Paci makes a bold statement by relying on the use of film as a medium. In fact, Paci himself has said that photography and painting are “primitive” artistic modes. This assertion seems appropriate, as the majority of his pieces depict scenes of transition that could not have been captured as aptly in a single photograph or painting.  He manifests this idea by juxtaposing The Visitors, a four part video installation of a wedding procession with Façade and Passages which are located across the gallery. Both of the latter consist of panels of a film strip-esque series of stills, one frame next to the other. Paci intriguingly uses art to critique the media forms themselves, mocking non-video forms and elevating the purpose of his exhibition.

There is no doubt that media inspired by new technologies have given artists diverse tools to capture different moments of life; however, Paci’s theme of transits lacks direction and clarity. In The Visitors, he attempts to communicate the manner in which an entire Albanian community plays a role in a bride’s wedding procession, without ever portraying the actual wedding. But the jump from watching the filmed procession of figures in the countryside to recognizing, interpreting, and appreciating the value of the ceremonial tradition is somewhat challenging.  Similarly, Inside the Circle, a black and white video projection of a nude woman pursuing a horse, fails to draw attention or make a connection to the exhibit’s wider theme of life transitions, experiences, or Albanian culture. This piece would have benefited from deeper explanation and analysis, and without it, the viewer is left wondering what sort of bizarre life metamorphosis it is intended to represent.

Equally puzzling was one of the main pieces designed specifically for this exhibition, The Column. The piece is a video projection showing Chinese workers carving a marble pillar from a block while on a factory boat at sea.  While Paci’s work clearly exemplifies the concurrent nature of everyday processes, his example of the column, shown in a slow-paced 25-minute film, does not share a deep connection with the themes of the exhibition, and fails to arouse any real emotion. Paci’s Vajtojca also leaves the viewer confused as to the seriousness of the sentiments of the ‘transits.’  In this piece, the artist is filmed staging his own death rites, only to wake up in the end in a quasi-satirical way as lively music beings to play.

Paci devotes an excessive number of his creations to the motif of marriage as vital life ‘transit.’ While this may ring true for some viewers, Paci’s pieces centering on weddings only reaffirmed the superficiality of the tradition of marriage. In Last Gestures particularly, Paci focuses on the critical moments before a young woman leaves her family forever to enter marriage, slowing down the looped videos to a painfully sluggish rate, seemingly highlighting the critical importance of a life transition that no longer retains the same significance in the modern age as it long did.

Overall, Paci’s focus on the superiority of certain art media contributes to an atypical exhibition that is refreshing in some senses. Ironically, in line with Paci’s claim of the inadequacy of still-life representations, the photos of “Lives in Transit” in the museum’s promotional material fail to do justice to the film-based exhibition, giving the show a banal appearance. Furthermore, in asking us to appreciate the life transitions he finds most important, Paci leaves viewers discombobulated by his diverse examples which together fail to deliver a coherent narrative. In fact, it comes across as inappropriate that emotion-evoking examples of a younger generation’s trauma in a war-torn nation are compared to a staged death ceremony and the hollowed-out significance of the common marriage ceremony.

“Lives in Transit” will be on display at the Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal (185 Ste. Catherine W.) until April 27.

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In Nicholas Galanin’s “Tsu Heidi Shugaxtutaan, part 1 & 2,” a short video of the traditional Tlingit raven dance is juxtaposed with a robot dance performed to the same music, highlighting the interaction and the possibility for exchange between street dance and traditional “Tlingit cultural expression.” For the remainder of the artworks, however, a more accurate way to describe the theme is as an exploration of the broader impact of modern urban culture on traditional Aboriginal art. Examples of the hybrid urban-Aboriginal representation include KC Adams’ “Ipad is Cree Floral,” an actual iPad decorated with Aboriginal beadwork. Highlights also included an installation piece featuring low-rider bicycles adorned with Aboriginal motifs and a fashion display including an Aboriginal patterned corset, skirt, and knee-high spiked and heeled boots. Also exemplary of the exhibit’s theme is “Jilaqami’g No’shoe” by Jordan Bennet, a pair of modified skateboards with carved-out patterns representing the artist’s reflection on contemporary Aboriginal youth activities and “question[ing] what it meant to be Indian [sic] in contemporary society.”

