This is a very enjoyable fifty minutes of theatre.
Written and performed by Dean Nash, it’s an autobiographical piece, telling us of his experiences as a person and a performer with cerebral palsy.
In wittily told anecdotes, engaging dramatic recreations and brilliant comic songs, Nash outlines some of the prejudice he’s faced. (He also offers some wonderfully sharp insights into what it is to be an actor.)
The show is presented with Aslan interpretation (Yasmin Dandachi) and audio description (Emma Bedford & Charley Allanah), and these not only aid people who might need these services, but by being fully integrated into the show, also provide terrific opportunities for richness and humour.
The piece as a whole works on a fascinating tension, that between difference and sameness. In one hilarious song, Nash suggests that the only difference between people that actually matters is whether you’re an “arsehole” or not. Ethical responsibility is universal. In another sketch, he tells a casting director that, yes, he has a disability, but it won’t prevent him doing the job. And there’s the show’s provocative tagline: “There are only two kinds of people in the world: disabled people, and pre-disabled people. Dean’s just ahead of the f#ckin curve!”
But counter to these assertions of fundamental human unity is the recorded fact, that for some people, at some times, difference will not be overlooked. And Nash himself clearly suggests representation of difference in the arts is vital.
You might think I’m making too much of the obvious, that the simple way forward is that we should just be open to everyone. But I wouldn’t be the first person to suggest that a glib just being open to everyone can easily result in the erasure of lived experience.
A balance is required, between a faith in the concept of humankind and an acknowledgement of its extraordinary diversity. Nash’s marvelously fun show achieves this balance, simultaneously embracing unity and celebrating difference.
This a work of non-fiction, yet it’s highly theatrical. The artist bears witness to her experience, yet her method of telling her truth eschews any mundane assertions of a flat objectivity.
Instead we’re gifted a rich, high-energy performance that serves as an invitation into her emotional and psychological world. We’re not shown a mere map; we’re given a personal tour of the landscape.
Writer/performer Claudia Shnier presents her experiences of obsessive compulsive disorder and of an abusive relationship. The latter seems to exacerbate the former. It’s a story of suffering, but also of strength and resilience.
Shnier employs multimedia to suggest intrusive voices, and her interaction with the technology is superb.
A pair of scissors, a pair of tweezers and a vacuum cleaner double both as their everyday selves and as people in her life, and the commitment to the theatrical metamorphosis of each prop is fascinating.
Shnier’s delivery moves between a fast-paced-almost-aggressive swagger, a playful humour, and a deeply-moving, bewildered vulnerability.
I’ve written previously about the oddness of autobiographical theatre. It seems strange to use the artform for personal sharing, considering the glory of theatre usually derives from its multi-voiced possibilities. And perhaps even more threatening to the autobiographical purpose is the fact that – more than most artforms – theatre seems to court a very public judgement, one as unreflective as it is immediate.
But if sharing is the goal, there are few means more direct and more powerful than standing before an audience and opening one’s heart. And considering that the sting of many a pain is worsened by the fear we bear it in isolation, the sharing of an artist such as Shnier is gloriously generous-spirited, for it assures those who suffer that they’re not alone.
I last saw this play more than a decade ago, and I’ve never read it, yet going into this production at the Old Fitz, I still remembered a line from the script.
“I forgive you.”
It’s a line we all desperately need to hear more often – though, I admit, it’s not one that seems especially memorable from either a theatrical or literary perspective.
But it’s the context in which it’s used in John Patrick Shanley’s Danny and the Deep Blue Sea which makes this line so very extraordinary.
The spoiler rule means I can’t describe that context. But I can say that line is followed closely by this line “Just because it doesn’t make sense, doesn’t mean it isn’t true” – which might give a hint of the type of experiences Shanley is exploring.
