Archive | January, 2025

The Bridal Lament

24 Jan

Loss shakes us out of the complacency of the Present, like a sudden change of speed on a train reminds us that we’ve been in motion all the while.

Rainbow Chan’s song cycle tells us of the bridal laments of the women of the Weitou people – an artistic ritual that has now passed, as have the arranged marriages that inspired them.

For Weitou women, the leaving of the house of their girlhood and the marriage to a man they did not know seemed like a type of death. (The husband-to-be was referred to as the King of Hell.) Chan sings these traditional laments in their original language, Weitouhua, and does so with extraordinary poignancy and beauty. Subtitles invite us into their evocative imagery, a world in which connections with nature were strong, and where vulnerability and ephemerality are granted meaning by being attributes of universals that transcend any individual life.

Chan guides us through the rituals of the bride-to-be, but intersperses her tour of the past with anecdotes of her own personal history as a child migrant to Australia, with particular focus on her mother, a Weitou women.

Juxtaposed with the historical laments are (what I take to be) Chan’s own wonderful compositions, contemporary songs with beguiling electro-pop and traditional influences. They give voice to the experience of a modern woman, one facing challenges both different and similar to those of her ancestors.

Directed by Tessa Leong, this is all effectively bound together by some very lush lighting and projected video graphics, creating a theatrical experience that is spellbinding.

(On rare moments, it felt a little over-produced: the traditional music, the original compositions and the visuals all propelled into an excess of richness by the need to cohere. The singularly most wondrous moment of the performance is when Chan sings a cappella a lament she has written herself, inspired by the traditional pieces. Stripped back, the sorrow is even more heart-rending. But, of course, this emotive impact was a consequence of the sudden contrast, and so only made possible by the creative decisions I’ve just questioned.)

Remarkably absent from the piece is a bland criticism of the custom of the arranged marriage, the sort of denunciation of the past that does little but feed the contemporary desire for definitive moral superiority. But neither are the arranged marriages romanticised; they’re presented, as they were probably experienced, as a brute force, as inexorable as Death.

The Bridal Lament is a fascinating piece of theatre; Chan effectively combines a personal sharing with a wider exploration of her cultural heritage, in a way that attains to universality.

Ultimately the piece is about grief and its natural place in the human condition. The traditional bridal laments themselves are stylised grief and that, in addition to their intrinsic beauty, is their value. That grief can be stylised tells us we are not alone in feeling it. This is the solace the laments offer, union with all who mourn.

Chan suggests that when she sings the traditional laments she feels at one with all the women before her. And when she visited Lung Yeuk Tau village, as an Australian who didn’t speak the language, the old grandmothers placed a villager’s hat on her head and claimed her as one of their own.    

Time takes much from us, but it gifts us the Past. We can’t live there, but it’s from what we make our Dreams – and they fuel our Future.

Paul Gilchrist

The Bridal Lament by Rainbow Chan

Presented by Riverside Theatres and Contemporary Asian Australian Performance

Supported by Sydney Festival

At Riverside Theatres 23–26 January

riversideparramatta.com.au

Creator, Lead Artist & Performer Rainbow Chan 陳雋然

Director Tessa Leong

Choreographic Consultants Amrita Hepi and Victoria Hunt

Video Design Rel Pham

Set Design Al Joel and Emily Borghi

Costume Design Al Joel

Lighting Concept Govin Ruben

Lighting Realisers Susie Henderson and Sam Read

Cultural Consultant & Narrator Irene Cheung 張翠屏

Video Programmer Daniel Herten

Tags: , , , , ,

Jacky

22 Jan

This is a superb play, beautifully performed.

Written by Declan Furber Gillick and directed by Mark Wilson, it’s the story of an indigenous man navigating between (what might be called, in the broadest sense) black and white cultures. But it’s also a deeply humane exploration of the concept of identity, and a magnificent example of the richness of the dramatic form.

Jacky lives in the city, far away from his family, and from his country. He rents a one bedroom place, but he’s making good money, and hopes soon to buy. He’s good-hearted and well-liked.

