The apprenticeship years - Athol Fugard Issue

Sheila Fugard

My years as a drama student at the University of Cape Town were a time of questioning. I was forced to think about my life in the South Africa of the early fifties, with all its turmoil. I was intensely preoccupied, too, with theatre, and not just with my own acting. I yearned for a theatre that would reflect the complex and isolated land in which I lived. I had no inkling then that my passion would contribute to that theatre.

The university Drama School in the early fifties was a pale imitation of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London. Little in the curriculum tested or inspired me, so I turned to books. I discovered Stanislavsky for myself, with his demand for truth in theatre, and his insistence on the need to put aside ego-centered performance and the false posturing of the actor. My inner dialogue was formed through a combination of Stanislavsky's intense realism, and the idealized theatre of Gordon Craig.

I could not discuss any of this with my lecturers, who appeared to be myopically concerned solely with their own particular courses. My fellow students, mostly women, were hoping to meet engineering or architecture students and get married. Unable to detect originality or deep talent in their work, I struggled on my own at the Drama School for three years, trying to keep my intellect and ambition alive.

This was the period of post-colonialism in South Africa, just after the Nationalist government came to power and put into place the structure of apartheid. There did not seem to be, at that time, any truly South African theatre--one that spoke with the voice of all its inhabitants. British farces and the latest West End success were performed by a small English repertory company in Cape Town. The university Drama School staged more serious works, such as the plays of Shaw, and T. S. Eliot's The Cocktail Party and Murder in the Cathedral. Christopher Fry's wordy verse plays were very much in vogue. The London critics of the fifties were enthralled, and they were convinced that a new Elizabethan age had dawned. How wrong they proved to be.

As for non-British theatre, the fine surrealistic works of Ionesco were produced, and those of Anouilh, less original, but still entertaining. Brecht was just beginning to echo in our ears. Rumors circulated of this strange man in East Germany who, in the midst of a Communist society, had created significant theatre. Beckett had not yet spoken, although a few years later the Drama School did stage Waiting for Godot. A barnstorming state-sponsored National Theatre struggled to take bucolic adaptations of depression-era novels and European classics to the small towns.

Two years later, still burning with my vision of a truly South African theatre, I met a young fellow writer. His name was Athol Fugard. He was totally different from the somewhat inarticulate students I had met at university. He was intense, volatile, and even a little dangerous, with bright, inquiring eyes, a shock of dark hair, and a beard. A sense of enormous energy radiated about him, but his outgoing manner failed to mask a precarious sensitivity. We met at a mutual friend's apartment, a gathering place of young liberal intellectuals. To our surprise, we had the same vision of a truly South African theatre, and during our stormy relationship we developed a shared commitment to theatre and writing. About a year later, in September of 1956, we married.

My first encounter with Athol's work was when he showed me a page of dialogue. It was typewritten, with many scribbled corrections, and it conveyed a conversation between two white policemen in a small South African village. The dialogue was authentic: the men spoke haltingly, in the manner of rural Afrikaners who struggle with English. They commented on the stillness of the African night that was broken only by chirping crickets. Oddly, after all these years, the dialogue remains with me, the resonance of a man who, later in life, would move so many others with the power of his words.

After we married we rented a studio in Long Street in Cape Town, which at that time was an area of low-rental apartments and old houses. I found Long Street fascinating, with its book shops, cheap cafes, grocers, and a spectacular view of Table Mountain. Athol and I were impatient with the dullness of theatre in Cape Town. Already radicals, we were excluded from the more familiar and well-established amateur acting groups, so we decided, out of both desperation and pride in our work, to go it alone. We used our Long Street studio for meetings with young actors, and we formed a group, "The Circle Players" (we needed a name). Our first production, we agreed, would be an evening of one-act plays. I had written a short children's play, and then there was Athol's one-act play titled The Cell. The third play, which had already been performed in the nearby town of Stellenbosch, was by a local writer, Wilhelm Grutter.