But first, some basics. Danny and the Deep Blue Sea is a 70 minute two-hander that’s very funny and deeply moving. Roberta meets Danny in a deadbeat bar. Danny is a fighter, though more in the style of perpetual belligerence than praiseworthy resilience. He’s at war with the world. And any victories he’s achieved are entirely Pyric; he might have just killed a man. His behaviour is a clear red flag, but it doesn’t frighten Roberta. In fact, she courts the danger. Perhaps she feels she needs to be punished; she certainly feels she’s done something awfully wrong.
These characters are big and colourful, passionate and physical, and under the superb direction of Nigel Turner-Carroll, JK Kazzi and Jacqui Purvis give utterly beautiful performances.
But back to that line (or, at least, the line adjacent to that line): “Just because it doesn’t make sense, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” This is an assertion of the supra-rational, and though the play is not religious in any conventional way, Shanley does explore material that’s often the province of religion: deep human faults, deep human needs and the regenerative nature of love.
In addition, as Danny and Roberta try to imagine a relationship together, we’re asked to consider the power of make believe, to contemplate hope’s miraculous ability to untether the future from the past. Despite their self-loathing, by being “nice” to each other, perhaps these two can gain some control of their destiny, and might yet share in the good things of Life.
It’s agency born of imagination, and so it retains the childlike quality of innocence, seeing only the world’s promise.
Perhaps it won’t work out. After all, both characters can be brutal, Danny especially so.
But didn’t I say the production was funny?
Well, it is. Not that it’s a black comedy. Nor is the potential for violence taken lightly. The humour is an expression of the love the playwright, and these actors, have for the characters. It’s a love we’re invited to share, and it’s a very easy, and very worthwhile, invitation to accept. (Especially when you’ve heard that line.)
Paul Gilchrist
Danny and the Deep Blue Sea by John Patrick Shanley
Beth has been viciously beaten by her husband Jake. Sam Shepard’s play presents the consequences for both characters.
First produced off-Broadway forty years ago, A Lie of the Mind can appear both curiously historical and searingly relevant.
Contemporary society is hyper-aware of domestic violence, and this makes it natural for us to expect from Shepard’s play something we might term social justice realism. But a condemnation of the crime of DV is only part of what this play offers.
Firstly, there’s the poetry born of Shepard’s masterly use of the vernacular; specks of gold dust that suddenly sparkle from out of the common dirt of Truth. It’s the poetry of Love, and its terrible alternatives.
The script also brims with satire aimed at the stupid and the obtuse (those Hillary Clinton called the deplorables – possibly accurately, probably unwisely.) Jake’s father is hyperbolically self-centred, an egoistic centring only possible because he has a chip on each shoulder. Beth and Jake’s mothers both claim not to remember their children’s marriage; it’s a dull-wittedness that’s so extreme it leaves you wondering if it’s deliberate. In this context, Beth’s brain injury comes to appear almost as a literalisation of the desperate psychological survival strategy adopted by the American married woman.
I use the adjective American advisedly, because A Lie of the Mind could be read as a state-of-the-nation play, rather than solely a domestic drama. The last time Jake saw his father, in Mexico, they were disgustingly drunk and racing each other to get back to the States. And this father wasn’t just any American, he was a decorated serviceman, and after his death his ashes were delivered to the family with a flag – a prop which then features prominently in the events of the present.
So, if it is a state-of-the-nation play, what’s it say about America?
Building on my earlier observations about violence and obtuseness, the play could be read as presenting a nation of barely concealed brutality, exacerbated by a barely conscious duplicity. If there’s an American meanness, it’s not going to be acknowledged – and it’s this refusal that is a lie of the mind.
Director Johann Walraven elicits some good performances (though the homogeneity of age of the cast results in some roles being more challenging than others.) Lily MacNevin as Beth hits the poetic moments beautifully. Finn Couzner as Jake is suitably dangerous, and Amos Walker as his brother suitably frightened. Felicity Cribb as their sister finds a real truthfulness, and her genuine bewilderment contrasts wonderfully with the glib certainty of her mother, played with humour by Indiana Jamie.