However, while the exhibit claims to present an overarching theme of the interaction between hip hop, art, and traditional Aboriginal society, in reality the interactions sometimes lack cohesion, and appear forced, such as in the colossal eagle motif on a back wall of the gallery, by Corey Bulpitt and Aime Milot. While the creation is spray-painted and does boast a minute amount of typical graffiti in the bottom corner, the street quality seems unnaturally imposed upon the eagle and is somewhat strained and out of place in a gallery, as opposed to the typical setting for Bulpitt’s work: gritty urban spaces (for example, under the Granville Street bridge in Vancouver). Taken out of their original context, the works displayed lose their power as a reflection of a broader cultural phenomenon. Within a museum exhibit, the works’ original intent and authenticity is diminished. Roland Souliere’s monolithic caution tape, utilizing Aboriginal colours and patterns, that wraps around the walls of the gallery in an attempt to translate the symbolic meaning of street culture, was also out of context. This feels so obvious that it tarnishes the intended symbolism. Overall, it is challenging to appreciate the meaning of these works in the white-washed museum setting.

The exhibit also features a significant amount of film media, including Kevin Lee Burton’s “Nikamowin (song)” and “Heritage Mythologies” by Jackson 2bears, which drew influence from electro and DJ/VJ sound. Jackson 2bears’ work highlights an emerging trend in Aboriginal mixed-media art – a remix of rap/electronic music combined with a video of flashing images of Aboriginal life, in this instance on the reserve. Unfortunately, the images of the reserves seem disconnected from the music, drawing few emotional parallels with the beat, unlike in other pieces. A more successful example of mixed media is “Dubyadubs” by Madeskimo, an Inuit DJ.  He merges customary Aboriginal throat singing with sounds of nature and dub and electronic beats, set to footage of the Canadian Arctic landscape and wildlife. He also fuses, into the black and white film, a “fantastic filter” of colourful prisms. By distorting this black and white footage with modern sounds and colour, Madeskimo intelligently draws parallels with the morphing nature of Aboriginal identity in contemporary culture.

Parts of the exhibit also explore notions of persisting personal identity within the metamorphosis of cultural identity. The series of acrylic-painted elk-hide drums by Sonny Assu is representative of the artist’s melting pot heritage (the explanatory blurb refers vaguely to Assu’s “diverse background”), with the flat, wall-mounted drums representing vinyl records. The records are purported to be recordings of his grandfather singing traditional Aboriginal songs, an element that adds an additional facet to Assu’s piece. The records also make a political statement, their number corresponding to the number of years for which the famed potlatch ceremony was outlawed in British Columbia. This simple piece, incorporating both personal and community messages, evokes a stronger response from the viewer than other works in the exhibit that did not as effectively communicate the artist’s identity.

The exhibition conveys a symbolic message about cultural hybridization and traditional motifs through a plethora of nontraditional media. Nonetheless, the narrative of the evolving Aboriginal identity upon interaction with mainstream culture cannot be fully appreciated in the confined surroundings of a large museum. The exhibit aims to show how Aboriginal culture is morphing, adopting and adapting street culture. However, this creation of art happens outside museum walls, and this museum exhibit, an overly formal setting, is little more than an acknowledgement that this is indeed happening.

“Beat Nation: Art, Hip Hop, and Aboriginal Culture”will run till January 5, 2014 at the Montreal Museum of Contemporary Art (185 Ste. Catherine W.).

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As the Montreal indie music scene begins to branch out from its usual synth-pop repertoire, Holobody offers an intriguing twist with its folk-to-electronic music. The band, which hails from Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, has a rural folk first album and an urban electronic EP under their belt. Holobody state that they aim to connect with their audience in a “pure” way, yet their music falls short of bringing anything innovative to Montreal’s music scene.

