Jasper Lee-Lindsay’s one actor show is a 40 minute abbreviated version of Sophocles’ Theban plays.
Well, that was the plan.
What we get instead, as recompense, is a PowerPoint outlining the show he was going to write, if he’d finished it.
It’s a terrific conceit, allowing for brilliant humour and yet, surprisingly, still capturing the essence of the Ancient Greek tragedies.
Initially, the projector screen isn’t in place, and Lee-Lindsay’s mumbling, bumbling incompetence is juxtaposed to great effect with the quick action of the stage manager.
As Lee-Lindsay outlines the show that was to be, his comic timing is excellent. This is self-effacing, self-depreciating humour, beautifully delivered.
It’s not stand up, it’s a character piece. There’s whiff of Bob Newhart about it all (which shows my age, unless of course Newhart ages as well as Sophocles, and then I won’t be old, but erudite.)
Why Sophocles’ tragedies? Lee-Lindsay suggests the plague and crisis that hit Thebes resonate with the last few years in world affairs. And the title is a pun. Everything is wrecked.
Not that Lee-Lindsay articulates it, but there’s also the train wreck of this show. As I suggested earlier, it mischievously manifests the Ancient Greek tragic spirit: it’s fated that things will go terribly wrong; despite all our hopes, the universe is fundamentally, and incomprehensibly, hostile.
And there’s also the hint of what we call Shakespearean tragedy. Does the persona that Lee-Lindsay creates have a flaw which plays a part in that persona’s demise? Is that flaw ADHD? (That’s if a mental disorder can even be a flaw, in the way that, say, ambition is for Macbeth.) The possibility is aired but then, just as quickly, buried by fear. Hasn’t he read somewhere that the disorder might not even be real? It’s both a hilarious and moving portrait of debilitating doubt.
The world is big and we are small – and born of that eternal yawning disparity is bewilderment and pathos and pity and resignation and compassion and mercy and acceptance and … recognition. (Oh, and humour. Lots of that.)
Lee-Lindsay was mentored by Zoe Coombs-Marr, and the piece is presented as part of ArtsLab: Reverb, a program from Shopfront Arts that showcases the talents of emerging artists.
ShopFront proves once again to be an invaluable part of our arts scene.
Paul Gilchrist
Rex written and performed by Jasper Lee-Lindsay
presented as part of ArtsLab at Shopfront until 12 April
Written by Lyudmila Razumovskay in the 1980’s in the Soviet Union, it’s a masterclass in building tension.
Four senior high school students arrive at the home of their teacher on her birthday. She is surprised. The students bear gifts, and one dubious request.
This is a classic battle-of-the-generations tale. Elena stands for an idealism which the students think is quaint and naïve. Elena thinks the younger generation are cynical materialists. We are your children, they tell her.
What makes this exploration of intergenerational conflict so rich is that Razumovskay makes it obvious that it’s not simply a matter of conflicting intellectual fashions. She recognises it’s also about power. The younger generation are fighting, not just for a new vision of the world, but for ownership of it. (It’s been suggested elsewhere that one reason Stalin’s purges didn’t lead to the total collapse of Communist Russia, despite their seeming irrationality and their certain brutality, is that there were sufficient young people who knew they would benefit. The murdered fill unmarked graves, but leave vacant more coveted positions.)
In this case, the young people want what they want, and one weapon they use to get it is to suggest Elena’s ethics are old fashioned, out of touch with hard reality. Anyone of a certain age is familiar with this strategy, only now the trick has been updated so that the younger generation’s claim is that they are more moral than their elders.
But it’s really about power. Volodya, the student ringleader, says it explicitly.
