Tag Archives: mythology

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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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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Snakeface

15 Apr

The marketing gave me the impression this piece would interrogate the experience of queer black women in white Australia via ancient Greek myths. This struck me as inauspicious, the equivalent of attempting to explain quantum mechanics using hieroglyphics.

But, as they say in Jurassic Park, “Theatre finds a way” (or they say something like that; I couldn’t really hear over the roar of all those dinosaurs.)

As it turns out, this piece does not claim to represent the queer black experience. Nothing in the monologue implies anything so outrageously reductive.

And the use of Greek myth is beautifully subtle and intensely powerful.

I will admit, however, that for a while, I feared this one had defeated me. The 90 minute monologue was a challenge, both because of its confronting subject matter and because of the difficulty I had following its narrative.

But, ultimately, it offers a rich, raw and deeply humane insight into love and vulnerability.

Written and performed by Aliyah Knight, and directed by Bernadette Fam, Snakeface presents a fictional character who seeks love and suffers brutality. Knight has a wonderfully warm, engaging stage presence, generating immense sympathy for the character.

Knight’s language is stunningly poetic. Its ruling motif is physicality; it’s visceral, sensual, violent. There’s much talk of bodily fluids and organs. There’s the suggestion that Truth is found only in the rag and bone shop of existence: one lover is judged honest or genuine because of the animal-like noises he makes in the bedroom.

Knight’s own physicality, a hypnotising balance of rhythm and writhe, emphasises the primacy of the body.

The set by Keerthi Subramanyam is dominated by a huge slab of clay, reflecting the character’s interest in sculpture and the plastic arts. But also, via its biblical and classical connotations, it suggests vulnerability. Are we made of mere clay? Will we be reduced to stone? (It also hints at the hopefulness of creation, but more on that later.)

Back to the Greek myths. The Medusa motif effectively expresses the seemingly overwhelming desire to destroy those who have hurt us. And the character has been seriously mistreated, a victim of at least one sexual assault. And though rage is presented as an utterly natural response to brutality, the inspiring maturity of the piece is that it’s not valorised. Rage is an attribute of a monster, one wrought by cruelty. Rage is no resting place.

And a resting place is finally offered, a new creation is possible, one that embraces the physical, but also knows a calm that transcends it.

Paul Gilchrist

Snakeface by Aliyah Knight

Presented by Fruit Box Theatre, as part of 25A

At Downstairs Belvoir until 27 April

belvoir.com.au

Image by Abraham de Souza 

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