The origins of The Cell, like so many of Athol's later plays, were rooted in both the human and political injustices of South African society. At the time we met, Athol was emotionally involved in the problems of our country. Two years earlier, when he was a seaman on a tramp steamer, he had worked alongside Malay and black seamen, and so had learned to live with men of different skin color. One day he noticed an item in the local newspaper which both moved and outraged him. A black woman had been arrested for not carrying a passbook, the identity document which blacks were forced to have with them at all times. She was jailed and, when in prison, gave birth prematurely. She screamed over and over for assistance, but her cries were ignored. The brutal warders left her in the cell to wail over her dead infant. Finally, the next day, they removed the bleeding, stinking thing. Athol created The Cell around this incident.

The play had three main characters: the young black woman, a male militant black activist, and an older black woman. Athol wrote the play in verse, and included a small chorus, who commented on events. It was an ambitious one-act play, and was surely influenced by the avant-garde writings of the thirties. (The plays of Auden and Isherwood were performed in student productions at the Little Theatre in Cape Town, and when Athol was a student at Cape Town University he played a small role in a production of their verse play, Ascent of F6.) One must remember that Athol, in his twenties, considered himself a poet and wrote accomplished verse. He also experimented with prose, including short stories. Yet it was dialogue and theatre that fascinated and challenged him. Already The Cell had the elements that would combine in the creation of the later Fugard plays: the social tragedy of South Africa, viewed and interpreted by a poet.

Our only resources were the text and ourselves. I was recently out of drama school, while Athol had directed plays in his teens, when he was a student at the Technical College of Port Elizabeth. Though our means were limited, we rented the Labia Theatre for a Sunday night, a day when the house was usually dark. (I think the fee for the theatre was forty pounds, and this included the services of a lighting technician as well as stage hands.)

I took on the job of directing. I think my claim was based on my greater experience in theatre. Anyway, Athol agreed. Because the play was in verse, and the language classical, I felt free to stylize the production. In fact, we had so little money it was the only option open to me. We ourselves acted. I was the older black woman, while Athol took on the role of the militant black activist. Erica Rogers played the dramatic role of the woman who gave birth to the stillborn baby. Erica was about twenty years old, good-natured, and enthusiastic. She later went on to become a well-known South African actress. We were simply dressed in drapes, and did not attempt to present ourselves as black. I was unaware of any black actors in the fifties, though there was the occasional variety show where black singers and dancers appeared before white audiences.

Rehearsals proceeded. On occasion Athol and I engaged in noisy altercations in which he disputed my directing decisions. However, I did not yield to his pressures; I felt our disagreements stemmed from his lack of experience. My production was quite simple. With no money for a set or costumes, I took advantage of the rostrums provided by the theatre to elevate our chorus of three men, so their presence would suggest a lofty dignity. I then lit the different areas of the stage to suggest the cells of the three main characters. When the young woman spoke, she was visible, while the other two characters remained in the shadows. The chorus members were detached from the action, and were allowed sufficient space for their pronouncements. I did attempt to Africanize the chorus, and Athol helped me make papier-mache masks, which we diligently baked in our kitchen oven until they set hard.

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.

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.

We arrived in Johannesburg early in 1958. The brisk air of the high-altitude city, and the energy it possessed, was a challenge. We rented a studio apartment in Berea, for we still had a little money from our savings. Our apartment had a view of the Johannesburg skyline. We strolled into Hillbrow and ate hamburgers at a restaurant, chairs out on the street. Hillbrow, then, was very different from the third-world high-rise crime center that it became in the eighties. In the fifties Hillbrow was safe and easy-going. The book stores, record stores, and restaurants had a European atmosphere. Hillbrow was also a hub for the Jewish intellectual life of South Africa. It was a good time to be in Johannesburg.

