Tag Archives: theatre

IRL

7 May

Alexei has been chatting with Thaddeus on Messenger for ages, but they’ve never seen each other, and now it’s time to meet in real life. (IRL)

Alexei suggests Supernova for their first date. He arrives in his customary Disney princess-style outfit. Before their rendezvous, Thaddeus is tricked out of his clothes by a mysterious woman. Alexei comes to the rescue, but without revealing his identity.

It’s a crazy fun comic set-up that puts centre stage the concept of personal authenticity. When is it appropriate to play roles, and when should we just be ourselves? (Whatever the second of those two options means.)

As the two young lovers, Andrew Fraser and Leon Walshe are utterly charming, finding both the humour and heart in Lewis Treston’s beautiful script.

But I have to admit, it was the juxtaposition of this romantic comedy with a second story thread that I found utterly fascinating.

Alexei’s best friend, Taylor, is now a TV celebrity, working in America with some of the biggest names in the industry. She’s scheduled to speak at Supernova, but the pressure created by the inauthenticity of the role she’s asked to play becomes too much. In a glorious theatricality akin to Harper’s choice in Angels in America, Taylor opts out – not by entering a fridge like Kushner’s character, but by joining some tropical fish in the deep blue (which I’m guessing is an allusion to Finding Nemo.)

While psychologically AWOL, Taylor’s body is inhabited by Phoenix, a super villain with a strong family resemblance to Marvel’s Thanos. (Bridget Haberecht is absolutely terrific in each of these incarnations.) Like Thanos, Phoenix is zealously committed to a grand mission – the Great Forgetting – which will free society from its obsession with pop culture and facilitate true authenticity.

It’s not as crazy an idea as it sounds: Phoenix makes clear the link between pop culture and capitalism – all the cosplay characters prancing around Supernova are owned by just six major corporations.

Ignoring the capitalism thing for a moment, do we need to be freed from stories?

Indeed, can we be freed from stories?

There are several elements of Treston’s very funny, very clever script that seem to posit liberty from stories as a longed for possibility. Taylor is uncertain about the validity of the whole acting game and dreams of more authentic employment. Thaddeus is in the closet, and crucial to his character development is the dropping of any disguise and the showing to the world his true identity. And the coming together of the young lovers – the emotional heart of the story – appears to necessitate the shedding of any performative behaviour if they are to find the real thing. The last of these is particularly curious. Is romance real? Or is it a social construct, built from all the stories we’ve been told? (I found myself comparing this piece with Stoppard’s The Real Thing, a play which clearly asks whether true love is, after all, just one more performance?)

What is our relationship with stories? Presented here in the most delightfully accessible way, it’s a serious philosophical question.

(Warning! Boring, self-indulgent, reviewer digression ahead! When religious mystics seek a genuine encounter with the divine, they reject or bypass institutional authority, yet still they recount their visions in the tropes of the dominant narrative. Christian mystics see Jesus, Hindu mystics see Krishna. Zen Buddhism bucks this trend, suggesting that in the attaining of enlightenment, all narrative is shed – but, in doing so, it only affirms the fundamental importance of story in everyday life. On a secular level, modern pragmatism also displays an hyper-awareness of narrative. Responding to a society that is more soaked in story than any other in human history, modern pragmatism posits philosophical irony: an acceptance that no grand narrative can be privileged, yet a life without a guiding narrative seems inconceivable. It’s ironic because we know our particular chosen grand narrative can’t be proven true but, in a consciously playful way, we commit to it all the same. Treston’s world of perpetual pop culture references, and of a Supernova forest of competing yet somehow compatible narratives, seems a close cousin to modern pragmatism. But I’ll get back to that forest very soon.)  

Director Eugene Lynch elicits exuberant, high-energy performances from his superb cast. The physicality and the mock fights are especially impressive, combining sound (Daniel Herten), lighting (Topaz Marlay-Cole) and movement (Cassidy McDermott-Smith) with hilarious precision.

So, that fairy tale forest ….. Ultimately, what does the play suggest our relationship with narrative should be?

Does it suggest we should outgrow cosplay? That we should dismiss story and live in something called reality?

All that seems too simplistic a reading, one that denies the characters’ obvious joy in performance, and one that’s blind to the production’s deliciously-sweet and invitingly-rich final image.

Paul Gilchrist

IRL by Lewis Treston

Presented by The Other Theatre in association with bAKEHOUSE Theatre

At KXT until 10 May

kingsxtheatre.com

Image by Justin Cueno

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Mummy, I’m Scared

11 Apr

This is a work of craziness and true comic commitment.

Set in the late nineteenth century, it tells the story of a family of women intent on summoning a spirit via a séance.

