‘Complexity and depth lurking beneath the joyride’: A review of Memory of a Honey Bee

At the end of June, award-winning playwright and journalist Sam Brooks led a workshop on critical engagement at Auckland’s Basement Theatre. At just two hours long, it was brisk, but attendees absorbed and discussed concepts and strategies around engaging with and responding to theatre, and fundamental approaches to writing reviews. The workshop adds to a slowly growing network of initiatives to counter a small and struggling arts media landscape. Opportunities to develop into, and even be, a critic are scarce. With that in mind, The Big Idea has offered participants of Brooks’ workshop an opportunity to publish reviews.

Here is the fourth, by Arihia Virtue (Te Arawa, Tonga, Lau). Arihia is a self described theatre nerd and aspiring playwright. She is also a Lecturer in Māori and Indigenous studies at the University of Waikato. 

Arihia Virtue

I always look forward to my theatre road trips from my home in Kirikiriroa to Tāmaki Makaurau, but I’ve been particularly excited about attending Memory of a Honey Bee at Basement Theatre. It was a one hour double bill with solo works by Katherine Dewar and Connor Magatogia. My excitement was founded by a deep respect for solo theatre. This began with an act of teenage rebellion (theatre kid style) when I skipped school to watch The Packer written by Dianna Fuemana in 2003. I remember being so impressed by Jay Bunyan’s ability to make me forget that I was only watching him, not the many characters he portrayed as he brought the streets of West Auckland to life on stage. I am writing to you, as a long time fan, first time reviewer of solo theatre. I confidently posit that solo theatre is something that Aotearoa does bloody well and Memory of a Honeybee beautifully supports this claim.

Upon first entering the theatre, through music, her stance and movement, Katherine immediately transported me back in time to my dingy, damp and dark student flat in Hamilton. I knew right from the start, that I was not merely a punter but a welcome guest at some sort of party. Whether deliberate or not, Katherine gave me ‘audience participation will definitely feature’ vibes. I strategically placed myself at the very back of the theatre, as a non- verbal  expression of ‘thank you but no thank you’. Fair warning to you – this didn’t work! I didn't mind though; the establishment and clever scene setting happened well before my forced participation in beer pong and the friendly banter describing me as an “odd choice for a house party” (totally fair!). Katherine’s groundwork made participating fun and non-confronting, a welcome addition to the experience.

From Katherine's very first line, the energy in the room lifted 110%. She was on and by that, I mean she was really ON and this on-ness (likely not a word) stayed consistent from the very first line to the last. Now, this is an example of why I admire solo theatre so deeply, – the energy, the focus, the mood is a responsibility left on one performer’s shoulders, with a huge mihi to the contribution of lighting and sound. My own experience on stage is modest at most, but I remember the safety in your troupe, your theatre whānau, the nonverbal cues, the relief in knowing that if I stuffed up my line someone had my back, adapting their next line to tie it up neatly leaving the audience oblivious to both my mishap as well as the stern notes I would surely receive after the show. I took comfort in the shared collective energy that comes with months of bonding through rehearsals otherwise known as the bougie word I’ve been dying to use – complicité. 

In solo theatre these are luxuries not afforded. Without the safety nets described above, Katherine would have been forgiven for playing things a little safe here and there. Instead, Katherine did the absolute polar opposite. She went there, all in, using her whole body to seamlessly move through a range of likable characters each with their own story, taking us along for a wild relatable ride back to younger years. Subject matter included, but was definitely not limited to, house parties, equine induced pleasure (you read that right) and those intrusive thoughts we wish would just stay quiet though are anything but. This performance was an absolute blast.

What was not lost on me was the complexity and depth lurking beneath the joyride. Deeply human battles with body image, self loathing, coming of age, mortality and all the awkward shit we went through on the journey through to adulthood. Katherine allowed us just the right amount of peeking though the veil which separated a fun-fueled time and the mirror she held up to our youth. For me at least, this evoked a retrospective realisation – shit we went through a lot! How are we ok? Are we ok, even?

At the end of Katherine’s performance, I took a moment to put my awkward, angsty teenage years back in the vault from whence they came. 

My excitement and questions around this being a double bill returned. Are the shows meant to connect in some way, or is it better to make them oppose? Do people deliberately make their shows fit together, or do they just decide to merge with a mate and hope to hell it ‘works’? What if one is way better than the other? Won't that make the other one feel stink? It was right at this point that Connor gracefully entered the stage, the meditative music accompanying his entrance bringing a welcome halt to the ridiculous loop of over-thinking.

The first thing that struck me was that he commanded attention in the most gentle non-demanding of ways. Connor’s graceful movement had the same almost hypnotic effect on others in the audience too, I noted as I glanced around. I recognised this style of movement, the storytelling style where movement renders dialogue redundant, the well worn adage ‘show don’t tell’ polished and perfected, in this instance it felt uniquely and wonderfully Massive.

These meditative interludes were flanked by upbeat ditties on the keyboard as Connor entertained us through catchy tunes and quick, clever lyrics. One of my questions surrounding double bills was answered – the two shows were opposing yet complimentary. However, they were not without connection; both were incredibly relatable. Like Katherine, Connor mastered the art of giving mana to the deep and important subject matter whilst avoiding literary sins of being didactic and/or too on the nose. Cutting through an anapestic meter were thoughtful provocations like, can we miss, love, feel a connection to someone we barely knew? Are these feelings of grief just as valid? Can we measure the extent of grief we should feel by how long we knew the person? Is someone leaving through death easier/different to someone leaving by way of intentional neglect? Carefully placed alongside these questions were odes to Pacific women and self-depreciating jokes about being a Mumma’s boy. It takes a very special kind of artist to have me in tears through a shared connection to grief, then have me laugh out loud at terrible cheese puns all within the space of a minute.

Through Katherine and Connor’s polished labors of love and hard work, I learned from their performances as an aspiring writer. Katherine inspired me to be fearless and taught me that stories can work in isolation, there isn’t always a need to hold a linear narrative. Connor reminded me that we can portray our complex nuanced realities of living in diaspora while also allowing space to laugh at ourselves. Both performers brought me a few steps closer to figuring out how the hell to balance tonal shifts. Both stories contained joy and heartache, they allowed the audience to feel the former whilst subtly pointing to the latter. For these learnings as well as a bloody good night out at the theatre, Katherine Dewar and Connor Magatogia, I sincerely thank you both.