A disclaimer in
the Belvoir foyer warns patrons that “this production contains all the bells
and whistles including the use of loud noises, graphic violence and loads and
loads of blood.” While early reviews did not quite know what to make of this
production, it is safe to say that none of it is ever truly serious.
Especially not in the hands of collective theatre group post who “take being silly very
seriously.”
Oedipus
Schmoedipus is a smorgasbord of over the top deaths and an outrageous amount of
stage blood (all within the first ten minutes of the show). There are deaths by
gunshot, knives, long-sword, cutthroat razor, throat slitting, and bomb, while
various appendages are lopped with relish and groans of barely-disguised enjoyment.
After this opening barrage of deaths, the stage is cleaned in a ballet-like
effort by the stage management team, and the curtain is pulled back to reveal
The Volunteers, post’s (not-so) secret ingredient in their madcap shenanigans. What
follows is a forum about death, delivered by Mish Grigor and Zoë Coombs Marr
with occasional interjections from the volunteers who follow prompts on screens
set in the lighting rig. One carefully chosen-at-random volunteer enters and
dies – in this performance, she sits on the ground, coughs once, then lies on
the floor, playing dead. “What is that?” asks Coombs Marr. “What is that? What is that?” Her disappointment is only short-lived, as she and Grigor
pun and non-sequitur their way around the often-taboo subject of death, dying,
carking it, falling off the perch, kicking the bucket, meeting their maker, and
various other euphemisms. Underneath the anarchy, the coordinated (and
sometimes choreographed) chaos and the uncooperative backdrops, is a poignant
and often quite unexpectedly frank discussion of how we all know it’s coming,
sooner or later, one way or another, but we have no idea how or when, so we
might as well enjoy those presented on stage in the meantime.
If anything, Oedipus Schmoedipus highlights the ridiculous
absurdity of stage deaths, and how hard it is to remain dead on stage for a
prolonged period of time. To the (lucky?) volunteer’s immense credit, she
barely moves so much as a hair for the entire performance, nor does she corpse
(a technical term, I assure you) or succumb to the petting and cradling of
Coombs Marr and Grigor. As a “a dismembering [and a ] reanimation of the corpse
of the canon we once loved,” it is a wake that is as rough and unpolished as a
precious stone just pulled from the earth. But like the precious stone, therein
lies its charm. It’s a bit like a university revue, though it never really
outstays its welcome. Some parts could be tightened, and it could lose ten
minutes outright and still would not lose a moment of its hilarity and cleverly
disguised insight. It’s not terribly coherent narratively (in fact, there’s no
real narrative at all), but whichever way you look at it, its tongue is rather
firmly in its cheek, from Zoë Coombs Marr’s knowing smile and elastic-muscled
face at the top of the show to the final flash-mob finale.
In many respects
it’s quite a perfect show for summer, in that it is irreverent and knows it,
plays with it, flaunts it; relishes its licence to be ridiculous. Described by themselves as carrying “drama nerds from way back” who have “a deep irreverence
for the institution of theatre and a deep reverence for the magic moment of
live performance it houses,” post responded to a challenge by Ralph Myers to
stage a classic by “doing all the classics, at once,” and by tackling death
simultaneously. The result might not SPEAK IN CAPITALS,
nor might it be as elegant and hauntingly eloquent as The Book
Thief’s, nor as peachy-keen as The Sandman’s,
nor will it be to everyone’s liking, but it is wholly enjoyable and sometimes
that’s all that matters.
Theatre playlist: 7. Love The Way You Lie, Eminem, feat. Rihanna
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