And What Will People Say?

19 Sep

This a very beautiful, very powerful show.

It’s testimonial theatre; that is, its purpose is to bear witness to the experience of a certain group of people.

Written by Amani Mahmoud and directed by Kersherka Sivakumaran, And What Will People Say? bears witness to those who suffer from domestic abuse in the Australian South Asian community.

We love our community, we are told, but there are dark places we need to talk about.

And that talk must involve deep listening, because the what will people say of the title is the idle gossip of those who don’t understand why a wife might need to leave an abusive husband.

The piece begins with a voice-over on a darkened stage. A woman tells us of the trauma she and her family have suffered at the hands of a man. She desperately wants to be heard, but she does not want to be seen; she believes nothing will be gained by shaming the perpetrator, her father, now an old man. It’s a deeply humane attitude (and it also hints at the ever widening circles of shame that can extend from any crime, any sin, waves of shame that threaten to overwhelm the perpetrator, the victim, the victim’s family, the community…..)

The piece uses several other devices to avoid the name-and-shame temptation and to present something more constructive. One is to have the story told through narration, read by an actor who moves between characters. Maithly Dhawan reads with a simple truthfulness that has maximum emotional impact.

The tale is told in three parts, and its telling, as against the choice of dramatic enactment, allows a fertile ambiguity as the listener decides if these are three parts of the one tale, or three different tales: are we going deeper or are we going broader? Dramatic enactment, for all its concrete embodiment of an issue – or, perhaps, because of it – lacks this richness, and so can struggle to present simultaneously the commonality of a problem and its multiple manifestations.

Interspersed between the parts of the narrative are magnificent dance sequences by a single performer, Gayatri Krishnamurthy. Working with tropes of South Asian dance, each sequence is suggestive of the narrative we’ve just heard, and this evocative echoing in a different artform is another creative choice that lifts the representation of the experience of abuse beyond limiting particulars.  Accompanying the dance are Indu Balachandran on veena, Pirashanna Thevarajah on percussion and Narthana Kanagasabai on violin, creating music that is wonderfully expressive of both melancholy and the possibility of change. 

The narratives themselves are superbly written, replete with detail that makes us see the moment and feel the pain. Though the identity of the narrator changes, the perspective remains female, which means the experience of the innocent take precedence over the behaviour of the abuser.  Once again, the wisdom of the choice to use narration rather than enactment becomes apparent – the dramatic form, with its focus on conflict and action, all too easily grants centre stage to the abuser. 

Ironically, one of the strengths of this piece is that we don’t know why the abuser acts as he does. He remains only a frightening unfathomable threat – which is a perfect delineation of how he is experienced by those who live with him.

But without offering insight into the cause of the problem, how does the piece hope to facilitate its solution? (And, yes, for the average piece of theatre, that might seem an utterly unrealistic expectation.)

But I think the answer to that question is threefold:

One answer is, that by so powerfully representing the pain and trauma created by abuse, the perpetrators will be shocked into an understanding of the impact of their behaviour. (I’m not sure if belief in such a possibility would be a sign of a quaint psychological naivety or of a laudable moral commitment to hope.)

Another answer could be, that by so powerfully representing the pain and trauma created by abuse, the community might soften its heart towards women who need to escape their abusers. (The title of the piece implies this is the outcome most hoped for by the creatives.)

And the final answer: it is sufficient Truth be told.

Paul Gilchrist

And What Will People Say? written by Amani Mahmoud and directed by Kersherka Sivakumaran,

at Pottery Lane Performance Space, Lane Cove, as part of the Sydney Fringe,

until 21 Sept.

sydneyfringe.com

Image supplied.

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Psycho or Psychic

18 Sep

In our culture of scientific materialism, psychic experience gets short shrift.

Claim to have had a vision of the future, or to have seen someone’s soul, and you won’t be credited. You’ll just be pitied. (Unless, of course, you’re attempting to benefit from the gullibility of the unfortunate – in which case, you’ll be pilloried.)

But, still, these psychic experiences are had, and the title of this show highlights our reductive thinking around the issue.

In this wacky one-person comedy, Sarah Francis creates Luna. She’s psycho only in the colloquial sense of the term; that is, manically unconventional (rather than dangerously egocentric and anti-social.)