Athol was anxious to visit Sophiatown and explore township life, but it was not an easy world to penetrate, even though Sophiatown was an "open" township, with no restrictions for whites. Unlike the other townships, which were situated some distance from Johannesburg, Sophiatown was close to suburbs of lower-income whites. It already had a fervid intellectual life. Black journalists were finding their voice. Tom Hopkinson, a brilliant English journalist, had just become editor of Jim Bailey's Drum Magazine, and township life was featured in its pages. There were writers like Can Themba, Casey Moketsi, and Bloke Modisane. Still, it was an intense male life that was lived out in the shebeens, the illicit drinking houses of the fifties. (At that time blacks were not permitted to buy liquor.) A whole other culture of authentic black life, with a kind of fast American influence, was spawned in Sophiatown in the fifties, and we were eager to experience it.

We contacted Benjy Pogrund, a fellow student at Cape Town University, who had been the best man at our wedding. Benjy had married, and now lived and worked in Johannesburg. He was a staunch member of the Liberal Party, with connections in the townships. He, together with David Paton--Alan Paton's son--took us into Sophiatown. I remember my anxiety when the last of the white suburbs were behind us. The tarmac abruptly ended, and suddenly we were in strange territory. We traveled along a dusty dirt road with shacks made of corrugated iron on either side. The streets had a tremendous sense of life, with men and women out in full force. I was struck by the vibrancy that was totally lacking in the sterile white suburbs, and even in Johannesburg. Wood-burning fires smoked (there was no electricity in Sophiatown), and beat-up taxis and old cars rattled and bumped through the narrow, congested streets. Faces turned toward our car, for whites were not often seen in the townships. There was, however, no animosity. We were not stoned, or verbally threatened. The police presence was low-key. No guards stood at the entrance. It was a free zone, with its own laws of survival. Yet Sophiatown was a black ghetto. It held the life that white Johannesburg refused to let in but kept at its back door.

Benjy led the way. I remember we bounced in the vehicle as we drove down the narrow streets, avoiding dogs, and women who yelled at us for almost knocking them over. He took us to the shack of a politician, a man named Joe Matlou. We were warmly welcomed, and were soon seated on chairs in the kitchen. Over the weeks in Sophiatown, I began to understand that the kitchen was the place for both entertainment and talk. There were no living rooms. Sometimes the kitchen was just an alcove off the room where a whole family slept. Benjy had brought a bottle of brandy, a gift that was expected. Soon glasses were on the table and the brandy was shared. Joe Matlou, urbane and in his early forties, explained that a "stay-at-home strike" would take place in the township for the next few days. He advised us not to visit the area during the strike, as he feared there would be trouble. He was militant, and certain that white Johannesburg would feel the power of the ANC and the South African Communist Party. The talk that afternoon was not about making theatre, but rather about "the struggle," and we as whites, by our very presence in the township, and in the company of Joe Matlou, were pushed into the harsh world of black politics. I now believe our single meeting with Joe Matlou had ramifications that echoed in my life during the harsh sixties, seventies, and early eighties--the grimmest years of apartheid. That meeting marked the moment when Athol and I were drawn into the struggle against apartheid.

Athol was inspired not only by our meeting with Joe Matlou but also by meetings with others like the politician Robert Resha, as well as Bloke Modisane, a journalist. We spent many evenings in conversation with Bloke in his small kitchen, where he served us dry martinis. He was a stocky forty-year-old man, and a great raconteur. Perhaps the most memorable figure of those early township visits was a man known as Temba Mqota. We met him in a dark street, a tall consumptive man with hollow cheeks. He was an activist, and mysterious in his ways. Temba was not one of those politicians who sat round the kitchen table with a glass of brandy. He was different, a man of action, ready to give up his life for the struggle. Athol was fascinated by Temba, and so was I. We only had that one strange encounter with him in the Sophiatown darkness. A year later we heard that our freedom fighter had died of tuberculosis in the Transkei.

