Amaka Umeh and Tawiah M’Carthy in ‘Sizwe Banzi is Dead’, Photo by Dahlia Katz
Removed from the strife of its 1972 South African premiere, neither of the actors here are at risk of arrest and imprisonment; yet this apartheid-era tale of stolen identity and self-determination, featuring two sharp and persuasive performances, still has devastating power. Sizwe Banzi is Dead, presented by Soulpepper, is billed as a comedy. Though humour does permeate even the darkest moments, this descriptor seems to properly fit only the first hour of this affecting two-hander.
Long before we ever meet Sizwe Banzi himself, we are accosted by the gregarious and energetic Styles (Amaka Umeh). He bounds about his photography studio, regaling us with facetious anecdotes that gradually reveal their poignancy. First, he describes his time as an inconsequential “monkey” in a Ford factory. Now a proud, self-made man, he points to portraits he’s taken of local people and describes the funny and touching interactions he’s had with them.
It is in these snapshots that the text—by Athol Fugard, John Kani and Winston Ntshona—begins to reveal its understated beauty. These are people forgotten by history, for whom Styles has afforded time and space to celebrate their humanity. Drawing us in as the charismatic Styles, Umeh radiates joy. Her body seems to vibrate and buzz with unflappable enthusiasm. Her pantomime battle with invading cockroaches is a dazzling, hilarious spectacle.
When Robert Zwelinzima (Tawiah M’Carthy) first appears on scene, his timidity is a striking contrast to Styles extravagant persona. His reserved and cautious behaviour suggests there is more to his story than he lets on. Staging his portrait, Styles eagerly maneuvers him into ridiculous poses of success and self-confidence. As the camera flashes, we are transported back in time where we finally meet the titular Sizwe Banzi.
His tale revolves around a pass—an oppressive sort of passport implemented by the Dutch colonial government to restrict Black South Africans. These documents, often unreadable to their owners, indicated their identity to officials and dictated where they could go and what sort of work they were allowed to engage in. Sizwe, aided by the savvy Mr. Buntu (a fierce secondary role for Umeh), swaps identities with a dead man—the very Robert Zwelinzima we initially thought him to be.
Ironically, Sizwe Banzi is dead in order to have some chance at a life. In silent, loaded glances at this stolen pass, M’Carthy makes his great inner torment clear and palpable. In his eyes, we see an aching sympathy for a fellow underdog that taints his hope for a better future.
Trying to convince the conflicted Sizwe to seize this perfect opportunity, Buntu describes, in bewildering detail, the dismal options available to him—featuring Kafka-esque procedural mazes that are simultaneously funny and harrowing in their knotty, banal absurdity. In some of Banzi’s impassioned pleas we hear the echo of theatre classics—hints or Shylock (“Hath not a Jew hands?”) and John Proctor (“Because it is my name!”)—as he wrestles with white supremacy and the weight of a lie that both saves and damns him.
Director Mumbi Tindyebwa Otu creates a theatrical environment grounded in naturalism that erupts, suddenly, into stirring flights of fancy. The corrugated metal, checkered floor and weathered walls of Ken Mackenzie’s set have a patina of daily use. As the characters’ memories and imaginations soar, Raha Javanfar’s lighting design bombards the audience with flashes of garish, pulsing colour. Like the abundant humour, these playful flourishes are vital. The awfulness of their circumstance can only be endured if Styles, Sizwe and Bunto are allowed to play with us.