SIZWE BANZI IS DEAD. Written by Athol Fugard, John Kani and Winston Ntshona. Directed by John Kani, with Mncedisi Shabangu and Atandwa Kani. At Baxter Flipside Theatre until September 12. TRACEY SAUNDERS reviews
SOUTH Africa’s apartheid history has been the subject matter of many a stage production. Out of the many that have been staged here and outside the country, Sizwe Banzi is Dead is arguably one of the most heart-wrenching and authentic portrayals of the brutality of the apartheid regime.
The script was first developed by Athol Fugard, John Kani and Winston Ntshona and premièred at The Space Theatre in 1972. Forty years ago Kani and Ntshona won the Best Actor Tony Awards for their performances. The authenticity of the dialogue and the accuracy of the seemingly bizarre and absurd situation in which Sizwe Banzi finds himself can be traced back to the life experiences of the writers who devised the script. Fugard’s experience of the Pass Laws was attained when he worked as a clerk in the Native Commissioner’s Court in 1958.
For Kani and Ntshona the experiences were personal and direct, as they were required to carry pass books themselves. Kani performed the role in both the original and touring production and in subsequent revivals, the most recent being at the Baxter in 2006. In 2007 Peter Brook directed a French version at the Barbican in London and this version has returned from a successful UK tour.
It is here on a stage in Cape Town in 2015 however where Banzi becomes frozen in time and allows a moment to reflect. The de rigueur examination of the relevance of the play several decades after it was first written were answered by the overwhelming emotion which was tangible in the theatre on opening night. The staging is simple. The opening set consists of two tables, one covered with props. Several photographs and the names of the photographic proprietor, Styles, are indicated on a large board on an easel.
Photographs in which he has captured “29 variations of a New Brighton smile”. A dapper man, Styles reads his newspaper aloud and selects pithy headlines which he shares with the audience. He recounts the visit of Mr Ford himself to the automotive factory in Port Elizabeth, where he was previously employed.
He enacts the flurry of feverish activity in anticipation of the visit, the orders issued to the men on the factory floor and the retrofitting of safety measures. His witty repartee lulls you in to a place where you are laughing with him at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Suddenly that comfortable position is shown for the farce that it is and the smiles turn to grimaces. Nothing seems funny any more, least of all the singing and dancing on demand. The tyranny of the production line and the expendability of the employees are windows into the inhumane circumstances faced by workers.
His reveries of his former employer are interrupted by well-dressed Robert Zwelinzima who walks in to the New Brighton studio with a panache that hides his awkwardness. With true entrepreneurial style Styles convinces him to buy more cards than he had originally envisaged and as each photograph is staged and framed the photographer provides more than props and a backdrop, but a sense of being, a stature of which Banzi can be proud.
As the final flash explodes and the image is frozen in time, Zwelinzima dictates a letter which will accompany the photograph to his wife. His real name and the reasons behind the demise of Sizwe Banzi become clearer.
There is a feeling of the absurd in the encounters that unfolds. We are introduced to Buntu, a man about town and someone who is able to make a plan. Kani’s ability to transform between Styles and Buntu is remarkable. Each character holds a certain amount of cynicism, but it is Buntu who expresses it with a bitterness and fury that is searching for an outlet. It is impossible not to notice the canny resemblance, both vocally and visually between Atandwa and his father.
It would be a disservice to both men however to merely compare the two. Atandwa is his own man and has created a Styles who embodies entrepreneurial spirit, fierce determination and a devasting charm. Shabangu is as brilliant and his sincerity shines through his performance. His illiteracy and the insanity of the situation he finds himself in are presented in a matter of fact manner that exposes the petty banality of the apartheid system. In one scene he stares down at the passbook thrown on the floor with a look of resignation which carries the weight of years of humiliation. John Kani’s familiarity with the piece is evident in the direction.
He has recreated the sense of the photographic studio as an oasis, “a strong-room of dreams” in the midst of a brutal and inhuman society. The play may be more than 40 years old, but he has highlighted the touch points which resonate with today. The quiet utterance of the one line, “I cannot read”, brings to mind the response of mine workers at Marikana when faced with a sheaf of documents who echoed the same admission, “we cannot read”. And just like that, the reality of Sizwe Banzi is frozen in time, not just by the glare of the camera flash, but in the echoes of the scourge of illiteracy which continues to bedevil many in South Africa today.
The universality of the themes of identity and the lengths to which a man will go to provide for his family are evident in the Black Lives Matter movement in the USA, and the number of refugees fleeing war-torn regions in search of better lives for their families. This South African story has and continues to ripple across the world. In the lyrics of the song Smile, Charlie Chaplin wrote, “Smile though your heart is aching/ smile even though it’s breaking.” Styles suggests smiling even when your country is breaking and his humour is purposeful as he attempts to outwit and outrun a system which is hell-bent on stripping black men and women of their dignity. Through it all he stands proud and remains resolute. His small acts of defiance the building blocks of a movement that ended an unjust regime.
As he takes the final photograph of the now proud Robert Zwelinzima he pronounces, “There goes a man.” There goes a man indeed and a finer one you will be hard pressed to find. As the stage lights dim one feels compelled to rise to your feet and evoke the struggle anthem: “Sizwe Banzi is dead. Long live Sizwe Banzi, long live.”
l Tickets: R130 Tuesday to Thursday, and R150 over weekends, 0861 915 8000.