kagablog

BLOOD AT THE MARKET THEATRE

Largely through Petron’s communication skills, a two week performance period for BLOOD was secured at the Market Theatre in Johannesburg. When he arrived in that godforsaken city five days prior to performance, not a single poster of his was to be seen anywhere - not even in the theatre itself. The publicity office had no explanation. No posters could be found anywhere in the offices. “We must have sent them all out.” came the excuse.
He presented the publicity office with photographs for press release.
“We cannot accept these photographs for press release.”
“Why not? They were taken by a professional photographer in Durban.”
“We normally use our own photographer, which is inclusive of theatre costs.”
“Well you did not tell me that. But how does that affect the quality?”
“We have done this many times before, and we know that the press will not accept these photographs.”
“Well, the same one’s were used for the press in Durban, and they never had a problem with them.”
“Well that is Durban, this is Johannesburg.”
“But a photograph is a photograph, and the press is the press.”
They did not know where to look.
“Look, let ME take those photographs and speak to the press. Let me speak to them personally. Apart from anything else, I would like to know what is wrong with them….for future reference of course.”
The press had no problem with the photographs. It dawned on him that the Market theatre staff were trying to secure work for their resident photographer - in JHB speak. They were trying to make him spend as much money as they possibly could. The fact that he was on a shoe-string budget was of least concern. Even at the Market Theatre. He agreed to a session with the photographer, who arrived half an hour late with two cameras. One for black and white, the other for colour. The session lasted less than fifteen minutes and cost him R250. Only one of these photographs was used by the press. The Market Theatre phoned every person they could think of who might be interested in theatre and offered them free seats for the opening night performance. The theatre was packed with his potentially paying audience! Johannesburg certainly did things in a very strange way. The newspaper critics proved to be totally out of their depth. While some accused him of ‘psychobabbling’ and could not hear a word, others who sat through the same performance, quoted passages directly. In the coming weeks, he had to cancel four performances due to lack of response at the box office.
After one of his performances a blond man remained seated in the auditorium and began ‘questioning’ him as he cleared the stage of his props.
His first question was: “Did you do your military training?”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“Just a matter of interest” came the reply.
“Well I see no point in answering the question.”
“What is your view of the Afrikaner?”
“The Afrikaner? What’s that?”
“Do you think there is any hope for this country?”
“Well, I think my play explains that one. It’s about a rite of passage. A need for transformation. Metamorphosis. What do you think?”
“What…about your play or about the country?”
“Either, or, or neither.”
“You’re a cocky guy. You should take care.”
“I always do.”
Later, the Market Theatre set up an interview with a black journalist. The interview took over an hour and in it Ampleby expounded his theory about a Multiparty Democracy. The entire spectrum of political possibilities. He stated this was the only possible way forward. He opened up. He opened up bravely because he felt that he was talking to an ally. The interview was never published. Two years later, when the country was informed of the miraculous changes that were to take place, he noted with amazement the degree to which he had expressed ‘the collective unconscious’ in that interview. He decided he was going to write a novel entitled: ‘My Part in the Downfall of Apartheid’…but of course nobody would take him seriously.

By now he was virtually completely off his little head little did he know it! Everything outside of himself made absolutely no sense. It was total war. Careering as he was without any outside ‘mean’, without any rational dip stick. Canopy and he, the only two people making any sense. It was total war. Apartheid had finally perfected double speak! The rulers were flailing. The Magoo’s bomb blast! Trying to make sense of it all, trying to rationalise the irrational, trying to find some context within an uncontextualised environment. He was a man drowning in a sea of psychic vomit. In his theatrical life he psychobabbled. He psychobabbled his way through BLOOD. That critic was right! But she did not understand the context. She was in her ivory tower. He was in a norm of panic. He still did not want to be ‘recognised’ artistically. Yet, being in the prime of an artistic energy, he felt compelled to express his creative ideas in spite of the utterly despondent cultural environment. He was well aware that there was nothing that he could expect from his creative endeavours. Yet he expected anyway. Some miracle of perception! He was getting by culturally on the smell of an oil rag! He wanted the audience to be attracted and repelled at the same time. Was this why the ‘Play’ crowd had kicked him in the butt?! He was creating an audience to create an audience so that he could reject them? How fucked is that? Was he taking Brecht’s alienation technique beyond rationalisation? To a point of no return? To a point of repulsion? In a sense, he wanted the audience to be perplexed about everything. Yet at the same time entertained. Attracted and repelled. Did they actually think they were living in any kind of a normal society? He wanted to bring them into a confrontation of the self. Perhaps these ideas, these thoughts, were way to grandiose given Durban society? This investigation was unavoidable within any authentic context - but who cared about authenticity? He was being pretentious. That was all. “Well then, I want to see how pretentious I can be….let me be as pretentious as I can be….” thought Ampleby. They were no where near ready for this.