Volodya is a terrific portrait of a talented, dangerous young man. Once again, in tribute to the richness of the play, Volodya’s suggestion that his generation are the inheritors and natural development of Communism has sufficient a ring of Truth to make it perfect material for drama. (Out of the crooked timber of humanity….) With the collapse of the traditional religious consensus in Europe in the nineteenth century, the cry Everything is Permitted was heard in the winds that urged change. No longer was Communism, or any other political philosophy, to be restricted by old parochial moralities. If you had to crack a few eggs to make an omelette, you had to crack a few eggs. But it proved only a small step from Everything is Permitted to Everything is Possible. With the right planning, the right organisation, anything could be achieved. Hannah Arendt has observed this is a core belief of totalitarian movements. And Volodya has learnt from the masters. He comes to Elena’s apartment determined to make her give into their will. His friends will gain materially if she submits, but for him it’s just the thrill of dominance. (Those familiar with 1984 will see a whiff of the villain O’Brien about him.)
This production, directed by Clara Voda, makes some bold, thrilling decisions. Fitting the societal interrogation which is the play’s purpose, Voda goes for an ultra-realistic style of performance. This means the talented cast achieve an impressive level of authenticity (especially considering they all play characters substantially different in age to themselves.) Faisal Hamza as Volodya is particularly frightening, exuding the type of allure usually reserved for rattle snakes. Madeline Li as Lyalya captures the pathos-inducing, innocent arrogance of youth. As Pasha, Toby Carey nails that quiet sense of entitlement that screams ignorance – and its usual attendant, moral myopia. Harry Gilchrist as the group goof is likeable when required and threatening when not. Teodora Matović as Elena portrays a spiritual strength in the face of rising panic.
The ultra-realism of the production does have drawbacks. Sight lines are sometimes obstructed, and vocal delivery, while aiming for verisimilitude, occasionally slips into inaudibility.
Written by John Tsakiris, and directed by Megan Heferen and Tsakiris, The Lotto Line presents five people waiting in line to buy tickets in a lottery. They don’t seem interested in winning. Once the outlet closes, they wait for it to reopen. Time stops.
Absurdist theatre is a funny form. Some would say that it doesn’t so much reflect Life’s meaninglessness as actively add to it.
And it’s a brave team who presents a play in which Time stops. Of course, theatre reviewers are never catty or petty, but if they were, it’d be one hell of a temptation.
And perhaps only a youthful team could produce a play in which the halting of Time – the having to Wait – is presented as a fundamental human experience.
That’s what absurdism does: in convention-shattering ways, it tries to express something about the human condition. It’s transgressive spirit means that it especially values innovation (in fact, some commentators might suggest that the only thing absurdist plays have in common is that they’re all longer than they need to be.)
To suggest a formula, absurdism is where the Theatre of Audacity (I can’t believe you’re doing that!) combines with the Theatre of Authenticity (I totally believe what you’re doing.) It’s an absolutely explosive mixture.
I’ve already suggested I struggled to connect with the authenticity of this piece, but neither my personal limitations nor my impatience with decoding should get in the way of discussing its audacity.
In terms of physicality, performances are super tight. The choreographed movement that suggests these characters are slaves to routine is wonderfully executed. Jess Spies as the Lotto Master is a terrific counterpoint, engendering a swaggering superiority.
When those who Wait individualise themselves from the group, there’s more skilled comedy. Larissa Turton’s gruff crazy cat lady is splendid. Holly Mazzola’s clever, particular and prematurely middle-aged woman is a masterclass in focus. Jonathon Nicola’s petulant pedant is engaging fun. As Mr Horner, James Thomasson balances well the eternal battle between frustration and hope. Megan Heferen’s imperious, supercilious Ms Atkins drives much of the piece.
On occasions, there could be more care with vocal work. There were moments when I was afraid I’d be reduced to recommending this show to only enthusiasts of screeching. And, unfortunately, some of the mischievous linguistic humour was lost in delivery. But there’s a neat trick where characters swap vocal styles, and Turton and Mazzola pull it off with aplomb.
The Lotto Line is a playful puzzle, a nonsensical 90 minutes, an invitation to laugh.
It’s both deliciously sweet and deceptively sophisticated.
