At the Centurion Teater for the murderous, bloody Sweeney Todd. A dark twisted, methodical, sadistic, blood spraying, cannibalistic musical masterpiece by Scenario Productions. The first couple of rows and splashing zones, people are dying, blood will be spilled, put on your plastic body suit provided by the theatre. A lot of people perished, one after another, music in the background, singing dialogue, spotlight on that dreaded seat, a barber in the guise of providing a service slits your throat. Nonchalance, a pleasure to dispose of you.
Sweeney Todd is a barber in Victorian London who murders his customers with a straight razor. He works above Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop, and together they dispose of the bodies by baking them into meat pies sold to unsuspecting customers. His motive is often revenge — usually against a corrupt judge or official who wronged him and destroyed his family. The lighting dark and spooky. It was raining in real life, the theatre was wet, it enhanced the experience, what a day for theatre!
Music Director Luigia Casaleggio held the show, the conductor, her presence was felt.
The performers were amazing, the choruses, the show had a opera influence. They were singing dialogue, dancing and simultaneously acting. The costumes creative and scary. In and out, the performers walked in and out the auditorium, creating a sense of unpredictability. No one knew what to expect, it was a hell of a ride!
Buffet had Kay and I have Sam, sure I am not Buffet but boy am I lucky! Always dreamed of a Kay Graham when I was reading through the pages of “Snowball”. Kay was great, she was powerful, she had influence and everybody loved her – Buffet was impressionable, eager, bright and destined for greatness. His teachings are right, thank God I idolized him.
Operate with a margin of safety, have an inner scorecard, stay within your circle of competence, read books – any type of books, boring is good,
you’ll never be rich if you’re normal and always think long-term.
I am not exactly a millionaire but he was not one till 32. To my credit, I am surrounded by millionaires, I just have to put two and two together and stay on that wavelength and then I’ll get my first million. He had Benjamin Graham, that speeds things up. I am not Buffet, he was good with numbers, rational and an MBA graduate. I was horrible at maths, I lost a lot of money on Forex (pure speculation) and a University dropout. Still, facts are facts, Berkshire Hathaway was a mistake, he was emotional, he screwed the other guy because the other guy was trying to screw him, leading to a bad business decision. Berkshire was still a fading and failing textile business, he got played. Lemons to lemonade, he stripped Berkshire of its assets and kept it, altering its business model and practice.
Buffet had Kay and I have Sam, even the names roll easy on the tongue, I am blessed. Sam introduced me to high society and the best people in the world. I dreamed and fantasized about this when I was reading through the pages of Snowball. I am not Buffet, he had a great wife, two wonderful children and an established home. Yes, they stayed at his parents for a while but they eventually moved out. I just have “antakalipa”. There’s still a lot I have to get right, I am well behind. My Snowball is accumulating speed and mass.
Buffet had Kay and I have Sam, I love Sam like how Buffet loved Kay. I dreamed of this when I was paging through the pages of Snowball. Taught me “with great power comes great responsibility” a simple one, Ben Parker, a quote you take for granted when you are Peter Parker and one you never forget as “Spider-Man”!
As you turn 30, you lose confidence in yourself and ideas. The world even pushes you to the side, your spirit gets sucked out of your body, you become the labels society assigns, you become the accumulation of your past years. I worked hard to be the person that I wanted. I worked hard to be an individual. I chose my path, I walked alone. I never wanted to fit in a construct. I want my fate in my hands. I chose “antakalipa” to be what defines me. I will serve millions of people around the world, it’s my destiny. I’ve been following the teachings of Buffet since my 20’s and now my Snowball is a rolling boulder, gaining traction and momentum, becoming bigger in the process. It took a while, I am a value investor. There will come a time when I’ll be unstoppable. This has always been the plan.
Buffet had Kay and I have Sam, I dreamed about her as I was paging through Snowball. Warren Buffet by far, the biggest influence of my life.
