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
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.
I’ve had the enormous good fortune to see 81 shows in 2024. Yes, a lot – but other reviewers see more.
This year, in response to productions, I’ve written 46,000 words. (To give some perspective, Hamlet is 30,000 words, The Great Gatsby is 47,000, and some random monkey banging away at his keyboard for 12 months is 46,000.)
I don’t get paid for my writing (though if someone wants, I can easily supply my banking details.) And I don’t do it for the tickets. I do it so I can write about theatre. (Would I have wanted to see so many plays without writing about them? No. I enjoyed seeing most of them, but I enjoyed writing about all of them.)
If you’re reading this article for my “Best of 2024 List”, you’ll be dissatisfied. I don’t see art as a competition, so I won’t be ranking productions. (I have become Disappointment, the Destroyer of Dreams.)
I’m writing this reflection simply to share some observations of Sydney’s theatrical world – because I believe sharing not competing is the essence of art. My observations will be, unavoidably, limited and subjective.
FIRSTLY, TRIVIALITIES: THE WORLD OF REVIEWING.
It appears there are more people writing about theatre than ever before. My current publicity list includes over 40 Sydney-based sites or publications. Despite this (or because of this) there’s still a tendency for many reviewers to write in marketing language. I’m not sure if this is a result of inexperience or cynicism. But there are some really interesting new voices, as well great material written by some old hands.
Despite the large number of reviewers, theatre companies are increasingly using “audience responses” in their marketing.
Despite the large number of reviewers, indie companies can still struggle to get critics to come along to their shows.
The trend to grade productions out of 5 has become almost universal. And it feels like an arms race. Not many shows are awarded 2 stars; if you want to garner attention for your site, you give a show 5 stars. I’m waiting for someone to award 6. (Give 1 star and you’ll also get noticed, but the invitations might soon dry up.) I’ve resisted the trend because I don’t feel productions are comparable in any sense that’s interesting. And, fortunately, I don’t have an editor demanding I follow the fashion.
I’ve noted theatre-makers expressing dissatisfaction with reviewers. (I’ve also noted the sun still rises in the east. Nothing gets past me.) Considering the nature of the relationship between artists and critics, some animosity is probably inevitable. I’ve heard complaints that too many reviewers are not experienced enough. I’ve heard complaints that reviews are not harsh enough. I’ve heard complaints that reviewers evaluate productions according to their politics rather than the artistry of the creatives. There also appears to be some moral discomfort when someone who produces art also writes about it (like myself). Obviously, I’m either trying to feather my own nest or piss on someone else’s. Sycophancy and vindictiveness, it seems, are more believable motivations than a genuine interest in the artform.
Reviews used to be referred to as fish-wrap, alluding to the fact that today’s newspaper becomes tomorrow’s rubbish liner. Now, with most reviews online, they’re less like fish-wrap and more like nuclear waste – a poisonous, unwanted byproduct that just never goes away. Personally, I’d like to see more reviews written in a manner that would make them interesting to read even if you were never going to see the show. I’d like reviews to invite readers to think more about the dramatic form and more about the ideas that the shows explore. I don’t expect all reviews to be like this, but I think there’s space for something more than glib, thought-free, idiosyncratic evaluations.
NOW THE IMPORTANT STUFF, THE PRODUCTIONS THEMSELVES.
It’s an absurd generalisation, but the overall standard in Sydney theatre seems higher than previously. Perhaps this is because the number of venues remains low and so access to them is more competitive. Or maybe it’s just a result of more discerning programming. Or maybe there’s something in the water. Whatever the case, I’ve been privileged to see many superb productions.
I’ve really enjoyed the sheer amount of new work presented this year; over 50% of what I’ve seen. I want to thank the season programmers for this, and all the indie producers who took a chance on the untested. (I will point out that there’s a tendency for some new work to be longer than needed. I think a good rule of thumb is that 90 minutes is as long as you should ask an audience to sit without an intermission. Yes, intermissions have gone out of fashion, so if it’s new work, and you’re in charge, please consider closely the show’s running time. Many pieces would gain from a tighter edit. In fact, few phrases in the theatre vernacular are repeated with more glee than A short show is a good show!)
