hairline.org.uk » Celia Philips

Teenage Riot

Celia Philips — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 10:35:51 +0000

‘We can’t help it, we’re changing. We’re not kids anymore. We don’t feel like showing you everything that goes on inside. You’re kept at a distance. We don’t need to find solutions for your problems. We’re gonna have so much fun that it hurts.’
Armed with this phrase and little description, you might be led to predict a contrived performance without clarity or insight. Yet what unfolds speaks of the brutality and exhilaration of breaking through childhood and waking up to a world too crazy to comprehend. Eight teenage characters film their grievances and passions, disappointments and aspirations in a cramped wooden shed centre stage. The live feed, which often will lead you to spaces pertaining to memories, generally keeps you glued to their actions, which, despite the anarchically disobedient and provocative behaviour, surprisingly conceals maturity and wisdom. The real struggle, it seems, is not in wrestling with egotism and hormones, but questioning those accepted norms that let unacceptable societal problems thrive.
These characters are not out of control, it reasons. Not in such a way as the world around them is. If it isn’t the insurmountable pressures of a youth burdened by hurtful mantras spouted from parents and peers mouths, it might just be a rebellion against a valid threat. What unfolds on stage, in the box both real and imaginary which they are contained in, is not just a reflection of a modern struggle against insecurity and isolation. It’s a message, a slap in the face to the tired and uninspired. When once the characters spoke of apathy; purporting powerlessness, out of nowhere comes a passion to escape the seeming inevitability of responsibility and indifference in adulthood. A profound inspiration and rambunctious celebration of youth, brilliantly both directed and performed.

5/5

Julien Cottereau: Imagine-Toi

Celia Philips — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 09:45:52 +0000

Only sitting in the presence of his idiosyncratic gestures could you truly understand how absorbing the French comedic mime truly is. He pulls the audience in, in mind and heart and sometimes physicality, to create a dynamic where his performance and yours becomes a shared escapism.
With such boundless enthusiasm and a masterfully skilled spectacle, you can tell the mime has a background involving endless passionately felt hard work. The discovery of his work in a previous role within the world famous ‘Cirque du Soleil’ comes as no real surprise. As does his commitment to spreading compassion and laughter by touring with the humanitarian association for children in crisis affected areas; ‘Clowns Without Borders’.
With unbelievably astute observation skills, impeccable timing and impressive sound effects, you feel a little overwhelmed to be won over so easily by one mans peculiarities and tenderness. Subtle and grandiose gestures, squeeking and roaring sound accompaniments and thoughtfully planned repetoires build a universe so curious and enchanting, it’s hard to think of anywhere you’d rather be.
It’s hard to call a person who requires so much respect a clown. Yet the audience can be in tears of laughter one moment, and shocked with awe the next. Young and old are astounded by his fast-paced tricks and mischief, a completely captivating and joyful experience through and through.

5/5

Auld Reekie Roller Girls Present ‘The Prisoner of Azkaslam!’

Celia Philips — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 14:43:39 +0000

It’s best to get clued up before you attend a sport with such seemingly non-sensical rules, sometimes becoming hard to keep your eyes to the action with around 10 referees and debatable point tallies. Yet you quickly become enamored with the game; all-female team players bringing their intimidatingly aggressive names, ‘Switchblade Jade’, ‘Meg Le Maniac’ and ‘Fightcub’ (naming a few) to life in hip knocks and shoulder shoving dives. Each round being named a bout and lasting for such a short period, the packed-out stadium becomes absorbed by the gripping fast-flowing passion of ducks, dives and tumbles.

It isn’t such a surprise that skaters influenced by D.I.Y. punk ethics and efforts muster such an admiring and supporting fan base. Witnessing a display of teamwork and tactics alongside iconic appearances, a battle won or lost soon becomes a display of camaraderie in a mess of knee pads and fishnets. When the game is over, you realise thst this is much more than a recreational pastime. A lifestyle choice for some who choose to breathe and sweat the sport, having signed the death waiver years ago at their first practice, ‘Fresh Meat’. Sitting by the track is by far the best way to catch the action. If you’re looking for warpaint on wheels here, you’d be in the right place.