When I was in school, I used to collect “full attendance” certificates. I came to school every day even on the day’s when I wasn’t writing. Marking the register was always priority. Exam season, we would be like 4 or 5 in the classroom, I didn’t care, it was cool. We didn’t have classwork, the teachers were liberated and you basically got a free pass to go anywhere. In the 3rd grade my teacher got pregnant and was replaced by a substitute teacher “Miss Gertrude”. Teacher Gertrude didn’t like me at all. She thought I was ‘stout’, mischievous and loud. I did all my classwork and homework but that was not enough. She used to weaponize the prize giving ceremony against me. “Do this or you won’t go to prize giving. Shut up or you won’t go to prize giving”, it got stale and lost all potency. Her threats stopped being credible, they weren’t based on anything real so they didn’t change my conduct. She would scold and shout at me. Prize giving season came and legible students got invitations, true to her word, I didn’t get an invitation, I was not going to prize giving. It didn’t hit me too hard because I knew I’d get a “full attendance” certificate. I’d been perfect all year, no missed day. Teacher Gertrude took that away from me too. She said I’d been absent for 1 day, I pleaded my case and advised her she was mistaken but she said the register doesn’t lie. I was fully present under Mrs. Bosman for three terms and I happen to miss one day under Miss Gertrude? How nice. A stain on my record. She didn’t mark me on the register. I was fuming. The first time I had ever felt injustice. That year I attended every day of school for nothing! No certificate, no recognition, just nothing! There were days when I could have missed school but I didn’t because I wanted that certificate. I went to school every day only for the substitute teacher to void my year. Teacher Gertrude took away my full attendance certificate! There was no ways of telling too because you only got that certificate on the last day of the school year. I was genuinely thunderstruck when I saw that 1 day absent on my report card. Mrs. Bosman why did you have to get pregnant and leave me with Teacher Gertrude? Everything was great, you introduced me to poetry but then you were pregnant and everything changed! Teacher Gertrude was the first person to teach me human nature. You can take prize giving away from me but don’t deny me of my full attendance certificate. Denying me of full attendance is diabolical because it’s blatant, you see me every day, it’s a lie, it’s unprofessional. If it weren’t for poetry, I never would have gotten anything that year. You didn’t win Teacher Gertrude, poetry exonerated me.
I was always disappointed with Teacher Gertrude but I forgive you. I have always been a bit of a perfectionist, Mr. Hyperacheiver, only now I see that it can be used against me just like how Teacher Gertrude once did.
When I was class captain, I strived to do things the right way. My numbers were always perfect and I made sure teachers signed the register after every period. I was exemplary, the administration side of the office loved me. I still went to school every day and I never cheated anybody out of a “full attendance” because I know how it feels. You didn’t win Teacher Gertrude.
Folie a deux is actually a masterpiece. It’s all in the name, a delusion shared by two people. Arthur Flecks life is a mess, he knows he messed up, he knows he is going away for a long time. He disassociates, he doesn’t live in the real world anymore. He is cooped up in his own world, he is disillusioned with the real world. No one treats him like a human being in the real world. He finds an escape in a girl who idolize’s “Joker”. His shadow finds an outlet and expresses itself. “Joker” manifests himself in the real world, he finds a stage and for the first time in a while, Arthur feels alive again. His “Joker” persona makes him feel alive and it makes sense too, when he is Arthur, he is dark and disillusioned with life but as “Joker”, he has on a colorful costume and make-up. “Joker” is who he wishes he can be but he doesn’t acknowledge that he is “Joker”, it’s all an act for him – entertainment. He doesn’t see and understand “Jokers” darkness, this makes him a stranger to himself. For him being “Joker” is an escape, he is stuck in a rut, he is depressed, he still hates himself because that doesn’t go away and “Joker” makes him daydream about life. When he puts on his costume and make-up, he can put on a show, the world is a stage, he can do anything, he can be anyone but that’s a delusion because we still live in a real world and he is trialed for murdering 5 people, 1 on live TV and 6 if you add his mother. When he fires his lawyer and defends himself as “Joker”, he doesn’t see the gravity of the situation, he puts on a show, the world is a stage, he is so delusional. Who could blame him? His love interest perpetuates and enhances this delusion, she enables Arthur, she gives him an escape, an avenue for “Joker” to express himself, she also dons her costume and make-up so she too can be “Joker”. Arthur thinks this girl is there for him but she is only there for “Joker”. When Arthur denounces “Joker”, the delusion stops and she goes away. She was never real. Arthur denies his shadow and it ends up murdering him because he can’t see it. It’s a delusion of two, Folie a deux but this is also a sequel.