These encounters convinced Athol that he could find men and women in the township who had the makings of actors. It was a daunting challenge, for there seemed to be no amateur black actors, let alone professionals. Athol found inspiration for his first township play in a Johannesburg newspaper story. The Sunday Times carried a weekly column by an experienced journalist, James Ambrose Brown. One of his columns immediately caught Athol's eye, for it concerned the township. Brown's subject was not a political issue, but rather extortion by small-time township gangsters, a theme especially prevalent in American films. This topic allowed Athol to explore with excitement the different characters he had observed in Sophiatown.

Athol wrote No-Good Friday in three weeks, but was so anxious to cast the play that he did not finish it. Perhaps the ending needed more thought than he was capable of giving the material at the time. In my opinion No-Good Friday is a fluid script, an inner dialogue between Athol and his own fascinating experience of the township. Much later, when Athol was an experienced playwright, he used a workshop method to create the theatre documents Sizwe Bansi Is Dead and The Island. For those plays Athol had two actors whom he had trained and who were able to improvise, to talk easily about their township background and experience. They were very different from the actors Athol finally found for No-Good Friday. These were men thrust upon a stage, who needed speeches already written for them. They were unable to verbalize their life experience. The written play, No-Good Friday, gave them the opportunity.

We held auditions at the Bantu Men's Social Centre, which was situated beyond Eloff Street, in the less respectable area commonly known as motortown. It had car dealerships and Greek stores with cheap food for blacks. Blacks and whites moved freely there, away from business interests and the better stores frequented by middle-class white shoppers. The Centre was a community building, with a gymnasium, and also a stage used for concerts. It was a meeting place where young black men socialized. Our main interest was the Centre's stage, on which No-Good Friday was to have its premier.

The turnout was good, Men who were already members of the Centre, or of Union Artists--a cultural association that was assisting black musicians--were drawn to the idea of acting in a play. Most were young, in their twenties or thirties. Some were teachers, or social workers like Connie Mabaso, while others were laborers, or men who had drifted to the city in search of work. Not one woman was present. The men wore clean white shirts, trendy jackets, colorful ties, and well-pressed pants. Their voices were jarring to someone like myself, a trained drama student whose role models were Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh. The men I now faced had coarse, heavily accented speech, full of clicks and phrases in tribal languages, so that often it was difficult for me even to understand their words. Athol saw and heard something else, something he could forge into that mysterious alchemy called theatre. The actors read for the roles, and we listened. I was feeling more and more depressed at the task of getting these men to move and talk on a stage. They were far removed from the somber chorus members of The Cell, with their Africanized masks. I was now looking at the real thing, and finding it all impossible. Athol sensed my reservations, and stopped the audition for a tea break. When we huddled together, I voiced my uncertainties.

Finally, Athol suggested that he should direct No-Good Friday, and I agreed. I already felt vulnerable as a woman in the black society where I now so often found myself. On our many visits to Sophiatown, I had never met a black woman socially. None ever attended the kitchen drinks that we had with writers and politicians. The women I saw were dark faces in back yards, with babies strapped on their backs. I sensed that the men of the township had little use for their women, other than for sex and work. Despite my decision to let Athol direct No-Good Friday, I was in no way free. In fact, my task became even tougher. I not only took on the difficult job of being Athol's second eye on the stage, but also became stage manager, publicist, and even ticket-seller.

Once the decision was made, we continued with the audition. We chose Stephen Moloi, a school teacher, for the leading role of Willie. Stephen was a dignified bearded man, with a fine timbre to his voice and a good grasp of English. Connie Mabaso, the social worker, more relaxed than Stephen, but whose English was not as well-articulated, was chosen for the role of Guy, the musician. Dan Poho, a Union Artists official who became a good friend, was a good choice for Pinkie. Dan was bright, and quick in his movements. But problem areas remained. There was a pressing need for a woman to play the role of Rebecca. Athol and I had come to realize that finding a woman who could even passably act on stage was immensely difficult, an additional reminder to me of the low status of women in the township. The role of Father Higgins, a white priest, created a different problem--having to apply for permission for a white to play in the township. Then, too, the cutting role of Shark, the thug, needed an authority not evident in the readings of either Stephen Moloi or Connie Mabaso, the two promising actors from those who auditioned for us.

