Thoughts on Dancing Brick's 'Captain Ko and the Planet of Rice'

Thoughts on Dancing Brick's Captain Ko and the Planet of Rice

So I've just got back from Edinburgh's Underbelly, having seen Dancing Brick's latest piece, Captain Ko and the Planet of Rice. If you're looking for a review, this isn't it – this isn't a review, not as such. In fact, I feel pretty under-qualified to review it at all, because – and at the moment I'll hold my hand up to this – I don't think I really understood all that the company was trying to achieve. Although, at some point, I do need to write a review. At some point.

This isn't the review, this is more of a chance for me to try and hash out some thoughts about Captain Ko... and see where I end up. Feel free to join me, or to move on; up to you. There'll probably be spoilers.

So, Captain Ko. Oh, and the Planet of Rice. The title prepares us for a sci-fi voyage, and possibly a slightly quirky one. For the first twenty minutes or so, that's exactly what we get. But the play clearly divides into three distinct sections, and connecting them is the problem I'm currently having. Let's take them one at a time. [It turns out that these aren't sections at all – we're being shown a triptych of different plays, not one play at all, which actually makes quite a lot of difference – Ed.]

The first section is basically a loving homage to the age of classic TV sci-fi, ie. late sixties and early seventies. The sound effects are lifted straight out of the Star Trek memory banks, while the costumes (pastel blue space suits, optimistically lacking gloves) would be at home in an episode of Captain Scarlet or Thunderbirds. Captain Ko's mission is set up like a sixties TV show, with an opening sequence that harks back to an age when lunar landings were surely only months away and the rest of the solar system seemed within humanity's grasp. If you've ever seen Space 1999, you'll be right at home with the film sequences, which contribute to the very 'Gerry Anderson' feel to the whole section. It's full of a joyous optimism and confidence in humanity's prowess that seems naïve with the benefit of hindsight. But it's only naïve to us because we know that interest in the Space Race collapsed after NASA finally won, and funding dried up when competing with the USSR became defunct.

Even though that momentum fell off, a generation still grew up dreaming of the stars and hoping that one day mankind would reach out and walk on more distant planets. But of course, we haven't. The best we've managed so far is a couple of probes out in deep space, and – topically – an explorer on Mars. The Moonbase Alpha of Anderson's Space 1999 is no closer to reality than it was in the 60s, or even in the real 1999.

What's especially touching about this as a tribute is that it could be all about Gene Rodenberry and classic Trek, but it isn't at all. Perhaps it's the British nature of the company, or the slightly low-budget, home-made aesthetic, but this is much more akin to Anderson sci-fi, and the less obvious shows. I think the later soundtrack even had echoes of the Blake's 7 theme, but that could be coincidental.

Lieutenant Stark, Captain Ko and, er, terror.

Dancing Brick deposit Captain Ko and her Lieutenant on the Planet of Rice in the year 2063, when that's the only planet mankind has yet to bring into the fold of its peaceful planetary union. Remember what I said about the optimism with which classic sci-fi sometimes regards the future? The Planet of Rice causes Ko some problems (malfunctioning equipment, difficulty in navigating, that sort of thing) and she finds her self repeating moments, sequences, phrases – over centuries. She loses all celestial reference points, then loses track of her location on the planet and eventually time itself ceases to have any meaning for her. Her robotic companion is only vaguely aware of the discrepancy. She becomes trapped in a loop without realising, and gets excited on discovering evidence that someone has visited the planet before them (it's the map she discarded on arrival).

And then it gets a bit strange.

In amongst the rice of the planet, Ko finds an proper Grandma cardigan and some glasses. Naturally, she puts them on. Her lieutenant sweeps away the detritus of the Planet of Rice (including bits of their spacesuits) like a sweeper of dreams who, at dawn, clears away the clutter of the subconscious to leave the mind clear for the coming day – and Ko transforms into an elderly woman, pottering about her kitchen. The spacesuit remaining under the cardigan reminded me of that generation that grew up with an eye on the stars and the stories TV told them about what was up there. This grandma could well be the girl who, as a child, dreamt of being Captain Ko, exploring the Planet of Rice, but now she's here, in her kitchen, on Earth, alone.