The biggest criticism of the movie is that it’s a musical but that’s entertainment. It’s a creative decision and it’s still a psychological thriller. How else are you going to depict Arthur’s delusion and state of mind. He is literally locked-up, he is disillusioned with the world and it wants to kill him. He can only daydream about a better existence. A musical shows us his frame of mind. “Critically acclaimed” is usually jargon for realistic and accurate – the first movie was that in abundance. It chronicled Arthur’s life in a way that was believable and his dissent to hell made sense observing his character arc. The sequel explores his state of mind, his shadow is not something that is hidden anymore, it’s in the open and Arthur gives it a platform. The shadow is not logical, that’s why a musical is perfect. Musicals have illogical time frames and they are delusional in nature because they don’t happen in real life. Folie a deux = delusion shared by two people, it’s also a sequel (2) and Arthur is murdered by his shadow (his second self). This was clearly thought out, if this is not genius, I don’t know what is. Maybe the sequel was a money grab, you could certainly make a point and say it didn’t warrant one but that’s entertainment, the world demanded it! I do understand the backlash because I was initially one of the guys who pushed back. I didn’t understand, I needed to suspend my judgment and finish the damn movie but I was scared they would tarnish the legacy of the first movie and they didn’t. This is definitely a polarizing movie but as a student of Jung, I will defend this sequel to my last breath.
The box office and awards are not always everything, the product must have soul and integrity. It cannot pander to widespread perceptions about what it should be. The vision is the vision. The Director is also the writer and producer, he understands the source material better than anyone, he created it. It’s literally his story-world, to think it could have been done better is arrogant. Sometimes the media catches on and the audience loves it garnering you acclaim, awards and fortune and sometimes its a miss. Win or lose, the product still has to have soul and integrity. The story continues on Folie a deux and it is told in the best possible way. If you don’t see it, you don’t understand the premise of the movie. This was always shadow work that’s why Joker has mass appeal.
Behind the Crimson Door: A World of Illusion, Fear, and Becoming
There is something unmistakably electric about stepping into The Cirk. It is not merely a venue; it is a threshold. The moment you cross into its space, the ordinary dissolves and something heightened, almost mythic, takes its place. Time loosens. Reality softens. You are invited—no, compelled—into a world where the human body defies its own limits and imagination takes physical form. Watching Gert-Johan Coetzee’s Behind the Crimson Door in this environment feels not just appropriate, but essential. The Cirk is a place where impossibility becomes language, and this production speaks it fluently.
From the outset, the show establishes itself as an immersive spectacle. Aerialists carve shapes into the air with impossible grace. Acrobats suspend disbelief as effortlessly as they suspend themselves mid-flight. Bodies twist, stretch, and split against gravity’s expectations, forming a kinetic poetry that is as precise as it is breathtaking. Dance blends seamlessly with vocal performance, while fire punctuates the stage with both danger and allure. Every movement is intentional, every transition choreographed into a flowing tapestry of motion. It is not simply performance—it is total theatre.
Sound plays an equally commanding role. It does not merely accompany the action; it envelops it. The audience is drawn inward, cocooned within a sonic landscape that deepens the sense of immersion. Once inside, there is no outside. The world of Behind the Crimson Door becomes complete, sealed, and self-sustaining. You are not watching a story—you are inhabiting it.
Visually, the production dazzles. The costuming, designed by Gert-Johan Coetzee himself, is nothing short of extraordinary. Each piece feels alive with intention, evoking the opulence and theatricality of Moulin Rouge while maintaining a distinct identity. Fabrics shimmer, silhouettes exaggerate, and textures provoke the imagination. The costumes do not simply adorn the performers; they transform them into embodiments of the world’s themes—desire, fear, seduction, and transformation.
At its narrative core is Charlotte, a small-town dreamer whose ambitions stretch far beyond the boundaries of her upbringing. Drawn toward the promise of the Big City, she steps into a world that dazzles and overwhelms in equal measure. Yet what unfolds is not a straightforward tale of ambition fulfilled or broken. Instead, the city becomes a psychological landscape—a projection of Charlotte’s inner world. Its lights are her desires. Its shadows are her fears. Its excesses mirror her anxieties about losing herself within it.
The genius of the production lies in this duality. The Big City is both real and imagined, seductive and threatening. It pulses with life, yet feels unstable, constantly shifting in response to Charlotte’s perception. This surreal quality transforms the narrative into something more introspective. It is not just about a journey outward, but a confrontation inward.
Guiding us through this labyrinth is Violette, the narrator and former seamstress who has witnessed the unfolding drama. Her presence anchors the story, offering both distance and intimacy. Through her, the narrative gains texture—a sense of memory, of reflection, of quiet understanding. She introduces the recurring motif of doors, each one symbolic of choice. These doors are not merely physical objects but metaphors for the paths we take, the risks we embrace, and the fears we either confront or avoid.
