Tag Archives: Laura Lethlean

Aphrodite

22 Jun

Ava, an academic, has written a book entitled The Aphrodite Complex. It’s been sufficiently successful that a documentary has been filmed about the subject. During the making of this documentary, Ava becomes aware that a particular member of the crew – Hector – appears to be fascinated by her.

After the shoot, waiting at Athens International Airport, she flirts with Hector. 

Will it go anywhere? 

When Ava mentions her desire to look a particular way, Hector responds But aren’t you about 50?

And so begins an absolutely beautiful exploration of beauty.

Alone, in her room, (it’s a two hander) Ava is visited by Aphrodite herself. (We’re told the goddess is the most beautiful of all because she was ranked us such by the man Paris.)

Aphrodite sings of being irresistible in a world that’s insatiable. She sings that externals are what matter. She promises power through beauty.

Under her spell, Ava responds I am my thick hair. I am my hairless body. I am my plump skin.

By now, of course, alarm bells are ringing for the audience. It’s a bold move to allow Ava, an academic, to be so reductionist in her thinking – but it’s indicative of the seductiveness of the worldview she’s being sold.

And with this evaluation by male standards ultimately questioned, it’s also a bold move to posit a man’s judgement as the catalyst of this doubt. It’s indicative of the ubiquity of the problem.

In some ways, the libretto by Laura Lethlean is a riff on feminist insights as found in such as Naomi Wolf’s The Beauty Myth. In other ways, it could be read as a reflection on ancient Greek sensibilities – the primacy of the body, the value of competition – compared with what I’ll call a Christian sensibility. (I’m thinking of the vision so miraculously shared by Dante, that the body and the soul are of equal value and only complete when together, and that Love is Charity rather than Eros.)

I’ve focussed on theme and concept, but direction by Alexander Berlage brings it all to glorious actuality.  The design by Isabel Hudson is outstanding, a lush domestic realism, ideal for the representation of both the luxury and commonality of sexuality. Under the video design of Morgan Moroney, the live feed marvellously evokes the concept of the gaze, of being always an object to be observed. It also facilitates our enjoyment of the extraordinary dramatic performances.

Both in voice and movement, Jessica O’Donoghue as Ava and Meechot Marrero as Aphrodite are utterly mesmerising. Their vocal performances are superbly nuanced to emotion: the exultation of sexual power, the languor of seduction, the agony of self-doubt.

Performed by Omega Ensemble and conducted by Jack Symonds, the music by Nico Muhly has a sense of melancholic sweetness (like Tennyson’s remembered kisses after death.) It ripples with the poignancy of distance; though a work about desire, we never see the lover.

After the revolution, lipstick will be lipstick. And that’ll be a good thing.

But, sometimes, I wonder.

Though this piece can be validly read as a strong and necessary feminist statement, it can also be viewed through another lens. Aphrodite takes on one of the great irresolvable tensions in the human condition (which is probably what makes great drama).

Everybody desires to be desired. At times, it’s as though we want to be an object. The active longs to be the passive, to be swept up in something beyond our small selves. Sexuality uses us, and we want to be used. It’s one way we find connection – with the community, or the Life Force, or whatever you want to call that which is bigger than us. It assures us a place in the chaos. Yes, there remains the deep wish to be appreciated as more than just a body, to be accepted as a full, complete, complex, independent, dynamic Other – but there, in the very heart of that wish, is the desire to be accepted. We want to be evaluated (even though we don’t.)

At only 60 minutes, Aphrodite is a wonderfully rich theatrical and musical experience.

Paul Gilchrist

Aphrodite music by Nico Muhly, libretto by Laura Lethlean

presented by Sydney Chamber Opera, Carriageworks in association with Omega Ensemble

at Carriageworks until June 28

carriageworks.com.au

Image by Daniel Boud

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Two Hearts

20 Mar

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.

Paul Gilchrist

Two Hearts by Laura Lethlean

presented by Space Jump Theatre

at Flight Path Theatre until March 29

http://flightpaththeatre.org

Image by Philip Erbacher

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