The play's second section – again, about twenty minutes – consists almost entirely of the elderly Ko in a kitchen which is entirely mimed to a recorded soundtrack of sliding drawers, opening and closing cupboards and clinking plates, cups, saucers, etc. It's very domestic, it's hardly the Planet of Rice, and it's far from the dreams of those who watched Neil Armstrong's giant leap for mankind. And in a way, I guess that's kind of the point. Watch closely, and you'll see this woman repeat the same set of processes, roughly, without actually getting anywhere. She boils the kettle a couple of times, but – although she takes a cup and saucer to the table – never actually pours anything out. She moves plates and cutlery around, as if preparing for a (solitary) meal, but it seems that company isn't the only thing she's lacking as she prepares it at least twice over. She gets caught in a loop of recurring events, and gradually time loses all sense of meaning.

Theatrically, this is brave and, I think, shows just how highly Dancing Brick think of their audience. It's twenty minutes of tediously miming out a domestic setting – and there's a lot of kitchen for the audience to hold in their heads. Following it all asks a genuine mental effort, sticking with it and making sense of this section within the play requires an even greater effort. It was too much effort for the ten-year olds, who became restless, and many of the adults looked and sounded like they were struggling. I'll admit that I – with my critic's head in place, brow furrowed analytically – stopped following it and it's only really through writing this now that it's clicking into place for me.

Speaking of things clicking into place, the third section is what really threw the audience on the night I saw the play. The mime section ends when the elderly Ko is joined by one of the aliens from the Cantina band in Star Wars: A New Hope. I know, I know; my fanboy heart skipped a beat. And there once again were the dreams of that generation who thought mankind's first alien contact would be just decades away. Instead, they're waltzing with imaginary figments and preparing for meals they forget to eat. Thinking about it like that, it's actually desperately sad, but at the time it was quite funny, with the apparently random alien and all.

The Mos Eisley Cantina alien dances with an elderly Captain Ko

But what follows is much more down-to-Earth. Except it's on the Mir Space Station. So we're back with the earlier space exploration, although this is real. This time, a Soviet cosmonaut drifts around the Earth's orbit, discovering the effects of no-gravity and space on a human body. His regular updates and chats with Mission Control are charmingly filmed, accurately reflecting the sorts of transmissions often broadcast from space craft to viewers on Earth. The rapport with his Mission Control contact is sweet, and serves to remind him of the planet he leaves behind for over three hundred days. Unfortunately for him, he's up there when the Soviet Union collapses, and the idealogical conflict of the Space Race ceases to matter. Rather than recall their man, the Russians seem to forget about him – hence his longer-than-planned term aboard the Mir Station. Without his regular updates from Mission Control and the established routine, all reference points gone, time ceases to have meaning for the cosmonaut, and he forgets how to engage with anything outside of the station. He ends up just like Ko on the Planet of Rice and the elderly Ko in her kitchen.

Translations from the Russian for Sergei on the Mir Space Station

In the end, I think that's what binds those three sections together – it's the loss of reference points and of the relevance of time. Once that's gone, people disconnect and – outside of space travel, which, contrary to those dreams of classic sci-fi, most of us won't experience – dementia sets in. Read the show's program, and you'll discover that's the heart of the show: the loss of faculties arising from dementia, but explored through the sci-fi filter. Within each of those three sections, memories and time fold inwards and collapse, as dreams and hopes fade away and cease to matter.

Dancing Brick bring a very low-tech approach to their depiction of space travel, which pales beside some of the (also pretty low-tech) footage they screen, showing 60s TV shows doing a better visual job on low budgets. That's not to say Dancing Brick doesn't effectively conjure space, but there's scope for more. They could, for instance, have much more fun with the idea of low gravity.

All of which leaves me quietly pleased to have seen Captain Ko and the Planet of Rice, but perhaps more pleased with the intellectual tussle I faced afterwards. I think I've got somewhere with it all. Possibly.

Please note: a condensed, proper review version of this (after I'd sorted out my thoughts) appears on FringeReview.co.uk, for whom I went to see Captain Ko and the Planet of Rice. That gives it three stars, because the editors disagreed with my fourth star for bravery.