As Charlotte moves through these symbolic thresholds, the production deepens its philosophical resonance. The tension builds not from external danger alone, but from the internal struggle between courage and fear. And when the revelation finally arrives, it lands with quiet power: the fear was never in the world itself. It existed within the dreamer. In this moment, Behind the Crimson Door transcends spectacle and becomes something profoundly human.
The performances themselves are nothing short of exceptional. Danica Bezuidenhout brings a vulnerability and strength to Charlotte that grounds the fantastical elements of the story. Her portrayal captures the delicate balance between wonder and apprehension, making her journey deeply relatable. Cheree Simpson, Claudia Moruzzi, Phillip Kleynhans, Carmen Jooste, Mohamed Ambaram, Zenzele Letsoela, and Kimona Moodley each contribute with remarkable skill and presence. Whether suspended high above the stage or commanding attention on the ground, they embody the physical and emotional demands of the production with unwavering commitment. Their work is not only technically impressive but deeply expressive, turning every movement into storytelling.
Direction by Joanna Pawelczyk ensures that all these elements—performance, design, sound, and narrative—coalesce into a unified vision. Her guidance is evident in the seamless transitions, the clarity of the storytelling, and the balance between spectacle and substance. Under her direction, the production never loses its emotional core, even at its most visually overwhelming.
Ultimately, Behind the Crimson Door is an experience that lingers. It reminds us of the power of imagination—not only to create beauty, but to shape our fears. It challenges us to consider the doors we choose to open, and the ones we leave closed. And in doing so, it reveals something quietly profound: that the most formidable obstacles we face are often the ones we construct within ourselves.
At The Cirk, where the impossible becomes tangible, this message resonates all the more deeply. The performers defy gravity, but the story invites us to defy something even more difficult—the limitations of our own perception. And for a moment, suspended between air and insight, we believe we can.
Making viral content that stretches across all fours like a tent. Clout, likes, shares, eyeballs anything for that content. Will use my kids to get likes gimme, gimme, gimme! Degenerate, attention seeker, will sell my mamma for some views. Can never be content with that 9 to 5, provides life without substance – content. Content is king. Dopamine infested existence, chasing a thrill, a high, virality, clout, shock value, sex! Celebrity, celebrity would do anything for the views. Insight disrespect and cut queues, I am on a stream, 50000 views, 50 million more and I’ll be living my dream. Bot clique, manufactured social proof, 6 million followers but no engagement. Pay attention to me, look at what I can do, I’ve got a big ass, I can dance for you, subscribe and see my cat, it’s pink!
Controversy, shock value, disrespect, violence, clout, everybody can be famous, anyone can be a celebrity. The death of mainstream has destroyed civility. Talented people used to be the celebrities, now it’s all clout. Celebrity, celebrity, has no value if everyone is one. Ruled by algorithms, hey, relax guy – I am sure you are big but I don’t know you. Celebrity, celebrity, has lost soul, lights dimmer, unhealed trauma simmers and hopes for dinner. How can you create something timeless when you are chasing clout? Steam hovers to create baseless clouds. Reign doesn’t shower to sustain a legacy. Attention, recognition, fame, thrill, money – a hell of a life! Celebrity, celebrity, everything was always fabricated, the media, press and larger than life personas. Bot clique, manufactured social proof, 6 million followers but no engagement. Kayfabe is dead, proceedings transparent, costumes off and make-up out of sight. Creating a generation of people always in character, in a role for the light. You can do it too, put up a fight. Celebrity, celebrity, has lost all value. Hey, relax guy, I don’t know you, the death of mainstream has made you another guy. Celebrity, celebrity, doesn’t do anything anymore, everyone wants to go viral, everyone wants to be a celebrity.
The Return of Elvis du Pisanie: Memory, Masculinity, and the Theatre of Becoming
There are performances that entertain, and then there are performances that inhabit you—that sit in your chest long after the lights dim, long after the applause dissolves into the Johannesburg night. The Return of Elvis du Pisanie, written by Paul Slabolepszy and brought to life in a riveting one-man tour de force by Ashley Dowds at Theatre on the Square, belongs firmly in the latter category. This is not merely theatre—it is excavation. Of memory. Of masculinity. Of identity in post-apartheid South Africa. And above all, of the fragile, often fractured human spirit trying to reconcile boyhood dreams with adult realities.