The band, formed in early 2010, features siblings Luke and Charlotte Loseth, along with a rotating cast of other members. However, Luke Loseth explained in an interview with The Daily that he is the driving force behind Holobody, while Charlotte, his main contributor, writes some of the lyrics. Holobody has played at a variety of locations, including Le Cagibi, Divan Orange, Café Campus, as well as at Duckstock, a small and intimate music festival in northern Quebec.

Their wilderness-oriented, earthy, and “experimental” folk-pop is intertwined with electronic nuances. A little bit Fleet Foxes and a little bit Radiohead, Holobody labels their music “folktronica.” Their last full album, Riverhood, released by Mush Records in spring 2012, features ten tracks with an upbeat and very simple sound that reflects the duo’s roots in small-town Saskatchewan. Songs such as “Riverbed” and “Way the World Goes Round” reflect a sense of community and rebirth with lyrics such as “well when I die take my body to the riverside/ let the water wash me clean.” Loseth commented that he was very much a “loner” and hadn’t made a lot of friends yet in Montreal when Riverhood was released, which explains why this album is clearly, at its heart, still in the wilderness of Saskatchewan.

Since moving to Montreal, Holobody’s upbeat and dynamic sound has transformed into a more intricate and funky synth-pop. Their newest music embodies the city itself – a fact quite clearly communicated by the new release’s title EP MTL. Loseth commented that the main divergence in his work was that while it maintained an earthy feel, the new release has come to reflect his new urban environment, with significantly more edgy, intricate, and electronic songs. Loseth explained that certain songs on the EP are linked to significant individuals he met upon moving to the city. For example, “Duluth pt I” is named after a girl who lives on Duluth who dumped Loseth. The EP’s popular favourite “Ninnyhammer” is a trance-like feel-good piece. “Ninnyhammer” is good background music for dancing around your room, despite its rather politically incorrect references to a dancing “eskimo.” EP MTL also includes covers, such as Broken Social Scene’s “Stars and Sons.”

Despite their aesthetically-pleasing sound, the songs from Riverhood and EP MTL both feature superficial lyrics that often lack depth, and seem to convey little in the way of narrative.  For some, the emptiness of the lyrics may take away from the overall experience, however, other listeners will undoubtedly be satisfied with the skilled production. The EP songs are unquestionably tasteful and pleasant to the ears.  Loseth explained that he considers himself first and foremost a recording artist rather than a performer, a preference that comes through in the priority given to Holobody’s sound quality.

Loseth spoke on how tough it is to break into Montreal’s budding music scene, mentioning specifically the challenges of gathering a solid lineup of regular band members in a community where musicians tend to jump from band to band. He claimed the goal of the band is to “be different in some way without being too gimmicky.” He explained that he hopes to contribute something “significant and intense” to the music scene in Montreal and to “aim for the purest, most direct and meaningful conversation with the audience I can achieve.” Loseth said that unlike some music groups, he doesn’t just want to get on stage and “mess around.” However, in saying this he fails to clearly delineate how he truly stands out from the mass of other rising indie music groups, which are no doubt not always “messing around” and are striving for similar goals.

While the first version of EP MTL only has four original songs and two covers, its upcoming re-release will include a selection of more original songs and some remixes, notably a remix of “Ninnyhammer” by Young Galaxy. Perhaps the unveiling of the new full album at the end of April will reveal the true extent of Holobody’s attempt to communicate with listeners in a more meaningful, “pure” way. As of now, while demonstrating skilled instrumental and recording proficiency, Holobody still has to find their own unique voice.

Holobody will be playing April 19 and 27 at Casa del Popolo. Tickets are $8.

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The original tragedy, which explores themes of unrestrained ambition, a wavering moral compass, and psychological turbulence, is largely preserved. Law’s version is successful in that his change of context remains relatively subtle throughout the majority of the play, allowing Shakespeare’s original themes to shine through. His most prominent modifications were the severe military attire, the variety of wartime propaganda on the set, and the violence, which was perhaps even more exaggerated than that found in the average Shakespearean stage fight.