As well as new work, there’s also been an enjoyable variety of old classics, the return of some Australian soon-to-be classics, and some thrilling contemporary work from overseas. A healthy theatre scene should be a mix, and at least for me, this year of theatre in Sydney got that mix just right.
To praise our directors in particular, the use of space has often been magnificent. In this regard, I’ve seen absolutely brilliant work at Belvoir, Ensemble, Sydney Opera House, Seymour, KXT, Old Fitz, New Theatre, Flight Path, Riverside, Qtopia, Carriageworks, Flow Studios and the Fringe. It’s been a joy to see directors embrace the potential of a space rather than merely attempt to minimise what they think are its limitations. To praise our designers, there’s been some terrific shows with a minimalist aesthetic. There are productions playing with technology, and doing so in an exciting way, but it feels as though our fascination with gadgets is waning.
I’ve never been a fan of theatre that’s little more than sitcom, and there appears to be less of it.
There’s a continuing interest in theatre that purportedly is Telling our Stories. I’ve written elsewhere how this phrase has morphed into the odd assumption that theatre is fundamentally a type of non-fiction. However, though the phrase Telling our Stories has been used this year, it hasn’t dominate the description of productions as much as previously. For example, in the last few years, it almost became the default position that any one-person show was a sharing of actual lived experience, but in 2024 I’ve seen some great one-actor shows that had no pretence of autobiography. We need diversity on our stages, but the fictional form doesn’t need to be sacrificed for this to be achieved.
I’m reluctant to make a judgement as to where we actually are in regard to diversity. The majority of companies claim to be committed to the concept, and the difference between now and, say, 15 years ago is substantial. But I’ve spoken to artists who are dissatisfied with what’s been achieved, and who feel that though the language of inclusion is spoken, it’s not always sincere. Diversity will remain a live issue, partly because theatre that doesn’t reflect the society in which it’s created is doomed to irrelevance, but also because the philosophical assumptions that drive our desire to achieve it are still muddy and require further discussion. Expect me to write more about this next year.
The standing ovation has become common. Does that mean audiences are more appreciative of what’s happening on our stages? I hope so. A cynical friend has suggested that the standing ovation is just a way of reclaiming the experience from the performers, or simply an automatic response from individuals frustrated by the requirement to sit still and relatively quietly for such a long time. Or, says my friend, it’s a way of shaking off the art, like frantically removing a spiderweb into which you’ve accidently stumbled. (I wonder if it’s perhaps more the shower you might take after a visit to the dentist; you’ve submitted to the necessary drill, and your smile might now be healthier, but only because blood and bone have been splattered everywhere.) I’m not one for standing ovations; I have enough trouble putting my socks on in the morning, let alone leaping instantaneously to my feet. But perhaps it’s also about what I value in the art. To respond so physically, so completely, to a piece of theatre means I haven’t had time to savour its subtlety or to be threatened by its thorniness.
But, most likely, most people are just quicker than me.
So I’ll give my standing ovation now, at the end of the year.
Thank you Sydney theatre-makers, you have shaped things of Beauty and shared dreams of Truth. We have asked for bread and you have not given us stones, and we are richer for it.
This is a fascinating piece of theatre. The arresting title is an introduction to its key concerns. Philosophers as great as Plato, Augustine and Foreigner have all wanted to know what love is – but an even deeper tradition has long questioned the meaning of those mysterious little pronouns, the you and me of the phrase people will think you don’t love me.
What are you?What am I? To what degree do any of us have a fundamental essence? If so, what does that essence consist of? I don’t mean the particular qualities we might attribute to lovers, qualities like courage, intelligence or kindness. I mean the medium in which such characteristics exist, where they reside. (Analogy: old films were celluloid, and it was in this medium that the particular images that made up any individual film resided.) To cut to the chase, in the currently reigning philosophy of secular materialism, are we simply our physical bodies? If so, then our personal qualities must reside in those bodies. And the tantalising question raised by all this is If you donate an organ to me, do I begin to become you?