4/5

Tree Duet

Celia Philips — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 18:25:17 +0000

We were promised earnest social responses and little known mysteries that unravelled greater insight into a world beside trees. Instead we have personal familial memories, so tiring to listen to that the house lights have to be flicked on in intervals to humiliate the secret nappers. The pianist is an inspired professional whose performance is welcome despite it’s ambiguous connection. The narrators want to liven things up, there’s effort here but it soon becomes hard to care.
Moving around the stage a little more, sweeping as if the stage were a temple, a change of clothes to indicate a change of direction, and another uninspiring word of wisdom sucking our souls away a minute at a time. That’s it. Take your time swallowing back a few bottles of water if only to make a point that we, like trees, are natural. De-root the bonsai that’s been lit up, intentionally, by a bedside lamp on and off throughout the show and tape it to a narrators chest as if it were growing there.
The male speaker is in awe, not only of how nature manages to keep a tree alive but also of how they appear to speak to him, without actually talking. Yet, we presume, he is merely thinking out loud as it seems he enjoys this self-satisfying and quite frankly irritating drivel. What appears a recited speech is at times read like a preachy TV historian who needs 5 takes to get a line right.
We’re meant to care, that’s why we’re here. Instead we’re fobbed off with the premise of the distracting and harmful presumptions that carbon offsetting is as environmentally nurturing as not having flown from Singapore to put on an utterly soul destroying show. Here’s some advice for traveling across the world to prattle on about any old familial experience which featured a tree in the background, just don’t.

1/5

Anomie

Celia Philips — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 14:25:43 +0000

Had enough of the hubbub, consumerism and constant mindless distractions of the city? Longing to be inflicted with the constant aggravations of it’s solitary, stressed-out, flat dwelling 30-something characters? Look no further.
Armed with only a mattress to repetitively fall flat on, (yes, it gets old) irritating and passionless character portrayal which gets harder to follow as time goes on, and one dizzyingly heavy looking monitor each, the 6 protagonists forge a place for themselves in a surprisingly large venue for their show, using digital animations of the crowded and intrusive environment they call home. That’s right, the city.
Addicted to the internet because you can’t face social pressures? You must live in the city! But hold on there, weirdo who watches the literal matrix, don’t urinate in a plastic bottle like it’s some kind of social commentary on mental deprivation. Bedsits have toilets too, don’t you know. Ok, so you’re isolated. You live in a cramped apartment, afraid of exposure to British weather because it’s really just a reminder of how bleak your life is without any form of reflection but self-pity.
Call this entertainment? Try looking out of your window for a real 5 star show. You can’t help it but to get bored, bothered and a little bit creeped out. Though the reason why is not too clear.
Yet here we go again, the same old rudimentary dance moves performed with the zeal of a military drill. You can sense a strange familiarity of irritating characters combined with dreadful trance music. It’s depraved. And not in a healthy masochistic way where we pat each other on the back, go home and watch Simpson’s repeats with take-out, oh no. It’s achingly lonely out there on those pixelated streets, where everyone wears clothes from Gap and thinks they’re funny just for being. But they’re not. Once you’ve seen this, unlike them, you won’t be roly polying around for the hell of it.

3/5

Sweet

Celia Philips — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 13:42:58 +0000

Sweet it is, that is if you come expecting a love story with no back bone.
Based around an average looking and rather dense office drone male, who accidentally stumbles across a beautiful and conscientious woman, (thoughts revolving mainly around marriage and baking) the drones heart, in the shape of another more colourful character makes countless efforts to unite the pair by any means possible. With an oblivious sleep walk of an existence, you see, it’s hard to see a good thing coming.
That’s right, it’s an ‘insert laugh’ disaster.
OK, so gender politics aside, the romantic in you can oversee the overdone and predictable pitfalls of the plot. Because when you combine carefully choreographed moving stage pieces with simple yet cleverly effective sounds and props, then throw in puppets, ballet, catchy music, skilful miming, a characters heart portrayed by a souse and all those things one adores to ridicule about love, you’ve got some pretty nifty distraction methods at your mercy.
Saying this, no matter how energetic the performances of the actors, (the female lead in particular is multi-talented and extremely captivating) or the naive attempts to stop at nothing in order to engage the audience, Sweet is lacking in spontaneity, substance and to put it quite simply, authenticity.
One audience member in the front row couldn’t contain himself with regular outbursts of hilarity. Paid, maybe, as he was the only thing that reminded us to keep on laughing.

2/5

Junk Band Story…Uh?!

Celia Philips — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 08:00:11 +0000

Asking an audience of 5 people (in a theatre that could potentially hold 300) to cheer and applaud for something they have no pre-conceived expectations of is a pretty stupid idea. The group clearly imagined they would be playing to a larger audience. A crowd which would not only appreciate their humble and even remarkable instruments by word of mouth alone, but one which would continue to find delight in clapping for their clever beat-boxing and cheer at their martial arts based slapstick. This is, further to the shows detriment, really not the case.
The Junk Band unravel a hidden trove of talents using amongst other items of abandonment, empty glass bottles, waste paper bins and ceramic tiles. This is not without an incredibly frustrating warm-up in the form of a ‘story’ of how they came about which really only evokes sympathy for their efforts.
Incomprehensible screams and pointless arguments move the story along quickly, creating a tragically poor foundation from which they appear to emerge reinvigorated with the help of a certain bevy of recycled goods.
If you’re looking for a slightly more inspired ‘stomp’, you’ve certainly come to the wrong place. This is no territory for true invention and authenticity. More a trendy stab at forming a pop band that know how to play, yet never hit the big time.
A poor show, which would be awful should it not be elevated by its impressive musical ingenuity.

