the need for surtitles. Visually too, it is charming, alternating between the playful and the tempestuous in yet another swinging duality. But these are surface realities, while Medea calls for a deeper understanding.
Published in part in The Hindu: here.
Other Links:
The Metro Plus Theatre Festival (or MPTF): here.
My review of 2 plays at the MPTF 2009: here.
14 August 2009
MPTF 2009: Reviews, Part I
Two Reviews:
Antigone on 7 August 2009 by Motley from Mumbai:
Reading Anouilh’s Antigone, one usually tends to miss the blind Tiresias who marked Sophocles’ original. But in Motley’s rendition, one does not feel this lack at all. The blind prophet is ably replaced by an overarching prophetic vision of doom that hangs heavily over the play itself. For me, it was this that held the play together tautly, despite a tangled prosaic discourse. What is problematic about the play, though, is that its edit allows for such a wordy discourse, while doing away with so much more that contributes far more effectively to the profundity of the tragedy.
If it is art’s duty to hold a mirror up to its viewers, Antigone certainly did so with its cautious portrayal of the dilemma of leadership. ‘I am master under the law, not above the law,’ Creon declares self-righteously midway through the play. This self-same law that must balance individual justice and the greater good becomes the theme of Motley’s Antigone.
Anouilh tends to be sparing with stage directions and all credit must go to director Dubey for his interpretation that lends fluidity to the dramatic action across various theatrical levels on a minimalistic stage design. The visual is aesthetically held up with columns that play with light and stark colours. Ratna Shah as Antigone is remarkable in her portrayal of an essentially ambiguous character. Antigone has confused readers for centuries with her tendency to be both gentle and violent, but Shah’s rendition bears a translucence that makes these shifts both forgivable and credible. Yet, she is generous enough to play the occasional foil to Naseeruddin Shah’s disarming portrayal of a smooth-talking Creon’s transformation into a broken man who must deal repeatedly with personal tragedy. No raised voices mark their anger and no melodrama aids their anguish. For all the actors, including a whimsical Benjamin Gilani as the oddly interfering chorus, a sense of the play’s own power seems to have provided the quiet confidence to underplay their roles.
Anouilh’s adaptation seeks to make Greek tragedy accessible and ends with a postmodern notion of resignation, disaffection and the pain of continuity, represented by the three soldiers who continue to play cards despite the tragedy that has affected Thebes… and thus does Motley quietly hold up their mirror.
Hamlet the Clown Prince on 9 August 2009 by Cinematograph from Mumbai:
When a bunch of clowns get together to perform Shakespeare's Hamlet glibly in European gibberish, one can't be sure what to expect. Will it be Hamlet for Dummies or a heavier literary homily? It is neither.
'The play's the thing!' cries Hamlet. Only in the case of Hamlet the Clown Prince, it is a play within a play within a play - metadrama of metadrama. Thus it is that Cinematograph doubly probes layer within layer of Shakespeare’s Hamlet in a play that moves with clockwork precision.
In such an effort, particularly given the number of moments of pure slapstick that the play intersperses with its absurdist reading of Hamlet, it is easy to give in to the moment, play to the gallery and let go of the original lofty goals, but Cinematograph never does. Using metadrama’s ability to move in and out of the text to their best advantage, the actors seamlessly transition from high tragedy to licentious comedy with expert control, never letting either win that tug of war.
The result is endearing - and at times surprising.
Other Links:
The Metro Plus Theatre Festival (or MPTF): here.
My review of the MPTF 2006: here.
My review of the MPTF 2007: here.
My review of the first play at the MPTF 2008: here.
My review of 3 more plays at the MPTF 2008: here.
The Hindu Online edition of my review of Antigione: here.
Antigone on 7 August 2009 by Motley from Mumbai:
Reading Anouilh’s Antigone, one usually tends to miss the blind Tiresias who marked Sophocles’ original. But in Motley’s rendition, one does not feel this lack at all. The blind prophet is ably replaced by an overarching prophetic vision of doom that hangs heavily over the play itself. For me, it was this that held the play together tautly, despite a tangled prosaic discourse. What is problematic about the play, though, is that its edit allows for such a wordy discourse, while doing away with so much more that contributes far more effectively to the profundity of the tragedy.