While the performance of Macbeth (Matthew Rian Steen) certainly lived up to the audience’s expectation – a morally troubled and mentally divided figure – other characters proved more mesmerizing. Annie MacKay’s Lady Macbeth was particularly disturbing, expertly conveying the character’s cruel, manipulative drive and collapse into paranoia and anxiety. Law believes that this demonstrates how Lady Macbeth was a catalyst, “the crucial ingredient to push [Macbeth] over the edge and get him to kill.”

Also notable were the intense, crazed performances of the witches, especially that of Ayla Lefkowitz, who chilled the audience with her demented gaze. Banquo (Emily Murphy) was admittedly rather dull while alive, but when transformed into their ghost-like state, was especially eye-catching and sinister, more like a character out of Night of the Living Dead than from either the Elizabethan or World War I era. These characters helped to instill the production with a fantastical, dream-like quality.

Macbeth is one of the darkest in Shakespeare’s canon. As the plot unwinds, the principal characters demonstrate in bloody fashion the moral ambiguity of humanity. Moreover, Macbeth’s terrifying descent into madness and insanity raises the question of whether we really are evil beasts deep down, or if his character simply represents the ‘everyman’ who becomes enthralled by power. Facilitating this theme was Law’s personal decision to have the characters wear masks for a portion of the story, highlighting their desperate attempts to hide their two-faced nature, “full of scorpions,” behind a façade of normality.

Law sheds light on the intensity of carnage and moral corruption present in both the storyline and World War I, highlighting the hypocrisy of the glamourized façade of the war effort. Analogous to how the masks shield Macbeth’s evil intentions, the brutal fighting of the war is “masked and cloaked in recruitment propaganda,” Law explains. He describes Rosie the Riveter as a key example, the female war recruitment emblem seen on the advertisements for this production by Players’ Theatre, shrieking, “Out Damned Spot!”

Despite the director’s best efforts, while the combat scenes in the latter part of the play are expertly choreographed, in the cramped and highly personal atmosphere of Player’s Theatre, the scenes no longer seem warlike, but more like a series of well-organized wrestling matches.

Furthermore, while Law says he is attempting to exceed efforts of other directors to “modernize” one of Shakespeare’s most renowned tales, setting Macbeth in a 100-year-past war doesn’t quite live up to this promise. In this regard, although the adaptation stops short of speaking directly to students, it presents an authentic and engaging take on a dark play.

Macbeth is showing this week at Players’ Theatre from February 27 to March 2. Tickets are $6.00 for students.

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The time span of the exhibit is so extensive that the collection can offer only a cursory glance at best – a summary of a long and complicated history plagued with cultural tensions. The first room of the exhibit, presenting the initial discovery of Machu Picchu, offered a brief yet pertinent insight into the subjective archaeological process of uncovering artifacts of Peruvian history.  At the time of its discovery, the site was a fact of life to locals. They lived there and grew their maize on the ancient Incan terraces, but newly-arrived archaeologists put a stop to this, taking over the site in the name of excavation. This archaeological context, however, is somewhat glossed over in the rest of the exhibit, leaving the viewer to wonder how the specific pieces were selected and which factors determined their importance. The introduction to the exhibit claims these relics are symbols of “living cultural identity,” yet the multiple intersectionalities of culture fail to come across. In fact, the trajectory of the exhibit seems to reinforce an overly predictable colonialist narrative in which European conquest is presented as an inevitable turning point, something all of the area’s pre-Columbian history had been building to.

The first part of the exhibit focuses on artifacts of pre-Incan peoples – such as the Chavín, Mochica, Paracas, and Chimú – who predated European contact.  The second portion focuses on the Incan empire and its transformation by Spanish conquest. The third component of the exhibit features colonial art and works of the “Inca Renaissance,” followed by pieces of Indígenismo, a movement fueled by Peru’s 1821 independence, which extended into the 21st century.