Because of some mischief at home, little brother Keith comes to couch surf. The contrast between the brothers is wonderfully, and hilariously, realised: Jacky the epitome of mature, common-sense responsibility, and Keith all youthful, high-spirited indolence. When pushed to finally find a job – the sort you’re expected to turn up to every day –  Keith says wouldn’t the old fellas laugh at us. True that may be, but a longing for the pre-colonial way of life at this point in the play seems merely a risible excuse for lazy self-indulgence.

But Keith’s presence alerts us to how little Jacky knows about what’s actually going on back at home. What sort of life is he making for himself in town?     

Follow the money. One source of income for Jacky is a traineeship he has with employment agency Segue. They want him on the books because, being black, he helps them maintain funding. His other source of income is as a rent boy. Even here, his identity is a selling point.

He’s a black man prostituting himself to white society. But it’s not a heavy-handed metaphor; rather, it’s a set-up that positions Jacky’s story as ideal for telling in the dramatic form.

But before I unpack that, let me talk about the performances. Guy Simon as Jacky is electrifying, perfectly embodying a gentleness that is suggestive of the many sources of that complex behaviour: confidence and intelligence, fear and despair. Danny Howard as Keith is brilliant: high-energy, fast-paced vocals coupled with a physical lethargy creates a tremendous portrait of the tension between youthful hopes and uncertainties. Mandy McElhinney’s Linda is pleasingly soft-spoken, reasonable, generous – and sublimely unaware of (or unconcerned with) the knottiness of Jacky’s position. It’s a stealthy and unsettling portrait of the white ally. Greg Stone as Glenn, one of Jacky’s clients who’s exploring some rather disturbing sexual fantasies, offers a powerful and utterly truthful mix of awkwardness, shame and brutality. It’s very funny, until it’s shockingly not.         

Back to my comments about the use of the dramatic form. Presented in concrete, believable situations, and in deliciously natural dialogue, the resonances, echoes and parallels in the script are gloriously evocative: Jacky focusses on Keith’s supposed uncleanliness in a way that disturbingly echoes a client’s racist abuse; potential supporters of the employment agency seem overly interested in the gender of the Indigenous participants, recalling the sexual interest of Jacky’s late night customers; both Linda and Jacky compromise themselves for property, while other (offstage) indigenous characters are concerned with the integrity of country; Linda thanks Jacky for playing along, while Glenn thanks him for his role-playing in the bedroom; and, perhaps most perturbingly for a majority white audience, this particular racist client has a fascination with the art created by marginalised peoples.

Parallels and resonances aside, the fundamental tension driving the piece is that everybody wants Jacky to embrace his identity – just in different ways, and for very different reasons. One of the most painful and poignant moments in the play is when a fellow indigenous person tells him to get back in your box, Jacky. The reprimand he receives is completely deserved, and though my phrase isn’t the one used, it hints at an aspect of identity often overlooked.

What is identity? A case could be made that it’s a response of our psychological immune system. When we’re endangered, we make an identity. It’s a strength in times of trouble, but redundant in times of calm. (One of the things that binds Jacky’s family together is a shared love of Country and Western music. And, as Glenn says, that’s crying music.) Perhaps the fostering of identity is a type of honourable strategic withdrawal? (I’m not suggesting Furber Gillick’s script asserts this, but as a splendidly sophisticated piece of writing, it got me thinking. The final line of the play was a particular stimulus to this train of thought. Due to the spoiler rule, I can’t repeat that line, but it was the sort of declaration of defiance one makes most often in retreat. Accordingly, it was simultaneously inspiring and saddening.)

Jacky is an outstanding piece of theatre, composed with humour that entertains, honesty that engages, and sorrow that humanises.  

Paul Gilchrist

Jacky by Declan Furber Gillick 

Produced by Melbourne Theatre Company

At Belvoir as part of the Sydney Festival until Feb 2

belvoir.com.au

Image by Stephen Wilson Barker

Tags: , , , , , ,

Pride and Prejudice

19 Jan

Kitty?

What has happened to Kitty???

In this adaptation of Jane Austen’s famous novel, the Bennet’s fourth daughter is utterly, inexplicably, and unjustly erased. I was mortified!!!

Of course, I’m parodying the pedantry of a certain species of Janeite, worshipers of Austen who are horrified whenever this sacred text doesn’t receive the fidelity and respect they feel it deserves.