Francis emphasizes Luna’s eccentric behaviour through direct interaction with the audience. Luna guesses people’s coffee orders – with statistically predictable success – and delivers to them empty cups. She conscripts one audience member to be her onstage boyfriend, another to be her pretentious boss, and another to be herself. This sort of audience participation is always risky, but it certainly results in a show that is intriguingly unpredictable.

As Francis swaps between roles herself, her physicality is excellent, creating in a flash both character and laughter.

However, there are pacing problems – partly due to costume changes, partly due to the challenges of audience participation.

And, despite the madcap mayhem, there’s a serious side to it all. Francis suggests the isolation of those who have psychic experiences, and the troubling bewilderment that comes from witnessing people trying to hide their pain while knowing all the time that their souls scream in agony. This is not charlatanism but rich empathy.

(For the sceptics amongst us, I’d point out that imagination and empathy are intertwined and, perhaps, the stronger the one, the stronger the other. Catherine of Siena, or one of the other medieval mystics, was once asked Do your visions appear in the real world or in your imagination? With soul-expanding sanity, she responded, In my imagination, of course. )

Paul Gilchrist

Psycho or Psychic by Sarah Francis

At the Emerging Artist Share House (Erskineville Town Hall)

As part of the Sydney Fringe

Until 20 September

sydneyfringe.com

Image supplied

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Agony

11 Sep

Written and directed by Mariika Mehigan, this is a delightful historical comedy.

It took me a while to clock that it actually was a historical piece – though the costumes, and the presence on stage of a landline, should’ve been a giveaway. (I guess it’s a symptom of my obtuseness – and of something far more important, which I’ll discuss later.)

Agony is set in the 1970’s, at the height of second wave feminism and the sexual revolution. And high school student Bronnie has just had sex for the first time.

It was less than satisfying.

She seeks advice from Tanya, the “agony aunt” for teen magazine Honey. Problem is Tanya’s having problems of her own in the bedroom.

This raises the thorny question: Who of us has sufficient authority to hand down advice? How easily the handing down of advice slips into the laying down of law. Tanya is unlikely to abuse her position, but she’s aware that a young woman genuinely asking for guidance may well receive instead only instruction in the conventional, heteronormative, patriarchal narrative (which is like asking for bread and being given stones.)

The script is funny and cleverly structured, evocatively juxtaposing the stories of two women seeking their authentic selves.

Mehigan’s characterisations are superb, surprisingly and stimulatingly subtle for a 50 minute comedy. And as director she draws from her cast captivating performances (though occasionally there could be a little more attention to vocal projection.)

Laetitia Opie as teenage Bronnie is excellent, having a wonderful stage presence, and displaying top class comic skills as she delivers her advice-seeking monologues. Her repeated refrain, that her boyfriend is a bit of a prick, beautifully recalls the deliberate ambiguity of the world of Puberty Blues, where self-assertion and tragic resignation combine to create both humour and pathos.

Sophie Newby plays both Dean (the above mentioned prick) and Kay, Bronnie’s best friend. Newby’s performance is admirably versatile. Dean is stupidly and suitably self-centred, and Kay (gay though never explicitly labelled as such) is an inspiring model of quiet confidence and independence. 

Louie O’Carroll plays Tanya, the advice columnist, and gives an engaging presentation of that trickiest of positions: the dizzyingly, enervating dance of determination and doubt. She marvellously captures the poignancy of the play’s closing moment. 

Callum Wilson as Tanya’s boyfriend, Sean, offers a terrifically amusing portrait of evolving masculinity. In response to the women’s libbers (who clearly terrify him) he’s too nice to adopt the chauvinistic cliché of the dismissive swagger. Ironically, his supposed sensitivity only further muddies Tanya’s journey to authenticity.

I began by suggesting that I didn’t immediately recognise Agony as a historical piece. That’s a testament to its contemporary relevance. The tension inherent in sexuality is that while it’s deeply personal, it can’t be entirely private. Individual desires can only be fulfilled in the social world (even if we try to reduce that world to the supposed secrecy of the bedroom.) The tensions navigated by the characters in Agony are still faced by young people today. And to be reminded of what happened in the 60s and 70s, when activists strove to bring into the open these tensions, and to have sexual diversity honestly acknowledged, is a glorious gift of hope.

Paul Gilchrist

Agony by Mariika Mehigan

at the Emerging Artist Sharehouse (Erskineville Town Hall)

as part of the Sydney Fringe, until 13 Sept

sydneyfringe.com

Image supplied.

