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The apprenticeship years - Athol Fugard Issue
Twentieth Century Literature, Winter, 1993 by Sheila Fugard
On the afternoon of the performance we had the technical run-through and dress rehearsal at the Labia Theatre. I soon realized that my main problem was the chorus. Their voices boomed indistinctly with a monotonous tone, as if they were in an echo chamber. The theatre cleaner, an elderly "coloured" man, came to my rescue. He wisely suggested we cut holes in the masks, so the actors could be heard more clearly. I halted the dress rehearsal and asked the chorus to remove their offending masks. Athol found a knife and enlarged the mouths. With this done, the oracular lines of the chorus were not only audible but full of resonance.
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That evening the curtain rose on The Cell. As I've noted, the program included my own children's play--which also used the actors from Circle Players. The company for Wilhelm Grutter's short play had arrived from Stellenbosch. I hoped it would prove to be a diversified evening of new writing by young authors, as we were all in our twenties.
The Cell, however, was the main event. I recall being on stage in the darkness, with Athol's reassuring presence, and also that of Erica Rogers. We were brought into focus by the pools of light. Athol's voice proclaimed the anger and impatience of the activist, while Erica moaned in grief, her words a lament for her stillborn child. Then there was myself, old and also angry, but accepting the situation. I tried to put into my role the wisdom and patience that had allowed the old to endure despite the cruelty of South Africa's race laws.
The last words, the last cries, were uttered. The chorus fell silent. We remained frozen in our cells, no longer secure in our roles, but actors who must await the verdict. There were no bravos. The applause was tepid, the audience bemused. Even friends in the audience spoke of having been confused by the language and message of the play. Also, it seemed strange to them to have blacks on a stage, even if they were played by whites. And The Cell dealt with an explosive theme. No interest was expressed in the play, even by amateur theatre groups in Cape Town. In retrospect the audience response is understandable. But when I remember our production of The Cell after so many years, I recall the eloquence of the language, and how the power of the words carried the play. Its lines had a beauty and its action an architecture that proclaimed a new writer.
In a strange way Athol was empowered by the sheer effort of getting The Cell staged. He perceived the immediacy of theatre. He would soon discover, when he took on the task of creating "the township plays," the searing reality of South Africa. This happened a year later, when we gave up our jobs and moved to Johannesburg. Athol, who had worked as a radio journalist, would never again hold down a job outside of writing, directing, and acting, apart from a few months as a clerk in the Native Affairs court in Johannesburg. At the age of twenty-five he made a commitment to theatre, and we would spend the rest of our lives dependent on royalties. The first decade of his theatre career was one of grinding hardship, economic deprivation, and political harassment.