If it is art’s duty to hold a mirror up to its viewers, Antigone certainly did so with its cautious portrayal of the dilemma of leadership. ‘I am master under the law, not above the law,’ Creon declares self-righteously midway through the play. This self-same law that must balance individual justice and the greater good becomes the theme of Motley’s Antigone.
Anouilh tends to be sparing with stage directions and all credit must go to director Dubey for his interpretation that lends fluidity to the dramatic action across various theatrical levels on a minimalistic stage design. The visual is aesthetically held up with columns that play with light and stark colours. Ratna Shah as Antigone is remarkable in her portrayal of an essentially ambiguous character. Antigone has confused readers for centuries with her tendency to be both gentle and violent, but Shah’s rendition bears a translucence that makes these shifts both forgivable and credible. Yet, she is generous enough to play the occasional foil to Naseeruddin Shah’s disarming portrayal of a smooth-talking Creon’s transformation into a broken man who must deal repeatedly with personal tragedy. No raised voices mark their anger and no melodrama aids their anguish. For all the actors, including a whimsical Benjamin Gilani as the oddly interfering chorus, a sense of the play’s own power seems to have provided the quiet confidence to underplay their roles.
Anouilh’s adaptation seeks to make Greek tragedy accessible and ends with a postmodern notion of resignation, disaffection and the pain of continuity, represented by the three soldiers who continue to play cards despite the tragedy that has affected Thebes… and thus does Motley quietly hold up their mirror.
Hamlet the Clown Prince on 9 August 2009 by Cinematograph from Mumbai:
When a bunch of clowns get together to perform Shakespeare's Hamlet glibly in European gibberish, one can't be sure what to expect. Will it be Hamlet for Dummies or a heavier literary homily? It is neither.
'The play's the thing!' cries Hamlet. Only in the case of Hamlet the Clown Prince, it is a play within a play within a play - metadrama of metadrama. Thus it is that Cinematograph doubly probes layer within layer of Shakespeare’s Hamlet in a play that moves with clockwork precision.
In such an effort, particularly given the number of moments of pure slapstick that the play intersperses with its absurdist reading of Hamlet, it is easy to give in to the moment, play to the gallery and let go of the original lofty goals, but Cinematograph never does. Using metadrama’s ability to move in and out of the text to their best advantage, the actors seamlessly transition from high tragedy to licentious comedy with expert control, never letting either win that tug of war.
The result is endearing - and at times surprising.
Other Links:
The Metro Plus Theatre Festival (or MPTF): here.
My review of the MPTF 2006: here.
My review of the MPTF 2007: here.
My review of the first play at the MPTF 2008: here.
My review of 3 more plays at the MPTF 2008: here.
The Hindu Online edition of my review of Antigione: here.
31 July 2009
Sixes
I've always loved this. Six-word stories are very fun to read. They test your brevity and every word has a heavy burden to bear. They're also darkly funny and often heart-wrenching in many ways.
I gave it a shot. Here are my best:
Six six-word stories:
Friday night. Dinner. Table for one.
Brakes failed. I survived. She didn't.
'Heads.' 'Okay, you keep the kids.'
'Luke, I am your father.' 'Shit.'
Promise me you'll never marry again.
Opportunity knocked. No one was home.
Six six-word headlines:
Ten soldiers, one queen dead. Checkmate.
Artist pukes on canvas. Modern art.
Saree sale. One size fits all.
Servant and broomstick disappear. Witchcraft suspected.
Monkeys extinct. Darwin got it wrong.
Apocalypse now. Equestrian missing. Name: Kalki.
I gave it a shot. Here are my best:
Six six-word stories:
Friday night. Dinner. Table for one.
Brakes failed. I survived. She didn't.
'Heads.' 'Okay, you keep the kids.'
'Luke, I am your father.' 'Shit.'
Promise me you'll never marry again.
Opportunity knocked. No one was home.
Six six-word headlines:
Ten soldiers, one queen dead. Checkmate.
Artist pukes on canvas. Modern art.
Saree sale. One size fits all.
Servant and broomstick disappear. Witchcraft suspected.
Monkeys extinct. Darwin got it wrong.
Apocalypse now. Equestrian missing. Name: Kalki.
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