(However, to be honest, I did feel the absence of the Gardiners. As models of a mature, successful romance, their very existence assures our heroine Elizabeth Bennet that her vision of true love is not just a naïve illusion.)  

Austen’s Pride and Prejudice attracts pedantry because it’s a foundational text of modern romance. The extraordinary number of film and stage adaptations attests to that. But when I say foundational, I don’t mean merely in terms of the literary genre of romance – I mean of the experience itself. Lizzy Bennet is determined to marry only someone she loves. And with love defined as a heady mix of desire, admiration, respect and an unwavering belief in equality, Lizzy’s hopes encapsulate the romantic aspirations of virtually every young modern.

On one level, adaptations of the novel aren’t tricky: Austen is essentially a dramatic writer. (Though there is the issue of that famously ironic narrative voice; do you simply give it to Elizabeth? If so, how do you present the heroine’s emotional and moral growth?)

Directed by Emma Canalese, Kate Hamill’s adaptation captures all the key dramatic moments and, if an old, sentimental reviewer’s tears are worth anything, the heart of this piece beats strongly.

However, both in script and performance style, this production juxtaposes the drawing room dramedy of manners of the original text with a wacky theatricality. Sometimes, the deliberate double entendres and the unconventional casting make it feel as though the original is being parodied, or at least not being trusted to engage an audience. Several characters are cast against gender, which adds enormously to the playfulness but not much to the truthfulness. (This is theatre of audacity rather than of authenticity.) Some bold doublings ramp up the silliness, and won’t fail to get a laugh from most audiences. The major challenge is the relative homogeneity of the ages of the cast. Some of the representations of the older characters lack subtlety, and the snap is taken out of the original text’s social bite: Age often has an agenda it imposes on Youth, and the manipulation this entails is partly hidden if the generations are blurred.

Several of the characterisations might disappoint small-minded Janeites. Compared with more conventional adaptations: Darcy (Idam Sondhi) is more socially awkward, and Lizzy (Abbey Morgan) more attitude than sparkle (this Lizzy rejects not only marriage without love but marriage in general – which somewhat alters the impact of the final scenes); Jane (Lucy Lock) is less gentle; Mr Bennet (Steve Corner) is louder, and ultimately closer in characterisation to Mrs Bennet (AJ Evans) – who dominates the action more than she does in the novel; Mary also gets far more stage time and is presented as a mistreated neurotic; Bingley is reduced to a joke. (Bingley and Mary are doubled by Victoria Abbott, who displays extraordinary comic talent.)

But I’m not a pedantic Janeite; did these characterisations disappointment me? All roles are played with an exciting committed energy. (To make a hasty definitive judgement about a work whose main theme is the danger of hasty definitive judgements takes either less self-awareness or more courage than I currently command – which probably makes me fatally unsuited to theatre criticism.)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that no reviewer with literary pretensions can write about Pride and Prejudice without alluding to its famous first line. (So I can tick that off.) What is a little less commonly acknowledged is that all foundational myths must be reinvented, for that’s how they’ll find new audiences – and keep the old ones alive.

Paul Gilchrist

Pride and Prejudice adapted by Kate Hamill

Presented by The Artist Experiment & Dream Plane Productions

At Old Fitz until 8 Feb

oldfitztheatre.com.au

Image by Phil Erbacher

Tags: , , , , , ,

Hamlet Camp

17 Jan

This is a fun night of theatre, one we’re privileged to share with three contemporary legends as they muse on the dramatic form.

It’s also a tantalising potpourri.

It begins with Toby Schmitz, Brendan Cowell and Ewen Leslie each performing a self-written monologue. Schmitz’s monologue is about an actor currently working in a second-hand book store in Newtown; still a purveyor of art, but in rather reduced circumstances: tale teller now retailer. Cowell’s monologue explores how the actor’s life of perpetual rootlessness impacts their relationship with material objects. Leslie’s presents the journey of an out-of-his-depth child TV actor to maturity as a lover of the craft. Each monologue is richly poetic and very funny.

Are they autobiographical? Sort of. I guess. I don’t know. Truth is certainly tempered by poetic licence and the hyperbolic needs of humour. I did take away the sense that the character being presented in each piece was a moderately successful actor. What a disparate, contradictory, explosive mix of words that is! It also operates as a suitable tonal introduction to the madcap comedy that follows.