We had further meetings and discussions, and other roles were cast. Ken Gampu, a tall, bearded unemployed man from Durban, was given the role of Tobias. Ken, with a fine speaking voice, later became well known in South African films. No-Good Friday gave him his first chance as an actor. Zakes Mokae, who had just turned twenty, and hardly ever spoke, was Athol's choice for the role of "first thug." Athol sensed the acting potential of this young man, who had been a protege of Father Trevor Huddleston, an English cleric who was a political activist in Sophiatown. Zakes had been a member of Father Huddleston's jazz group. He was withdrawn, yet behind his shy grin he was able to project an undertone of menace. No-Good Friday was the beginning of Zakes's career, which was to continue in Athol's later plays in the United States, as well as in movies. Preddie Ramphele, a man about town, in a smart suit, jazzy tie, and patent-leather shoes, was given a small role. He brought his girl friend, Gladys Sibisi, to a reading. We immediately pounced, and took over her life.

I think there was desperation in our possession of Gladys. She was simply impounded into the cast. We thrust a script into her hands and coaxed words out of her. Of all the actors, Gladys proved to be the toughest problem. Dealing with her required enormous patience. She stayed in a woman's hostel close to one of the mine dumps that ringed Johannesburg, and had to be fetched at five-thirty in the afternoon, for she could not manage to get to rehearsals on her own. We could not take the chance of losing Gladys, so we agreed to pick her up. Men were not allowed in the hostel. While Athol waited in our limping Jeep station wagon, I dutifully went in and knocked on Gladys's door. She would let me into her room, and I would allow myself half an hour to get her out. I would sit on the bed, and wait. Gladys, at a dressing table, would put on her make-up . . . very slowly. There was little conversation between us other than my desperate "Please, Gladys, please hurry. We will be late for rehearsal." Gladys would mumble a reply, but stay firmly at her dressing table. Then she would try on various items of clothing and preen in front of the mirror. I dutifully waited, tapped my foot, made desultory noises, and again pleaded with her to hurry. No matter how hard I tried, from the moment of my arrival it always took Gladys half an hour to get ready.

Finally, we were outside the hostel. I pushed Gladys into the station wagon while Athol, who looked fired and desperate, heaved a sigh of relief. We drove back to the motortown area where we rehearsed. On our arrival, I had to get Gladys something to eat. I would go into a nearby Greek shop and buy either a meat pie or a hamburger, which I would then thrust into her waiting hands. I think for Gladys I must have been appalling to deal with. She probably saw me as a bossy and manipulative young white woman. Yet we could not let Gladys escape. We desperately needed her for the show. So this absurd routine of the hostel visit and the hamburger was a dreaded but necessary chore for Athol, and particularly for me.

Rehearsals began. Athol took on the role of Father Higgins and was prepared to deal with the consequences. Bloke Modisane agreed to play Shark, the township gangster, and his mature presence and confidence gave an authority to his performance. He was also a presence in the rehearsal room which I think balanced the undue dominance of Athol and myself.

We had two visitors in the rehearsal room, Lewis Nkosi and Nat Nakasa, young intellectuals, both in their early twenties. Lewis was a thin, delicate, beautiful man from Natal. He had soulful eyes and a dark complexion, and there was a kind of "beat generation" feel to him. Yet I was aware of a deep reserve that seemed to distance him from others and forbid too close a friendship. He had a very good mind. Both he and Nat worked as journalists for Drum Magazine. Lewis was always cool, and his remarks were witty and sharp. Nat was different, a man full of smiles and jokes. These two men became our friends. It must be remembered that the fifties was an incredible time in Johannesburg. Many bright British young men also came there to work for the big mining houses like Anglo American. Liberal whites, especially those who were politically involved, socialized with young black intellectuals. People like Lewis and Nat were much in demand at dinner parties in the fashionable white Johannesburg suburbs of Houghton and Rosebank. People like Athol and myself, who were white, were of no interest to these wealthy liberal hosts, and were ignored. Perhaps the confidence of Lewis and Nat came not only from their success at their careers but also from being on this white party circuit.