This is the basis of Joanna Erskine’s fabulous play. Michael has a diseased heart. When Rick dies in an accident, Michael is given his healthy heart. And then he changes….
Some people might dismiss the idea as simply weird, or as such a rare experience as to be of little relevance.
But what it’s doing is opening up the concept of selfhood. A couple of decades ago we had an obsession with finding ourselves. It was assumed every individual had an essence and it was the mission of each of us to find that essence and let it shine. More recently, we’ve come to define our essential self in terms of our membership in certain demographic groups. With this sociological rather than psychological focus, we’ve come to see our individuality as a space carved out by the intersection of various statistical sets. We’ve almost replaced the word individuality with identity. We no longer shine like some sort of star, but rather lie small and flat, a mere overlap in a Venn diagram.
But, as I’ve suggested, this play doesn’t so much raise the question of Who we are but What we are.
I don’t want to make the play sound heavy; it’s extremely engaging. (And I certainly don’t want to sound like the kind of pretentious fool who goes to a children’s party and sees innocents being inculcated into the competitive values of capitalism, while everyone else just sees kids playing Musical Chairs.)
But this play won the Silver Gull Award when it was run by subtlenuance, when the parameters were that eligible plays be philosophical or political. Now the award is run by New Theatre, and that phrase has wisely been removed (the average theatre-goer being insufficiently familiar with the philosophical approach to appreciate that their favourite artform is philosophy’s closest cousin. What two human activities are the Ancient Greeks most famous for gifting to Western society? Drama and philosophy.)
Good drama is good philosophy: recognisable situations, presented in accessible language, posing fundamental questions.
And the dramatic form is eminently suited to the investigation of the philosophical concept of the essential self. The creation of individual characters is one of the dramatist’s major tasks. And, as audience members, we judge the success of any particular characterisation by the success of that mysterious trick of combining consistency with unpredictability. Of any character, we want to be able to say I understand why she did that rather than being reduced to the boredom of She was obviously going to do that. And one way theatre keeps that magic mixture of consistency and unpredictability bubbling is the actor, the physical body on stage. Every writer has had an actor in a workshop or rehearsal critique their script: I don’t think my character would say that. One answer is Your character does, indeed, say that. Your physical presence on stage as you say the line is sufficient, because the character exists nowhere else.
In Erskine’s play, the interrogation of the nature of selfhood is further facilitated by the focus on romantic love. Romance is the type of relationship most based on the assumption that an individual is something particular, something special. (In most other relationships we’re honestly not that interested; we’re content to deal with people as we find them.) There’s a flashback to the night before Michael and Liz’s wedding, where he explicitly outlines why she is the woman he loves. It’s commonplace to assert that people change, and that’s why romance dies. But why are we so hopeful in the first place that the loved one will act consistently? Perhaps sexual love is like the theatrical stage; the centrality of the body somehow implies a permanency of self.
I’ll repeat again, the play is not heavy; it’s a gripping psychological drama (with a smattering of the gothic – I’d love to see more!)
And the awkwardness of the situation, that Michael’s life is only possible because of Rick’s death, provides opportunities for surprising humour. The uncomfortable pauses, the inappropriate comments, the unrecognised hints, all create a linguistic landscape of the alien and the unfamiliar, and under the direction of Jules Billington, the cast present beautifully the tentative navigation of this strange new world.
Tom Matthews as Michael has an extraordinarily challenging task – the portrayal of two characters battling it out in one body. He achieves this superbly, achieving genuine nuance (and avoiding any temptation to employ the garish strokes more suited to horror.) The duality of his inner world is reflected by the two women in his life, his wife Liz, and Tommy, the partner of Rick who donated his heart. These two characters have tremendous arcs, as they try to come to terms with the most unusual of circumstances. Ruby Maishman’s Tommy moves poignantly from suspicion and the coldness of grief to a wondrous softening as she begins to find Michael’s behaviour oddly familiar. Grace Naoum’s Liz brilliantly transforms from a daggy, uptightness to a bewildered anger, as she finds only loss where she expected victory, and knows not who to blame.
