Many know the paintings of Frida Kahlo and murals of her husband Diego Rivera, both famous within their native country of Mexico and outside. 

But Kahlo the person is just as fascinating as her paintings, which is what Sophie Faucher’s play La Casa Azul, translated by Neil Bartlett and currently playing at Circa Theatre, is all about.

Known as a naive folk artist, predominately of brightly coloured self-portraits, the play is presented not too dissimilar to a collage of her paintings, showing snippets of Frida and her tempestuous relationship with Diego Rivera, all taken from her writings. [More]

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What a richly insightful play and production this is: impeccably cast, designed and directed. All the creative components play off and with each other to draw us into this subjective exploration of Mexican artist Frida Kahlo’s world, inspired by Kahlo’s ‘Intimate Diary’ (plus letters, postcards and other documents) and written by Quebecois playwright and actress Sophie Faucher.

It was Faucher’s short radio play that attracted the interest of director Robert Lepage, who worked with her – as playwright and in the role of Frida – to develop it as a stage play. Their La Casa Azul, translated into English by Neil Bartlett, opened in London in 2002.[i] It needs to be noted that while it was ‘lo-tech’ by Lapage standards, this Circa production of that script, created with a fraction of their budget, is even more so, which throws the focus on the actors and text – and that’s just fine, given this director, cast and the designers that serve them. (Lizzie Loveridge’s Curtain Up London review of the 2002 production mentions some extraordinary effects and goes so far as to say “The visual strength of this play is also its weakness.”[ii])

Most of Frida Kahlo’s paintings are self-portraits. “I paint myself because I am so often alone and because I am the subject I know best,” she said.[iii] Born on the outskirts of Mexico City, in the blue house (la casa azul) she lived in most of her life, she contracted polio (aged six) then 12 years later sustained severe injuries when a bus she was in collided with a trolley car. Both events, plus living with the subsequent pain and coping with ongoing health issues, underpinned her sense of isolation.

This is what I recall as, in our seats pre-show, we hear a soft voice speaking in Spanish (I assume it is a museum guide) and see elements of Ian Harman’s simple set design glow and fade. Everything – the pillow on the hospital bed; the painting work-station at which a wheelchair is parked; the very ordinary wooden wardrobe – becomes a work of art when isolated this way.

Jennifer Lal’s overall lighting design is a work of art too, as is Emi Pogoni and Lyndee-Jane Rutherford’s sound design and John Strang’s AV design. Having breathed life into the space before the show-proper begins, their work continues to pulsate throughout.

It’s a low-key start. Kali Kopae arrives as herself, explores the space like a fascinated visitor to La Casa Azul museum and inexorably metamorphoses into the persona of Frida Kahlo, giggling as she draws in the iconic mono-brow; reading Frida’s notes about colours and what we associate with them …

Revolution is referenced (although she was actually three by then, Kahlo claimed she was born when the Mexican Revolution began, in 1910) but Frida declares the “real revolution” began when she met the famous mural artist Diego Rivera. The scene where she brings her art work for honest appraisal to Diego – perfectly pitched by Gavin Rutherford – is the first of many that variously simmer, sizzle, burn and explode with the full colour-palette of emotions. 

Kopae embodies Kahlo completely, most impressively with her spirited rising above the pervasive pain and physical limitations. The way she tells Diego about the bus accident and how she was injured epitomises that spirit. Then later, when the reality of what she has laughed off brings about a miscarriage, the authenticity of the experience is as powerful a moment as you may hope to experience in live theatre. It’s hard to imagine anyone else owning this role more convincingly. 

Similarly Diego has a solo scene entitled ‘Russian Roulette’ that is hugely dramatic because we are right there in the moment with him. Such calls on our capacity to empathise only increase the value of the times we are compelled to assess more objectively the less savoury aspects of Diego’s behaviour and Frida’s relationship with him.

Six other roles are played with consummate skill by Bronwyn Turei, including a beautifully nuanced Cristina Kahlo, Frida’s sister. The others employ cleverly-crafted paper masks, including Tina Modotti, “Italian photographer, model, actress, revolutionary political activist, and friend and lover to both Diego and Frida” (did she really share their wedding night bed with them?) and Leon Trotsky, with whom Frida has an affair.

The Registry Office worker is deliciously comical in her responses to the contract Frida and Diego have negotiated for their second marriage. But Turei’s most pervasive character is La Pelona, a personification of Death whose mask adorns a skull with fiesta flowers. Frida’s line, “I spent my whole life dying,” fully justifies La Pelona’s omnipresence. Their final scene together brings the play to a potent conclusion – and we are reminded this has all been one woman’s subjective response to the phenomenon of Frida Kahlo.

Harman’s costumes, props and masks enhance and enrich the action throughout, along with the other design elements. There is as much to see and think about in this production as there is in a Kahlo painting.

So as a play, what is La Casa Azul about that’s bigger than itself? The purpose of art, perhaps? Diego declares, “All art is propaganda – but for what?” then claims it is an essential part of all human existence and must therefore belong (be accessible to?) to all of humanity. Only those who share in the suffering of all humanity and take up arms against the oppressors may call themselves artists, he asserts. 

It’s arguable that Frida suffers more than the self-serving, libidinous Diego, and she certainly ‘takes up arms’ against the pain that could well have oppressed her, by producing vibrant works of art. Yet she says towards the end of the play, as she prepares to attend the opening of her final exhibition, “I’ve spent my whole life standing in the shadow of a genius. Fine, that’s the way things had to be; that was my proper place. So tell me, why after all these years are they so interested in my work? I took my tears and turned them into paintings. That’s it! Tonight everyone will finally see that there is actually nothing to see!”

But whose works have endured? A combined exhibition of their works has just opened in Sydney and it is Frida’s paintings that are being used to promote it. Perhaps there is something in Frida’s story, and in her view of herself, that speaks to the experiences and perceptions of all women artists; of women in general in a persistently male-dominated world. 

Whichever way you look at it, La Casa Azuloffers a rich vicarious experience and plenty to ponder in its wake.

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