Ostensibly, it tells the story of a young woman seeking the One.
Amber openly acknowledges that this relationship-focussed worldview derives from the rom-coms of Nora Ephron and Richard Curtis, the sit-com Friends, the Twilightseries and Peter Pan.
Her journey to secure love is presented with terrific humour and true heart.
This is not new territory; it’s standard fare of fringe shows around the world. But this piece gloriously transcends that genre, offering something as provocative as it is playful.
Firstly (and because of my reference to fringe, I should make this clear) the production values are excellent. Director Mehhma Malhi understands the gem of a show she has and allows it to shine. The set by Hailley Hunt is suitably puckish, replete with panels that slide to reveal mischievous surprises. The lighting by Isobel Morrissey is dominated by hues of pink and mauve, wonderfully suggestive of the girlish dreams of the protagonist, but it’s also constructed from a plethora of states that reflect and enhance the bubbly bounce of her narrative.
Secondly, writer and performer Nikita Waldron is brilliant. With a vibrant charm, she breaks the fourth wall, and with self-deprecating humour expresses Amber’s dismay when reality doesn’t align with her chosen narrative. In her scenes with the other characters – the men in her life and her best friend – she creates an Amber who is a superb portrait of the bewilderment of youth, certain and insecure, outward looking but still mesmerised by the miracle of self.
The supporting cast are splendid. As the men, Harry Stacey, Ashan Kumar and Kurt Ramjan all move between characters with impressive versatility, and Esha Jessy as Amber’s best friend, Gabby, is an engaging mix of support and sarcasm.
If you’ve read this far, you might still be wondering what lifts this piece above rom-com. Waldron’s script, for all its seeming fluffy fun, takes on some extraordinarily large concepts. (And, no, I don’t mean socio-political ones. So much new work by early playwrights purports to do this, but these plays are rarely constructed in a way that allows more than the airing of slogans and so, despite aspiring to transgression, remain wholly conventional. Not that Waldron ignores the socio-political. Amber asks in the first scene Am I a bad feminist? and then moves on to bigger game. Race gets similar treatment; in a later scene, at a late-night kebab shop, there’s a hysterical pun, and then we’re off again.)
The big game the show hunts is narrative itself. Amber is clearly trying to make her life fit a story, but the play addresses this all-too-human habit on levels far beyond what the packaging might suggest.
Let me mention just a few instances.
Amber is Catholic. And she talks to God. (He retains his usual reticence.) But, she asks, and – in a way – receives. Several people in her life question her faith, people she deeply loves, and she openly admires their atheism. She doubts her faith herself. But she’s loathe to let it go. Let a story go and you have to replace it, and this one she knows. (Quite understandably, Catholicism has got a bad rap recently. But for all its institutional crimes, and for all its focus on guilt, there’s a song of joy tucked away in there – as there is in so many religious traditions – and it’s owned eternally, not by the hierarchy, but by souls like Amber. Without in anyway being overtly or conventionally religious, this play and this production sing with that joy.)
We’re not being asked to agree with Amber’s religious choices, but we’re shown a character entirely conscious that she’s navigating a grand narrative. (It’s one of the dullest and most disappointing of modern phenomena that educated individuals will reject some grand narrative or other and then tell themselves they’re now realists – which is just another story, one still unconscious of itself. A digression: Catherine of Siena, or one of the other medieval mystics, was once asked whether her visions appeared in the real world or in her imagination? With soul-expanding sanity, she responded, In my imagination, of course. The real world is only known through story.)
The play’s focus on narrative is emphasised by the choice to make Amber, and one of her most important male friends, career storytellers. She’s a novelist, he’s a film-maker. Narrative is something to take seriously.
And the final instance highlighting that the play is, in fact, a profound and rewarding exploration of the phenomenon of narrative is the plot turn that takes it beyond standard rom-com territory: the experience of grief.