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Traffic Light Party

10 Sep

This shouldn’t work, but it does – gloriously  – and that’s a testament to the skill of the creative team.

Written by Izzy Azzopardi and directed by Brea Macey, Traffic Light Party is a beautiful snapshot of youth as it navigates love.

The setting is an end of semester uni party. It doesn’t appear much has changed in the 40 years since I was last invited to one. (Except for the traffic light concept: wear green if you’re available, red if you’re not, and yellow if it’s complicated. I don’t think that was a thing in 1985. Is it a thing now? Regardless, it’s a magical gift to be shown once again, with such crystal clarity, that most wondrous time of Life.)

I began with the suggestion the piece shouldn’t work, and that’s because parties, by definition, are messy. But Azzopardi’s splendid script keeps a tight thematic focus. Despite the large number of characters, everything centres explicitly on relationships; and, because of the large number of characters, that theme is satisfyingly explored from multiple angles.

Another device that holds it all together is the motif of driving. Between the scenes set at the party, scenes of realism, are interspersed movement and choral sequences. These juxtapose the certainty of the rules of the road with the certainty we long for in that far more murky sphere of human experience: relationships. This correlation has its antecedents, famously in F Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. But Azzopardi makes it her own, and its use simultaneously draws attention to the key themes and gives the piece a pleasing texture. As is the way with theatre, the exuberant fun of these sequences is the result of disciplined work by Macey and the entire ensemble.

But, for me, the highlight of Azzopardi’s script are the one-on-one conversations. These are superbly crafted and Macey elicits from the cast performances that are both candidly authentic and genuinely moving.

Let me describe a few of these scenes.

Ivy (Azzopardi) talks to Samson (Isaac Harley). There’s obvious sexual tension though, it seems, he’s taken. He calls her Fletcher, her last name, an apparent denial of attraction yet, in its very oddness, intimate. It’s these sort of touches that give the script its shine.

Samson is later asked by Amber (Caitlin Green), the girl he has actually been seeing, whether they are boyfriend and girlfriend. He quibbles about the labels. This scene is particularly good in its slow burn, in the gradual growth of tension, and in the way it lets the conversation be untidy, in the painfully and ironic way such defining moments in relationships so often are.

Phoenix (Travis Howard) confronts Reid (Jordy Stewart) about whether he’ll ever come out. Reid’s But what will my rugby mates say? is suitably dismissed by Phoenix, but the scene bravely refuses to deny the reality of Reid’s fear.  

Ivy and Scarlett (Meg Denman) argue about their friendship and if it’s lost, now that Scarlett has found romance. Is there a hierarchy of relationships? If so, why is friendship placed so low? The sense of bitter bewilderment shines in Ivy’s eyes, only to be honestly countered by the tired frustration in Scarlett’s voice.

Chloe (Grace Easterby) has drunk too much and Hunter (Caleb Jamieson) tries to take advantage. Once again, this scene is perfectly paced, and Hunter’s duplicity and Chloe’s vulnerability is appropriately painful to witness.

And now an exception from the paired conversations: the one sided phone call. Sunny (Renée Billing) speaks to their partner, whose absence at the party, a flapping red flag, is deftly rendered as both a giving of offence and a granting of freedom.

Traffic Light Party was my first Fringe show for 2025. I hope to see many more that are as enjoyable. It’s thoroughly engaging and poignantly truthful.

Paul Gilchrist

Traffic Light Party by Izzy Azzopardi

presented by Jezebel Productions as part of the Sydney Fringe

The Actors Pulse Playhouse, Redfern, until 13 Sept

sydneyfringe.com

Image supplied.

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Life is a Dream

9 Sep

This is a fascinating piece of theatre.

It’s a contemporary adaptation of Pedro Calderón de la Barca’s original play, a classic of the Spanish Golden Era.

In both versions, Segismundo is imprisoned at birth because of an omen suggesting he will be a threat to the royal family.

In this version, by Australian writer Claudia Osborne, the story is streamlined and the focus becomes the dreadful impact of marginalisation (which is somewhat different from the original – but more on that later.)

