Tag: 2008 Toronto Zombie Walk

Prima Rufus

On June 22, 2010

The only things that seem to be suitable to listen to after seeing Rufus Wainwright live are classical music and Queen, which is exactly what I did driving home from his concert last week. Wainwright, the son of Canadian music royalty (his father is Loudan Wainwright III, his mother was Kate McGarrigle, who passed away in January), hit Toronto last week as part of the 2010 Luminato Festival of Arts and Culture. Along with premiering his opera, Prima Donna, during the artsy fest, the beautiful, deeply mercurial Wainwright launched the tour for his latest album, All Days Are Nights: Songs For Lulu.

Last week’s show at the grand, gilded-lined Elgin Theatre was equal parts drama, camp, comedy, and bitchy commentary; infusing the entire evening was Wainwright’s intense sense of musicality and flair for drama. The first half of the concert was strange, surreal, and not a little operatic. Before his appearance, the audience was duly informed that we were to hold our applause until the very end of the set, when Rufus had exited the stage. The lights dimmed and in he came, moving lowly and deliberately, his thin frame beddecked in feathers, eyeliner, and a very long black coat-dress. The look was very Mad-Max-meets-Monteverdi -not necessarily a bad thing if you’re aiming for drama. Playing songs mainly from the new album, the effect was equal parts impressive and infuriating: Why isn’t he looking at us? Why doesn’t he want applause? What’s with those giant blinky eyes? And that damn crazy outfit? Who does he think he is? DIVA! But maybe that was the point.

Turns out Rufus took inspiration from both silent and romance-horror films, as well as -surprise -opera. But for all the grand poetic majesty, it was obvious (sometimes painfully) that Rufus, with pale skin and fair locks, is a resolutely unapologetic, wildly insecure artist with a grand sense of talent and a keen awareness of its fragility. While he plumbs the depths of his own sonic genius, he isn’t afraid to look back to the masters, either. Traces of Glass, Gerhswin, Liszt, Elton John and Jeff Buckley ran through each chord like gold threads through grey rocks. It was as musically magical as it was theatrically maddening to sit through at points. I wanted to run as much as I wanted to stay to see what he’d do next.

Entering in a floral-print suit for the show’s second half (when we were -hurrah! -allowed to applaud), Rufus’s warm smile banished any fears of poe-faced serious artiste attitude. With songs like “Matinee Idol” and “Moulin Rouge” played to marvelous, if marvelously playful effect, he threw in a slew of bitchy asides, including one directed at a recent review of his opera that likened the work to a Loblaws shopping bag. “That just proves you’re label queens,” he sniped, to cackling applause.

And as if to underline the importance of his connection with his fans, he made the point of recognizing the dedicated bunch who follow him around. “They’re obviously very rich,” he quiped, before adding, “Actually, they’re probably not… but they’re good at looking like they are.”

Beat.

“Just like me!”

This refreshing lack of pretension, tinged with outlines of insecurity, sensitivity and deep feeling, made for an eminently watchable, involving performance. Again and again, we were reminded of just how damn great a musician Rufus really is. His performance of the controversial 2007 song “Going To A Town” was biting, angry, and bitter, and showed, to beautiful effect, his gorgeous, sonorous voice ringing through the deepe cavernous space of the Elgin. A showman, an artist, a diva, a child. And, in the end, a son. The concert ended with him playing “Walking Song”, one of his mother’s tunes about the happy times with family.

I left feeling confused, overwhelmed, and more than a little impressed. Between the strains of Ludwig van and the tender-loud yowls of Freddie Mercury driving home, I found a spot where drama, sound, and persona came together like so many crushing chords. Music doesn’t always exist to coddle, entertain, amuse or remove; sometimes it’s a complicated combination of notes, colors, feelings and memories, housed within palaces, hovels, and caves. We don’t know the spot but we trudge ahead anyway, thanks to a trusty guide with a beautiful voice. Rufus as Pied Piper? Maybe. But if I wind up over a cliff, I’ll hang onto that damn long coat for dear life. I want another tune, after all.