We construct narratives to make some sense of the living, to create some stability that might survive their incorrigible dynamism, that perpetual becoming that is the hallmark of the Other. But when they are gone, our narratives are no longer challenged. And so we forget that they are constructed fictions, and they diminish into mere illusion.
Faced with grief, Amber must learn this. And as she does, we’re offered a deeply affecting reminder of the power, pleasure and purpose of story.
Written by James Elazzi, this is new work, but it’s a historical piece, with everything occurring forty to fifty years ago.
And it’s set in Lebanon, rural Queensland, and Sydney.
This is big storytelling, and it’s terrific to see it on one of our stages (and the Loading Dock and Qtopia deserve credit for giving space to such stories.)
But Saints of Damour is also small storytelling; we’re very much focussed on Pierre, his mother, his wife and his lover. The big historical events remain in the background. (The dramatic form doesn’t make this inevitable, but very different creative decisions would’ve had to been made on the script level if a grand historical drama was to be offered.)
The title is a tease: are these characters saints?
Sure, they feel the weight of duty, especially to family, but they’re also quite prepared to behave in ways that cause serious pain to others. Migrants in a new country, they stick together, but the dust of dishonesty dirties everything. It’s a long time before Pierre’s homosexuality is acknowledge or accepted by anyone except his lover. And Pierre’s decision to not reveal his sexual orientation to his wife before their marriage – even privately – seems unnecessarily cruel.
Are we victims of our circumstances or can we rise above them? That’s the fundamental question the play posits (though I’m not sure if it posits it consciously.)
We talk a lot about theatre that makes us feel seen.
And this narrative feels as though it’s attempting to be true to some particular personal history. I say this because it sprawls, as though it’s trying to capture what actually happened to someone.
Seemingly superfluous to a story, the family spend several years in Goondiwindi. They buy land and try sheep farming, though they’ve had no previous experience. They also open a small shop in town and an ad runs in the local paper telling residents to boycott them. These challenges are not especially developed in the script, it’s as though it’s sufficient they are recorded. Witness needs to be borne. (A similar recording of what appears to be actual events happens when the family move to Sydney: an Anglo-Australian who has lived in this city his entire life, and who has the privilege of a tertiary education, says he’s never seen the Blue Mountains. It seems so unlikely that it has to be based on the truth.)
Ironically, this sense of truth being recorded is emphasised by the play’s treatment of major historical events. Big issues are, oddly, given short shrift; they’re outside the parameters of a story dedicated to documenting personal lived experience. For example, the gay lovers believe they will have more freedom in a Western country, which is probably true, but when Pierre gets to Australia no mention is made of the fact homosexuality remains illegal or that the battle to change that injustice is being fought. It’s outside this story’s scope. Similarly, the outbreak of the Lebanese Civil War is the impetus for the characters’ migration, but the complexity and tragedy of a society tearing itself apart remains curiously offstage. Ethnically, the two lovers are from opposing sides in the conflict, but little is made of this. And, when they’re in Australia, only Pierre is interested in what happens in the homeland, and seemingly only in terms of his lover. No one else seems haunted by the past, or as it is for them, the ongoing present.
It’s the sort of play where characters, when they’re concerned about who might have survived the conflict in Lebanon, say things like I’m concerned about who might have survived the conflict in Lebanon.
As a whole, the dialogue is lucid and limpid. Or direct and flat. It’s a matter of taste.
There are many quick scenes and, aided by a clean, functional design by James Smithers, director Anthony Skuse creates a beautiful sense of flow.
The cast are imminently watchable. The two lovers (Antony Makhlouf and Saro Lepejian) have a delightful, intense chemistry. Nicole Chamoun as Layla, Pierre’s wife, pitches her performance gorgeously between protest and pathos, while still finding that vital spark of joy. Max Cattana as Todd (who’s never been to the mountains) is splendidly gentle and, in other bit roles, displays a laudable versatility. As Pierre’s mother, Deborah Galanos has a glorious waspish tongue (which she also used on us before the performance, asking us to turn off our mobile phones.) At the finale, her bewildered terror, her explosive anger, is a moment in which the piece realises the dramatic form’s full potential (that is, refusing us any easy, unthinking judgement of the characters.)
