Philippa Vafadari, the creative director of Bandbazi who also plays the role of Rosa in Mind Walking, talks to us about the making of the play.

Shuchi: What prompted the choice of subject – an old man losing his mind, in an alien land?

Philippa: I am half Iranian and met an old Iranian man in a dementia care home who had forgotten his English and only spoke Farsi. I speak ok Farsi and when I spoke to him he wept. Where was he? Iran aged 10? Who knows. He was in an English home with nothing familiar around him. My mother and my siblings don’t speak Farsi. What would happen to our family if my dad lost his English?

Shuchi: What challenges did you face in bringing the script to stage?

Philippa: Justifying the use of the hoop in the piece. Making sure the Parsi references were clear to those who didn’t know anything about them  – that is, most UK audience members.

Shuchi: How were the actors chosen? Were all of them skilled aerialists when they were cast?

Philippa: I am the only aerialist in the cast. The others were chosen for their acting skills. Peter was also cast because his father was Indian.

Shuchi: Do all of Bandbazi’s productions involve aerial performance? Do you have scripts tailor-made for your productions or do you adapt them to your style?

Philippa: We always use an aerial metaphor. We tend to devise our own work, with John Binnie as our writer. The commission for Tanika Gupta was our first external commission. She wrote the play with the hoop as an image from the outset.

Shuchi: The background score for Mind Walking was an interesting mix of different styles, notably the very Indian hoop theme. We’d like to know more.

Philippa: The hoop theme was Ravi Shankar’s Pather Panchali film score. Tanika wanted this as it was more Indian in feel. The music for the Zoroastrian priest and the final Parsi suit was ancient Persian bagpipe music – linking Bobbie with his heritage in Persia. The Elgar is quintessentially English for his voyage to the UK. The Beatles was Bobbie and Moira’s song when they first met.

Shuchi: The aerial hoop could have been controlled via a behind-the-stage device, couldn’t it? Instead, the rigging was placed right on stage, visible to the audience. Why so?

Philippa: We didn’t want people to wonder what was happening offstage. The hoop was to be a character with us – Bobbie’s memories and our shared Persian/Parsi heritage.

Shuchi: Did you prepare yourself differently for staging Mind Walking in India after its opening shows in UK?

Philippa: Only practical things such as not bringing heavy set props, floor-cloth and wardrobe. This made the show more stripped down. The lighting was simplified as well.

[Above: A scene from Mind Walking, with the entire cast in view.]

The story of an old man whose degenerating brain keeps wandering into a pretty predictable past, doesn’t make for the most exciting plot. What holds the play together is some top-notch acting – and the very interesting use of a hoop.

Right in the center of the stage hangs this hoop. It has no physical existence in the context of the play. We see it; the characters in Mind Walking (except the one hallucinating) do not. The hoop is a doorway to the old man Bobbie (played beautifully by Peter D’Souza)’s thoughts – he steps through it, and he steps into the world his mind has brought alive for him. The hoop is also the dock that the other characters stop at to give vent to their angst. The more intense the angst, the more bizarre Bobbie’s delirium, the wilder the spin of the hoop.

Bobbie’s thoughts venture into territory he has kept away from his family. The promos promised "secrets and hidden stories" tumbling out of Bobbie’s mouth – don’t hold your breath for them. Apart from the first revelation, the rest that follows isn’t terribly surprising. His recounting of life in India can be picked out from a Book of Clichés. The central conflict, revealed in the end, can be seen a mile off. [Since this is an Indo-British collaboration, it may have been a conscious decision to keep the Indian context simple for overseas audiences.]

The only anecdote that stuck out was the little one about Noel Coward – did he really visit Bobbie’s Mumbai home or was Bobbie making that up? If he did, why exactly was he rude to his mother?