The future of these two men was shaped by the fifties. Nat Nakasa became a brilliant journalist, and finally got a grant that allowed him to study in the U.S.A. He left South Africa on an exit permit, a one-way ticket out, which meant that he would never be able to return. Nat's life darkened in America. Exiled from his source, and unable to adjust to a new and demanding society, he fell into depression and jumped from a high-rise building in New York City. His death was a tragedy that later, for me, belied his laughing, smiling face that was so much a part of our No-Good Friday rehearsals. Later Lewis Nkosi left South Africa too, but more successfully. He became an academic, a critic, and a successful writer. I found both men to be so fresh and brilliant that it is impossible for me to forget either of them.

We needed a design for our No-Good Friday set. A friend put us in touch with Aaron Witkin, a young architect. He listened to our ideas, and read the play. He drew us a simple plan for the interior scene--Willy's room. The exterior of a Sophiatown back yard was discussed as well. Once we had the design, we had to build the set. We contacted Father Martin Jarret Kerr, who was the principal of St. Peter's College, an Anglican school for boys. Like Father Huddleston, he too was a liberal English priest. He gave us space in a classroom where we could work on the set. I felt that a "box set" for the interior scene was the easiest for us to assemble. Athol and I bought plywood and canvas. Together we made the frames and then stretched the canvas across them. It took us a few nights of hard work, since neither of us had any experience with carpentry. Finally we had our box set, which did the job, and also was light enough for the luggage carrier of our station wagon when we finally took on our township "tour."

With our savings gone, we were forced to leave our Berea apartment. We found a studio in Braamfontein, a cheaper area, and slept on a mattress on the floor. Every night we took the car seats out of the station wagon, and they became our apartment furniture. We ate sparingly--canned beans, boiled eggs, and French fries. Our life was almost as simple as that of our actors. We were already feeling the pressures of the hard life we had chosen. Often we had no money for gasoline, and had to ask the actors to put in a few cents each so we could take them back to their rooms in the sprawling township area of Johannesburg. With this additional travel, we were rarely in bed before twelve at night.

Rehearsals were grueling. Gladys in particular was painfully slow in learning her lines. Athol was still quite inexperienced as a director, but his great advantage was his enthusiasm for the text, which he conveyed to the cast. Even then Athol was able to get astonishing performances out of these untried actors, who were on a stage for the first time in their lives. For the cast, many of whom struggled with language, rehearsals were also English lessons. Teamwork came naturally to them. No one was a star; everyone was equal. Most important of all, they, like ourselves, wanted to be part of a truly African theatre.

In the third week of rehearsal Stephen Moloi and Dan Poho approached me with troubled looks on their faces. They said they were worried because Athol had not yet written the end of the play. I shared their anxiety, and had, in fact, reminded Athol about this many times during the rehearsal period. There and then I insisted he finish the play. I remember Athol sat down on a wooden box during that rehearsal and wrote the concluding short scene between Willie and Guy.

We had found a sponsor for the opening night at the Bantu Men's Social Centre, the African Feeding Fund. We met the chairman, a middle-aged, well-groomed white South African, Hugh Tatham. When we finally got to our opening night, he was there in the audience with his committee, and had even managed to sell some tickets. Still, the audience was mainly black. Two other white people, who were later to help the show, were there as well. One was the well-known South African actor and theatre critic Bill Brewer, and the other was Benedicta Bonnacorsi, a Johannesburg acting teacher.

The curtain opened on No-Good Friday. Athol and I were both backstage. He was tense and nervous about the reception of the play. I sat with the prompt book, and kept an eye on the entrances of the actors. I was particularly worried about Gladys forgetting her lines. It was a nerve-wracking experience for both of us. Yet the play worked and held the audience's attention. The response was first one of interest, and then applause. The actors fitted naturally into the play and Athol's authentic dialogue. Apart from the earlier poetic experiment of The Cell, it was Athol's first presentation of black South African reality on a public stage.

