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Animal
Farm: too cowed down Part political
satire, part vehicle for Kreb's Cycle, this musical was an Kamardeen was
sensible, opting to watch fretfully from the wings - rather than
strut his stuff, while wearing two hats, as he is too often wont
to. It paid off, in a fast-paced production that combined energetic
singing with chaotic movement: all animals are mindless, but some
are more mindless than others. The contrast
between the manipulative pigs and the other tractable creatures
was striking; but were the more docile creatures too easily persuaded?
The insidious cancer of political mendacity was laid bare - but...
maybe the several brief rebellions of the victimised were too quickly
overcome to be convincing. The dichotomy between oppressor and oppressed
would have been more telling, perhaps, if the cowed down didn't
reek so much of a willingness to be led by the snout - into another
song and dance routine. Shohan Chandiram
led the revels with vigour. The choreography, evenly structured
and executed, was at odds with the blocked out movements, which
were energetic but undisciplined - and led to unshepherded hordes
stumbling about in a slightly out-of-sync melee. Beastly business,
this: synergising the every move of dumb animals tugged and pulled
by diverse voices; but, robustly loyal and deluded Boxer included
(whose foil to cunning porkers was admirably rendered by Anuruddha
Fernando), the tribe of followers capitulated to "the Practical
Pig" too quickly. Do I repeat myself? Very well, then, I repeat
myself (the play was large, it contained multitudes of missed opportunities).
The potential of Benjamin, the mutely recalcitrant donkey, to be
a counterpoint to both strident leaders and the muttering led, was
not fully realised. Pity. Speaking of
which, Sonali White of the Haddai label had worked wonders with
the elaborate costumes, which stood out as individual articles of
craft (well, with exceptions - whoever heard of a blue and yellow
goat? Inexplicable. Particularly as cows were lovingly rendered
black and white with udder reality, horses had manes and hens feathers).
Creative realism apart, here was the chance to colour-code characteristics,
themes, ideals; but, with the exception of the devilishly red to
skin-pink pigs, the animals went largely ungrouped and/or sorted
by shades of meaning. It was a masquerade, but nobody minded much
- especially as the masks did not slip, nor was audibility too badly
affected. Sanjeev Jayaratnam
roundly led the lusty singing, which did not suffer for a) the could-be
cumbersome masks and b) the mikes - regrettable in the case of the
redoubtable Jayaratnam Senior, whose baritone is enough to fill
a noisy auditorium. A denizen of the balcony on one of the noisier
nights was heard to remark, "Are we at the cinema, then?"
(This, in reference to the trademark multimedia projection played
inter alia to a captive audience - which seems to follow Feroze
wherever he goes: the slides, dears, not the audience!) A contemporary
touch was also added by dint of popular melodies being pegged to
Orwell's biting libretto, which were originally sung to tunes like
"Three Blind Mice"; but the adaptation may have lost the
gravamen: especially if you consider that the triumvirate of pigs
- Snowball, Napoleon and Squealer - were probably caricatures of
that socialist troika: Stalin, Trotsky and Khrushchev, who ruled
the "sty" once Old Major (Lenin?) passed into the Great
Farmyard in the Sky. Jayaratnam
Junior (the mercurial Krishan) trotted out his pivotal role diabolically
well; tail, cloven hoof, pointy ears and all. He was "on"
ad libitum - to the audience's pleasure. The final triumph of Napoleon
- though it is the demise of democracy and everything decent in
traditional socialism - seems not such a bad thing, precisely because
the way Jayaratnam played it, his character embodied the curiously
attractive demagogue whose early populism is at the very root of
egalitarianism's defeat. By this time, the bulldozed, numb, remnant
of Animal Farm is resigned to its slavery, despite a few chickenhearted
attempts to overthrow the porcine yoke. Every dictatorship gets
the tyrant it deserves, but some populaces deserve it more. What do Colombo
audiences - those lost sheep of une generation perdue - deserve?
Woolly-headed attempts to reverse theatrical alchemy that turn the
gold of satire into the base metal of sitcom? Artistic licence to
trip on cool vibes from a popular band? A flimsy excuse for a fashion
show? A smorgasbord of sponsorship? Why, yes! All audiences are
created equal - well, with the exception of those that will not
serve the beast of commercialism rampant as culture. Non serviam!
Let politicians make a pig's breakfast out of political lying. We
will look to theatre for truth. |
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Copyright © 2001 Wijeya Newspapers
Ltd. All rights reserved. |
ambitious
project for the directors et al from the inception. Orwell was a
disillusioned socialist, and his visionary critique of the system's
early shortcomings is heavy stuff for the stage. And this ensemble
cast managed to make light of it, turning a bitter attack on political
manipulation into barnyard banter - replete with hysterical topical
allusions (how the PSD has lately gone to the dogs, featured, wittily).
But the magic of theatre was missing, and the three-hour revue of
penetrating lyrics set to familiar music tasted at times like an
endless repast of chicken gizzards.