Where Mind Walking is most effective is in bringing out the helplessness of Bobbie’s family as they try to make sense of his ramblings. You feel for the daughter’s horror when he mistakes her for his mother, and in another scene at the hospital, her delight when he recognizes her as Rosa. Philippa Vafadari who plays the daughter is a treat to watch emote, especially when she is manoeuvring the hoop. Incidentally, she is also the founder and creative director of the group behind the play, Bandbazi – the word is Persian for "trapeze".

The conversations play out very well. My favourite is one in which the grandson ((Dylan Kennedy) tries to get Bobbie to talk of his cultural identity, and Bobbie is off on a tangent speaking about other things. It is a frustrating conversation till suddenly their lines connect. Another high point is the emotionally charged dialogue between mother and son, both hoisted on the hoop.

Central to the story is the 40-year long marriage between Bobbie and Moira (Kate Dyson). Moira is a model of compassion and deals with Bobbie’s senility with better humour and nerve than the children, a welcome antithesis to the daughter’s torment.

Caring for the elderly and watching them wither can be a devastating experience. Mind Walking deals with the subject with great poignancy and sensitivity. One wishes that every aging person gets a family like Bobbie’s to take care of them.

Notes:

1. How impressive it is when actors wipe off years from themselves with just a change of expressions and posture. Bobbie (Peter D’Souza) and Moira (Kate Dyson) seem effortlessly youthful in the memories of their early days of courtship. I’m also reminded of Love Letters with Rajat Kapoor and Shernaz Patel, in which they show the passage of years without even stepping away from the stage.

2. Special applause for the man linked to the hoop, walking up and down a ladder on the side of the stage to control its movements. No less a performance than that of the four actors on stage.

3. I saw Mind Walking at Jagriti Theatre in Bangalore. It’s a nice and small theatre space, just right for a play with minimal props and an intimate character.

Subtitles in a play? This was a new one.

They managed it with large screens along the sides of the stage to display English translations of the actors’ dialogues. With that aid, the audience in Bangalore could follow the Korean play without hiccups.

When I hear my friends rave about Neenaanaadrenaaneenena? or Mysooru Mallige, I wish for a bridge across the language gap – and my mind harks back to The Tale of Haruk.

Why is subtitling, adopted so ardently in films, virtually unheard of in theatre? Someone from the Other Side of theatre would be better qualified to answer that but I can think of a few reasons.

In film, the visuals and subtitles lie within the same frame of reference – a single screen. In theatre, it can be tricky to have subtitles legible from a distance and yet not obstruct the scene of action. To read subtitles with a play, the audience will have to shift focus from the stage to the subtitles and back, over and over – not the most conducive for undisturbed viewing.

Film also has the advantage of constancy. Subtitle it once and it is done forever. But theatre changes every time you view it. To achieve a high level of synch in a live performance is no mean task, harder still in plays that rely on improvisation.

These challenges did not weigh heavily on The Tale Of Haruk – it was not a dialogue-intensive play and the little there was of speech, was succinct and simple.

Does this mean that subtitling and full-blown live drama cannot mix?

It sure can, and it is being experimented with.

ScienceDaily.com talks of a Spanish university that has developed a software for live subtitling to enable the hearing impaired to enjoy theatre. All the accessibility elements – titles, sign language video and audio description – are pre-recorded and manually synchronized by a technician during the show. The technician need not even be present at the venue but can follow the play anywhere via VoIP, and broadcast the elements over various channels. What’s more, says the article:

…because of the high degree of compatibility of the chosen formats, the play’s audience can simultaneously consult them from different devices: mobile phone, PC tablet, PDA, etc.

Read more about the tool UC3MTitling here: New System for Live Subtitles Debuts in Spanish Theater.  [Thanks Sreekanth for sharing this link.]

EndGadget.com describes a device with multi-lingual support for live subtitling, which was being trialed at the Shaftesbury in central Londonium in 2009.

