Herman Lategan: On stage in Cape Town
Pick-Ups is the first play in Australian Alex Broun’s trilogy on the current state of easy sex, dysfunctional relationships and the fragility of the human condition. So what’s new? For years these clichs seem to have been the universal leitmotif in most of the world’s literary genres.
But despite these ancient stories – of the heart being a lonely hunter and our unfulfilled sexual yearnings – having been told over and over again, we are still desperately trying to find answers to all these perpetual questions. But forget finding the answers. Imagine a world without the heart – no wrenching questions, only all the neat answers. There would be very little to cry or laugh about, and there would be hardly anything of substance to write about.
In Pick-Ups, a screwball comedy about the age old tradition of searching for sex and picking up strangers, Broun succeeds in generating more questions and laying bare the base mating ritual to which we are all accustomed.
The play is not a magnum intellectual theatrical opus, but it does not pretend to be. It succeeds where many other more serious works fail dismally. It is thoroughly entertaining, because of the tight direction by Christopher Weare and the amusing script, which consists of numerous vignettes, flashing from one familiar pick-up scene to the next.
This is perfect for us blas, post-modern people, with our short attention spans and our remote-controls firmly in hand, constantly channel-hopping. The play also moves dizzyingly fast because of the assured footwork by its four superb actors, portraying 28 characters. Jason Ralph’s excellent characterisation of a shy and lonely nerd desperate for a shag serves as a haunting metaphor for how we all sometimes feel under our suave and sexy personas.
Some of Mark Dymond’s character interpretations could have been slightly more nuanced, but the cute rugby player being propositioned by two hot femmes fatales, was excellent. Keren Tahor brought a sophisticated but decadent touch to each role she played and if she continues with her fine acting, she will soon make a name as a theatrical heavyweight. She also has one of those rare gifts, a dramatic stage presence.
The award-wining Anthea Thompson, who at times beguilingly looked like a young, virginal Julie Andrews, gave a moving performance as a dopehead. The scene between her and Jason Ralph is one of the saddest, highlighting how desperate we are to find sexual and emotional fulfillment, if only we knew how. The weakest sketch was the scene in the gay bar, where the two male characters tried to pick each other up. It was totally unconvincing and perhaps the author should spend an evening in such a bar to see how it’s actually done.
But this is a minor criticism, and all in all the comedy succeeds to become fully efficacious when, double-edged, it cuts in more than one direction. The result? The last laugh is on us, dear audience, as we recognise others and ourselves dancing the lonely mating dance of picking up or being picked up.