Then it was over. The actors took their curtain call. I urged Athol to go on stage and join them, because the applause was also for him as author. Instead, he pushed me out there. I stood, rather embarrassed, for it was not my play. I was glad to retreat backstage, but our moment of respite was brief. Mr. Tatham was already congratulating the actors, and he whisked us off to a meal at a fashionable restaurant. The meal was a terrible ordeal, particularly as we had to endure the platitudes of Mr. Tatham and his committee. We were both drained and tired. When we finally got home to our Braamfontein studio, we experienced no elation, just the ache and fatigue of work, and that terrible let-down feeling that so often accompanies an opening night.

We did take No-Good Friday into Soweto. Audiences were dismal. There seemed to be little understanding of theatre. Theatre attendance requires education, a familiarity with being part of an audience. But the townships offered mainly censored movies considered suitable for children and blacks. Still we persisted, and drove into the townships in our battered Jeep station wagon, with the actors crammed inside and our set strapped to the luggage carrier. I remember that at one performance we had only six people. We even took the play to an Indian Cinema in the Pretoria Township, Mamelodi. The area in front of the screen was so small that it was hardly a stage. Yet the actors coped, and we adapted the set. The turnout was quite good. People probably thought they were going to a film, and were surprised to find themselves at a play.

Finally No-Good Friday was seen by white Johannesburg in a single performance at the Brian Brooke Theatre. The role of Father Higgins was played by Lewis Nkosi instead of Athol that night, because the management of the theatre stipulated that the cast should not be racially mixed. The house was full, and the show was considered an event, an evening when liberal Johannesburg acknowledged that black actors performed in a drama about their own world. But no management was prepared to give the play a run. No amateur theatre or school requested the rights. More than a decade later, in 1974, No-Good Friday was performed outside South Africa at the British Crucible Studio in Sheffield. After several more years, the play was once again performed in South Africa.

Athol reminds me that I was both his first and last director. Those were the apprenticeship years. Our marriage could not have contained us both in theatre. We were two strong-willed individualists. What I brought to those early years was the shared vision and the absolute commitment to the work. By the time Athol was writing his next play, Nongogo, he needed other influences. He had found a new inspiration in Tone Brulin, a Belgian theatre director, brought out to South Africa by the National Theatre. Tone was both a director and playwright. Athol sat in on his rehearsals and got a feel for European theatre. This experience broadened his outlook and gave him more confidence in himself. Tone sensed Athol's unique talent. There were township visits with him, and later we went to Brussels, where Tone was helpful in getting Athol work in Dutch theatre. Nongogo also gave Zakes Mokae his first real chance at acting. He was to become an influence, especially when he played with Athol in the ground-breaking The Blood Knot. Another influence was Yvonne Bryceland, the South African actress, who interpreted the major female roles in People Are Living There and Boseman and Lena. Then John Kani became important in Athol's life when he took on the workshop plays, Sizwe Bansi Is Dead and The Island. Athol is always learning. His relationships with his actors are fluid, and dedicated during a production, but then he is ready to move on. The balance in his life between playwright and director is uneasy. They are separate lives. He is almost two different people.

No-Good Friday and Nongogo are now regularly performed in South Africa. The texts are accessible, and the plays easy to mount with simple sets. Schools can stage these plays as well as colleges. These apprenticeship plays are not for New York, or London, where sophisticated audiences demand more. The actors who stage the plays in the townships are similar to our original cast. Other Stephen Molois, Gladys Sibisis, and Dan Pohos struggle with the roles. Often these men and women have little schooling. They come from an impoverished, fragmented, and violent society. Yet these plays allow them to find a voice, speak, make theatre. This then is the value to South Africa of the apprenticeship plays. For Athol they were a beginning.

COPYRIGHT 1993 Hofstra University
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group