Stories that make us feel seen – I suspect many audience members will feel this piece does this in spades.
But the title invites more: it’s a provocative reminder that having our challenges acknowledged does not automatically result in our actions being approved. It would be a pity for the dramatic artform if being seen was allowed to diminish into being justified.
The Glass Menagerie was first produced in 1944, and it launched Tennessee Williams’ career.
This slightly amended version is a poignant meditation on dreams, memory, and regrets.
Blazey Best is absolutely magnificent as Amanda, matriarch of a small house, evoking both laughter and pathos as she presents the fading southern belle, all attitudes, airs and … anguish. Once, in a single afternoon, she had seventeen gentleman callers. Now she worries for her daughter Laura, who has no gentleman callers at all.
Laura has a slight defect in her leg, but suffers more from her crippling shyness. Her life has reduced to playing records and tending her ornamental glass menagerie. Bridie McKim is brilliant as Laura, portraying perfectly her painfully overwhelming self-consciousness, while still finding those heartrending moments where hope glimmers through.
Tom, Laura’s brother, chafes under the responsibility he has to his fatherless family, and can barely endure his banal warehouse job. He also narrates the play, stepping out of the action to muse on the distance between mundanity and magic, between the average life and the adventurous one. Tom is a partially autobiographical creation; he dreams of being a writer, and his family situation is not unlike that of Williams’ youth. Danny Ball is mesmerising in the role, capturing both Tom’s energy and his desperation.
Tom also rankles under his mother’s insistence he find his sister a beau. The tyranny of women snaps back Amanda, with scathing satire.
He brings Jim to dinner.
Tom Rodgers offers a splendid portrait of Jim, bubbling and brimming with naïve enthusiasm. His scene with McKim’s fraught Laura is dramatic gold.
Liesel Badorrek’s production is a wonderful opportunity to see a classic of the American stage.
This is high energy feminist fun (with a few scenes that are less fun and more confronting.)
Written by Jean Betts in 1993, it’s an appropriation of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, one that places Ophelia centre stage.
Ophelia has feelings for Hamlet, but she can’t pretend he’s not utterly obnoxious. Her father and her brother are far too interested in her virginity. And Gertrude offers unwanted advice about how to live as a woman in a man’s world. (Don’t think too much.)
Betts cleverly weaves elements of the original text into her version of the story. With only a little tweaking, Ophelia gets all Hamlet’s major soliloquys, and they work magnificently. (Though I have to say I was less excited by the interpolation of so many lines from the other plays and the sonnets. Fortunately, my eyes no longer make that clicking sound when they roll. But what I found tiresome, others will find erudite and inventive.)
There’s also an appropriation of a poem by A E Housman, which is intriguing, and anachronistic (though that can hardly matter in a play like this.) It’s a brave writer who puts her words alongside the Bard and possibly the last great popular poet (that is, before modernism alienated the average reader.) But Betts definitely holds her own, and sometimes left me feeling I’d prefer more of her and less of them.
Alex Kendall Robson directs a terrific cast, and the key note is vitality. This is a wise decision; few people come out of a production of Hamlet wishing it were longer. (To stay or not to stay has been pondered at many an intermission. This version, at 150 mins including interval, keeps its engine at full throttle to keep us engaged.)
Brea Macey is superb as Ophelia – but I’ll get back to that.
Shaw Cameron as Hamlet is deliciously brutal, offering an engrossing portrait of the worst of privilege and entitlement. His physicality, especially, is a highlight, being both enthralling and threatening (as hinted in my first paragraph.)
Lucy Miller as Gertrude is a delight. Having accepted the misogyny of her society, the Queen has adopted a transgressive Machiavellianism that makes the character captivating. Many audience members have waited a long, long, long time to see the closet scene with this Gertrude.