This version begins with a long sequence in which Segismundo is imprisoned in his cell. To justify his imprisonment, his warder, Clotaldo, repeatedly tells him He is dangerous and destructive, but not in this room. We watch Segismundo both deal with boredom and guess at the nature of the outside world he can only know through home videos, books and conversation. For quite some time, we’re not told why Segismundo has to live this existence, and the suspense of this sequence and its hint of allegory seems informed not only by the 17th century original but also by 20th century absurdism. Directed by Solomon Thomas and Osborne, the humour and pathos are beautifully rendered. Thomas Campbell is terrific in his portrayal of Clotaldo, his complicity in an injustice and his love for his prisoner fighting a silent, heart-wrenching battle. Ariyan Sharma as Segismundo gives a brilliant performance, skilfully presenting the physical comedy, while still portraying the character’s innocence and wide-eyed vulnerability.

Then, suddenly, on the king’s birthday, Segismundo is allowed to meet his family for the first time. The sequence that follows is a thrilling tonal change. From the gentle evocative pace of the imprisonment scenes, it now feels as though we’ve been thrown into the living-room-cum-board-room of a hyper-privileged family, where tensions are entirely explicit (partly because of the repetition of refrains like This is fucked up!) Mark Lee as the king, Essie Randles as his daughter, Shiv Palekar as his eldest son, and Ariadne Sgouros as his daughter-in-law bring to this sequence a fierce energy (though I wish the script had allotted more space to the exploration of their characters and motivations.)

But that isn’t the piece’s focus. The focus is the experience of the marginalised, or more precisely, the demonised. And, yes, I’m getting awfully close to spoiler territory, so I’ll tread carefully – but what the piece offers is a powerful warning about the tendency of prophecies to be self-fulfilling. Expect evil, and you encourage it. This is a timely reminder in our current political climate, one in which we increasingly fall into the temptation of deciding that those who are different to us, or who disagree with us, are irredeemable enemies. Our certainty of their evil will prove us correct – and that may well be our only satisfaction.

But it’s not only what this piece does that makes it fascinating, but also what it doesn’t do. Osborne has created a version of Life is a Dream for our era, with our desire for social justice and our condemnation of the misuse of power. Written for a very different era, Calderón’s version ends very differently. And in the original, the title evoked more than the exclusion of the marginalised from what the hegemony might call reality. It also suggested something of Life’s grand mystery, something of the wonder of existence expressed by so many writers in Spain’s Golden Era (and which, incongruously, I’ll exemplify by a quote from the ancient Chinese philosopher Zhuangzi: Am I a man dreaming I am a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming I am a man?)

Awareness of the difference between the two texts invites some rather confronting questions. In our journey to modernity, what we have gained and what we have lost? No one can argue with a culture that’s cured small pox and condemns slavery. But still, one might regret a certain diminishment, a shrinking of the soul, a soul that now knows only answers, and knows not wonder.

But awareness of the difference between the texts, or indeed any knowledge of the original, is unnecessary for the enjoyment of this piece.

It’s surprising and vibrant, fun and thought-provoking.

Paul Gilchrist

Life is a Dream by Claudia Osborne, after Pedro Calderón de la Barca

Presented by Fervour

At Downstairs Belvoir, as part of 25A, until Sept 21

belvoir.com.au

Image by Phil Erbacher

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The Bridge

6 Sep

In the battle between the generations, the outcome is inevitable; all that’s in question is what the victors will learn from the vanquished before their final defeat.

The Bridge by Sunny Grace, Richie Black and Clare Hennessy is a fun comedy.

But it’s also a story of generational conflict.

Alyssa is covering Medea’s Curse on Tik Tok.

Amanda, who wrote the song, is not impressed. She’s the archetypal bad girl of 90’s Aussie rock. She Gave-it-to-the-Man good and hard  – and now she lives in Canley Vale with her adult son, teaching teenagers on Zoom to play Smoke on the Water.

Stories of generational conflict are as old as humanity. But our contemporaries often give two twists to this ancient tale.

The first twist – facilitated by our faith in Progress – is that the conflict is an ideological one, rather than just an unseemly scuffle for power. (Many people of a certain age will see in the self-righteousness of youth nothing more than an unconscious powerplay – and will look back at their own younger self with horror.)

The second twist – a product of a sociology infected by the disease of marketing –  is that the generations are somehow monolithic, that to make generalised assertions about Boomers or Gen X is insightful rather than mere intellectual laziness.

The Bridge, though aware of these contemporary twists, sensibly delivers them light. Directed by Lucinda Gleeson, it focusses the audience not on pseudo-sociology, but on the terrific one-liners and the excellent comic performances.

