SAMSA-MASJIEN. Written by Willem Anker. Directed and designed by Jaco Bouwer, with Antoinette Kellermann, Gerben Kamper, Ilana Cilliers and Ludwig Binge. Music Pierre-Henry Wicomb. Lighting Johan Britz. Costumes Birrie le Roux At the Baxter Flipside Theatre until January 31. TRACEY SAUNDERS reviews
THERE are theatre productions that you watch and hear and then there are those that you inhabit with all your senses. Samsa–masjien is an experience of the latter. More than a visual and aural experience it resonates on a sensory level.
Described as a piece that is in dialogue with, rather than an adaptation of, Kafka’s Metamorphosis, the opening scene mirrors that of the first line of the novel: “When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin”.
The elderly man, unkempt and visibly distressed is in conversation with a cockroach. His wife, Josephine unceremoniously squashes the creature and then apologizes for interrupting the dialogue. Such is the absurdity of the connection between the elderly couple who are living with their daughter while the father, husband and retired biology teacher slowly unravels.
The scenes unfold as Gregor becomes more agitated and his daughter is less able to deal with either his or her own mental precariousness. Bouwer’s set design is as much a part of the play as any of the characters. Nothing is accidental. The stark interior of the suburban home with gleaming white walls would not be out of place in a sterile medical environment.
Gregor has not been committed to the asylum yet, or has he? Beneath the façade of middle class, white suburbia, literally and metaphorically all is not as pristine or as orderly.
As Gregor escapes deeper in to the recesses of memory accompanied by his wife who discovers her latent musical talents they retire physically down the stairs.
The cellar of the house is both a sanctuary and a laboratory. Below the stairs is organized chaos, suppressed creativity, intense physical coupling, unfettered passions – an inkling of what lies buried in our subconscious.”
As above, so below, is one of the maxims of Hermeticism which springs to mind as the lives of both couples disintegrate. Only the outward manifestations of their simultaneous cataclysms differ. Gregor Samsa’s delusions are explained by dementia, the delusions of the young suburban couple are legitimatised by a capitalist system which appears even more demented.
The advertising pitch for a touchless soap dispenser delivered to a corporate creative appears more nonsensical than a heart to heart conversation with a cockroach, one man’s marketing is another’s psychiatric diagnosis. In comparison perhaps building a noise machine, cavorting with insects and listening to recordings of the dead are not as bizarre as they may first appear.
The daughter’s obsession with her mobile phone and social media and desperate desire to succeed are slowly seen for what they are – socially sanctioned insanity.
Increasingly logic seems nonsensical and the ravings of dementia seem to be inherently sound. Gregors’ persistent questioning of what he is meant to be holds no traction for the younger generation who seem content with a life on the surface, false connections and fake friendships.
Grete does not conceal her disdain for her mother and her contempt is perhaps best encapsulated in her summation that while the country burnt during the state of emergency, her mother vacuumed.
The disconnect between their lives and their understanding of each other is explored through Grete’s brief sessions with a psychologist. Verging on hysteria the boundaries of sanity and normalcy become increasingly blurred as she explains the symptoms of her father’s decline and reveals the source of her alienation from her mother.
The performances of the cast are exceptional. Kemper’s vulnerability as he reverts to a childlike state is matched by the tenderness exhibited by Kellerman. They make visible a connection of decades and in each interaction the rich tapestry of their marital history is evident.
His forays into madness are executed with explosive brilliance.
The sheer physicality of the roles of the aged couple will leave you breathless and their choreographed creation of the sound machine in the depths of the house is tour de force. As the crescendo builds, Cilliers brings a manic civility to her role. She is a woman teetering on the edge and you can see her knuckles whitening as she clenches desperately to the vestiges of her “normal life”.
She has a “lifetime supply of poison” which she is sure will vanquish any vermin whether real or imagined and her valiant attempt to soldier on in the face of catastrophe is heartbreaking.
The young couple’s pseudo dinner party is riveting and the almost stop frame animation style of the scene renders it cinematic in style. All the while you are aware of the sounds – crickets, bees, gnawing, gnashing.
The intensity crawls in to your brain so vividly that the involuntary scratching it elicits to rid yourself of the onslaught is not surprising.Wicomb has designed a soundscape which resonates long after you leave the theatre and is made even more searing by the juxtaposition of strains of Mozart and a badly played violin. The playbacks of recorded voices resonate across the years and between the levels of the houses.
The language itself is visceral – the ‘kakkerlak’ and ‘gogga’ have no English vocal equivalent and the symbiosis with the soundscape is near perfection.
The production is dense with themes cracking open through cocooned layers of meaning. It deserves to be seen not once, but twice or thrice.
Samsa- Masjien is the opening production of the Baxter’s Afrikaans season which continues with Die Ongelooflike Reis van Max and Lola. Macbeth.Slapeloos, directed by Marthinus Basson who directed Jaco Bouwer in The Life and Times of Johnny Cockroach written by Breyten Breytenbach in 1999 closes the season in a strange arthropodal coincidence.
I would recommend that you don’t miss a single one of them.
l Tickets: R110. No under 16’s. Book: www.computicket.com