Paul Gilchrist
A Lie of the Mind by Sam Shepard
produced by Light the Torch Productions in association with New Theatre
One of the many things that makes KXT an invaluable part of the Sydney theatre scene is their support of early career artists.
Directed by Monica Sayers, this is Trent Foo’s debut play. It tells the story of Heepa, who visits the underworld to enlist the aid of his ancestors to ensure his Paw Paw attends the family Christmas.
Despite this particularly Australian-Chinese setting, the piece deals with a universal theme: our relationship with those who came before us.
Heepa expresses a mix of feelings towards his grandmother: a rejection driven by his hunger for independence, a gratitude for all she’s done, and a regret that too often the first of these emotions has trumped the second. It’s a wild, heart-breaking, soul-making blend of feelings, a mix experienced by most of us, and it’s easy to imagine that the migrant experience only ramps up the intensity.
The whimsical conceit of the piece – that the protagonist speaks to his deceased ancestors – is the perfect vehicle for the exploration of what we owe family. (In contrast, the Christmas aspect of the piece is rather lightweight; the veneration of the dead taking precedence over the Christian myth. In fact, the Christian myth is given rather short shrift, reduced to the irrelevant Virgin birth and dismissed as ridiculous, no more worthy of attention than a laughable Chinese melodrama. For some audience members, however, the unspoken tension between the two spiritual traditions will be both provocative and thrilling. In contrast to the veneration of the dead, the Christian myth is about transcending our ancestors and shedding the common inheritance of selfish misery supposedly passed down from our forebears, Adam and Eve. Ultimately, it’s about new beginnings and looking forward. Add to that the conceit of the Divine choosing to enter the human world via a stable, the child of two nobodies, the birth witnessed by farm animals, and you have a tale that challenges all commonly accepted human values. Absurd simplification: you could place the two traditions, the veneration of the dead and the Christian myth, in stark contrast – one asserts the importance of connections, the other the importance of fresh starts. And a healthy spirituality requires both.)
Portraying Heepa, Foo has an easy stage presence, a charming, playful, natural manner that leans delightfully into the script’s use of the youthful vernacular. For the majority of the piece, the structure is amusingly loose, as Heepa shares anecdotes about his relationship with his Paw Paw. The finale is very moving (but the plot is dependent on the protagonist withholding information, and so the overall impact of the piece will be determined by whether you believe this reticence aligns psychologically with the way the earlier anecdotes are delivered.)
As Heepa’s Paw Paw, Tiang Lim beautifully combines comedy with dignity, playing with the grandma tropes of being overly demanding yet not openly affectionate, while at other times projecting a mature nobility, one that’s both inspiring and pathos-inducing.
Performing on traditional instruments, Jolin Jiang creates an accompaniment which is wonderfully evocative. As an actor, she creates a character of poignant mystery.
Paul Gilchrist
A Chinese Christmas by Trent Foo
Presented by FooFrame Productions in association with bAKEHOUSE Theatre Co,
This a passionate cry against the injustice of sexual assault.
But it’s the way this cry is presented that makes The Forked Tongue such an intriguing piece of theatre.
I’d like to discuss three elements of this presentation.
The first of these relates to myth.
Written by Babette Shaw and directed by Kirsty Semaan, The Forked Tongue tells the story of Medusa, but – we’re told – not the one we know. A reasonable number of people might find this an odd claim, because I suspect a reasonable number of people don’t know any story about Medusa. After all, she is a character from Ancient Greek mythology, a cultural creation of a faraway place and a long ago time.
But if you’ve wasted vast swathes of your life and have more than a passing familiarity with the culture of the classical world, you’ll be aware that Medusa, like most Ancient Greek mythical characters, is rather nebulous. A lot of classical authors mention her, but they’re short on detail, rarely agree on her story, and seem little interested in her psychology.
But to distil: Medusa is a Gorgon, a monster, the one with snakes for hair, so hideous that she turns people into stone if they meet her eye.