I’ve talked a lot about the philosophical provocations of the play, but its glory is that it’s still grounded in the psychological. As Michael begins to display attributes of the bolder, more brutal Rick, we’re asked to consider whether he is merely acting out his desires. Now that Michael is finally healthy, is he simply claiming a bigger life? Is the whole I-have-your-heart-now-in-my-body-and-it’s-changed-who-I-am a materialistic justification for what are actually just choices? It’s an old trick: disguise decisions as determinism. It’s beyond my control, says the man who really, really, really wants to do it.
In the most stimulating way, the play takes on some of the most dominant assumptions of our culture. It interrogates materialism in two ways, positing its natural but rather disconcerting conclusion, and by uncovering its dubious allure. And it does all this in the way drama does best: offering no answers, just an engaging story.
Paul Gilchrist
People Will Think You Don’t Love Me by Joanna Erskine
presented by Little Trojan in association with bAKEHOUSE Co
This a heart-achingly good production of a modern classic.
Written by Tracy Letts, it was first presented by Steppenwolf in the USA in 2007. I’ve now been fortunate enough to see this play three times in Sydney. This production by Belvoir, directed brilliantly by Eamon Flack, is deeply moving and utterly hilarious.
Set in the near present in Osage County, Oklahoma, it tells the story of a family who gather to deal with the disappearance of a loved one – and to deal with each other. In many ways, Letts is a descendant of Chekhov, presenting a world in which love is real but somehow always misdirected.
This tragi-comedy has become a modern favourite because it provides actors with the chance to really show off their stuff. There are thirteen beautifully rich roles and Flack’s cast grab the opportunities offered and give us something truly special. It’s an ensemble of the highest order.
I’d rather not reduce my response to a list of accolades for individual actors, so here’s the smallest tasting plate from what’s a theatrical feast.
Pamela Rabe is superb as Violet, the matriarch of the family. Her meanness is deliciously funny until pain erodes it to pathos. Tamsin Carroll as eldest daughter Barbara is magnificent; she too perfectly balances humour and heart, and the fearful recognition that she’s becoming her mother is played with a soul-withering awareness that what binds us together is also what keeps us apart. Barbara has her own tensions with her daughter, Jean, played by Esther Williams, who wonderfully captures the precocity and petulance of the intelligent teenager. Barbara’s speech to Jean beginning I don’t care what you do with your life and ending in the most heart-rending way, and then her daughter’s glib response, is a moment of shining insight into the human condition, one of many in this extraordinary play.
In addition to tragi-comedy, August: Osage County has elements of the state-of-the-nation play. Barbara shares her father’s observation that America has always been a whorehouse, but at least it had promise. Now it’s just a shit hole. (These are not direct quotes from the play.) She muses that cataclysm is preferable to dissipation, and is horrified that the nation’s promise may have slipped away without anyone noticing.
These themes are introduced from the get go. In the opening scene, Beverley (John Howard) hires Johnna (Bee Cruse), a Native American, as a housekeeper. Beverley invites her to read any of his books and quotes to her TS Eliot, “Here we go round the prickly pear” (It’s not the only line in the play from The Hollow Men.) Despite the madness around her, Johnna maintains dignity and a concern for others.
State-of-the-nation plays are an odd genre, inviting us to see a small set of individuals as representative of something much, much larger. It suggests a hubris more natural to the critic than the playwright. But I guess it’s just an invitation (though I’m not sure we gain much by accepting it; currently, we have no shortage of armchair sociologists and patio political scientists.)
I’ll admit I found the conclusion of this production a little disappointing. I’m not evaluating any skills; I’m simply responding to creative choices. It seems to me the final moments of the play are an opportunity for something majestic, an intimation of eternal custodianship, a sense of the always was, always will be– despite everything. But a different choice is made, a somewhat smaller, sadder one. The play concludes with a line from Eliot. That line is not “the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time” – though I wonder if it might be made to feel as though it is.
But that’s the joy of returning to established work in theatre; we rediscover a past love and we discover how it is loved differently by others. It’s like the speeches at a wedding; always gloriously familiar, always gloriously fresh.
