“Ze highlight of ze festival,” said a distinctly French accent behind me at the close of Brett Bailey’s new vision, The Prophet. Those who have never seen Bailey direct the Third World Bunfight company would certainly have been astounded. Those who have would have sworn they were watching Ipi Zombi or iMumbo Jumbo with far less pace.
I am not entirely anti Bailey’s astonishing Afro-cabaret, merely indisposed towards repetition. Once the first-time thrill of the unusual, candlelit venue situated in an abandoned power station has gone, once the outlandish costumes have been marvelled over and the innovation celebrated, it is rather difficult to be amazed, again.
Instead I find myself falling back on the plot and the subtexts which underlie its presentation. It becomes ever more difficult to rest easily under the mounting suspicion that Bailey exoticises the legend of the prophetess Nongqawuse, not in order to bring a more meaningful, nuanced understanding to history, but in order to sell tickets. This strange, unresolved tale of a 15-year-old girl – who persuaded the Xhosa to destroy their cattle and crops, leading to their eventual defeat by the British – lends itself to his by-now signature theatrical treatment. A Bailey show certainly is strange, crowd-pulling stuff, but then a spectacle always is.
Flipping between the realm of the spirit and the tangible, between the ghosts of departed Xhosa kings and the living, The Prophet is a bewitching theatrical journey enacted by an obviously talented cast of singers and dancers. Much of the action is carried by children and this is most successful when the acting is strong – not the case throughout. However, it is chilling when the child-actors bear arms and take on the roles of British colonial conquerors.
The set presentation employs the iconography of kitsch combined with the trappings of tradition to full effect. Bead necklaces are replaced by the melamine pastel baubles of a Sixties housewife. A makeshift shrine to the Virgin Mary adorns one wall. Hindu bridal garlands – plastic mock-ups of strung carnations and marigolds – grace actors portraying Xhosa ancestors. Christian crosses nestle next to skulls, bones and tourist curios. Artificial floral funeral arrangements, body paint, faux fur and the sheen of costume jewellery complete the melange. A witchdoctor burns cloyingly sweet Indian incense along with medicinal iqhumisa herbs.
Is this a successful multi-cultural fusion which introduces a new, unique form and brings a better appreciation of its constituents? Or is it simply a noisy confusion of styles? The shallow appropriation of cultural knick-knacks makes for great-looking stage props that don’t say very much besides “be astonished”. Although dazzling, I find it a superficial beauty.
It is possible to wax on about the postmodern possibilities of pastiche, very much in evidence here. Others would generously argue that Bailey – who toured India – draws parallels between Indian mysticism and African spirituality in the choice of presentation. But these connections are tenuous in the extreme, and not touched on at all in the action. Bailey’s claim for The Prophet is that recounting the tale of the painful, highly contested story of Nongqawuse is an act of healing that will allow us to come to terms with this often shunned figure. It is up to the individual to judge whether or not his ritualistic theatre achieves this.