2/5

Badly Ranted Thoughts Via The Magic Of Song

Celia Philips — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 10:25:14 +0000

The complete performance takes you on a rollercoaster ride of savagely absurd observations, dodging shallow clichés and kicks you were it hurts (to laugh). Rarely giving you the time to wipe your eyes dry, the Doktor’s exceptionally unfaltering chants of supposed moral outrage and hilarity just keep coming.
Despite his appearance on TV, his show is and always does remain modest. Without such strangely comforting and intriguing interactions with the audience, an unsettling sense of familiarity would be sadly lost.
Ushering the help of the Casio CG20, (a rather crap looking 80’s electronic keyboard in the shape of a guitar) the questionable practical knowledge to play it, combined with drunken uncle dance moves, he quite rightly manages time and again to summon irresistible laughs.
Ridiculous repetitive choruses give stupendously funny verses enough time to ring true. Like a bagatelle board with the spring pulled back before catapulting the ball in all manner of directions, the hesitant build-up gives the punch-line that extra boost and leaves you feeling more than slightly dizzy.
It is for certain that we haven’t come to see musical talent. Despite his uncanny ability to switch between many different outdated keyboards and remember which loop track is culminated by pressing which 5 buttons, his skill will always lie with mastering a sarcastic ‘I give up’ facial expressions whilst delivering impeccably refreshing comic absurdity.
Yet this comic’s material is not merely a laughing matter, nor is he a simple jester complete with face paint, underpants and tie. His words are often solemnly sharp observations of our self-destructive culture and really very clever.
‘Protest Singer for the 21st Century’ by name, critical piss-taking songsmith by nature.

4/5

The Vanishing Point

Celia Philips — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 15:53:37 +0000

It doesn’t take long before delving into a very sacred animalistic reality that seams rhythmic elemental patterns of nature together with collective clumsy extended body parts flailing into dance moves.
The Carpetbag Brigade seems to relish an unusual practice of not only acrobatic dance but stilt walking on all fours. An enlightening kind of physical theatre such as this would not be half its weight if it were not struggling to provide a commentary on humanity and the natural world at work.
Ridiculously large gestures (considering the hall size) within awe-inspiring choreography create a mesmerizing fiction, a little too close to your personal space for comfort. Towards the end, when the stilts have come off the performance continues to provide a larger than life yet absorbing power.
And yet, words are not all too easy to come about when the very concept of the piece could never be accurately put to paper. It has to be seen, as in no other way would you be able to imagine such a rare and far-fetched world. A paradise of stilted alienesque woodland creatures, hesitantly converted to walking by the ways of man.
Despite being bound by Velcro and reams of dirtied costume fabric, the freedom manifested in their inquisitive, playful nature and spirited affinity with each other (as both creatures and a theatre group) create a heavy longing to leave modern society at the door.
Imaginative, enveloping and extremely enjoyable.

4/5

Amsterdam Underground Comedy Collective Presents Micha Wertheim

Celia Philips — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 08:27:58 +0000

Bursting from a fridge with trouser-less mirth, you begin to wonder what awaits you from the realms of fantastic surrealism. Especially when the performer stood in front of you claims his entrance to be even more bizarre with a side step dance, applauded continuously by himself (and luckily, the audience) for the first 3 minutes of his show.
It takes a while to be guided away from this senseless jest, and towards feeling sympathetic for his endearing yet quirky tales of childhood mistakes and misunderstandings. These recounted moments intermingle with charming surreal bursts of thought and even mime, which happen to bring many more chuckles.
Gradually he turns to the tiresome trick of the comedian who lacks imagination and begins to interweave these innocent anecdotes with punchy and altogether pointless offensive gags. Now more than ever is it apparent that bad taste insults and fantasy just don’t mix.
Despite this comedic faux pas, not only is his humor freshly self-deprecating but we are also encouraged to laugh at his short-sightedness. This is unconditionally hard to sit through. But should you miss the full show, you would sadly not be tamed back to his side, asking for another 9 minutes of snooze time (He claims that the show is clearly a dream of his, that he is merely entertaining us or at best himself until his alarm sounds.)
The show creates a platform for imagined insults which, being far too obnoxiously insensitive to be truly considered, manage to win over the crowd. As this show is largely dependent on cultural and social stereotypes and prejudices, the man is clearly going to need some audience participation. Only the skilful can get away with those ridiculous one-liners. And, by the hairs on his bare legs, he just about does it.
Despite the shows faults, Micha Wertheim’s seemingly self-conscious and otherwise charming persona makes it more than bearable, not just to sit through but to laugh with. A cheerful sardonic little show, the politically correct need not attend.

3/5