And this production is glorious, both for those who know the play and for those experiencing it for the first time.
This is a terrific production of a fascinating play.
Written in the mid-1930’s, the last work by the great Spanish playwright Federico García Lorca, it features only female characters.
After her husband dies, Bernarda, matriarch of the family, insists her five unmarried daughters mourn in the ultra-traditional way. Prohibited from engaging with the wider world, prisoners of patriarchal standards, the household of women live an overwrought, claustrophobic existence.
But eldest daughter Angustias is still permitted to speak to her suitor, Pepe, a man whom we never see or hear. The problem is that she is not the only member of the household with feelings for Pepe.
Previously, I’ve expressed doubts about the efficacy of plays that purport to indict injustice but show only the victims. I know and support what drives this creative fashion, but the resultant work often feels lopsided, unintentionally granting the perpetrators a moral leave pass.
Despite being set in a patriarchy but presenting only women, Lorca’s play avoids these pitfalls. He was an extraordinary playwright, but I suspect freedom from the later theoretical apparatus of second wave feminism might have helped. This type of theory serves a necessary purpose, but not always one useful in the theatre. Sometimes, we can be so soaked in the simplicity of theory – as against the dreadful messiness of human reality – that we represent injustice as though it was merely the result of a few poor or selfish decisions at the last staff meeting. The value of the dramatic form is that it can acknowledge that problems are deep and painfully complex.
In Lorca’s play, women are presented as finding men irresistibly attractive, despite – or perhaps even because of – their brutish behaviour. It evokes for me God’s punishment of Eve in Genesis: “Your longing will be for your husband, and he will dominate you.”
And, in Lorca’s play, it’s the matriarch who’s the main enforcer of oppression. Now, the idea that individual women will betray the sisterhood to further their own power is not unheard of, but is this what Bernarda is doing? Does she really perceive any alternative?
One of her daughters cries To be born a woman is the worst punishment in the world. She doesn’t offer any corollary. She doesn’t suggest that being a woman is a punishment in this particular time and place, but if only we were to raise our children differently, or if only we were to spend more money on public awareness campaigns, or if only we were to adopt a gender quota in the entertainment sector… No, it’s a cry of eternal despair. And, in the play, this sense of terrible inevitability is further emphasised by the fate of one woman who breaks the seemingly everlasting laws governing female behaviour: no human being discovers and reveals her crime, but rather the dogs of the street. It is as though the blind forces of the universe itself will punish transgressions.
But all this doesn’t mean female oppression is inevitable. What a play represents and what a play invites are not the same thing. It’s one of the weaknesses of our current theatre culture to conflate the two. We’ve come to feel that theatre should represent a situation, tell us what to think about it, and then tell us what to do about it. The churches are all empty, because everyone who wants to preach is in theatre. But theatre that imitates a sermon, or can be reduced to a slogan, is not worth either the time or the ticket price.
It might seem odd to suggest a play with such a bleak vision is invigorating, but a deeply affecting portrait of the human experience like this production is an inspirational invitation to make the world better – and this is the rub – because we’re not being told to do so. Give the audience something to do, and they will love you for it. Less is more.
Director Kim Hardwick’s approach to the whole production follows this maxim, and the result is theatrical brilliance. Set and lighting are minimal, but the use of the space is majestic, a place for a script and a cast that are both superb to shine. An utterly mesmerising languidness, effectively expressing the enervation of oppression, provides the perfect detonation zone for the explosions of tension that come.
Sarah Chadwick as Bernarda is magnificent, a frightening portrait of a cold heart and an iron will. Linda Nicholls-Gidley as Poncia, her housekeeper, offers a gloriously complex depiction: resentful in servitude, exulting in the little power she has, gleeful in her expression of earthy desire, and fearful in her awareness of the trouble ahead. Romney Hamilton as Angustias wonderfully captures the petulance and insecurity of privilege in a world where it is so very scarce. Teodora Matović is marvellous as the sister pushed from weary despair to sudden and dangerous desperation. Estelle Davis as youngest sister Adela portrays youthful passion and defiance in all its tragic poignancy.