… it combines a simple WiFi-enabled device with an LED-backlit screen and a dude in the background who feeds live subtitles over the air. The pleasure of said dude’s services will be a steep £6 ($10), which you might scoff at now, but imagine yourself attending a show in Tokyo or Beijing and suddenly the price becomes a lot more justifiable.

No updates on how far these trials were successful. Read the full article here: .AirScript translator beams live theater subtitles over the air.

What do you say, theatre practitioners in India? Given our plethora of languages, real-time translation of performances has sure scope and need. The question is – is it practicable?

The phrase interestingly has its roots in theatre.

The story is that seventeenth century British dramatist John Dennis used a new method of creating the sound of thunder for his production Appius and Virginia (1709). It isn’t clear from the texts available today what this method was, some sources say it was rattling a tin sheet on the backstage, others say it was rolling metal balls in bowls of wood.

Whatever it was, the play Appius and Virginia flopped and Drury Lane Theatre, London, which was running the play, stopped further shows of it. Playwright John Dennis was miffed – he had a high opinion of his work.

Soon afterwards he went to Drury Lane Theatre for the performance of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. He found them using his own new method of creating thunder.

Enraged, John Dennis exclaimed:

That is my thunder, by God;
the villains will play my thunder, but not my play.

The exact words are in doubt, some sources say he said:

Damn them! They will not let my play run,
but they steal my thunder.

Or words to that effect. And so the idiom "stealing one’s thunder" was born.

Unboxed Writers has an amazingly detailed review.

Have you noticed, how for every point, life offers a counterpoint? As if to remind you that for every ‘this,’ there is a ‘that?’  And for every Delhi Belly, there is The Blue Mug?

Read the full review – Memory is a Blue Mug.

I was sore about being quoted out of context in this Indian Express article, but my complaint seems trivial after reading Bijoy Venugopal’s experience with a "hack" from Mid-Day.

What we did not say about The Blue Mug – a very well-written, funny piece with the bonus of a comment by Vinay Pathak on it.

Online magazine The NRI writes about the Apr 2010 New York show of The Blue Mug:

…the play provides a unique insight into the lives of the actors and provokes a debate over how we construct ourselves based on the memories we choose to share, or choose not to share. It also becomes a telling exploration of middle-class Indian identity, with precious details that any nostalgic NRI can relate to.

Read the full review here.

And then someone not so impressed by The Blue Mug:

The cast was from film and TV and the scene seemed quite happening. Rajat Kapoor was the star I knew. That said, I didn’t really understand the play and fell asleep during parts of it. Near the end I had about 5 minutes of what felt like lucidation, but I’m not sure.

Read the full review here.

In between real-life narratives of the cast comes a slice of fiction: the tale of Joginder (Ranvir Shorey), a Sikh man whose brain is stuck in a time warp – he can remember nothing of his life beyond 1983.

We get to know Joginder through his conversations with the doctor. Joginder is talkative and friendly. His words tumble out and run into each other, he takes a hundred words to say what could be said in ten, he utters something inappropriate and is endearingly embarrassed. He keeps the audience in splits. He is also the saddest, most disturbing character in the play. His breakdown on seeing his reflection is heartrending – the only consolation is that Joginder soon forgets about it.

This mingling of opposing emotions runs throughout The Blue Mug. Despite its laugh-out-loud moments, the mirth is never let loose for too long – there is always a sombre idea lurking around the corner, almost making us feel guilty for our guffaws of a moment ago.

The doctor’s role, originally played by Konkona Sen Sharma, was played this time by Shipra Singh. If we discount Konkona’s star power, those were probably easy shoes to fill  – the doctor doesn’t have much to do in The Blue Mug. Which leads me to wonder if any other actor could have fit into the role of Joginder so beautifully. I think not. In the way Ranvir Shorey enacts this character, he creates something inimitable, irreplaceable.