That’s because – after Claudia Haines-Cappeau’s beautifully evocative dance as Ophelia – there comes the title piece, an extended skit in which three actors who’ve played Hamlet are now going through rehab. It’s written by Schmitz, Cowell and Leslie, three actors who’ve played Hamlet and are now…

If the monologues might be autobiographical, the skit certainly isn’t – at least not if read as realism. It is, however, a puckish peep into the weirdly overwhelming experience that playing the Dane apparently is. As suggested, the play’s the thing.

Or can rehab help them realise that it’s just a thing? One thing among many.

The skit is terrifically amusing, a wonderful opportunity for three great comic actors to strut their stuff. It sparkles with insights into what it is to be a performer. (There are plenty of in-jokes about particular past productions, and these are marvellously mischievous, but they don’t dominate.) Frustration is expressed at directors and their determination to own a play by imposing some bizarre idiosyncratic vision. As one recovering Hamlet says, I’d love a director to say ‘Let’s just do the play.’ Also grumbled about are reviewers. Cowell’s character is disturbed that one reviewer described his Hamlet as mercurial. This observation hints at the sensitivity of performers, but it also left me wondering if the greatest tragedy in theatre is not Hamlet, but that reviews are taken seriously.

Another provocative observation is that we romanticise Hamlet, which I took to mean we overvalue both the character and the performance of that character. One of the sessions at the rehab centre is entitled Offstage Women. It seems to refer to the play’s representation of women and how Hamlet himself mistreats them. It also refers, I think, to how male actors lost in the role mistreat the women in their own lives. I make no comment about the impact playing the famous protagonist might have on an actor’s personal relationships, but I find fascinating the suggestion that audiences are asked to admire Hamlet. Perhaps an actor needs to find that connection, but as an audience member I’m more than happy to dislike a protagonist or, more precisely, to hold such a personal response to a character in abeyance. (Perhaps, like the suspension of disbelief, it’s the key to a mature appreciation of fiction.) Take Macbeth and, to a lesser degree, Lear: the achievement of these tragedies is that we’re presented a monster yet, beneath all, we still see their humanity. (I admit this probably doesn’t accurately describe what’s happening in, say, Othello or Romeo & Juliet – so perhaps there are audience members out there who do actually like Hamlet as a person.)

That’s the joy of Hamlet Camp, it’s a deliciously playful invitation to thought.  

Paul Gilchrist

Hamlet Camp by Brendan Cowell, Ewen Leslie and Toby Schmitz

Presented by Carriageworks and Modern Convict

At Carriageworks until 25 Jan

carriageworks.com.au

Image by Daniel Boud

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

An Inspector Calls

13 Jan

JB Priestley’s classic play is a subversion of crime fiction. It initially presents as typical detective fare – and then we realise it’s doing something far bigger, more important, and much more thrilling.

The Birlings are celebrating the engagement of daughter Sheila to Gerald. They’re respectable people. When the ladies retire after dinner, and the men remain for a glass of port or two, Mr Birling takes the opportunity to share his wisdom. Every man need only look after himself and his own, the successful businessman pronounces to the younger men. Do that, and all will be right with the world.

And then an inspector calls.

Disrupting this privileged party, the inspector informs them of the recent suicide of a desperate young woman and, through an utterly enthralling chain of questions, asks them to consider their possible culpability.  

I call the play a subversion because crime fiction usually asserts that it’s the detective’s commitment to rationality that will restore order to a fracture world. But this piece places its hope not in logic but in the human heart. If only we’d listen to the still small voice within, we’d realise that it’s not every man for himself, that we’re all in this together and, if the world is fractured, it’s we who might make it whole again.

It’s a beautifully rich piece and, under the direction of Ali Bendall and Mark Bull, this production is both thought-provoking and very entertaining. (That’s no small achievement. Drawing room dramas are notoriously difficult, their seemingly static world can appear to restrict creative choice. And, as a historical piece, set in a distant past even when Priestley first wrote it, Truth could all too easily atrophy into lifeless stereotype.)

