Un Hueco (Theater)

Often, I feel my theater “class” is the equivalent of an artsy mafia. In 4 weeks of classes, I’ve only seen my teacher once, but tickets in my name appear at various theaters, and e-mails tell me when to make pick up.  According to the syllabus, I am making fantastic advancements on my Drama minor – learning directly from a choreographer, talking with an actor about auditioning, learning how to compose music. In fact, I’ve had one class where we were supposed to read Wikipedia if we’d brought our computers (something we were in fact, told not to do in classes), and one class where a man taught us a little of how to put together basic circuits, and also showed us gadgets constructed from toys that make an approximation of music depending how you touch them. Interesting, but irrelevant.

However, I appreciate the tickets that come at no extra charge to my tuition.

I saw  “Un Hueco” (“A Hollow”) Sunday, and while I understood fairly little of the dialogue, I think it was brilliant. It was about 3 friends, grieving, presumably over the death of one of their sisters. (In my opinion, a sister is dead; others’ theories range from girl being a chick from a club to the friends having killed someone).  

The genius of the play was that it seemed designed specifically for its location. The play took place in Buenos Aires, and the streets mentioned where ones near us. More than that, though, the play took place in the room where the play was supposed to take place. We, the audience, met in the hallway of a school and walked through a public bathroom to get to the room of the play. The room itself was the size of a classroom with a few backless benches for the audience, a large set of blue lockers, a dirty mirror on one wall, and a long bench with a curved back along the opposite wall. At times one or two of the three actors would exit and we’d hear water running – having crossed through it, we could now envision the bathroom he was washing up in. While waiting for the play to start, we’d taken free coffee from a table with coffee, a plate of ham and cheese sandwiches, a pitcher of orange juice and what looked like a bottle of alcohol. Later, one actors left and came back with the tray and alcohol. (I have no idea what they would have done if an audience member had eaten the sandwiches, because it seemed all had been offered to us). That the items used as props had been taken for ordinary elements of the world around us made play’s illusion of reality all the stronger. This was aided by the use of actual items: real sandwiches, a genuine cigarette, in place of props that were merely imitations. Admittedly, I think the alcohol was just water.

The actors were often only 4 feet away from the audience, sometimes as close as a foot. When they shoved the lockers or pushed each other, they seemed running the risk of tumbling into an audience member. The tension was palpable, and another powerful element. The actors spoke over each other, clamoring, teasing. No one politely waited for a line to be finished. A friend would playfully pinch and push at another, grab his tie, or slap his butt. There was a physical familiarity and energy between the actors that made them believable; it was obvious when the Jewish friend felt his personal space was invaded. For realism, it was fantastic and my only complaint was that one friend, Lucas, seemed oddly mobile for a man on crutches. For a play, while I liked it, I can see that it made a risky choice: the realism of everyone talking at once certainly made it hard for us to understand what was being said and what was going on.

Sept. 4 and 7 - Shows

I. San Telmo Drumming

Last Sunday, I went to see African drumming in the neighborhood of San Telmo. It was fantastically easy to find; when you get off the bus, just follow the sound. A group of men, dressed comfortably in sweatshirts or T-shirts, played as they walked. Their drums were decorated with large painted lips, grinning. Before the men danced three women dressed in black. They made a decent dance based around small steps, swaying hips, and smooth gestures; I tried to surreptitiously copy them, but there seemed to be a trick to the deceptively simple moves to make it all come together.  People walked along, following the drummers like a very chill recreation of the Pied Piper.  When then drummers reached their end, in front of a Socialist group’s headquarters, to give you some of San Telmo’s personality, they circled around the dancers, and took the drumming up a notch. Then everyone quietly dispersed and went home.

II. Opera

Wednesday, I went to an opera. Unlike operas and ballets in the US, here it’s perfectly acceptable to arrive in jeans (although, admittedly, most people dress better here anyway).  Most of the audience was in their 50’s or 60’s, and the 5:30pm start time must have been an especially early for Argentineans, who eat dinner around 9pm or 10pm.

I’m always surprised that here theater tickets don’t have assigned seating, so lines will stretch down the block as everyone files up waiting to enter. Still, it has it’s perks - we managed to snag seats 4 rows from the stage. (One friend pointed out to me that in the U.S., getting into events depends on money. You have to pay for better seating to the theater, you have to buy the milonga tickets before hand; In Argentina, a lot depends on time and dedication. If you arrive early, you’re golden).