It’s a myth ripe for feminist subversion – and subverted it has been. This is the second piece of theatre I’ve seen this year in Sydney that employs the Medusa motif. You might argue that observation alone counters my claim that Medusa is a relative unknown in our culture. Or you might not: you might read it as evidence that storytellers are want to emphasise stories, attributing to them far more importance than the average person does. Perhaps this is indicative of the deep insight of storytellers. Or perhaps it suggests their parochialism. All the world is a stage says the playwright; All the world smells of fish says the fisherman.
Leaving aside the value of interrogating old myths, I’ll move on to the second fascinating element of the piece: the clash that results from the modern appropriation of classical culture. When Modernity tangles with Antiquity, it really is the clash of the Titans and, in the case of The Forked Tongue, leads to some rather explosive theatre.
Let me start with a trivial example. Medusa is at work at the temple of Athena. She has rushed there this morning, fearful of being late again. It is though she works in retail and can’t afford to miss the train one more time. This is the mundane detail of the bourgeois novel – and that’s not a criticism: these modern artworks display an interest in interiority and equality which is at the very heart of the contemporary social justice project, a project unknown to a classical world in which women had virtually no power and one third of the population were slaves.
Another example (but with a different conclusion.) When Medusa is confronted by the predatory Poseidon, it’s at the end of her shift at the temple. She’s closing up. She’s alone. He asks her for a drink. She politely refuses. He violently takes what he wants. We’re asked How could the experience be consensual, considering the difference in position in pecking order of the two? Poseidon is presented as the creepy boss who abuses his power. It’s a very modern take, and one that effectively indicts such behaviour. However, if there had been any Ancient Greeks in the audience (I don’t think there were) they might have responded But Poseidon is a god! In the modern world, encounters with the Divine have become so rare we’ve forgotten that the value of such encounters is that they overturn …. pretty much everything. A terrible beauty is born. All encounters with the Divine were – and are – a type of assault. Does that justify any type of actual human assault? NO. But Poseidon’s dreadful violence reminds us of the existence of a sphere of Life beyond Project-Social-Progress, a sphere of Life where individuals are confronted with the utter capriciousness of the universe, and no well-meaning-committee-endorsed-protocols can protect them.
Modernity versus Antiquity. Time has determined the victor, but a play like this poses the question (at least for me) of what we’ve gained and what we’ve lost.
And the final creative decision making this a fascinating piece of theatre is the characterisation. It’s a one actor piece, and Emilia Kriketos is marvellous, showing enormous skill both vocally and physically. She also has the challenge of portraying three characters – Medusa, Athena, and a modern narrator – and presents these variations with aplomb.
In giving her version of Medusa’s tale, the modern narrator asserts there’s more than one side to every story. You might wonder if there’s a logical inconsistency here, or something oddly self-defeating. It’s certainly unusual for a character in drama – or, in this case, outside the drama – to make such an assertion. It’s like a used car salesman saying Trust me: at every repetition we feel a little less inclined to do so. Any commentary on the tale reminds us it’s just a tale (about a tale – which brings me back to my first question about storytellers and fishermen….)
As you can see – with its bold decisions and beating heart – this piece will spark much discussion.
Written by Jack Kearney, Born on a Thursday is set in the late 90’s in western Sydney, and tells the story of single mum Ingrid. Her son, Isaac, has been left mentally incapacitated by a rugby league injury. Her daughter, April, has unexpectedly returned home after a long period of silent absence.
The pace is gentle, akin to a glacier, whose majestic, barely perceptible movement is only apparent through the occasional violent smashing of things.
It’s also a story built from the withholding of information. Why has April come home now? What actually happened to Isaac? Who was their father? Perhaps this builds suspense; perhaps it reflects the laconic, emotional reticence of the working class. Despite the piece’s length, a lot of these questions ultimately aren’t clearly answered, or when they are, these answers no longer really seem to matter. We’ve moved on, and are witnessing the power of resilience and the wondrous birth of hope. Despite the suggestion of sentimentality that warmly infuses the piece, it’s this sense of moving on that grants it verisimilitude. Not that the characters deliberately or consciously move on, not that we’re being glibly instructed we should leave the past behind – rather we’re being reminded that Life, whatever it is, is something that runs in only one direction.