Eleni Cassimatis as Ophelia’s maid servant gives the piece a poignant gravity, a terrible, galvanizing awareness of the dangers of this patriarchal world.
Pat Mandziy as Horatio offers a male character beyond the myopic, self-obsession of the other men, and both his performance and his text is crucial for the humane, richness of the work.
I started this article with the bland assertion that this is a feminist piece. Perhaps it occasionally overplays this element. The set is dominated by a painting of the Virgin Mary, and discussion of the history of the Church’s attitude to women gets a lot of stage time, a curious decision considering its all placed in the world of the Elizabethan playwright who was perhaps the most secular (admittedly, in a very religious society.) And this historical focus emphasises the academic. I’m not in a position to comment on whether contemporary women feel the challenges they currently face become more surmountable with the aid of a history lesson, especially one going back to Aristotle, Aquinas and the (aptly named) Church Fathers. I’ve written before that theory has little place in theatre, the form being more suited to the dreadful messiness of human reality than theory’s seductive simplicity.
Having said all that, by positing the protagonist’s problem in sociological or cultural terms, she must respond (at least partially) in kind. The result is that Ophelia has not only an emotional journey, but an intellectual one.
But the rub is, her response to the theoretical language in which her problems are explained is not to simply regurgitate that language but rather to consider and test how it might inform her life. That is, she thinks – and I, for one, am thrilled to see a thinking character on the Australian stage.
Macey’s Ophelia is glorious, expressing beautifully the conflict between her self-doubt and her fundamental sense of dignity as a person. Macey powerfully presents Ophelia’s growing awareness that, for all her enervating inconsistencies, she deserves more agency than she’s permitted. Betts does well not to make Ophelia some kind of virago; the play is classic bildungsroman, a genre far better fitted to the dramatic form than any platform for slogan sprouting heroines. In the open-ended nature of the conclusion of Ophelia’s journey, there’s a splendid, invigorating optimism.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Paul Gilchrist
Ophelia Thinks Harder by Jean Betts
Presented by Fingerless Theatre, in association with bAKEHOUSE Theatre
Romance is such a garden variety human experience that we often forget its potentially wondrous result.
(Or, to slightly misquote Chesterfield, the pleasure is momentary, the position ridiculous, and the consequence damnable.)
Written by Laura Lethlean and directed by Kirsty Semaan, Two Hearts tells the story of Him (Yarno Rohling) meeting Her (Danette Potgieter), and of what follows.
Throughout, the couple are shadowed by It (Lisa Hanssens).
For a while, it’s a guessing game as to what (or who) It is. I suspect some audience members might find this frustrating or dissatisfying, but not as frustrating or dissatisfying as when they realise the answer. You could suggest that the answer to the question of who is It? begs the fundamental question of the play. (I’m attempting to avoid breaking the spoiler rule, so forgive me for being so vague. When a play risks so much on one dramatic trick, it seems poor form to reveal the nature of that trick in a review; a bit like revealing who did it in a whodunnit.)
But, perhaps the fundamental question of the play lies elsewhere (away from the issue I’m not naming, the issue that’s both very current and also universal, the issue I suspect many audience members will have very decided attitudes regarding, attitudes which will remain unchanged by this play.)
Perhaps, rather, the fundamental question is how do we navigate memory and regret, how do we construct a narrative of our lives? Though some scenes between the couple are played in naturalistic dialogue, many are played in a manner that suggest both the woman and the man are recalling events and trying to determine the truth of that moment. Sometimes the characters will play out the actions of the scene while seemingly remaining in their own internal worlds, trying to recall (or assert) how it all actually occurred. For example, the couple sit down and He says something like We were sitting next to each other and this is juxtaposed with Her reflection (rather than Her response), something like We sat far apart. This motif of reflection on the past is furthered by scenes in which It asks the man and woman, separately, about decisions made during the relationship. Combined with a sometimes heightened poetic language, and a muted but expressive lighting design (Jasmin Borsovsky), and a movingly melancholic sound design (Charlotte Leamon), we get the sense of two individuals grappling with a great mystery, the passing of Time and all the loss that entails.
