I recently project managed a theatre production called 'Holy Contract'. It was a challenging process and one which called for a load of self reflection. I wrote this yesterday. It's one snippet of many more words that should be written.
The script the actors identified with the most was not our latest draft (in which we had removed much of the plot and focussed more on the poetry). The actors preferred a much earlier version that included the prison and fire scene – Alfredo’s original idea for the story. For them, the play had to relate to problems and scenes from their everyday life. Plot twists that I criticised for being exaggerated or unbelieveable, were often supported by the cast. Death, a repeating theme in the play, had to be tangible. Prison. Tangible. Love. Physical and experienced by touch. And ancestry – a highly present and influential aspect in both the play and their lives – was firmly defended in respect for those already dead.
During the process, three of the actors experienced trance-like states: the priest, also Khayalethu, is a witch doctor. He is not a Christian and so his role proved to be an ethical challenge and he insisted on including symbols and references better known to his medicinal practice. During one of our rehearsals, he fell into a deep trance: falling to the ground, shaking and speaking words I did not understand. Everyone around him reacted calmly and instinctively, and without question. We were told afterward that it had been in response to the candles included around his barrel. One candle mysteriously burnt into an almost monstrous form, a shape that looked like it had been both burnt and cut, and smothered in water. – from that point on, Amy and I were not allowed to touch his carefully placed arrangement of flames.
Azuza, the girlfriend, also had a channelling experience but this time it was during one of our shows at the City Hall! It happened as she rose from the dead towards the end. You could hear it in her voice, which became strained and much deeper than usual. After the show, she collapsed, encasing her face, shaking and crying. She explained that it had been someone from Gil Scott-Heron’s family, dead of course, giving the performance their consent.
I am not telling you these details so that you may now believe in a world different to your own, but rather as a means of explaining the journey we went through – together. A process which saw every one of us interrogating our own demons, prejudices and beliefs while working towards one common goal: to build a new theatre for Khayelitsha.