Director Lucy Clements elicits excellent performances from her cast. As April, Sofia Nolan portrays an eminently watchable tension between fragility and strength. As Isaac, Owen Hasluck captures frustrated bewilderment sparring with youthful energy. James Lugton, as the loyal neighbour Howard, gives us a wonderful portrait of gentle, patient persistence. Deborah Galanos, as the wine guzzling Estelle, is hilarious: brash, assertive, yet delightfully changeable. As Ingrid, Sharon Millerchip moves fascinatingly from a no-nonsense coldness to the surprise of joy, the reward for tenacity and its unexpected twin, hope.
Thursday’s child may have far to go, but distance isn’t everything.
Paul Gilchrist
Born on a Thursday by Jack Kearney
presented by New Ghosts Theatre Company and Old Fitz Theatre,
The film many people know – the one starring Grace Kelly and directed by Alfred Hitchcock – was adapted from a play by Frederick Knott. This version, directed by Mark Kilmurry, is an adaption by Jeffrey Hatcher of that original play.
It’s a classic thriller. I’ll avoid any plot details because it’s so easy to land in spoiler territory. I’ll simply suggest it’s the story of the supposed perfect murder.
Of course, thrillers are not everyone’s cup of tea. Though they’re tales of the most violent crimes, they too commonly function as little more than mind puzzles; like a type of dementia-delaying-sudoku, they exercise our brain but never our empathy.
And thrillers often seem so very untruthful. This is partly because they’re peopled with characters who have the skill and intelligence to meticulously plan the perfect murder, but who seem entirely bereft of the irrational passion that might lead them to bother in the first place.
Thrillers also seem untruthful because their characters talk far too much about the truth. THIS is WHAT happened. THIS is WHO dunnit. THIS is HOW they did it. Truth assertions like these are much rarer in Life than thrillers would have us believe. Pass the salt is far more common an utterance than THIS is the salt. In Life, definitive statements of truth are rare, and the sane amongst us know that rarity doesn’t automatically equate with value.
But, as I suggested, this is a classic thriller – structured in such an amazingly intricate way that it’s a joy to watch unfold. (Everyone has seen those wizards of triviality who line up dominoes in the most elaborate, surprising patterns: the final flick doesn’t result in fine art, but it does make for pure fun.)
And Kilmurry creates a fascinating world in which tight suspense is tempered by the tickle of humour. Anna Samson successfully combines a bewildered terror with a bewitching mischief. Garth Holcombe as her husband is gloriously coldblooded, divertingly duplicitous, and hilariously insincere. Kenneth Moraleda’s Inspector Hubbard is a wonderfully worthy inheritor of one of the grand tropes of the genre: the master professional who deliberately invites underestimation. Suave but goofy, seemingly innocuous but oh-so-persistent – it’s a terrific performance.
Paul Gilchrist
Dial M For Murder by Frederick Knott, adapted by Jeffrey Hatcher
Siren Theatre’s production of Cowbois by Charlie Josephine is an absolute visual delight, a whole lot of fun, and a poignant cry from the heart.
We’re in a small Wild West town, but all the men have gone off to find gold. Left to themselves, the women begin to wonder about possibilities, and with the arrival of charismatic outlaw Jack Cannon, they find gold of a very different sort.
There’s an exhilarating blend of genres: Western meets Magical Realism.
The Wild West is the ideal setting to interrogate assumptions about gender. (The West being a literary myth in which men are men, women are women…..and women are invariably either school teachers or show girls.) It’s a myth that begs explosion – and it gets it here. Jack is a trans man, and he offers a vision of gender identity radically different from what the towns people have previously known. It’s joyous and liberating, and Magical Realism helps represent his life-changing impact.
It’s a case of guns, glitter, and glorious growth.
