Reviewed by Ray Smith, Wednesday 30th September 2015
Miss Revolutionary Idol Berserker began, strangely enough, in the Dunstan Playhouse foyer as the loose gathering of ticket holders were herded down the stairs towards the Rehearsal Rooom. "No drinks downstairs!" a voice demanded.
The flow was not steady, as an outstretched arm frequently stopped the line of audience members to allow them to descend into the theatre's bowels in small controlled groups.
As my group reached the foot of the staircase we were met by people handing out a plastic bag and two small packages to each member, as a commanding voice rang out, "place your shoes and socks and anything else you don't want to get wet into the plastic bag which, will be placed into the lockers before you enter the venue."
The general mood changed as the group of strangers bared their feet and opened their packages.
The first held a small pair of purple plastic sandals, the other a 'kagoule', a light transparent hooded raincoat. Earplugs were also offered with the caveat, "it will be loud!"
We sat awkwardly for some minutes in our flimsy Macintoshes and undersized 'thongs', clutching our plastic bags of "keep dry goods", waiting for permission to enter the theatre, as anticipation gave way to a degree of anxiety. I was reminded of the common change room of the school gymnasium or the vaccination queues, where stinging medicines were dispensed in alphabetical order.
When we finally filed into the theatre to select our seats it was interesting to note the number of people choosing to sit as far away from the small, box-like set as possible. As your intrepid correspondent however, I bravely chose the front row. A wise decision as it turned out.
The relatively empty set was already quite mad. Three separate projectors blasted horizontally scrolling and fixed text in lurid colours onto the back and side walls, but they were not quite in sync.
A continuous bench ran around the three walls, like an old fashioned railway station waiting room, and three microphones on stands stood sentinel at the stage edge.
A very trendily dressed spruiker paced impatiently in front of the stage, passionately filling the time with an inescapable torrent of, "roll up, roll up" in breathless Japanese, as his less flamboyant translator gave us the gist of the sales pitch.
The projected text behind the "ringmaster" warned, "the lower part of your body will be soaked before the end of the performance'' and that any resultant damage to electronic equipment would not be covered. Simultaneously it invited the audience to photograph, video, or record any aspect of the show and publish it anywhere.
This paradox was our first lesson in how to be a Japanese audience.
After checking the translator's watch at least three times our host introduced us to 'Toko' with all the deference and excitement normally attributed to a superstar and we were willingly led into chanting her name, though we had no idea who she was.
She was in fact, Toko (Toco) Nikaido, the director and choreographer of the show, and a pop idol in Japan in her own right.
This was our second lesson in how to be a Japanese audience.
A solo dancer took to the stage with bamboo mask, decorated umbrella and painted fan in the manner of a more traditional Japanese performance, but the removal of the mask revealed the blue hair and heavily mascaraed male features of the gender ambiguous performer.
That was the last thing that I was expecting.
This was our third lesson in how to be a Japanese audience.
Then all Hell broke loose.
The stage was suddenly and deafeningly filled with 25 cavorting boys and girls, or so they seemed, both sexes dressed in what appeared to be girls' school uniforms, an impression amplified by the inclusion of a Glenunga High School Seniors' top, a local and recognisable item of school clothing.
Although the general impression was that of a Grade Six class that the teacher had left alone for five minutes too long, it was clear to me that the apparent chaos was very carefully choreographed, and that every member of the troupe knew exactly where to be at every point in the performance.
The costume changes were frequent, rapid and invisible though they all happened on stage. The performers at the front of the stage, and off it, attracting the attention of the audience by throwing confetti, streamers and small buckets of water over the audience members, while their colleagues changed behind them. Our eyes were led where to where the choreographer wanted them, with all the distractive skill of a conjurer.
This is a stunning and thoroughly engaging performance that does not allow the audience to merely sit back and observe. Involvement is mandatory and the fact that the audience itself was obliged to make the first of the many costume changes is testament to the fact.
The raincoats, the funny sandals, the flying water, and the skin staining confetti are not flippant gimmicks, they are tools that oblige the audience to relinquish their space and take part in the performance.
I have to admit that many of the cultural references sailed unnoticed over my head but, when I was led onto the stage at the end of the performance, along with the rest of the audience, and the performers took our places amongst the now soaking and confetti covered seats, the transformation was complete. The audience and the performers were indistinguishable from each other.
The performance ended where it began, in the Foyer.
As we left the theatre, discarding our raincoats and sandals, retrieving our possessions from the lockers like released convicts, and regaining the dignity of our socks and shoes, we were led individually by a troupe member back up the stairs to be greeted and cheered by our own audience, the very cast and crew that we had come to watch.
A virtual Rebirth.
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