They Call Me Mac...

St Ann’s Warehouse presents
Frantic Assembly
National Theatre of Scotland

Beautiful Burnout
Text by Bryony Lavery
Directed and Choreographed by
Scott Graham and Steven Hoggett.









Anyone who has had padded leather fists thrust into his or her face and tasted his or her own blood in his or her mouth will immediately identify with the electric performance delivered by the stellar cast of Beautiful Burnout. For those who abhor the “sweet science” for the barbaric and ultimately cruel element of humanity it deifies, you will identify with the electric performance delivered by the stellar cast of Beautiful Burnout.

The folks who brought us the amazing Black Watch a few seasons ago have triumphantly returned to Brooklyn with a piece inspired by a visit to our own Gleason’s Gym. This amazingly accurate and unglamorous look at the world of a boxer from humble roots, to sweaty gym, to goals inspired by lofty ambitions and finally bitter reality, is a one hour and forty minute piece that will engage your senses from start to finish.

One of the many highlights is a movement piece where every gesture a boxing referee might make is choreographed into an absolutely sublime dance to which even a novice of the square ring can relate and admire.

I could go on at length about my love/hate relationship with boxing, how many of its core disciplines represent the best values of humanity, but how, like anything pure and good humans strive for, the attraction of our darker natures seems to be exponentially magnified as well. Attention to detail in story telling is paramount to this production: Fact. Science and social nature entwine in this tragic tale of heroes and heroines, mentors and men-tees, obedience and rebellion. Definitely worth the trip to the Brooklyn waterfront. Now through the 27th. In DUMBO

My own brief incursion into boxing happened many years ago inspiring a one-person show performed in the Knitting Factory once upon a time...once upon a time they called me Mac...

ROLL WITH THE PUNCHES
By Mark D Ransom

He stands
As if an alabaster David
With padded gloves fixed to wrists
Like cudgels on arms of old.

Young, strong, determined and
Alone against his foe, his fear,
He woos a maddened crowd
Cheering for a champion
Shouting for redemption
Hollering for Blood.

Smoke rises above the din,
Rules of engagement are exchanged
Like mean pleasantries,
Before a harsh alarm rings
And two combatants begin.

He moves.
Sinuous muscle wrought in
Furnaces of pain,
Sweat, anger and guile
Sweetly fly into motion
Defying science as
Living, moving, grunting
Art.

Driven through crushing blows
Never to surrender
With a pounding heart

He falls.
Broken like Achilles,
Laurels, limelight and spoils of
Victory elude his reach
For yet another day.

He sits
Alone and exhausted,
Empty upon a heavy canvas
His essence flows
Like color from brush strokes
Painting yet
Another saga of sorrow
Pain and Hope