            In the theater, at the top of the curtain, was a digital screen, looking pretty much like a teleprompter, displaying the words to the songs. This is a fantastic invention. Even in English, songs are hard to understand.  Admittedly, there were flaws. Often the singers repeated words, but the digital display didn’t, or the actors used synonyms or slightly different wordings. An odd detail was I think the singers often said “gratsi” (Italian) instead of “gracias” (Spanish). Perhaps I misheard, or perhaps it’s a sign of opera’s Italian heritage or of Argentina’s love of Europe leaking in.

            This first opera was Suor Angelica, which was not great. Because it was an opera, the music was powerful and pretty and the singers have abilities I cannot dream of, but the plot was, well, not really a plot. It was cause and effect at the best, without suspense, uncertainty, or different sides in conflict. In punishment for having an illegitimate child, a woman had been sent to be a nun. She finds out that her son died, so she kills herself. End.

            In the last scene, the woman wore a simple white dress, making her contrast both in formality and color with the somberly colored, more formal clothes of the other characters. The stage lights focused on her, as if she was a ghost or an angel; presumably this indicated that she would not in fact be damned for taking her own life. At the last moment, her dress illuminates brightly with lights hidden in the cloth. I know this should add drama and intensity, but the use of modern technology contrasted too much with the old fashioned setting of the play for me to truly appreciate it. In a more modern atmosphere, it could be great.

            What was fantastic, however, was Pagliaci, the second show, and a 2-act opera. The plot is interesting, the music of course powerful, the actors skilled, and the workfull of side plots. The main plot is this:  a man finds out his wife is cheating on him. Meanwhile, he and his wife are comedia d’el arte actors, playing husband and wife in a show about a man who finds out his wife is cheating on him. To emphasize the show-within-a-show even more, the opera stars with credits rolling, as if in a movie, projected onto a transparent screen in front of the main stage. (In both operas, they at times used a third screen, in front of the actors like a physical fourth wall, in addition to other setting pieces behind or on level with the actors). Meanwhile, the whole play is full of little plots, so no matter where you look, there’s something interesting. There’s a love triangle with girls fighting over the attention of a soldier (but also trying to play hard to get), and the townspeople react to the comedia d’el arte play (I think some of them were crushing on the wife), and things like that. In summary, if you’re in Buenos Aires and get the chance to see an opera by Buenos Aires Lirica, definitely take it up. Well, you know, depending on price; I got in for free. 

Día Uno - Tango

Argentina . . . everyone looks like a Caucasian, more or less. At the airport I couldn’t tell what language to use, even trying English on blondes wasn’t a sure strategy.

I arrived first of my group, at 6:30 am. It was the day of the governmental elections for Buenos Aires, and everywhere there was political graffiti. So far, I’ve only seen one offensive graffiti; most is just phrases like “For the left” or “Cristina forever more” (referring in this case to the presidential elections in October), or “beloved Cristina.. One bit of graffiti even read “I Love My Mother’; not quite the “FU World” or “I will be consumed by darkness” sort of graffiti I’ve seen in the US.  Posters were plastered up reminding people to vote. I’ve heard that everyone is legally required to vote, but that the law is easy to shirk.

I am living with an elderly woman, her live-in maid (a few years older than me), a housemate in my abroad program, and another abroad student who’s been here for two months. Apparently English is rather important in Argentina. Most people seem to speak a little, and my host maid? (host helper? host peer? I’m not sure what to call her) is studying it, because it’s a requirement for being a secretary.

So far, the much rumored of deadly traffic is a no-show. They’re not jaywalking friendly, but it’s no New York. The most dangerous thing was that one of our taxi drivers had a TV attached to his windshield, playing the news. (Come to think of it, Heather mentioned seeing a more improvised version of this in Japan . . . apparently the rest of the world does not need to see to drive.)

We went out to a tango show in Puerto Madera. First they served  us wine and a meal – the best thing I tasted there was gnocchi. There’s a strong Italian heritage in Argentina, along with a love of beef. We later tried a type of black caramel flan, also very rico. “Rico” and “linda” seemed to be the words of the night, perhaps because they were the positive adjectives that we knew and were easy to apply to most things.

Gia (my housemate) and Raquel (the host maid) in Puerto Madero

The tango show consisted of many acts, either men dancing solo, together, or with women, and singing. In general, it’s a very flashy, very flirty dance. The dancers get inches away from each other’s faces, lift and spin women, and toss so many quick, high kicks around the back or between the legs that they seem on the edge of injury. Immigrants and prostitutes created the dance, which no doubt explains the sexy atmosphere.  One man in the show danced solo, and he turned the moves into something that granted an air of power, not flirtation. The men all had slicked back black hair, and all the plots (when there was one) generally consisted of a man taking a piece of clothing from a woman who was minding her own business. The woman willingly tries to retrieve her umbrella/apron/shawl, and in the process, they being to dance.