Later this year, Moffie returns to South Africa with a season at the Baxter Theatre.
By Charl-Johan Lingenfelder
After a critically acclaimed run in London—where it was nominated for multiple awards and earned a five-star review from The Guardian—this production comes home. For me, it’s more than just another show. It’s personal.
Set in the late 1970s, Moffie follows a young white South African boy conscripted into the military during apartheid, a brutal regime underpinned by racism, hypermasculinity, and religious authoritarianism. He is also gay—something that, at the time, was not only taboo but illegal. What unfolds is a story of survival, desire, shame, and ultimately, resistance—quiet, internal resistance in the face of overwhelming pressure to conform.
As the sound designer on Moffie, I approached this piece with more than just technical expertise. I brought a lifetime of emotional knowledge. I, too, was a young conscript during apartheid. I, too, carried the secret of my sexuality into a system designed to crush it. Years later, I explored my own journey in the film Kanarie (or Canary), which resonated with audiences around the world. That film was my attempt at healing. Moffie, in many ways, reopens the wound—but also reminds me how far we’ve come, and how much further we still need to go.
When writing this piece for a younger audience—many of whom have grown up in a more open and expressive queer culture—I found myself wondering: How do I describe the psychic weight of being gay under apartheid?
Here’s one way: It meant knowing that your very existence was unlawful. Not metaphorically—legally. If you acted on your desires, you were a criminal. Add to that a society where the church governed the moral imagination, and being gay wasn’t just illegal—it was un-Christian. So from a very young age, many of us were conditioned to see ourselves as sinful, shameful, and irredeemable. We were, in essence, trained to hate the most intimate parts of who we were.
The result? A generation that struggled for decades to access their full selves. For many, the damage was done long before acceptance ever came.
And yet—within that dark, suffocating environment—something remarkable happened. Because our love had to be hidden, it also had to be protected. There was a purity in that. A stillness. An intimacy uncorrupted by performative gestures or social media declarations. When two boys locked eyes across a barracks or passed each other a letter under threat of punishment, there was an intensity that today’s freedoms, while deeply welcome, don’t always require.
I don’t say this to romanticise oppression. I say it to honour the fact that something beautiful was forged in that crucible. A clarity of emotion. A sacred privacy. And Moffie captures that with devastating grace.
But Moffie is not just emotionally resonant—it’s also a technically daring piece of theatre. It’s a one-man show, and that man—David Viviers—carries the entire narrative with extraordinary physical and emotional range. Surrounding him is an immersive world built from precisely crafted sound design, projection, and lighting, turning the stage into a visceral, cinematic space. The line between internal and external experience blurs as memory, fantasy, and trauma collide in real time.
Audiences in London were blown away by this balance between intimacy and innovation. And South African audiences will now get the rare opportunity to experience a world-class production that is as hauntingly beautiful as it is technologically exhilarating.
Threaded through its theatricality is a quiet, aching truth: that the longing to live openly and love freely still pulses in the hearts of many today.
Of course, we live in a different world now. Same-sex relationships are legal. Pride parades are mainstream. Young people today have unprecedented access to queer culture, language, and community. And yet—coming out is still a journey. Self-acceptance is still a battleground. Many are still rejected by their families. Many still walk through life wondering whether it’s safe to be seen.
And as we look ahead, the world feels increasingly uncertain once again. In Hungary, the ruling Fidesz party, led by the right-wing populist Orbán, has fast-tracked a law that makes it an offence to hold or attend events that involve the “depiction or promotion” of homosexuality to minors. In Germany, conscription, once buried in Europe’s past, is being quietly resurrected amid rising geopolitical tension. NATO members are ramping up defence budgets. Borders are closing. Ideologies are hardening. We’re seeing a global tilt back toward conservatism—and with it, the old whispers return: Be who you are, but quietly. Behind closed doors. Don’t ask too much.
Sound familiar?
This creeping regression is why Moffie matters so deeply now. It reminds us that the closet—whether built by law, religion, or social pressure—is never far from reconstruction. That freedom, once won, can be revoked. That visibility often comes at a cost.
And in that context, Moffie is more than a memory—it’s a mirror. A warning. A testament to how fragile the right to exist freely can be.
Because if we forget where we came from, we risk losing sight of where we’re going.
If Moffie does one thing, I hope it invites its audience—especially the young—to look back with empathy, and forward with courage. I hope it reminds us that listening to each other’s stories is a powerful form of solidarity. And I hope it offers a kind of balm to anyone who still feels unseen.
Sometimes, all someone needs is an ear. Sometimes, being that ear can save a life.
Moffie runs at the Baxter Theatre, Cape Town from 2 to 27 September 2025.
Bookings are now open via Webtickets.