Ashley Dowds does not simply perform this play—he conducts it. Alone on stage, he becomes an entire world: a son, a father, a dreamer, a broken man, a child clinging to illusion, and an adult confronting truth. His performance is nothing short of an acting masterclass.
There is an immediacy to his presence—a kinetic energy that never settles. He sweats, he trembles, he lunges forward into memory and recoils from it just as quickly. His body is not static; it is a living archive of experience. Every gesture feels earned. Every shift in posture signals a psychological transition. And then there is the voice: elastic, precise, and deeply expressive. He slips between characters with astonishing fluidity, modulating tone and rhythm in a way that feels almost musical. One moment comedic, the next devastatingly tragic—yet never jarring, never forced.
What makes Dowds’ performance so compelling is not just its technical brilliance, but its truthfulness. He does not “show” us emotion—he experiences it, in real time, in front of us. There is no safety net here. No ensemble to fall back on. And yet, he never misses a beat. He remains in complete flow, sustaining tension and engagement with remarkable control. It is theatre at its most exposed—and most alive.
At the heart of this production lies Paul Slabolepszy’s script—an extraordinary piece of writing that balances humour and heartbreak with surgical precision. The genius of the text lies in its restraint. It does not overreach. It does not attempt spectacle. Instead, it leans into intimacy, allowing the audience to sit uncomfortably close to Elvis’s inner world.
The narrative unfolds as a journey through memory—fragmented, nonlinear, and deeply personal. Elvis du Pisanie is not simply recounting his life; he is reconstructing it, trying to make sense of the boy he once was and the man he has become. The past bleeds into the present, and the boundaries between them blur.
Slabolepszy writes with an acute understanding of South African masculinity—particularly the emotional repression that often defines it. Elvis is a product of a world that taught him to suppress vulnerability, to perform toughness, to hide pain beneath bravado. And yet, beneath that surface lies a profound longing—for connection, for validation, for healing.
The script is laced with humour—sharp, observational, and often disarming. But this humour is never gratuitous. It serves a purpose: to reveal, to soften, to create space for the deeper emotional currents that run beneath. When the play turns toward tragedy—and it does, quietly but devastatingly—the impact is all the more profound.
At its core, The Return of Elvis du Pisanie is a story about returning—not just to a place, but to a self that has been buried under years of denial and disillusionment. Elvis’s journey is one of confrontation: with his childhood, with his father, with the illusions that once sustained him.
The figure of Elvis Presley looms large—not as a literal presence, but as a symbol. For young Elvis du Pisanie, Presley represents escape, glamour, possibility—a world beyond the confines of his reality. But as the narrative unfolds, this ideal begins to crack. The myth of Elvis becomes a mirror, reflecting the protagonist’s own disintegration.
There is a deep sense of loss embedded in the story. Loss of innocence. Loss of identity. Loss of connection. And yet, there is also a quiet resilience—a suggestion that confronting the past, however painful, is a necessary step toward reclaiming oneself.
The staging at Theatre on the Square embraces minimalism, and in doing so, amplifies the emotional intensity of the piece. The set does not overwhelm; it supports. It creates a space that feels both intimate and expansive—a psychological landscape rather than a literal environment.
Every prop, every placement feels intentional. Nothing is wasted. The simplicity allows the audience to focus entirely on the performer and the narrative. It also reinforces the idea that this is a story unfolding within the mind—a series of memories being revisited, reshaped, and re-experienced.
The theatre itself becomes a kind of confessional. The proximity between performer and audience collapses distance, drawing us into Elvis’s world in a way that feels almost intrusive—and therefore deeply affecting.
Music plays a subtle but significant role in the production. It does not dominate; it underscores. The echoes of Elvis Presley’s influence are felt rather than overtly imposed, creating an atmospheric layer that enriches the narrative without distracting from it.
The sound design is carefully calibrated—never overwhelming, always in service of the story. It punctuates key emotional beats, heightening tension and release. In a production so reliant on a single performer, these sonic elements act as silent collaborators, shaping the audience’s emotional journey.
The play engages with several interwoven themes, each explored with nuance and depth:
Masculinity: Elvis’s story is, in many ways, a critique of traditional masculine ideals. The pressure to be strong, to suppress emotion, to conform to rigid expectations—these forces shape his identity in ways that ultimately prove destructive.