Mixing Past and Present

By Catherine Kustanczy

On April 11, 2010

In opera

As regular Play Anon readers know, I really love theatre, though I must confess, much of it doesn’t touch me, way, way down in that murky sub-world of real, lived experiences and ghost-like memory very often. Where The Blood Mixes is different. The work, penned by Kevin Loring and on now at Toronto’s Factory Theatre through April 18th, is the story of a native Indian community and the memories that haunt its inhabitants. Set during the salmon run at the meeting point of the Fraser and Thompson Rivers, the work offers a riveting look at one community’s attempts to come to grips with its tragic past. Alternately funny, sad, irreverent and thought-provoking, it’s one work you won’t easily forget, particularly if you have a lot of ghosts wafting around the dusty parlour of a forlorn past.

Floyd (Billy Merasty) and Mooch (Ben Cardinal) are longtime friends who are also native survivors of the horrific residential school system. Director Glynis Leyshon cleverly uses the long Factory stage to transfer between time, memories places, and character experiences. Robert Lewis’ clever stage design is wonderful in conveying easy locale shifts between the outdoors and indoors, and the outer and inner lives of the characters. Live guitarist Jason Burnstick sits to one side, offering musical counterpoint to to the action; he’s a deeply gifted player and intuitive artist, though his additions occasionally muddle or make maudlin scenes that are better left in silence. Still, Burnstick’s music is a compelling complement to Loring’s beautiful writing; each works in harmony to render the tender hurts of past and present with careful precision and delicate feeling.

I’m not native, but I definitely, deeply related to twin themes of abandonment and reunion in Where The Blood Mixes. Loring uses contemporary native history in tandem with family drama to devastating, moving effect. I caught myself sighing wistfully during the scene in which Floyd’s wide-eyed, city-dwelling daughter Christine (Kim Harvey) confronts her father after years of separation. It was all so familiar: I made a journey myself years ago to see a father I was estranged from, with a similarly curious attitude. Floyd’s embarrassment, shame, guilt, and halting awkwardness were eerily, painfully familiar to me, as was Christine’s eagerness, vulnerability, courage, hurt, and longing. Actors Merasty and Harvey beautifully capture the ties that bind, the wounds that separate, and the blood that inevitably mixes between generations, cultures, histories, and experiences. This is theatre at its most powerful, honest, and cathartic.

Beyond the personal sphere however, Where The Blood Mixes is an important piece of theatre for many reasons: its questions around the quality and future of contemporary native life ring as true as ever, and its exploration of Canadian native history as it relates to the present is grippingly, tragically real. Loring’s writing, together with Leyshon’s masterful direction and a uniformly strong cast, makes this work one of the must-sees of the 2010 Toronto theatre season. Just make sure you bring lots of tissues.

Where the Blood Mixes runs to April 18th as part of Performance Spring 2010 at Toronto’s Factory Theatre.

A Sunday Afternoon

By Catherine Kustanczy

On October 21, 2008

Study, originally uploaded by catekustanczi.

Post-brunch Sunday, I found myself a hop, skip, and a jump from the downtown park that is the originating point of the 2008 Toronto Zombie Walk. Though I’m not a fan of the film genre, I thought it would be a great experience, to “shoot” zombies in perhaps the most humane way possible. It turned out to be a wonderful afternoon, cool but bright, and full of great, friendly, community-minded people. There were families, older participants, young ones (some really young -a zombie princess was spotted) and even pets.

Every imaginable variation on the zombie theme was represented -a veritable A to Z of undead-types (chefs, gypsies, cheerleaders, doctors, even clever references to other film characters) -and even though some of the makeup and special effects were a bit gruesome, there was a spirit of fun and freedom sitting at the heart of the experience.

And theatre.

I hadn’t seen this much spontaneous play-acting and consciously-minded inhabiting-of-character in ages; every zombie was play-acting their particular story, every participant trying to get across their specific brand of un-dead horror. It was clever. It was cool. It was creative. It was also a golden marketing moment that I don’t think most smaller arts companies (at least in Toronto) would think of utilizing. Pity. The Toronto Zombie Walk, which attracted more than 2,000 participants this Sunday alone, embodies the all of qualities inherent to every good artistic community, alive, dead, or zombified. If you can, get down to the next one -there are several walks organized in various cities. Bring your camera, your curiosity, and… your braaaainnns.