The pre-Incan portion centres on material objects. These object – for the most part ritualistic – depict human sacrifice, war, sexuality, death, and the afterlife as embodied by human figurines, anthropomorphized agricultural goods such as maize, and feline and snake motifs. Unsurprisingly, gold features prominently both in this section and in the rest of the exhibit, reflecting the attraction Peru held for the Spanish colonizers.

After the many rooms of pre-Incan pottery and jewellery, the exhibit segues into artifacts from the Incan empire and the period of colonial contact, including eye-catching llama-fur textile tapestry. Pre-contact Incan culture is only briefly presented before an unsettling and abrupt shift into Spanish colonial art. The lack of diverse perspectives is echoed by the paucity of artifacts which seem to truly represent indigenous Peruvians’ experience of colonization. In fact, the only colonial-era piece accurately depicting the horrors of conquest is a series of drawings by  Felipe Guamán Poma de Ayala depicting the realities of indigenous oppression for the Spanish king.

The remainder of the colonial section marks a radical overturn of aesthetics. The works featured are, for the most part, neo-classical religious-themed oil paintings and ornamental metalworks. The minimal presence of authentic Peruvian subjects and artists in this section points to the missing voice in the narrative of colonialism, especially noticeable in the absence of any mention of the Mita, a forced labour system used to extract the precious metals for many of these artworks.

The exhibit shifts again in its last section, exploring a series of post-independence works. At this point, the variety of media grows, as the proportion of paintings diminishes in favour of photographs, engravings, prints, sculptures, and mixed-media works. The theme of Peruvian identity is reiterated in a somewhat mechanical fashion by accompanying audio of children singing the national anthem. This section showcases the hybridization of post-independence art, as traditional Peruvian art and Spanish influence converged to create a bi-cultural artistic movement.

The artworks bookending the exhibit reflect the intended message of fruitful cultural marriage. The first artwork to greet visitors is Francisco Laso’s 1855 European-style painting Habitante de las Cordilleras, a portrait of an indigenous man holding a pre-Columbian artifact thought to embody Peruvian identity.  However, when related to the exhibit as a whole, this iconic painting’s meaning becomes more nuanced. One of the final pieces of the exhibit is an Arquebusier angel, a hybrid doll-like sculpture of a Spanish woman made from materials traditionally associated with indigenous culture.  While this angel appears on the surface as a unified, victorious marriage of Hispanic and indigenous cultures, the sculpture also brings to mind the chilling incongruities of post-colonial culture.

The narrative of colonialism is a challenge to broach in a single exhibit, given its controversial and lasting legacy for Peru. Peru’s current indigenous population, estimated as between 30 and 45 per cent of the national population, still faces many struggles of social integration, economic opportunities, and political rights as discrimination carries on. The hybrid artistic identity expressed in this exhibit seems somewhat discordant with Peru’s current cultural reality. Kingdoms of the Moon and Sun strives to fold all the pieces of Peruvian history into a morally satisfying, aesthetically pleasing result, but is this really a desirable objective? Although the artworks in this exhibit are worthy of appreciation in themselves, the survey of Peruvian art presented in this exhibit is overly broad, at times ignoring the lasting repercussions of historical narrative.

Kingdoms of the Moon and Sun will be on view at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts from February 2 to June 16

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With no real notion of what to expect from an avant-garde performance (I pictured in my mind something embarrassingly futuristic), what shocked me was how different this was since the last time I watched a contemporary dance performance. Not only was the café-bar an unusual location for a dance show; the dancers literally wove among the audience members and jumped onto the bar. The piece showcased Barrette-Laperrière’s idea of stereotypical characters and situations that one might stumble upon in a typical trendy bar or raucous club. For the most part, her piece revolved seductively around the themes of sex and sexual identity. During the piece the audience witnessed girls dancing promiscuously in a club and the “hypersexualization” of the female body as a piece of “meat.”