Memory: The nonlinear structure reflects the nature of memory itself—fragmented, selective, and often unreliable. The past is not presented as fixed, but as something that is constantly being reinterpreted.
Myth and Identity: The figure of Elvis Presley serves as a mythic anchor—a symbol of aspiration and illusion. The protagonist’s relationship with this myth reveals the dangers of constructing identity around unattainable ideals.
Healing and Confrontation: At its heart, the play suggests that healing is not about forgetting, but about confronting—about facing the parts of ourselves we would rather avoid.
What makes this production truly exceptional is the seamless integration of all its elements: performance, text, design, and direction. Nothing feels out of place. Everything works in harmony to create an experience that is both intellectually engaging and emotionally resonant.
Ashley Dowds carries the weight of the entire production with extraordinary skill, but he is supported by a script that is nothing short of masterful. Together, they create a piece of theatre that is precise, powerful, and deeply human.
The Return of Elvis du Pisanie is more than a play—it is an experience. It challenges, it moves, it lingers. It reminds us of the power of theatre to tell stories that matter—to hold a mirror up to society, and to ourselves.
In a world increasingly dominated by spectacle, this production stands as a testament to the enduring power of simplicity, of storytelling, and of a single actor on a stage, fully committed, fully present, fully alive.
And in that space—sweating, shifting, remembering—something extraordinary happens.
We do not just watch Elvis du Pisanie return.
We return with him.
Congratulations Paul Slabolepszy and the whole team for a great show and a deserved standing ovation.
There are evenings that entertain you, and then there are evenings that rearrange something inside you—Celestial Bodies at the Keorapetse William Kgositsile Theatre, UJ Arts Centre did the latter.
Having first encountered this collaboration at Joburg Theatre, I walked in with expectation—but also curiosity. That first staging was already a triumph: an ambitious fusion between Joburg Ballet and Universe on Stage, where physics met plié, and cosmology unfolded through corps de ballet formations. It was intellectually rich, anchored by the brilliance of Dr. Luca Pontiggia and the ever-commanding musical presence of Yasheen Modi. You learned. You admired. You were moved.
But this second experience? This was transcendence.
From the moment the auditorium dissolved into darkness—courtesy of Simon King’s restrained yet devastatingly effective lighting design—you felt it: this would lean deeper into movement, into embodiment. Less lecture, more language of the body. And that is exactly what unfolded.
The stage became a living cosmos.
Choreographed with striking clarity and imagination by Mario Gaglione, the work expanded into a more dance-forward interpretation of the universe’s grand narrative. Where the first leaned into exposition, this iteration trusted the dancers—their épaulement, their ballon, their breath—to tell the story. And they did, with staggering command.
Act II opened like a revelation.
Tammy Higgins, Monike Cristina, and Ryoko Yagyu entered not merely as performers, but as forces—gravitational, undeniable. Higgins carved space with precision; her lines were immaculate, her port de bras both fluid and declarative. Yagyu—still doing the impossible—defied physics itself, her turns sustained with a control that bordered on supernatural, her extensions reaching into that rare territory where technique dissolves into poetry.
And then, Monike Cristina.
There are moments in art where time folds in on itself. Watching her here brought back the first time—that moment in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory—when ballet ceased to be distant and became something visceral, something personal. She moves with an authority that doesn’t demand attention—it simply commands it. Her adagio work was hypnotic, each développé unfolding like a secret revealed in slow motion. Her presence? Regal. Her musicality? Innate. This wasn’t just a performance—it was a reunion with a kind of artistic truth that stays with you.
The ensemble—Chloe Blair, Latoya Mokoena, Savannah Jacobson, Kayleigh Smith, Gabriella Ghiaroni, Daria D’Orazio, Isabella Godhino, Revil Yon, Ivan Domiciano, Bruno Miranda, Miles Carrott, Miguel Franco Green—were nothing short of exceptional. The corps moved like constellations: unified yet individual, precise yet alive. Their allegro passages shimmered with synchronicity, their grand jetés slicing through space like comets, their pirouettes anchored in discipline but lifted by spirit.
What makes Celestial Bodies so singular is its seamless integration of disciplines.
Darius Botha’s visuals remain an unsung triumph—cosmic imagery that doesn’t overwhelm but elevates, allowing the dancers to exist within a universe that feels infinite yet intimate. The animation breathes with the choreography, never competing, always conversing.