Zoe Carides gives us an Amanda who is hilariously plain-speaking. Brendan Miles as her manager beautifully expresses the frustrations inevitable in the attempt to curb a force of nature. Hennessy as Alyssa is an engaging mix of exuberance, defiance and doubt. Matt Abotomey, in a range of roles, displays a thrilling comic virtuosity.

The production runs 95 mins and occasionally loses pace. I was left wondering whether the script would benefit from a trim. The story begins in the 90’s, but its heart is now.  I’m not sure we really need to see any of the past. Let it be backstory and allow it to enrich the dialogue in the present (and this suggestion from someone who has too often complained about modern theatre’s obsession with backstory.)

And though the whole issue of whether these characters achieve fame or success was never going to resonate with a theatre reviewer, there remains a heartwarming comedy of the generations, and of the construction of bridges more important than any found in pop songs.

Paul Gilchrist

The Bridge by Sunny Grace, Richie Black and Clare Hennessy

Presented by CrissCross Productions in association with bAKEHOUSE Theatre

At KXT until 13 September

kingsxtheatre.com

Image by Ravyna Jassani

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The Face of Jizo

27 Aug

What people do to other people.

So says Mitsue’s perplexed father.

Mitsue is a survivor of the bombing of Hiroshima. She now works in a library. She’s also a member of a club that collects folktales. She insists they be handed down as they were traditionally told. During story week, she shares them with the local children.

A young physicist, and a potential suitor, has arrived in the city. He’s collecting mishappen objects that illustrate the ferocity of the nuclear explosion that was unleashed only three years ago.

Mitsue’s father suggests ways that these objects could be incorporated in her stories. She’s reluctant. She says no art can be made from what happened to the people of Hiroshima.

This play by Hisashi Inoue proves Mitsue wrong. A story of Little People caught in Big History, it’s both beautiful and profoundly moving. It does what theatre can do so well; it makes concrete what otherwise is lost in abstraction. We all know what happened at Hiroshima 80 years ago, but bewildered by the sheer numbers, the human face of the horror is hidden.

Directed by Shingo Usami and David Lynch, this production is extraordinarily powerful. Mayu Iwasaki as Mitsue and Usami as her father deliver magnificently poignant performances. It’s the gentleness, the restraint, the unforced nature of these performances that have such an effect. “Dripping water hollows out stone” wrote Ovid. Plotwise, we know what’s happened to Mitsue, and we soon guess what’s happened to her father, but over the show’s 70 minutes, which is sprinkled with humour and infused with the warmth of the love between father and daughter, we come to feel their true humanity, in all its wondrous fragility.

In our mad world, the plenitude of pain can petrify us, can turn our hearts to stone. But stone can soften, and by arousing such deep sympathy for those who suffer, The Face of Jizo revitalises hearts that have become too heavy.

Paul Gilchrist

The Face of Jizo by Hisashi Inoue (translated by Roger Pulvers)

Presented by Seymour Centre and Omusubi Productions

At Seymour Centre until 7 September

seymourcentre.com

Image by Philip Erbacher

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The Frogs: In Hell They Sing Show Tunes

26 Aug

Adapted by Alex Kendall Robson, after Aristophanes (about twenty-four centuries after Aristophanes.)

Robson’s adaptation follows a very similar plot to the original.

In an attempt to save the world, Dionysius visits the underworld to bring back the greatest playwright. It might seem an odd strategy, but as the God of Theatre, Dionysius might be excused for overestimating the impact of the artform.

The original play, first produced in 405 BCE, was a mixture of satire and broad humour. Robson’s adaptation is similar in tone, though with slightly more focus on the second of these comic elements.

Aristophanes included songs, though not show tunes. (The Ancient Greeks can be blamed for a lot, including theatre and philosophy, but not for the abomination that is modern American musical comedy.)

With amended lyrics, this adaptation of The Frogs includes versions of Putting on the Ritz and Singing in the Rain, as well as Wayfaring Stranger and something (I think?) from Bizet’s Carmen. The last two aren’t show tunes, but then, the manner in which all the musical numbers are presented doesn’t justify the title’s joking implication that songs such as these are the essence of the tortures of Hell. (Nor does their presentation justify my earlier cheap shot at musical comedy.) Under musical director Zachary Aleksander, the talented cast perform the songs beautifully. (Though I wonder whether amplification might have better delivered the wacky, high-spirited energy this production clearly values.)