Paul Gilchrist
The House of Bernarda Alba by Federico García Lorca, in a translation by Barry Nielsen.
Fiction is an act of fact shaming. Invented narrative has a magic that can embarrass mere recount. I begin my response to Draw Two this way because it’s a one actor play, and there’s been a disappointing trend recently to reduce this genre to confessional theatre.
Now there can be great confessional theatre, but it has its place (and often that place is in a support group or a prayer meeting.)
Draw Two by Meg Goodfellow is a superbly crafted piece of dramatic fiction, an inheritor of the grand tradition of storytelling. Something has happened to Riley’s twin sister Mia, and she must return to her hometown to collect her little nephew. Goodfellow follows the sage advice of make them laugh, make them cry, make them wait. And though the show’s only 70 minutes (which seems to slip by much faster) the audience is offered a journey that’s both funny and deeply moving.
It’s a story of loss, regret and moving forward. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, considering it’s told by one of a pair of twins, it’s about identity. Commandeered by contemporary political discourse, identity is a word in danger of petrifying into a stone tool we use to beat each other. But Goodfellow’s beautiful script playfully acknowledges the concept’s limitations, reminding us that love dissolves all the barriers that corral identity into isolation.
I began by unfavourably comparing recount to narrative, and Goodfellow makes the most of the narrative form’s potential, moving back and forth through time in a perpetually intriguing manner. She also avoids narrative’s great temptation: the end that resolves all problems; the end, that by slamming shut, leaves us feeling we’ve enjoyed a mere fantasy that belongs back in its box, rather than a fiction that will continue to reverberate through our reality.
Director Lauren Bennett textures the piece magnificently. The use of projection, built from visual art by Laura Hayley, is gently and gorgeously evocative, and one of the most effective uses of the technology I’ve seen in theatre.
But Bennett’s master stroke is casting. Georgia McGinness as Riley is phenomenal. Goodfellow’s use of the vernacular is brilliant and McGinness inhabits it flawlessly. McGuiness works without props, her splendid control of movement creating the world of the play. She also creates each of the characters who surround Riley – her mother, her lover, an old flame of her sister’s, a tradesman, her nephew – all through subtle changes in voice and nuanced movement. It’s an extraordinary performance.
The dramatist is the natural enemy of the theorist. Whereas the dramatist delights in the presentation of multiple voices, the theorist subsumes all voices to their singular vision of the world.
In The Female of the Species, Joanna Murray-Smith gives us Margot Mason, a provocateur feminist in the tradition of, say, Germaine Greer or Clementine Ford. To simultaneously poke and praise this type of personality has been in the literary zeitgeist since at least John Irving’s novel The World According to Garp in the late 70’s. But the dramatic form is perfect for reminding us of the vitality of complexity in the face of soul-shrinking reductionism. And, by choosing the particular genre of farce, Murray-Smith gives us something quite special.
Farce is one of the most difficult of genres to perform, especially a piece like this – one which invites high energy physicality but also requires close attention to the witty, erudite dialogue. With a terrific cast directed by Erica Lovell, this production pulls it off, giving us a hilarious, thought-provoking evening of theatre.
Murray-Smith’s protagonist is a superb creation, an incendiary combination of social warrior and self-interest. She’s played brilliantly by Lucy Miller, who gives the character gravitas, scorn and passion (the last of these transcending the temptation to present intellectuals as mere pedants, obsessed with verbal precision.)
Margot proudly owns the moniker provocateur. She’s certainly provoked Molly, a young student who turns up uninvited to her country house. Jade Fuda is wonderful as Molly, positioning her beautifully between vulnerability and determination. Molly points out that Margot’s published works contradict each other, that she’s just seeking attention. The celebrity writer is unfazed. Her books are not commandments for Life, they’re invitations to thought. (This is despite her deep contempt for her daughter’s more conventional life choices. Lib Campbell plays the utterly exhausted young mother of three in suitable, gorgeous hyperbole.)