Not only is a bar a good starting point for choreographers looking to make a reputation, but the highly intimate setting and dim mood lighting facilitated the theme. Barrette-Laperrière argued the venue was entirely conducive for the storyline of her dance, adapted from its original design for a stage. The theatrical movements of the dancers resembled acting from a movie or play more than traditional contemporary dance.

If there was a weakness to the performance, however, it was that the dizzying plethora of stereotypes and sexual parodies were presented in an overwhelming flurry of imagery. Barrette-Lapperrière remarked, however, that this was the whole point: seduction happens too rapidly and superficially these days.  She explained that she likes to “use the voice, like in theatre,” to tell a story through her piece, but at the same time, to explore a theme highly relevant to young people today.

As a young non-dancer, I think it is crucial to recognize that local contemporary dance, especially from young choreographers, is evolving to match present social concerns. Some of Barrette-Laperrière’s other choreographies highlight the subjects of death, physical disabilities, and euthanasia, and have stylistic roots in tango, “waacking” (an increasingly popular type of urban dance), and pole dancing.

Barrette-Laperrière’s personal story is worthy of mention. A student, she also holds down a job and choreographs multiple pieces, the one at Bistro Arrêt de Bus being her first group piece. Unlike most dancers, she started her career only at 18, and therefore she admits that traditional contemporary dance doesn’t interest her, as she doesn’t have the time to perfect her technique. She finds the hardest aspects of being a young choreographer are limited funding and the intense competition in a city flourishing with young, innovative dance artists. The only help she receives is the money raised at pay-what-you-can nights like these, as well as an organization at UQAM called Passerelle 840, which provides dance spaces for the use of students and post-graduate artists.

Even as one of the only anglophones in a francophone-filled bar in Montreal, I couldn’t help but think of Barrette-Laperrière’s theatrical style of choreography as a method of eliminating the language divide in Montreal, which Barrette-Laperrière says seems so apparent at her shows today. Perhaps the reason I myself never expressed a genuine enthusiasm for contemporary dance before was that many of its idealistic themes never resonated with my modern day experience. Let’s Get it On! communicated a contemporary social problem across language barriers to even those less educated in the realm of dance.

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While Sprung preserves a fair amount of Kafka’s original text, he changes Red Peter’s profession after he evolves into a human being. In the Kafka original, he is displayed as a variety-show curiosity working as an able-bodied musician in the Music Hall, whereas Sprung’s modern-day version casts him as a mercenary soldier for a private company called Graywater as well as, of course, the star of a reality show called Combat Missions. Changes aside, the theme of the inhumane abuse of the ape and his disturbingly ironic “evolutionary fast-forwarding” from ape-hood to humanity remains a constant. Kafka’s condemnation of the monstrous treatment of humans by fellow humans and the decadence of warfare still comes through. Relevant a century ago in the World War I era, and several centuries ago when Europeans ruthlessly captured and enslaved ‘exotic’ indigenous peoples and brought them back home to display, it can be argued that this depiction of inhumanity is still relevant today with the ongoing War on Terror.

Sprung cunningly depicts humanity at its disturbingly warlike “height of civilization.” Instead of addressing the traditional academy Kafka had in mind, Red Peter speaks to an audience of Graywater company shareholders. This company – of which Red Peter is proud to say he has become a “full-fledged employee” – is a deliberate parody of the real-life Blackwater (now coincidently renamed ‘Academi’) corporation, a private United States Military company deployed in the Middle East and Africa. The company is known for its involvement in an infamous 2007 shooting of 17 Iraqi civilians. Spring is crafting a modern world of dystopia, “our own Hell.” Red Peter himself inadvertently outlines what he views as the pinnacle of human achievements as he says, “I had mastered the finer points of civilization: How most quickly and most effectively to kill another human being.”

Sprung aims to convey the frightening nature of human brutality and the evolution of war. He has a particular focus on the last decade or so, during which he feels that human cruelty has been perfected into a highly efficient, increasingly lethal, and profit-driven military industry.

