ISLE LIKE NO OTHER
Rolling in the aisles!
Afunny thing happened on the way to the forum. The cleverest Sri Lankan scriptwriter I know decided to poke fun at Tom, Dick and Harry – our unholy trinity. And what a hoot that turned out to be! Theatre audiences in Colombo literally fell over themselves in glee and doubled up in rib-tickling laughter. There was gaiety over Tom, despair at dismal Dick and the harried feeling that Harry in a hurry was not as sympathetic as he made himself out to be. The drama of governance had crossed over from Diyawanna’s environs to the vicinity of the Wendt.
Tom of course, is the mildly cheerful Mr Clean mandarin who stirs up apathy wherever he goes.
Dick is… well, let’s leave it at names, shall we? Harry is the archetypal ambitious politico who never knows when to call it quits or retire gracefully and winds up leasing infrastructure wholesale on the never-never to not so friendly foreign powers.
All of this would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic. But the theatre of politics is very much like the politics of theatre in Sri Lanka today – smoke, mirrors and sleight of hand…
Makes one almost nostalgic for the good old days when celebrating life, liberty and the pursuit of laughs was a great deal more clean fun! We were neither good nor old and certainly not during the day that we got up to the most mischief!
There was drama (Interact or Shakespeare), slapstick (remember Tommiya?) and more serious stuff like the Accidental Death of an Anarchist.
It stopped being funny when suddenly, life in our blessed republic started imitating art. Richard. Lasantha. Other lion-hearts who gave up the ghost much like Hamlet’s father!
But I suspect this is all too maudlin or macabre for a bright sunshiny day in June, eh? So hello, theatregoers! Here’s some backstage sotto voce chatter to lighten and brighten your mood…
‘I say Fred, heard you’re writing another play?’ ‘Heard wrong, mate… it’s a musical.’
‘Ah, so you’ve given up speaking truth to power?’ ‘No, no; this is part of the same package.’
‘But how to poke fun at politicos by making a song and dance of it?’
‘Watch me.’
Watched! Wept buckets at wonderful wasted opportunities. Was accosted by an eminent entertainer after a painfully funny production… (Where does the blighter get these ideas?)
‘How machang, you liked it?’
‘Not so much…’
‘Aiyo, why?’
‘It was too funny for words, Freddy.’
‘Ah, thanks!’
‘Er, I didn’t quite mean it that way…’
Apparently, nor did he. Where previous offerings were not (shall we stay) ‘pusillanimous’ in provoking thought, the more recent stuff dished up on ‘our sick land’ were gagging grievous.
‘Grievous?’ he shrieked: ‘Don’t you mean – as you usually say – that it was egregious?’
‘Not this time, mate… But thanks for the momentary relief. And a good time was had by all except the diehards.’
‘Are you kidding? Everyone loved it! A ton of fun!
Why are you so melancholic, you miserable critic?
I don’t get it…’
Some impresarios wouldn’t get it if you handed it to them in a brown paper bag labelled ‘it.’ Satire is meant to bite at egregious (there!) offenders, not soothe or stroke the victims of political chicanery.
Should I want to be critically engaged, I’ll simply stay at home and watch a parliament of baboons make a monkey’s uncle out of our time and money!
Speaking of which, while entertainers are smiling all the way to the bank, so are the apes we’re supposed to be lampooning. Sorry Puss, it’s not funny anymore. The joke’s on us, Fred. There’s no relief for this kind of pain; not even the balm of parody or caricature.
With that said, I’m not at my wit’s end. Rage and anger have subsided, and all that remains is a dull ache in my side after sustaining a stitch while rolling in the aisles. So bring on the dancing girls!
We live in a banana republic after all, don’t we?