The costumes by Mari Robinson and Mario Gaglione deserve their own ovation: celestial textures, flowing silhouettes, garments that respond to movement, amplifying each arabesque line and every suspension in mid-air.
And then there is the music.
Yasheen Modi does not accompany—he summons. His score is alive, responsive, deeply felt. At times thunderous, at times achingly delicate, it binds the entire production together. Watching him at the piano, just off to the side, is to witness another kind of choreography—fingers in perpetual motion, shaping emotion in real time.
Threading it all together is Dr. Luca Pontiggia, whose narration remains insightful and grounding—but in this iteration, wisely restrained. The science is still there—the Big Bang, the birth of stars, the terrifying beauty of black holes—but now it breathes. It gives space for interpretation, for feeling. The fear factor of science dissolves not just through explanation, but through embodiment.
Behind the scenes, Vanessa Nicolau ensures a production of remarkable cohesion—every cue, every transition, every moment landing with precision.
And that’s what defines this version: balance.
Where the first leaned toward the intellectual, this one surrenders to the emotional without losing its mind. It listens to its audience—the quiet murmurs after the first show, the shared desire for more dance, more immersion—and delivers, generously.
You don’t just watch Celestial Bodies.
You feel it in your chest. In your breath. In the silence between notes and the suspension at the peak of a jump. It is awe. It is wonder. It is gratitude.
Walking out of the theatre, there is a stillness—a rare, sacred calm. As if, for a moment, you’ve touched something infinite.
And somehow, impossibly, it touched you back.
Congratulations Joburg Ballet and Universe on Stage for a great show and a deserved standing ovation.
At the Market Theatre for the opening of Under the Shade of a Tree I Sat and Wept, I love the Market Theatre.
For 10 performances only. Get your tickets now!
There are certain spaces that do not merely host performance—they hold memory. The Market Theatre is one such place. You do not simply enter it; you step into a living archive of South Africa’s artistic resistance, a space where stories have always carried the weight of truth. And in Under the Shade of a Tree I Sat and Wept, that truth is not revisited gently—it is ruptured, reassembled, and forced into the present tense.
This is not a conventional play. It is theatre about theatre. A self-aware, shape-shifting work that refuses the safety of illusion. At one moment, you are submerged in the harrowing testimonies reminiscent of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission—stories steeped in brutality, injustice, and the unbearable intimacy of violence. The next, the illusion fractures. The performers step outside their roles. They eat pizza. They laugh. They complain about costumes. The stage becomes a rehearsal room.
And just like that, the audience is disoriented.
This oscillation—between immersion and interruption—is not accidental. It is the architecture of the piece. The breaking of the fourth wall does more than disrupt narrative; it implicates the viewer. Where does performance end and truth begin? What does it mean to represent trauma? And who gets to tell these stories?
The play moves like a psychological pendulum. One moment, it descends into the darkest recesses of apartheid’s violence. A performer recounts torture so viscerally it becomes almost unbearable to witness—the body reduced to a site of cruelty, dignity stripped away in acts that defy comprehension. Another narrative lingers on the grotesque image of a severed hand, preserved not as evidence, but as a macabre symbol of power. These are not distant histories; they are rendered immediate, alive in the bodies and voices on stage.
And then—without warning—the tone shifts.
Laughter enters the room. The heaviness lifts, if only briefly. The performers become themselves again, navigating the absurdities of production—the discomfort of a costume, the casual intimacy of shared food, the rhythm of backstage life. It is disarming. Almost jarring. But it is also deeply human.
Because this is the truth the play understands: trauma does not exist in isolation. It coexists with the mundane. With humor. With survival.
At the heart of the production is a remarkable ensemble, each performer moving seamlessly between character and self, between witness and storyteller. There is a precision to their delivery—a discipline that ensures not a single emotional beat is lost. Yet within that precision lies a looseness, an openness that allows moments of spontaneity and connection to flourish.
Bongile G Lecoge-Zulu emerges as a vital presence, her comedic timing cutting through the density of the material like light through a storm. But her role is not simply to entertain. She acts as a bridge—between audience and performer, between fiction and reality—reminding us, gently but insistently, that what we are watching is constructed, even as it draws from very real histories.
Gontse Ntshegang’s moment of resistance—her dissatisfaction with a plastic costume—becomes more than a fleeting aside. It is a rupture in the fabric of performance, a reminder that even within the act of storytelling, there are tensions, negotiations, and acts of defiance. The performer refuses to disappear entirely into the role. She remains present. Visible.