Potgieter and Rohling as the young couple are wonderfully believable, both in their initial excitement as the romance blossoms, and in their growing frustration as it threatens to fade. The differences between the two lovers are subtly portrayed in both script and performance.
The character She is gently performative – I want people to like me – and perhaps a little more selfish – a friend has said to her You are the happiest person I know, because you are the most selfish. Both despite these flaws, and through them, Potgieter beautifully creates a character who we like and who we pity (which is probably the most suitable response we can have to any other person.)
In contrast to Her, He is more genuine, perhaps a little simpler. He dreams of being a musician but is self-deprecating enough to realise it is unlikely to happen. Rohling’s presentation of the character brims with warmth, and as things begin to go wrong in the relationship, his portrayal of a sad, anguished bewilderment is superb.
As It, Hanssens has the oddest of roles – but pulls it off with aplomb. With both movement and voice, she effectively evokes something passionless yet present, something uncomplicated yet curious, something without skin in the game, but that watches eternally. (There’s an infinite pathos in a figure who stands always at the bank, as the river of Time slides endlessly by.) To use the body in a way that suggests the soul is a remarkable achievement.
Two Hearts is a piece that is as gently disconcerting as it is softly beautiful.
This is a micro-musical: two performers, accompanied by a musician on key board – whole thing 80 minutes long.
Apparently, it’s inspired by the life experiences of song writer, Kyle Falconer, and one of the writers of the book, Laura Wilde. (The other writer is Johnny McKnight, and the piece is directed by Andrew Panton and Tashi Gore.)
As the title suggests, it’s a relationship story, but not your conventional one. This is no romance ending with And Reader, I married him. A baby is born in the third scene.
How do Lana and Jess navigate this new arrival?
Hint: it’s not a baby bliss story.
Firstly, I’ll be shallow and sharp.
Neither character is particularly charming. They’re incredibly judgemental, criticising her mother, the women at play group, and even a guy who wears socks (or doesn’t wear socks?) with a particular type of shoe. A lot of things are shite. A lot of emotions are punctuated with fuck. And we hear about her vag, her tits, and the need to shit while giving birth.
Despite referring to themselves as the DreamTeam, Lana and Jess never seem particularly close, and this is emphasised by the structure of the piece, in which each often sings alone, or talks directly to the audience about the other.
And they constantly refer to the baby as the Little Man, suggesting they haven’t really got their heads around the fact he’s a child, and the enormity of their new responsibilities. (And it left me wondering if they would’ve referred to a female child as the Little Woman.)
They’re really just oversized adolescents who need to grow up.
But, as I suggested, I’m being sharp and shallow.
To respond in this manner to dramatic characters is to deny the sophistication of the dramatic form.
Let me dig deeper.
There’s hints of a troubled prehistory. One of the early songs, musing on their future as parents, expresses the hope they don’t become monsters. This begs a backstory we’re never told, this pathos-inducing hope betraying unacknowledged darknesses in their own pasts, and effectively establishing how self-unaware these characters are.
But I’m still sticking to the surface, the spoiler rule holding me back – but the need for content warning, and a more genuine assessment are pushing me forward.
It’s story of postnatal depression.
And that can hit any woman. Charming or not. Self-aware or not. And it does, with a dreadful, often unrecognised, frequency.
No Love Songs’ raw portrayal of the pain of this experience is wonderfully honest (and transcends all the other chip-on-the-shoulder type of supposed honesty that otherwise pervades the piece, the type that automatically equates Telling it how it is with ugliness, and seems unable to do anything but assume that there actually is Away it is.)