Kafka’s Ape highlights certain ironies that may come too hard-hitting. The plotline is accompanied by video advertisements crudely depicting the intense militarism of Graywater or the so-called “peace” and “security” industry. The company’s slogans: “Live free or die” and “Make a killing – invest in Graywater,” illustrate Sprung’s marked lack of subtlety. Sprung can be accredited readily with a sharp directedness. Noteworthy is his eerie juxtaposition of a Graywater combat promotional video with a recording of a musical piece by Mozart.

Beyond the theme of human violence, Sprung highlights how Red Peter’s tale is also a story of an identity lost. This theme clearly shines through in Kafka’s narrative, Sprung notes, as Kafka was a secularized Jew who had lost his culture and religious identity in the sea of the European diaspora. The play, told through an overarching monologue style, makes it easy to understand these personal sentiments, particularly Red Peter’s sense of loss.  His initial resentment toward his brutal capture and distaste for human life is obvious. We sympathize with his desire to imitate humans and become a “civilized North American” through the false promise of freedom. Though he denies any thorough allegiance to humanity, he’s fallen into a delusion, possessing a crazed enthusiasm for his new role as a combat instructor for the corporation, so much so that he has trouble recalling his previous life as an ape.

The ape protagonist, played by Howard Rosenstein, gives the audience a tangible sense of Red Peter’s mental struggle. We see this from his comical, idiosyncratic pronunciation of the English language to his commentary on the peculiar habits of human engagement. The same can be said for his expert portrayal of animalistic, ape-like mannerisms. Red Peter’s wife, an ape that “unfortunately never learned Human Being Speak,” is practically forgotten in the performance, and plays little more than the role of a prop. Sprung says the wife’s ‘less evolved’ nature provides an important contrast to Red Peter. She goes through the transformation of an ape into a circus creature animal spectacle donning by gaudy makeup and dress.

It becomes difficult to shake the unnerving feeling this play gives, which is at the core of so much dystopian literature. In a satirical story of an ape torn from the arcadia of jungle freedom and forced to endure a chilling descent into the depths of human corruption – which he honestly believes to be its zenith – it brings up question of we should find what is presented humourous.

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The play consists of two parts instead of the traditional Shakespearean five acts, making it somewhat more bearable to sit through as a spectator, despite its flaws. The first part demonstrates the hedonistic lifestyle of a self-absorbed Athenian noble who loves lavish feasts and the attention she obtains from her charitable gifts. It was refreshing to see a woman take the traditionally male lead role, and this portion of the play was highly animated, with the characters playing on a wide range of emotions, exploding with bouts of indignation, joy, sadness, and envy.

Despite the director’s best efforts, during the second half, the play became a tragic bore for the audience. In the second part the play nearly devolves into a one-woman show, with a complete breakdown of the cheerful dialogue witnessed in the first half of the play. Timon becomes a dismal wretch; the façade of her previous narcissism decaying into intense fear, paranoia, and crazed behaviour. Her degradation quickly becomes overwhelming, after which point the play is no longer enjoyable.

Despite this maudlin turn of events, Shakespeare presents the opportunity for viewers’ self-identification through the devastated character of Timon, the everywoman, whose foolish materialism led her to financial and social poverty. She foolishly rejects humanity altogether, seeing humans as no better than beasts, and retreats to a cave in the wilderness, determined to isolate herself from all others.

According to Ruderman,  Athenian captain Alcibiades is Timon’s foil, as he is “perfectly comfortable in accepting the animal in the human” that Timon struggles against. Alcibiades’ military profession is inherently violent, and he also pursues sex with abandon, both supposedly “animal” qualities. Ruderman notes that Timon, in contrast, either endeavours to be superior to these fundamental aspects of humanity, as seen in her initial “absurd altruism,” or else she rejects humanity and materialism altogether. Though we may not like to identify ourselves with Timon’s misanthropy, it is paradoxically an intrinsic human quality.

