“Potosí” – why I didn’t include a trigger-warning, & why I will next time (SPOILERS)

(Note: this piece contains massive spoilers for my show Potosí – there are still three shows left, so if you intend to see any of them & do not wish your experience to be coloured by these remarks, desist reading immediately. Otherwise, carry on.)

 

I didn’t know Potosí was particularly violent until people started telling me it was. Other than the British avant-garde tradition of the 60s & 70s, the theatrical lineage of which I think of myself as being a part must include the 90s of Sarah Kane, the novels of Cormac McCarthy & William H. Gass, all of whom wrote brilliant & impassioned – & controversial – studies in violence. Of these, the most salient is doubtlessly Kane; Blasted was by the far the work most on my mind as I wrote what would become the final drafts of Potosí.

Set against such a backdrop, my own opus seemed somewhat tame & toothless; even no less a mainstream Toronto theatre than Buddies in Bad Times had recently staged the relentlessly violent Pig, & there seemed to be a vogue in the intellectual culture for artistic discussion of what constitutes violence, sexual or otherwise (q.v. for example the success of Kat Sandler’s recent Cockfight, which was itself more-or-less about the inherent violence of males).  When the reviews for Potosí began coming out last week, it was a surprise then, that critics appeared to be deeply struck not only by the darkness of its subject matter – all of which is based on true events – but also the graphicness of the physical violence put on stage. In part this is contextual – after all, the Fringe has not historically been the most conducive venue for dark or challenging subject matter – but it may very well evince hubris on my part.

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Announcing: “Potosí” at the 2014 Fringe Festival!

 

A few years ago this April I found myself on the sidewalk across the street from the Metro Toronto Convention Centre in the pissing rain, dressed in a Banana Republic trench coat and far-too-expensive-to-admit Ray Ban glasses with ever-so-nerdy-chic thick black frames, feeling very out of place in a crowd of veteran  anti-mining activists, all of whom clearly had thought ahead and checked the weather report, and were comfortably dressed in rainslickers and Blundstones.

We were there protesting the Canadian mining giant Barrick Gold, whose worldwide campaign of oppression, murder, environmental atrocity, exploitation, and more I won’t précis here. We spent the day there, until the leather of my shoes began to fall apart and I couldn’t see through my glasses anymore.

The next day I wrote the first act of Potosí.

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So I won the Fringe Best New Play Contest yesterday…

I’m eating some kind of marinated tofu thing at Urban Herbivore in preparation for what was doomed to be a long, cold, hand-blistering but ultimately sort of bizarrely satisfying strike of the Mature Young Adults set at Videofag, when I get a call from Lindsey Woods over at the Toronto Fringe. She asked me if I was planning on attending the Fringe lottery party at the Transac lounge in the evening (having not entered the lottery, & being 100% certain Iwas not going to be winning any contests, I was not).

After a pregnant silence on my part, she concluded: “Because you’ve won the Fringe Best New Play Contest.”

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