The Only Good Indian…
Performed by Turtle Gals Performance Ensemble
Directed by Yvette Nolan
Written by Falen Johnson, Jani Lauzon, Cheri Maracle, Monique Mojica & Michelle St. John
By Stewart Byfield
It’s 7:30 pm and the show starts at 8. The place is absolutely packed and the line for the box office is about to spill onto the sidewalk. I’m not sure who to talk to. I mean, Kerry said there’d be two tickets waiting for me when I arrived but I have no idea who’s in charge. There’s so many people schmoozing and they’re all dressed well enough to be curators. My guest for the evening is holding place in the queue and I am now trying to interject various conversations just long enough to ask; when I turn and see the small open doors of an adjacent area. Inside I see a few people sitting in classroom chairs upon bleacher style risers. I see a trio of women accepting tickets from the walk ins. There is no line but rather a slow trickle of spectators.
“Pardon me, is this The Only Good Indian…“?
Soon enough I’m in one of those class room chairs myself and sure I’ve got loads of white guilt to fill my guts and yeah I’m a dude too and twenty something to boot and I’ve read the competing versions of North American Colonial history and dammit what else is there to feel uncomfortable about? How many more bleeding heart strings are there left inside me to pull? Or is it that, like with many such things, my brain has kinda dried up on the issue. Yeah the white man fucked the red man large and our elected feds are still looking askance whilst pointing their accusatory digits into the ineffectual morass of inter-party governance. And of course I have no idea what I could ever do about it. Meanwhile, aboriginal communities no further than Sioux St. Marie are considered, by Amnesty International and the U.N. amongst others, to be some of the most impoverished areas in the world. To think, immense hunger, disease and violence right in our own back yard.
But OMG! OMG! OMG! That dude who plays the dim-witted police officer on Corner Gas has just sat down next to me. I should totally go google his name later for the article. And hey! Isn’t that Burt Lancaster?
Burt has been cast as some badass Indian hunter guy in one of the many film clips that is currently playing for the audience as they await the performance. They appear to be films of that old-school Cowboys and Indians shtick. Have they always featured white folk painted up like Indians? Or occasionally Mexicans not painted at all. I am browsing through the program for the show, choosing not to read the promotional material in my deluxe media pack. I am wondering if my friend has recognized gas cop man, too.
Then it’s: Dim the lights! (Great… I can stop thinking now!) And then it’s…
Well, frankly, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It’s a clever and complex story about four Aboriginal women trying to make it as serious actors; only ever allowed to be Indian actresses.
Or sideshow curiosities.
Or starving.
It was about having to sacrifice one’s identity in the attempt to create one’s identity. It was about having to settle. It was thoroughly non-linear. It was charming. And then it was heart wrenching. Perhaps I watch far too much TV, but I’m still taken aback by the intimacy of live theatre. Especially in such a small space with so few others involved. It had a lot of smarmy non-sense quotes from Ted D. Roosevelt who apparently might just have been a phenomenal prick. There were four actors making wonderful use of a minimal set. They were all able to seamlessly exchange narratives and motifs depending on specific alternating time lines. Each of them managed to remain utterly distinct and completely captivating even when inhabiting different characters. There was singing and dancing and a touch of the ol’ avant garde. Kinda hammy in some parts, and then in others quite arresting. There’s a truly poignant and almost grotesque sequence with bras on dressmaker mannequins. It ends with a show-stopping performance of “There’s No Indians Like Show Indians.” There was no smudging ceremony. At least not on stage.
You know, though, I ended being most impressed with how heartfelt the entire performance was. The actors really seemed to mean it. Which works for me, as after a while the dearth of academic and political rhetoric surrounding Aboriginal issues in Canada (and anywhere else for that matter) can be a bit stultifying. This was a work by four talented women that focused on the personal side of that dialogue. Which is a good one, I think; it reminds me that people are involved.
Or it might have been about how, no matter who you are, media empires will rule. I’m so glad that through media osmosis I am somehow aware that High School Musical 2 is now available in time for Christmas at Wal-Mart. Why hadn’t I absorbed the knowledge of The Only Good Indian… show so easily? I hope more people get a chance to experience it. This show has far more to reveal about itself than I could ever write. You simply must go.
On the way out I looked up and noticed the name of the room where the whole thing went down.
“Extra Space.”
Not for long, I hope.
The Only Good Indian… runs December 1-16, 2007 at Tarragon Theatre Extra Space. Visit turtlegals.com for more info.