In an effort to draw meaning from her despondency, we may take away another social warning. In today’s era when spendthrift people feel the squeeze of financial worries, Timon is evocative of “what an alteration of honour want [has] made”; in other words, how deeply detrimental excessive materialism is to social relations in society. You cannot genuinely buy friends.

Ruderman inserted many humorous notes into his creation – the chorus member played by Christian Morey was a ‘bag of tricks,’ with his articulate transformations of character, his sarcasm, and his comical accents. As for Timon, it is difficult to separate the quality of Murphy’s portrayal from the fact that she plays one of Shakespeare’s least appealing lead roles. While Shakespeare gave Timon an inordinate amount of stage time, the auxiliary characters often commanded more attention. Sometimes, Murphy appeared too complacent in her role, and I found myself overlooking her presence onstage.

Overall, thanks to the enthusiasm of the supporting roles, and Ruderman’s modernizing nuances, the audience was able to endure the dreary plot. The play without doubt represents one of Shakespeare’s more difficult works, in that the viewer is left utterly depressed by the unrelentingly negative underlying moral. Timon evolves into such a bitter, spiteful shell of a woman that in the end it seems the audience can no longer empathize with her. Ruderman remarks that, in the face of critical views that the play is one of Shakespeare’s worst artistic creations, he views Timon of Athens more charitably as “unfinished experimentation.”

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Aside from these cocktail nights, according to Jean-François Séguin, founder and president of the YAC, the committee hopes to promote the enticing nature of opera through other events such as their annual ball, to be held March 15 at Place des Arts. The theme for March is based on the movie Dead Man Walking, and includes an even bigger party with DJs and typical house music interrupted by bursts of opera singing. Séguin emphasizes that this is an attempt to “take young people by surprise” and convince them that opera is a truly fascinating, “eclectic” art. The combination of opera and house struck me as somewhat over the top, like a desperate attempt to attract the attention of young people by sneaking opera through the back door.

While he stressed how essential it is for “young people” to get involved with this art, the emphasis of the effort is directed mostly at accomplished professionals, rather than students, or the rest of the young population. This is because, unlike London, Paris, and New York, Montreal does not have a strong tradition of upper-middle-class support for the opera. Opéra de Montréal has relied on donations from wealthy individuals and corporations, like the Bronfman Foundation and Fasken Martineau (where Séguin is an associate lawyer), but they are looking to engage ‘Generation Y’ as patrons in order to preserve the institution in the city. In spite of this, while they may have succeeded in making the opera aesthetically pleasing to the younger generation, these “opera cocktails” and the YAC’s other promotional events do not reach out to all of Generation Y, largely due to their cost ($80 for the “Opera Cocktails” and up to $125 for the ball). Thus, the YAC is continuing to reach out primarily to the more affluent and prosperous “young people” of Montreal, perpetuating opera’s image as an elitist artistic tradition.

Nevertheless, starting this year, Séguin describes how the Young Associates have initiated a membership program for only $25 per year, inexpensive compared to some opera patron programs like a similar program at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. Unfortunately, the Committee does not offer a direct discount on tickets for young people. In fact, the only institutions actually looking to reduce opera ticket fees for young people are the corporate sponsors, such as TD Bank, which supports a special program for 18- to 30-year-olds that reduces the price of a single ticket to $30 from $50 or more, if they subscribe to a minimum of two operas per season.

To be fair, the Young Associates Committee has fulfilled their goal of increasing attendance among young people. Since their founding in 2009, the YAC has made substantial progress, with 20 to 30 per cent of people returning to the opera every time, and a significant increase in youth subscriptions. In this short time the associates have raised over $100,000. While it is essential that we recognize that performing arts like the opera greatly rely on donations from affluent patrons, in order to further their agenda, the Young Associates must also look to capture the interest and engage the younger generation as a whole, instead of narrowing their focus to professionals alone. This is crucial if they hope to preserve enthusiasm for the Opéra de Montréal in the future.

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