Invisible is an ensemble-devised, verbatim theatre piece staged in Dunedin’s Mayfair Theatre. It marries local individuals’ stories of feeling invisible with choreographed ensemble movement, including physical theatre and contemporary circus. 

The creative team have interviewed several locals. Their words are then delivered in fragmented episodes by different actors in the ensemble, who are supported by choreographed movement, tasteful and varied lighting, and interludes of circus acrobatics such as tissue and hoop routines. This is not verbatim theatre of the same school as The Keys Are in the Margarine, where every micro-detail of the interviewee’s account is recreated by the performer (glottal stops, stammers, repetitions, pauses for breaths, etc.). This is the broader version where the interviewee’s words are used, but the performer has more freedom to move and interpret. The stage is attractively arranged as a white square, lined with masks along the border and costume stands in each back corner. By the end of the 90-minute performance, we have heard a half dozen or so stories and been invited to reflect on and bear witness to local’s experiences of being invisible.

The programme note reads: “Given that some of the stories involve difficult and traumatic experiences, we wanted to ensure that these narratives were handled with the utmost care. To do so, we incorporated physical theatre, contemporary circus, and multimedia elements to support the stories and offer a safe and impactful experience for the audience.” One might question that supporting a difficult and traumatic experience with contemporary circus seems like a recipe for unintended hilarity, but perhaps I’m old fashioned.

The stories range across all age brackets, from high school students to working professionals, from family members to retirees. The stories are all interesting or touching in their detailed candidness and are a reminder of how much we are unaware of and/or take for granted in our local communities. There is a woman who recounts her difficulties with a miscarriage. There is a man who experiences alopecia because of work-related stress. There is a dancer who realizes a dream to train in Japan, only to find she is ignored. One of the most intriguing stories involves the high school student who feels invisible in the playground, but when he is finally ‘seen,’ realizes he would rather not be.

The show opens gracefully, with performers emerging and re-emerging from the wings before the lights dim. The show format, to over-simplify it (but not by much), is that each actor takes turns at standing downstage and recounting their section of the story – clearly and coherently, assisted by headset microphones – while the rest of the ensemble supports behind with stylized movement. Much of the choreography is based on the Viewpoints technique developed by Anne Bogart and Tina Landau, which consists of performers travelling the horizontal, vertical, and diagonal axes of the stage floor at different speeds and different levels: sometimes stopping, sometimes sitting, sometimes lying down, sometimes running, etc. This creates interest and movement on stage while the stories are recounted and allows opportunities for serendipitous ‘collisions’ of meaning between the stage image and the words being spoken. Often accompanied by minimalist music soundtrack (at one point, I recognized Philip Glass’s ‘Opening’), these sections look ethereal and beautiful in their composition. 

Apart from the core stories, a highlight of the production was the energetic and committed ensemble’s sense of wholeness and coordination. They owned and respected the material, sensitively supporting and complementing each other in performance, to build a palpable sense of connection on stage. This went beyond the eleven performers to include the lighting designer/operator (Ella Court) and wider stage production team. Led by Blaise Barham’s direction/facilitation, the company came together as a coherent and seamless unit to frame and present these stories in a tasteful way. Their sincerity and commitment to the production was tangible.

This production did, however, sometimes create a sense of disconnect between the seemingly unpretentious nature of the local stories and the rather high-minded, beautiful composition of the stage images. It was like putting a luxury mounting on an unaffected, humble object. Perhaps this is an appropriate way to honour the invisible locals’ stories, but the elegance threatened to dampen the emotional impact of some of the sadder or harder moments, airbrushing the ragged or raw edges back to a more comfortable sheen. There were exceptions: at the end of a circus aerial routine, we were left with a startling and beautiful image that sensually expressed the gestus of the story. At times, there was too much literalism in the non-viewpoints choreography. Rear projections likewise repeated various lines of dialogue. In these moments, there was no room for individual response or interpretation as an audience member. Doubtless some audience members will appreciate these added aids to understanding, but to this reviewer’s taste they diluted the immediacy or rawness of the experience.

For those admirers of SBZ’s earlier productions of The Cherry Orchard or The Tempest, they will find lots to love in this production. It continues their brand of sensual, inventive, and often playful physical theatre. In relation to the source material, this is the most coherent and clear work I’ve seen them do. But it also reflects their tendency to lean into prettiness and sensuality at the expense of harder truths. 

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