Written for Culture Wars
Almost inadvertently, 1927 have found themselves on the political frontline. Little over three miles away from the Battersea Arts Centre, in the cutthroat cold of Parliament Square, students and schoolchildren were clashing with riot police. “Whose streets?” the marching youth had cried earlier, “Our streets.” So when 1927’s animated young stick-figures tear up a communal park, bouncing on ice-cream vans and setting fire to lampposts, it no longer seems the stuff of dystopian fantasy. Offstage reality was only missing the animals.
I only say ‘inadvertently’ because the uncanny precision behind such concurrence goes beyond prediction’s reach. Work on the show began almost two years ago with a first scratch showing in January. Nor are 1927 directly concerned with tuition fees and the incumbent coalition. However, I add ‘almost’ because the echoes of offstage reality are not entirely coincidental. They are the product of Suzanne Andrade’s insight and foresight, which is astonishing enough to merit joking calls for the ducking stool’s reintroduction. This is more than just a matter of right time, right place.
For Andrade sets her story in a city divided by wealth. Its wide-angle panorama is of impressive skyscrapers and economic success. To look beneath the surface, to peak between the cracks, however, is to see its discontented underclass, crammed into a cockroach-infested, overpopulated ghetto called the Bayou. This is a “fully-furnished shithole;” it’s “someone else’s bad dream” and, in its midst, its children are revolting. Their demands: “Better living conditions, better education and,” in an eagle-eyed sideswipe at the so-called post-ideological generation, “an X-box.”
It’s a wry aside typical of Andrade’s unfailingly delicious text, which swaps the cheeky grin of Marriott Edgar and Eric Idle’s poetry for an arch snarl. Set to Lillian Henley’s silent-film pastiche of a piano score – all tumbling tinkles and chase sequences – Andrade’s text approaches layered libretto. Simple rhythmic repetitions underpin some dazzling linguistic acrobatics.
This marks a major, major step up for the celebrated young company. Where their breakthrough piece, Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, was a touch ramshackle and brittle, here they prove themselves ready to fly the Fringe. While Paul Barritt’s animations remain as luscious as ever – the move from Victorian silhouette to graphic novel adds colour and complexity – the company have cracked the enigma of integrating live action and projected image. Where before it traded on its own awkwardness, the innovative technique has graduated to a slickness that allows it to be truly spectacular. The reason is a reversal of cause and effect. Previously animation affected action; now, the effects of action appear onscreen. Dust clouds emerge from sweeping brooms; splattered stains appear after flies are swatted.
But most admirable is the newfound restraint. The narrative’s requirements always come first, sometimes at the expense of dead-end gags. That can see performers doing very little; it can even get rid of them entirely, allowing the animation to take the lead. In other words, the form has evolved from novel gimmick to a genuine hybrid.
Plot-wise, it revolves around a glum, misfit janitor with ambitions to leave the Bayou and a social reformist, Agnes Eaves, determined to pacify the unrest, preferring education to the sedative sweeties distributed by the government. But it’s success is the world Andrade and Barritt have created, with quirky details lurking in every nook and cranny.
The result is visual theatre that drips with class and fresh possibilities. Its prescience and perception stands testimony that devised work can trade political punches with playwrights without sacrificing aesthetics or playfulness. It’s about time something replicated the success of Shockheaded Peter and 1927 could deservedly follow Improbable into the commercial realm. Alert the judging panels: The Animals & Children Took to the Streets should not be overlooked.
Photograph: 1927
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