Visually, the production expands the language of theatre. The integration of live video transforms the stage into a hybrid space—part theatre, part cinema. A camera captures the performers in real time, projecting their faces onto a large screen. Every tremor, every flicker of emotion is magnified. The audience is drawn into an intimacy that feels almost intrusive, as though we are not just watching, but examining.
This interplay between scale—between the physical body on stage and the enlarged image on screen—creates a duality that mirrors the play’s thematic concerns. Reality and representation. Distance and proximity. Memory and performance.
There is a choreography not just of movement, but of emotion. The transitions are fluid, yet unpredictable. The play does not allow the audience to settle into a single mode of engagement. Instead, it demands constant recalibration. You are asked to feel, to think, to question—all at once.
And perhaps that is its greatest achievement.
Under the Shade of a Tree I Sat and Wept does not offer resolution. It does not attempt to neatly package the complexities of forgiveness, reconciliation, or the enduring consequences of apartheid. Instead, it lingers in the discomfort. It asks difficult questions and resists easy answers.
What does it mean to forgive?
What does it mean to remember?
What does it mean to perform pain—again and again—so that it is not forgotten?
In the end, the play becomes more than a narrative. It becomes a ritual of witnessing. A space where past and present collide, where performers and audience share in the act of remembering.
And in that shared space, something extraordinary happens.
Theatre transcends performance.
It becomes truth.
Performers
Gontse Ntshegang
Ilire Vinca
Kensiwe Tshabalala
Arben Bajraktaraj
Amernis Nokshiqi
Les Made
Bongile Gorata Lecoge-Zulu
Written by Jeton Neziraj
Dramaturg: Greg Homann
Congratulations Blerta Neziraj and the whole team for a great show and a deserved standing ovation.
Gaga sent me back here, Gaga is endorsed by Sam. A troll this movie is, “Joker: Folie a deux”, it’s in the name, thought you were getting something critically acclaimed but you are getting a musical. Same camera guys, same director, same team but you are getting a musical – bring in Lady Gaga!
Caught me off guard the first time, 23 minutes in, I paused and checked the internet, I thought it was a psychological thriller. Blood on the streets, a barrage of negative reviews, still have 2 hours to go. Let it breath, let it breath, abandon the mission. I saved time, what if they butcher the memory of the first movie? Let it breath, let it breath, if it’s good, it will come back again. A couple of months later, I fall in love with Gaga and she sends me back to Folie a deux. Let’s try again.
The story continues, Arthur is trialed for the murder of 5 people, one live on TV. Arthur’s shadow catches up and engulfs his life, underrated masterpiece. Impossible to beat the former but you have the same team, exist in a different form, innovate, do something unexpected, be contrarian, it will stand the test of time, it will be a cult classic, time is the great teacher. Delusional sociopath Arthur Fleck is, defending yourself as the joker is comical, couldn’t help but laugh when he didn’t put up a defense against Harvey Dent. He was proving Dent’s point, the easiest case you’ll ever get for the prosecution. I get it now, it’s a musical, it had flashes of that in the first one. In Folie a deux, the shadow is fully manifested, the comedy continues. Arthur is guilty of murdering those 5 people, 6 if you add his mother. Interesting how people love the joker and hate Arthur, oh well, that’s entertainment. The projected image is always better, it can be enhanced, manipulated, spun in a narrative and packaged for mass consumption. The joker is a marytr, a form of escapism, a symbol, he provides hope, the chance to day-dream and busk in your primal animal urges. The joker is everything you fail to acknowledge about yourself, he lies doormat, waiting for the opportunity to burn everything to the ground.
When you live like Arthur, you attract psychopaths who are just like you. Arthur meets his demise courtesy of a man who is just like him, he stabs him multiple times and watches him die while laughing uncontrollably in the background. It’s chilling, it’s Arthur’s shadow in the flesh, inhabiting another body. The hellish city of Gotham wins again.
Another Todd Phillips classic, might not get the plaudits because it was unexpected. I understand why it had to be a musical, musicals move time. The sets are fixed to a limited few, dialogue attempts to explain, it doesn’t show and the story is straightforward. Musicals give you another dimension, they have depth, they compress time and they move timelines. Musicals also have a kind of delusion and day-dream about them, a play on Folie a deux. The world wanted a sequel, it got one. Maybe not like the former in appraisals but it is misunderstood and an underrated masterpiece. I am happy Gaga brought me back here.