Director Kate Gaul creates visual magic. The use of space is wonderful and the tableaux alone are spellbinding. Lighting design by Brockman and sound design by Aisling Bermingham add to the enchantment. Clay Crighton’s original songs complete the charm.
There are superb performances. Jules Billington as Jack is the embodiment of charisma, tempered with moments of confronting rawness, of searing emotional honesty. (Wait for when the words “cruel” and “fight” are uttered.) Matthew Abotomey as the drunken sheriff gives a performance of virtuosic range and marvellous physicality. Amie McKenna gives a terrific turn as a smart-mouthed school teacher, displaying brilliant comic timing. Emily Cascarino as the saloon keeper radiates intelligence, wonder and determination. Crighton’s cameo as a laughing trouble-maker is show-stopping.
Being a Western, at the finale there’s a shoot-out. This is handled with comic aplomb by the team. However, the subtext of this shoot-out is not to my peculiar political taste. I find dissatisfying the assumptions that the pursuit of a fair, full life is best described as a fight, that harmony is dependent on having common enemies, and that those enemies are expendable. But my political taste or not, there’s no doubt that what we’re given is a genuine expression of what it feels to experience this particularly cruel form of injustice, one that heartlessly denies who you are, and who you might become.
Paul Gilchrist
Cowbois by Charlie Josephine
Presented by Seymour Centre and Siren Theatre Company
On the way to the theatre, my plus one asked if we were seeing a new play. I replied Yes, that considering the title, it must’ve been written at least post-1687, the year Isaac Newton published Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica.
A joke like that doesn’t belong in Bradford Elmore’s Gravity; his play is genuinely funny.
But there’s a connection. Elmore presents characters who are intelligent – and this is the surprise for an Australian play – they can read! And they do.
Not that the piece is overly cerebral. Far from it. It’s just that the characters in Gravity have an active interest in the written word – and actually discuss it!
Christopher and Heather have a love of literature and David has a fascination with astronomy.
And all this isn’t gratuitous, a case of a playwright choosing to focus on some bizarre corner of society in order to present a gritty new angle, or an example of a dramatist claiming to give voice to some neglected minority.
The literature and astronomy operate as motifs that give the play a wonderfully rich texture. But to discuss that, I must first outline the play’s basic scenario.
Christopher (Wesley Senna Cortes) and Heather (Annabelle Kablean) have been married for ten years, and he feels he still loves her. But he has now also fallen in love with David (Drew Wilson). How can this be resolved?
Back to the motifs.
David’s interest in astronomy allows consideration of opposing forces, of the difficulty of orbiting two bodies simultaneously, of the danger of being torn apart. But it also posits balance, the possibility of a smooth, untroubled, eternal motion (the type we imagine is enjoyed by the stars.) The relevance to the play’s scenario is beautifully thought-provoking.
Heather and Christopher’s interest in literature allows musings on narrative, and how we’ll stick to things, despite the emotional pain, because we need to know how it turns out. As a play about the challenges of fidelity, the connection is clear. Discussions of literature also facilitate some playful games about preference, of the Austen-or-Dickens, Tolstoy-or-Dostoevsky type. I’ve made up these examples, but the mischievous premise behind these sort of games – that loving one somehow excludes loving the other – is central to the play’s exploration of relationships.
Anthony Skuse directs and designs, and in this deliciously simple space there’s a gorgeous flow to the movement. Skuse also elicits fine performances from his cast, who make the humour crackle and the heart cry.
Whether you ultimately find the conclusion of the piece satisfying will probably hinge on your willingness to watch it devolve from the higher stakes of dramedy to the easy cheerfulness of rom-com. But I suspect satisfaction might also depend on your own values and emotional experience; what you consider Love, and what you consider Truthful. (Though, if your sole aim in visiting the theatre is to see a reflection of yourself, a visit to the aptly named vanity in your bathroom would suffice. Embrace doubt and surprise; they’re some of the artform’s greatest gifts.)
Theatre Red 