But back to the play’s interrogation of the provocateur. One of the great questions of the intellectual life is Should you only write the Truth? Anyone with any intellectual humility appreciates that a truly serious commitment to Truth might condemn you to silence. But what would that gain? So you compromise. You tell yourself you’ll write the Truth as it appears to you, limited and flawed though that will inevitably be. It’s what you have to offer to the conversation, another stick among many thrown onto the communal fire. But if it’s the conversation, the fire, that’s important, what does it matter what you throw into the mix? After all, the deliberately inflammatory might just shake things up, make the fire burn that bit more fiercely, push back the darkness a little further, hold back the cold a little longer…
Which leads me to another great tension in the intellectual life, that between followers and leaders. We’re in awe of those who can express things neatly, who can tie up the world’s loose ends with some all-encompassing theory. But to mistake what they say for Truth is to confuse the small solidity of the stick with the dangerous vitality of the fire. Hold on too tightly to that dried out old piece of wood and watch the desiccated hollowness spread up your arm and wither your whole life.
Murray-Smith gives Margot a chain of books with curious catchy titles. Her most famous is The Cerebral Vagina, but listen closely for her most recent title. She’s toying with The Female of the Species, but in the play’s closing moments she comes up with another title, one that is gloriously provocative.
I started by suggesting farce is extremely difficult. It’s difficult because it makes so little effort at truthfulness. Instead, it asks us to revel in its very artificiality. And it’s this delightful artificiality that makes farce an ideal vehicle for the examination of the artificiality of our grand narratives. We enjoy them so, but they’re not Life.
The joy of a classic is twofold: you’ve either seen it before and are fascinated by the choices made by this particular production, or you’re seeing it for the first time and are sharing in an experience that has enthralled millions before you.
This version, adapted and directed by Anthony Skuse, will thrill audiences both familiar with the play and those to whom it is entirely new.
Skuse has tightened the piece so it runs a brisk 90 minutes, a remarkable achievement as there’s not much fat to trim off Ibsen’s original, a piece that can run two hours fifteen.
Hedda has just returned from her honeymoon with her more conventional husband Jørgen Tesman. It’s clearly not a perfect match, a fact underlined by the play’s title: Hedda’s maiden name. In the drawing room of the couples’ newly acquired home is a portrait of her father, General Gabler, watching over all. And, waiting in a drawer, is the set of pistols he bequeathed his daughter.
It’s tempting to read the plays of the second half of Ibsen’s career as documenting social issues. When Nora leaves her husband at the end of A Doll’s House, it can seem like she’s slamming the door on the whole damned patriarchy. And, I guess, if you like your theatre as a type of animated slogan, a sort of cutely repeating GIF, who am I to say you shouldn’t. But I do wonder if reducing Ibsen to a message is to rob the dramatic experience of its richness. From long, hard experience, I’ve come to the conclusion that the best way to pass the time in the theatre is by paying attention to the actual play, rather than holding tight to some theory you brought pre-packed from home.
Ibsen, I suspect, is best appreciated through character rather than message. Famously, he claimed to have spoken to his characters, heard their voices, noted their choice of dress. They weren’t puppets for his particular philosophy, but people….with all the wild heaving breathing contradictions that implies.
Skuse’s version honours this gloriously Life-affirming approach, and Hedda as performed by Ella Prince is beautifully rich and complex. Prince’s Hedda is intense and bewildered, focussed and fraught, iron-strong and vapour-vulnerable. She’s both the pistol and its puff. She’s a long way from some other Heddas I’ve seen: silly middleclass housewives who are close cousins to Emma Bovary, bored with their lives and self-medicating with fantasy. Prince’s Hedda longs for something more, but in a way that’s so genuine, so potent, that it doesn’t so much indict the mediocrity of the society she’s trapped in as offer a Dionysian vision of ecstatic fecundity, of human flourishing …. of tragically lost opportunity.
With a terrific cast, Skuse surrounds Hedda with characters who are tougher and less comically inconsequential than those some directors choose to present. There’s still plenty of humour, but these characters, though not Hedda’s equal in strength, inhabit a psychological world that is neither inconceivably nor prohibitively distant from her own. Considering the notorious final line of the play, this is both ironic and deeply poignant. The use of space is brilliant, making the most of KXT’s traverse stage, and the simple conceit of having characters occasionally sit with us in the front row is a powerful reminder that Ibsen offers people, just like ourselves.