Working with Robson’s fun script, and under his direction, the comic performances are excellent. I’ll cherry pick a few. Pat Mandziy as Dionysius is a delicious blend of camp and privileged naivety. Eddy O’Leary as his underling, Xanthias, is a fine inheritor of the long tradition that the disempowered see truths to which the powerful are blind. (The script mischievously asks whether we can call this character a slave – but I’ll get back to that later). Axel Berecry as Heracles is gloriously over the top in his presentation of the stupid he-man. Larissa Turton and Meg Bennetts deliver a terrific parody of two tough-speaking old-school landladies. Bennetts also turns up as Sappho, and her portrayal of a character of gravitas, dignity and wisdom is a sensationally effective change in tone from the rest of the production’s madcap hijinks.

I’ve expressed previously that I think it’s odd that Australian theatre makers are fascinated with Ancient Greece. It’s odd because Ancient Greece is truly a foreign culture – yet we seem to see it as a sort of universal. It’s not. Example: Up to 40% of Ancient Greece’s population were slaves – yet, as this production implies, we have trouble even saying the word. And don’t get me started on the misogyny of the ancient world.

Not that audiences will have any trouble following this adaptation. Robson makes this foreign world accessible – a challenging task when you consider that the original play’s dramatis personae consists of a mixture of mythical characters and historical individuals who are hardly household names in modern Australia. Sensibly, when we get to the two historical playwrights who are contending for the title of the greatest – Euripides and Aeschylus – this adaptation slips into a musical number and a quick bawdy sight gag. It’s a smart choice, as contemporary audiences are likely to find a debate concerning the relative merits of the competing styles of Ancient Greek tragedy more soporific than stimulating.

Another change to the original is the addition of Sappho. As I’ve suggested, it’s a scene that makes for fascinating theatre. But curiously, it also functions as a criticism and rejection of Dionysius’ quest. I say curiously because – up to this point – the assertion of theatre’s ultimate value seemed to be the only serious justification for the piece. (If one was needed.)

But the Sappho scene also highlights what I’ve suggested about the Ancient Greeks being a very different culture from our own. And I know I’m close to spoiler territory here – but, when you go, note Sappho’s prayer. Who she prays to is not anachronistic, but what she asks for is. It involves a conception of human relationships which lay centuries ahead, at least in Western culture.   

By now, reading my response, you’ve probably come to the conclusion that it’s not show tunes that are the essence of Hell, but rather nit-picking, such as mine. (The devil being always in the details.)

But, by pointing out an anachronism, I’m not criticising the script. With such a deliberately playful piece that type of petty fault finding would be utterly misguided. (Especially since the piece consciously indulges in it’s fair share of impish anachronism.) And, anyway, I agree with Sappho’s imagined-though-anachronistic solution. I’m merely pointing out that the actual answer the Ancient Greeks would offer to our problems might not satisfy us (…..which is why Robson has rewritten the end of the play.)

Ultimately, this production is an exuberant celebration of love and laughter, and whether that’s a timeless panacea or not, it’s sure as hell welcome now.

Paul Gilchrist

The Frogs: In Hell They Sing Show Tunes adapted by Alex Kendall Robson, after Aristophanes

At New Theatre until 6 September

newtheatre.org.au

Image by Bob Seary

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Three (Short) Plays by Tennessee Williams

11 Aug

An increasing familiarity with a writer’s body of work offers real delight.

And it’s not just the delight of the know-it-all or the systemiser, the sort of pleasure that comes from a sense of superiority or control.

It’s the joy of meeting the artist behind the work, of getting a sense of their world view, their fascinations and their fears, what they feel they can attempt and what, for whatever reason, they eschew.

Jane Austen famously described her writing as a little bit (two inches wide) of ivory on which I work with so fine a brush, as produces little effect after much labour – and if you’ve had the good fortune to read her six novels, you’ll know that even in her throw away aphorisms she was the master ironist.

But what of Tennessee Williams?

Many of us are familiar with Williams’ full length plays The Glass Menagerie, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and A Street Car Named Desire, but we’re less familiar with his short works. This production presents three of those playlets: At Liberty, Auto-Da-Fe and This Property is Condemned.

Williams was very proud of many of his short works.