'Star Trek' is Inept Science-Fiction. Discuss

Watching 'Fair Haven' has made me realise how inept a piece of science-fiction Star Trek is. Now, I've watched Star Trek for years, and enjoyed it when I was younger – but the opportunities it passes over have only recently struck me.

'Fair Haven' is an episode of the fourth set of Trek shows, Star Trek: Voyager, in which the ship's captain falls for a man created on the holodeck (he's a hologram, a being made of light energy, forcefields and computer subroutines). What has always been the strength of Voyager against other series was the way it had taken that 'Boldly Go...' idea, the outward exploration idea, and turned it on its head; the Voyager crew are stranded on the other side of the galaxy and are returning to Earth, rather than heading away (or being rooted somewhere familiar) like previous series. In a similar revolutionary move, the captain is a woman and her second-in-command is a former guerilla terrorist whose crew have been absorbed into Captain Janeway's regulars.

Let's worry about the holodeck first. It's basically a big fantasy arena, a room that can create virtual reality simulations of pretty much anything imaginable. The show's writers often use it as a means of having bits of story outside of the ship, without requiring that Voyager is near a convenient planet, or so that the crew can indulge in recreation without consequences – it's okay to treat holodeck creations as unpaid labour or disposable villains (in a shoot-'em-up) because they're not real. In this way, the holodeck can be used to examine exactly what makes humans human, by contrasting us with what is essentially not human and forcing us (the audience) to define the boundaries between human and holodeck creation. It's the same reason that aliens exist in sci-fi; they are non-humans we can use as examples to self-define against.

All well and good. Trek also tends to play with the convention of a fantasy realm by having something go wrong. For example, in a Next Generation episode, the Moriarty character from a Sherlock Holmes holodeck program gains sentience – becoming more than a hologram – and tries to take over the ship. More recently, the Doctor onboard Voyager is a hologram – he is all the medical textbooks ever written, but with a personality (of sorts) and a bedside manner (of sorts). He's an emergency replacement for the 'real' doctor, who died when the ship got stranded all those trillions of miles away. There have also been episodes – a specific Voyager one comes to mind – in which crew members have fallen in love with holograms (and vice versa).

So, when Janeway fell for the barman in the holographic Irish town of Fair Haven, I remembered with some unease that earlier episode. On that occasion, an Ensign fell in love with a young holographic lady and the potential relationship was treated with concern by his friends. His love interest was fictitious! Appalling! It turned out they were justified in their fears; the holodeck had been hacked by an alien who wanted to keep the ship near to her for company.

So when a real man falls for a holo-woman, it's bad because she's an ugly, lonely alien who needs help from the enlightened (male) crew members to avoid her holding up the ship's journey (forever) or destroying it. But when Janeway falls for a holo-man, everyone thinks it's a bit of a laugh and she can carry on. Is that because she's the captain, or because her woman's love affairs are trivial and don't matter?

Anyway, that's not the main problem with 'Fair Haven'. The problem is the conversation Janeway has with the Doctor (he's a hologram too, remember) after she deserts her new lover in the holodeck. It's the scene [3:50 on the YouTube clip] that should be the crux of the episode (which it is) while developing themes of romance, interpersonal relationships, a leader's responsibilities and what it means to be human and to be in love (which it doesn't, really). The Doctor has taken his role as the Irish priest, and is talking to Janeway as a friend, but it takes far too long for either of them to point out the irony that he too is a hologram.

Thing is, this conversation shouldn't take up a scene; it should be the episode. A lot of time is taken up establishing that Janeway likes the barman, changes his specifications (see where the sci-fi comes in?) and that he goes crazy when she leaves him. Too long is taken on the reason why the crew is retreating to the holodeck (there's a space storm of some kind, so the ship can't move for a few days) for distraction. Then, too long is taken on getting free from that storm. The human dilemma – the issue of a strong woman in a leadership role falling for a man she can't have – is almost entirely missed.