Paul Gilchrist
Hedda Gabler by Henrik Ibsen, in a version by Anthony Skuse
Presented by Secret House in association with bAKEHOUSE theatre co
It presents as sitcom spiced with satire, but appearances are deceiving. (Or should that be illusory?)
Multinational company Jojomon makes yoga clothes – and an extraordinary amount of money. But there’s a scandal, and now they have an authenticity problem. Profits are diving.
How can they fake authenticity?
Clearly, companies that make serious cash out of any spiritual tradition are perfect for a poke, as is anyone more interested in sculpting their body than nurturing their soul. The West’s appropriation of the Eastern practice of yoga is an exemplar of how capitalism can so impoverish the invaluable that it becomes obscenely valuable.
Playwright Dipika Guha creates terrific comic characters and director Mina Morita has a brilliant cast that pitch them perfectly. Joan the CEO is fully cognisant of the discord between corporate culture and new age platitudes, and Andrea Moor superbly portrays the tensions between patience, puzzlement and pressure. Thomas Larkin is magnificent as the company owner who refers to customers as family, and then treats them with the appropriate disdain. (And there’s some beautiful and unexpected doubling here). Nat Jobe and Jemwel Danao are a sensationally funny duo, playing employees who speak the new age language fluently, and almost believe it. Camila Ponte Alvarez as the LA yoga instructor who’s all gratitude, bliss and namaste – until you cross her – is absolutely hilarious.
It’s a wonderfully fun night of theatre. But I said it was dramatic bliss – because there’s more.
In addition to sitcom and social satire, there’s surprising depth. Gently and playfully, the piece explores two of the most crucial issues facing our society.
The first is sociological and centres on assumptions about identity. By creating characters of multiple ethnicities who are exploiting the practice of yoga, Guha puts cultural appropriation firmly on the table. We talk a lot about cultural appropriation these days, but at the heart of the concept are some rather odd assumptions. I’m not denying the concept has validity; I’m just suggesting we’d all gain from the sort of interrogation this very clever play provokes.
On a cultural level, what does my biological heritage entitle me to? What do I actually mean when I refer to my culture? Do I own it?
What, exactly, does culture include? (Culture is one of the most nebulous words in my language that I don’t own.) When is something a cultural tradition and when is it just a fashion? How fixed is culture? And is it possible to have tensions within a culture? If someone of, say, Indian biological heritage holds a particular value, does that value then automatically become Indian culture? Or are a certain number of Indians required to hold that value for it to pass muster? How many?
And what does my culture demand of me? If I reject elements of my culture, does that mean I’m a bad custodian? Or does it mean I’m a mature self-actualised individual?
And if elements of my culture enhance joy, why would I prevent others from sharing in it? (Unless, of course, the joy I’m talking about is defined solely as a financial gain that would be lessened if the market was saturated. And if that’s our default way of looking at cultural appropriation, it only goes to show how capitalist materialism has been appropriated by everyone.)
The second crucial issue the play addresses is psychological, and also centres on identity. Drawing on traditional Hindu beliefs (ones shared with many mystic traditions) the play asks several of its characters to consider the nature of the Self. In our globalised world, we’re perpetually bombarded by loud, outside voices. For safety’s sake, we’ve come to define ourselves quite narrowly. Or, perhaps more accurately, we’ve come to define ourselves quite emphatically. But every definition is predicated on exclusion. In asserting I am this, I’m asserting I’m not something else. What are we losing by our adherence to this safety strategy of the Self? What would happen if we didn’t define ourselves at all? If we let go of our insistence on borders, on divisions?
The play deals with all this in a gorgeously light way, and is as joyful as an invitation to the eternal cosmic dance.
Paul Gilchrist
Yoga Play by Dipika Guha
Presented by National Theatre of Parramatta & La Boite Theatre
Theatre Red 