And they further the impression of the artist and his art that many audiences get from his better known plays. On a linguistic level, they’re constructed from a beautifully heightened language that never loses its connection with the genuine vernacular. On a thematic level, they’re built from the tensions between sexuality and respectability, purity and pretension, and loneliness and fulfilment. And because they’re usually performed in a Southern accent (as they are here) they seem to offer a portrait of a particular part of the USA at a particular time. (You might assert that all theatre does something like my last point; that is, depict a specific place and time, but I think that’s true to varying degrees. Williams always seems aware of Society – that demographic cultural phenomena which is the subject of study of sociology, and is posited by modernity because it recognises the ubiquity of the arbitrary. Williams is aware of this Society in a way that, say, Shakespeare is not. You could argue this is because Williams is more interested in the outsider, but Shakespeare has characters like Othello and Shylock. Williams’ outsiders, however, are not obviously outsiders: he’s the great playwright of the hidden subversive.)

Directed by Megan Sampson, this production is a wonderful opportunity to consider the exact nature of the playwright’s genius (and, if you read this before you go, offers the added pleasure of concluding that my assessment of Williams is utterly inadequate or simply absurd.)

I’ll forgo filler and refrain from a description of each playlet; with the whole evening only 50 mins long, scenarios too easily slip into spoilers. Suffice to say, each piece is a treat, and the six different roles, doubled by Helena Cielak, Will Manton and Emma Wright, are brought to life with a precise energy. Cielak portrays two different women who each in their own way balances a radiant presence with a pathos-inducing bluster. Manton creates portraits of both uptight repression and bewildered innocence. And Wright brings fitting focus to two distinct characters who represent firmness in the face of flailing volatility.

Paul Gilchrist

Three (Short) Plays by Tennessee Williams

Presented by Ground Floor Theatre Company

At the Old Fitz, as the Late Show, until 15 August

oldfitztheatre.com.au

Image by Robert Miniter

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Foam

9 Aug

Every woman adores a Fascist, wrote Sylvia Plath.

And, apparently, it’s not just the women.

Foam by Harry McDonald presents the encounters of skinhead Nicky with a range of men, from those who aim to lure him into far right ideology, to those who are aroused by his brutal persona. (There is at least one man, however, whose attitude is closer to the only good fascist is a dead one.)

Patrick Phillips as Nicky appears in every scene and, under the direction of Gavin Roach, delivers a magnetic performance. The supporting cast of Timothy Springs, Joshua Merten and Chad Traupmann create a range of characters to populate the world around Nicky. Traupmann as the older fascist seeking recruits is suitably calm, confident and deeply disturbing, and as Nicky’s lover movingly portrays both concern and vulnerability. Merten as a gay photographer under Nicky’s spell is both charming and funny. Springs effectively creates characters who are far less enthralled by the protagonist’s antics.

Set in Britain in the 70’s and 80’s, each scene of Foam is separated from the others by several years, and apart from Nicky, the characters don’t appear to have a continuous arc. This makes for a fascinating guessing game as we figure out what has happened to the protagonist in the time between.

Each scene is set in a toilet (though not the same toilet.) And as almost every scene involves Nicky and a lover (or a potential lover), the toilet is a symbol powerfully suggestive of the simultaneous ubiquity and marginalisation of gay experience. (It wasn’t until uni that I learnt that some men met in public toilets for sex – and I learnt it from a book. I read that book not long after I’d read another that claimed to be the work of a reincarnated medieval heretic and, to my painfully narrow experience, the premise of both books seemed equally likely.)

The play is inspired by a true story, and I’m guessing the stimulus was the question How could a queer man get mixed up in far right politics? This seems as provocative as the question Why do bad things happen to good people? and deserves the same answer: Why not? (Perhaps I’m less naïve than I was at uni.) After all, out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made. (And like Kant when he wrote those lines, I’m not playing on any connotation that invites a reductionist vision of sexuality. Or, indeed, a reductionist vision of anything.)

The script doesn’t really explore why Nicky becomes a fascist. And (probably for the best) it uses the terms nazi and fascist rather vaguely and offers only a few examples of the type of violence that usually attracts those labels.

The piece is primarily about identity. Unsurprisingly, most communities develop a vision of themselves that is positive. I suspect few billionaires are of the belief that billionaires are myopically selfish. The queer community are likely to engage in the same strategy (and for much greater reason than the insanely rich.)

This play confronts us with human complexity, and that is a glorious invitation to growth. And who outgrows that?

Paul Gilchrist

Foam by Harry McDonald

presented by Gavin Roach

at the Substation, Qtopia, until 23 August

qtopiasydney.com.au

Image by Robert Catto

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