The political and cultural climate of the 1970s and 1980s form the backdrop of the cast’s growing-up tales. There is the Emergency, the Sikh riots, the DSP uncle who gets special seats to watch the circus, the distant equation between father and son, the cinema of that era. Cinema  – that crops up very often. For Vinay Pathak, Jyoti Bane Jwala was the scene of bravado of his college dadagiri days; Munish’s first visit to the hall to watch Haathi Mere Saathi was his moment of awe at the screen size; Shakti‘s climax had a lasting effect on Joginder (he calls the 1982 film a new release).

The actors talk in a mix of Hindi and English; the best lines are in Hindi. Vinay Pathak’s essaying of Bharat Bhushan in Bheja Fry film has made such a dent on me, I was taken aback to hear him speak English so fluently – and yet he sounds more in command when he switches to Hindi. His stories in The Blue Mug have the greatest energy and mischief – the take-off on his crazy uncle is priceless! Sheeba Chaddha is another terrific actress. She slips into any role like she was meant to play that and no other.

The actors come together on stage in the last few minutes. The memories recalls gradually condense to one-liners, there is overlap of immediate memories with old ones, there is a blur till we in the audience aren’t sure which is which.

I know many who did not enjoy The Blue Mug too much. If you are looking for a cohesive plot, you will likely be disappointed. According to director Atul Kumar, the play has no fixed script – the actors are free to improvise from show to show. This may come across as self-indulgent; besides, not every memory of another person is as interesting to the audience as the other. If you can engage with each piece on its own, and find some anchors in them for your own memories, you will surely be moved. You will also find yourself  being thankful for the gift of remembrance.

Notes:

[1] Some things never change. Vicco Vajradanti ads that came up in the interval of Jyoti Bane Jwala, still run in the interval of Delhi Belly.

[2] Now listening to Hemant Kumar’s Zindagi Pyar Ki Do Char Ghadi Hoti Hai , the song that plays in the background whenever the scene switches to Joginder – as if to say, life isn’t counted by its length but by the moments of love that fill it.

A joint production of Ranga Shankara and Schnawwl-National Theatre of Germany (called Do I know U?), Boy With A Suitcase is a bildungsroman that follows Naz as he is sent off on a bus by his parents towards the land of "milk and honey". What follows is the kind of arduous adventure Naz’s hero Sindbad could proudly put on his resume: gunfire, wild animal chase, sweatshop, escape, dangerous crossing of water, crawling reach to the destination, disillusionment and eventual acceptance. The lines between fact and fable are fuzzy – we are never quite sure which era or which city we are looking at. And that’s all right – the point is not the place and time but the indomitable spirit of survival.

The play wears its emotions lightly. You’d expect Naz to be devastated at the separation from his parents and his friend Krysia (Simone Oswald), but the young lad takes it all in good humour. Boy With A Suitcase does not also sweat over the minutiae of the journey. The stories that Naz relates are often better fleshed out than the events in his real life. If you go on a logical loophole-finding trip, you will gather a heap. The best way to enjoy Boy With A Suitcase is to play along with it – this work isn’t interested in filling the context with ordinary facts, it would rather fill the context with music. And how well it does that! The musicians aren’t backstage but visible to the audience, often walking around the actors strumming their instruments. You’ll catch yourself wondering what kind of music they will come up with for the next situation. Here is a classic case of using one’s strengths to maximum effect. Naz’s mother (MD Pallavi) has a wonderful singing voice and, while there is no real need to, she treats us to her full-throated rendition of Kesariya Balama. Truly the stuff of gooseflesh.

Two actors play Naz, one as the narrator (David Benito Garcia), the other as the actual boy (Shrunga BV). The narrator is the stronger performer of the two and tides over the more tricky bits in Naz’s role.

The closing note is positive and realistic. The story arc with Krysia, which seemed fated for an abrupt end, is also reconciled on the same note. Naz’s climactic letter to his parents is more honest, more gutsy than the one his elder sibling wrote years ago. With such gains of the journey as courage and wisdom, the empty suitcase does seem worth regrets after all.