The cast handle the challenging material well. David M Bond as Mr Birling is delightfully pompous, and Annabel Cotton as Mrs Birling is deliciously all prickle and pride. The younger generation, newer to the tired old ways of the world, are perhaps a little more shaken. Simon Pearce as Gerald presents moments of touching vulnerability. Rebecca Liquorish as Sheila effectively juxtaposes a frantic fear with the wondrous relief of honesty. Harry Charlesworth as younger brother Eric, the impulsive child who only Shame might mature, offers a moving portrait of moral growing pains.

And Vincent Andriano as the inspector is wonderful, a subtle physical awkwardness that underlines his outsider status contrasting brilliantly with a gloriously authoritative voice that clearly speaks command and consequence.

This is the Genesian Theatre Company’s first production in their new Rozelle home. Fans of the Kent Street proscenium arch will be pleased to see that house preference retained, and fans of engaging theatre will hope this show is an accurate portent of many things to come.

Paul Gilchrist

An Inspector Calls by JB Priestley

Presented by Genesian Theatre until 22 Feb

genesiantheatre.com.au

Tags: , , , , ,

Stags and Hens

11 Jan

Tomorrow, Linda marries Dave. But tonight is the stags and hens’ parties.

Willy Russell’s play was first produced in 1978 and the action occurs in a dump of a disco in Liverpool in England.

Though it’s nearly fifty years old and set in a foreign country, it’s terrific to see this play on a contemporary Sydney stage. (Though, I must admit, it took a while for my ear to become accustomed to the accents.)

Firstly, it’s very funny. And under the direction of Johann Walraven, the cast commit fully to the comedy. The entire ensemble is brilliantly hilarious.

On the night I saw the show, some members of the audience gasped at some of Russell’s one-liners. Perhaps they thought them politically incorrect? But the awful things some of the characters say, especially the men, are key to Russell’s satire. He’s targeting working class brutality, its fatalism and its seeming inability to tolerate individuality.  

But despite the satire, it’s a sympathetic portrait. There’s a heart-rending sense of missed opportunity, and this is enhanced by the casts’ skill in making the characters likeable, imbuing them with tremendous energy, which has the impact of highlighting how that energy is ultimately either misdirected or thwarted. Chester Lenihan as Robbie, the would-be lady’s man, presents a gloriously funny mix of cockiness and self-doubt. Kirra Jones as Maureen, the drunken cry-baby who just wants a fella, is both very amusing and powerfully poignant.   

And when the play shifts gear, and comedy cozies up to its close-cousin tragedy, the cast are once again up for the script’s demands. Ava McClean as Linda, the bride-to-be, is enormously affecting in her shocked realisation of brutality’s ubiquity. Cameron Sutton as Eddy, the alpha male who lords over his herd but is terrified of change, is a gutsy, confronting portrait of dangerous fragility.

The play is well-named; despite the impending marriage, the focus is not on the personal relationship at the heart of the sacrament, but rather on the dehumanising potential of group dynamics. How do the stags maintain a group identity? How do the hens? And how do the two groups relate?

Maintaining a group identity necessitates policing. Both sexes speak a lot about mateship, but that never seems to go so far as granting each other genuine autonomy or individuality. Instead, there’s an insistence on conformity. It’s a very binary world: you’re either a ‘lad’ or a ‘tart’; you’re either with us or against us. This world of indubitable division is emphasised by the set; scenes mostly happen either in the Gents or in the Ladies.

With our current questioning of binary assumptions, it’s tempting to think we’ve transcended all such narrowness. But, understandably, marginalised people will always seek a greater share of power, and a group identity has long been perceived as one way this might be achieved. In fact, a focus on group identity is presently the height of political fashion and so – by drawing attention to the brutish enforcement that the maintenance of such identities can entail – this production firmly places a troubling, teasing, tickling finger on our societal pulse.

Paul Gilchrist

Stags and Hens by Willy Russell

Presented by Blank Slate Productions

Directed by Johann Walraven

Featuring Grace Easterby, Jonah Elias, Benjamin Itaba, Kirra Jones, Chester Lenihan, Jonathan Serafino, Ellen Peebles, Ava McClean, Cameron Sutton, Hunter Taylor & Madeleine Zinner

At New Theatre until 25 January

newtheatre.org.au/stags-hens/

Image by Robert Catto

Tags: , , , ,

Confessions of a Theatre Reviewer

9 Jan

I have a confession to make: my title will probably be the most interesting thing about this article.