This is where Trek really falls down. It doesn't get under the surface of the problems its raises, and gets bogged down in technobabble. We as audience really don't need all this guff about the storm or inverting the warp core to avoid neutrino radiation (or something). Of much more interest is the human story. Sci-fi can be many things, but what it should always try and do – or at least, good sci-fi tries to do – is take recognisable situations and examine them in different contexts – then we can re-examine what we thought was certain, and/or see it from a new perspective. Sci-fi maintains the human interest amid the science and technology, and keeps that interest paramount. 'Fair Haven' makes too much of the argument that the barman is all protons and forcefields, and not enough of the fact that the captain has fallen in love. Yes, the Doctor makes a stab at this, but the irony – which should have been capitalised on earlier – is that he too is holographic; he's not 'real' either, and it takes an unreal man to give the captain this lesson of the heart (how lonely is command – another issue avoided by this episode).

This episode should be making its audience reassess what it is to be human, to be in love, and what is and isn't acceptable behaviour for a commanding officer isolated from her home port. If you want intelligent sci-fi that keeps human issues central, and paramount over the technobabble, check out Babylon 5. I hear the reboot of Battlestar Galactica is good for political sci-fi too.

A Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian

One of the main reasons the Austro-Hungarian Empire fell apart in 1918 was that is was made up of several very different groups of people who just didn't get on. But, before 1914, the Empire had been considered useful as a means of balancing power in Europe between more powerful nations.

If you think that's an incredibly simplified, even reductive, view of history, then you understand what A Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian feels like. It throws in one or two fairly well-known facts about historical figures and events, and paints its characters with broad brushstrokes to avoid getting bogged down in any complicated meaning. But, in its defence, it pleases its target audience with delightfully bad baddies and gloriously good goodies.

Just look at those baddies...a megalomaniac Egyptian Pharaoh (always good for the old 'resurrect a dead army and take over the world' idea – sound familiar?), Ivan the Terrible (who is here far too much of a pushover – literally), Napoleon Bonaparte (played with some French stereotyping in mind – he's also too tall, surely?) and Al Capone (who amusingly appears in monochrome, even in the real world). What a line-up of evil.

Against them is Amelia Earheart (sounding like a good twenties British gel but played by an American – how odd), General Custer (a dubious choice of military leader at the best of times), Octavius Caesar (Augustus, to later historians, and here easily confused with foster-father Julius), the Lincoln Memorial given life (don't get me started on the whole 'giant statue of Lincoln stomping about saving the day and uttering quasi-philosophical statements in a meaningful, deep voice) and Ben Stiller's Night Guard from the previous film in which museum exhibits come to life. Oh, and Owen Wilson's odd little cowboy, who mercifully spends most of the film trapped inside an hourglass. There's even a potential sweet romantic ending, when Stiller meets a real woman who just happens to be the spitting image of Earheart...seriously?

What appeals about this film is the idea of people from different periods of history fighting it out, with various bits of modern technology, or just things they shouldn't really be able to get hold of. Ancient Egyptian troops with tommy guns, say. But it never really works. As an idea, it's been done before – at least once – an episode of Star Trek being the occasion that springs to mind, and it didn't work terribly well in the sixties either (they also brought back Abe Lincoln, and a later episode of Star Trek: Voyager even brought back Amelia Earheart). The biggest problem is the idea that a man like Napoleon or Ivan the Terrible would go along with a long-dead Pharoah's plans for world-domination, and not set up some plan of their own.

Then there's the issue of historical reportage. I think I can just about cope with Lincoln miraculously saving the day...even though his main reason seems to be that he's a whopping huge chunk of marble, and who's going to argue with that? I can also cope with the presentation of Custer as a 'do first, think later' coward of a General with an inflated sense of his own importance. What I'm not so sure about is that Lincoln here seems to be the best possible thing for America, and the best America has ever had, while Custer is persuaded that the Battle of Little Bighorn (his famous Last Stand that cost 208 American lives (including his own) for the sake of Custer's vanity and pride) is all in the past, and that actually, he's a good man to have in a fight. I'd worry about his military shrewdness, and am definitely unsure about Lincoln's negative traits being glossed over.

Though the colour and cheap jokes seem to satisfy the younger target audience, you've got to wonder what A Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian is teaching them.