Magnetic North

Anyone who is vaguely interested in attending HIVE2 should go, at once, and not read anything about it before hand. Don’t even let anyone tell you what they saw there last night, and that includes this review. The next paragraph is safe, but the one after that should be avoided, along with all that follows.

Theatre SKAM at HIVE2

In a Montreal-style apartment, a fridge door sunk inside a cityscape wall of tin cans separates reality from fiction. It is through this divider that the audience enters the theatre.

Loft, good clean fun

HIVE at Magnetic North: It’s a Party! And some of you are invited…

The Mother of All Theatre Parties is back. For those of you who missed the carnival known as Hive last time around, the Magnetic North Theatre Festival is giving you another chance to get shit-faced with Vancouver’s theatre intelligentsia.

Taxonomy upgrade extras: 
Author Name: 
Alex Lazaridis Ferguson
Photograph Caption: 
HIVE2: Felix Cupla found a way in
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Some people – usually men and, in my experience, often English – like to make lists and rank things in order of excellence or bestness. In making their lists of the Greatest Movies Ever Made, they usually rank Godfather II ahead of the original Godfather for, of course, it is “the sequel that was better than the original”.

HIVE, feel the love

Go see this show!

Why?

Loft, circus, dance, pyjamas

HIVE2 takes our audience selves and blurs the possibilities of what we're invited to be.

HIVE2: the crowds gather

Well, I was feeling good about my review assignment last night. Andy Jones’ show An Evening with Uncle Val was up at Presentation House promising a dose of Newfoundland comedy.

Andy Jones in An Evening with Uncle Val

There is a scene – maybe half way through blood.claat – where the mother of Mudgu, the play’s central character, appears. The scene takes us back approximately three years to when Mudgu had her first period, before her mother’s departure for Canada.

blood.claat

"This is my story", the spirited young woman sings in her backyard, by the cinder blocks and corrugated tin walls.

d'bi.young.anitafrika in blood.claat

One morning, a young geneticist awakes with a box on his head. The box is simple, unadorned cube and a familar, comfortable shade of brown. At first he thinks it's a dream, or a morning like when you're a sick child and your eyelids stick together, but he soon learns that the box is permanent. His questions begin to loop: am I alone, or is there someone else out there?

Boxhead, it's lonely in the city

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