Deliberately titillating, that provocative word confessions is really no more than a sad attempt to disguise the fact that this will be just one more article written by me about me.

I usually write theatre reviews and, as everyone knows, reviews tell you more about the reviewer than the show. (After all, no matter what show I go to see, I’m always there. It’s this inevitability – rather than the quality of the work – that explains why so many reviewers become jaded.)

So, if this is just another article about me, why write it at all?

It recently occurred to me, that as of last year, I’ve written as many reviews about other people’s shows as I’ve had reviews written about my own shows. So, I guess, I’m in a weirdly privileged position.

Dear Theatre-maker, I know your love-hate relationship with reviewers, and I think I can offer some insight. (Or, if not, at least I’ve harnessed another opportunity to write about myself.)

Dear Theatre-maker, these are the things I must confess:

  • I’m excited every single time you send me an invitation to a show.
  • I don’t especially like to go to your opening night.
  • I like to bring a plus one.
  • I know what I write is not very important, certainly not as important as what you write.
  • I’m aware that everything I write is sloppy. I’d like to take more time and write for posterity, but I know that posterity doesn’t buy tickets. (What I write is mere fish wrap, hence the above image.)
  • I’m not trying to market your show, but I know you are. So, if I like your show, I’ll include a line or two you can use as a pull-out quote.
  • I dislike the idea of grading or comparing productions.
  • I’m not trying to make you famous. (I’m not trying to make me famous. It’s with great reluctance that my reviews have a byline. I’d prefer not to include my name at the conclusion of what I write, but I believe the obligation of accountability outweighs the pleasures of anonymity.) And, if fame is what you are trying to achieve, I think you should carefully consider why. I think you should also consider what that desire suggests about your attitude to other people. I’m not saying you shouldn’t seek financial gain from your art – but because I believe artists shouldn’t starve, I’d also rather they remain in good psychological health.  
  • I want people to read what I write. So, if you like my review, share it on your socials.
  • Personally, I don’t read reviews. I think a fair percentage of reviewers write terribly. It’s sometimes said that we reviewers are failed artists, but that’s not the whole story: many of us are failed reviewers as well.
  • I read your program only so as not to misspell the names of your creative team (though sometimes I’ll still get them wrong anyway.) Apart from that, I studiously avoid everything you write about your show: marketing, advertising, director and writer’s notes … everything. In fact, reading your program notes afterwards can feel like a type of gaslighting; I saw the show, and now you’re telling me, in such authoritative tones, that my interpretation of the show is wrong? (But I understand why you write these notes. Many of the notes I’ve written as a playwright have simply been repeated back at me by reviewers and, as a result, the reviews have been a delight to read.) 
  • I know you won’t like everything I write, and I’m OK with that.
  • I give your show much more thought than you probably imagine.
  • I find the spoiler-rule frustrating, but I’ll abide by it. I don’t like it when you act as though I’ve broken the rule when I’ve merely outlined the scenario. I have to be able to say what your show is about; I can’t just gush hyperbolic platitudes.
  • I don’t like it when you suggest I’ve misunderstood your play. You’ve shared it, and now it’s ours.
  • I know what I write is subjective. I know I have personal preferences and interests, and I know they’ll inform what I write. I don’t believe there’s an objective viewpoint, and I think those who assert there is are either naïve or lying.
  • I’m not interested in your politics. Or, more to the point, I’m interested in them in a way you might find surprising. To be honest, your piece of theatre is extremely unlikely to change my political outlook – but I do love to learn what political perspectives are being held by other people, artists included. When you behave as though your art will change hearts and minds, I think it’s a little odd. I’m not saying it won’t, or it can’t, but to have that as your driving purpose is to assume your audience is less sophisticated than you.
  • I like to be thanked for my review. Even a one-word message will suffice. Here’s one you can cut and paste for future use: Thanks.

And to end this article, I’ll take my own advice.

I’m absolutely thrilled about the upcoming year of theatre, and so, in advance, to all Theatre-makers, an enormous THANKS.

Paul Gilchrist

Tags: , ,