Keegan Joyce and Lucy Maunder give terrific portrayals of these challenging characters. Accomplished musical performers, they present the songs beautifully, and the dialogue with skill. The jokes work, and the suffering is heartrending.
Falconer’s songs are engaging and the music is splendidly produced (though I did wonder whether an arrangement beyond synthesiser keyboard and acoustic guitar might have been interestingly edgy.) It was a joy to hear every word (except, perhaps, when Lana was rhymed with trauma.)
The piece is billed as a modern love story. It’s an intriguing piece of code, one best deciphered as a comment on what this story is comfortable exploring, as against suggesting this story is concerned with particularly modern aspects of love. Because these things have always happened and hopefully, in bravely speaking of them, those who suffer can find the support they deserve.
Paul Gilchrist
No Love Songs by Kyle Falconer, Laura Wilde and Johnny McKnight,
This is a beautifully realised production of a fascinating, and odd, play.
Written by Melissa Reeves and directed by Margaret Thanos, it tells the story of a backyard exorcism.
Though based on a true story, it’s a mix of satire and black comedy.
Reeves’ script invites theatricality, and Thanos gleefully accepts that invitation, giving us a show that is gloriously wild.
Performances are excellent. Matilda Ridgway as Else, the victim of the exorcism, is an ever-intriguing mix of impish mischief, startled bewilderment and sheer panic. Julian Garner is terrific as Pierce, her husband, an uncomfortable, naive dag who reveals a terrifying coldness. And it’s a delicious insight of both script and performance that this callousness is shown to spring directly from Pierce’s less threatening qualities. Anna, a member of their church, is keen to assist at the exorcism, and Alex Malone plays her with a delightful whiff of superiority and hypocrisy. (The truly religious are probably much shallower – or much deeper – than the rest of us.) Shan-Ree Tan is hilarious as the exorcist: part-cowboy, part-clown and all glib hubris.
I began by suggesting the play was odd, and there are several reasons for my assessment.
Firstly, in so far as it is satire, the target seems oddly specific. But perhaps exorcism is a more common problem in Australia than I’m aware. Or, if the play is meant as a criticism of Christianity in general, I suspect many members of that faith might question its validity, feeling it’s the equivalent of a satire aimed at Islam that focusses solely on suicide bombers.
The second element of oddness is the structure of the play. It begins with the end. Considering the nature of that end, for the rest of the performance it was difficult for me to laugh at the characters’ gullibility and hubris because I knew, only too clearly, to what horror they ultimately led.
The spoiler rule makes the third element of oddness challenging to discuss; so I’ll be appropriately vague. We’re shown scenes of wonderful theatricality, but they seem to imply that the wacky demonology of these Christians is not as preposterous as the satire might have us believe.
But that’s why the play is fascinating, as well as odd. I’ve called it a black comedy and a satire, but I’m probably being far too reductive. Reeves’ keen, clever, crazy script deserves an assessment more concordant with its explosive, transgressive nature. As a representation of a community dealing with evil, or what they assume is evil, the piece invites reflection, both serious and stimulating.
Possession by demons is a rather minor narrative in modern Christianity. The major narrative is that our faults can be forgiven if we are repentant. But what the minor and major narratives have in common is that the individual and the evil are differentiated. In the minor narrative, it’s the demon that’s evil; in the major narrative, it’s the sin. In both, the individual is presented as redeemable.
Ironically, it’s our secular philosophies that increasingly conflate the individual with evil. (Ironic, because it’s those philosophies that most enjoy satirical jibes at Christianity). Admittedly, current events in America do make very tempting the conflation of the individual and evil. But it only takes a modicum of ethical maturity to question such too-easy-simplicity. Political maturity also suggests that such a simplistic vision is problematic, as it precludes the possibility of positive change. Telling people they’re evil is not a particularly effective rallying cry. In fact, in the political sphere, as long as we view those we disagree with as simply evil, there seems only one way to deal with them – one uncannily like what happens in this play.
Theatre Red 