I call it a story – and for the show’s 50 minute duration, the plot works very effectively – but it’s really just a fast moving vehicle for some humorous hijinks.

It’s a three hander, written by Fia Morrison, and performed by Morrison, and her co-collaborators Alison Cooper and Georgia Condon.

There’s a lot of doubling, and this adds to the show’s enormous verve.

All three performers display great physicality, and Morrison herself excels in the type of magical facial expression that’s gloriously hyperbolic and glowing with mischievous energy. (Rather than the Theatre of Authenticity, this is the Theatre of Audacity, inviting an audience response of I can’t believe you’re actually doing that!)

All three performers have thrilling, distinctive vocal styles, and use these to mine and shine the comic nuance of Morrison’s lively script. Cooper is particularly adept at the throwaway gag. (Admittedly, at times, I lost lines from all three actors, but in a show like this, that’s always a risk courted for the sake of sheer exuberance.)

The historical setting makes sense of the focus on seances and the supernatural. The world weariness of fin de siècle society, with its rejection of traditional religion and its growing awareness of the inadequacy of any substitutes, encouraged the most audacious of spiritual experiments.

But the setting also facilitates key aspects of the show’s humour and impact.

Somewhere in the last hundred years or so, the acting fraternity has developed a way of portraying (faux) late Victorian and Edwardian historical characters, one epitomised by a thoroughly declarative vocal style. (It’s one of the styles employed in this production.) Where does it come from? Perhaps it’s our shared response to amateur theatre’s penchant for quaint old drawing-room dramas. Or perhaps, more broadly, it’s modernism’s response to the era that preceded it. Virginia Woolf famously quipped “on or about December 1910, human character changed”. But from wherever the trope derives, the declarative style we routinely give to historical characters is a delightful and deliberate denial of their inner life. And in this consciously comic erasure of psychological complexity, the performers themselves gift us a playfully subversive reminder of genuine human vitality.

Paul Gilchrist

Mummy, I’m Scared by Fia Morrison

Morrison was mentored by Mish Grigor, and the piece is presented as part of ArtsLab: Reverb, a program from Shopfront Arts that showcases the talents of emerging artists.

Until 12 April at Shopfront

shopfront.org.au (for tix and full program)

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These Youths Be Protesting

10 Apr

Aye, they do be protesting.

I’m not sure why the title of this one is in Pirate. The rest of the play is not, and that’s probably a wise decision, as it’s set in contemporary Australia, me hearties. (Yes, I’ve got to admit, I’ve been fighting the temptation to write my response entirely in the language of the buccaneer. After all, in a flat, consumerist society such as our own, what is any serious theatre review but some quaint, seemingly old-fashioned, musty document … but one that shows the way to hidden treasure?)

And this play, written and directed by Izabella Louk, certainly has its treasures.

I’m guessing it’s inspired by the student climate crisis protests of a few years ago, where young people quite understandably answered criticism that they should be in school with the assertion they’d like to be, if only the adults would do their job and protect the planet.

All the characters in this play are fifteen and, surprisingly, that’s the source of its strength.

Louk and her talented cast nail the high energy of youth, and the piece is fast-paced and very funny. Karrine Kanaan as the bossy would-be school captain offers a terrific satirical portrait of the obsession with self-advancement. Rachel Thomas’ Georgie is hilariously prim, and her journey to independence fascinating. Hamish Alexander’s Jimbo is slow-witted and good-hearted, great fun and greatly inspiring. Mây Tran’s Mandi is the serious heart of the play, and her impassioned speech about the challenges and necessities of political engagement is deeply affecting. But the script also gives Mandi plenty of scathing sarcasm, and Tran delivers it with delicious bite.

In these four characterisations, there’s a real sense of the dreams and doubts of youth.

But in making all the characters fifteen, doesn’t the play risk being about being fifteen? Is it a creative decision that threatens to overwhelm the more pressing issue of climate change?

Perhaps. Louk’s script reveals a maturity of political vision that belies its dramatis personae. The challenges of political action are candidly presented: How do you deal with those who support your cause but do so for selfish or stupid reasons? How do you work with people who claim to have the same goal as you but demand a different strategy? How do you not hate those who oppose your cause or, even more provokingly, seem entirely oblivious to it? How do you cope with the hate directed at you?

These challenges are not presented to dissuade us from political action, but to clarify what it is. Despite the current rhetoric, everything is not political. There are the things we can only do alone and there are the things we can only do together. The second of these clauses describes the political sphere of life, and its key word is together. Learning how to do things with other people is the key to political action.

This might seem naïve and simplistic, but this recognition of the true nature of politics is invaluable. The play may portray children, but many adult Australians appear to believe they’re being politically engaged when they’re merely spouting opinions. By representing the political sphere of life as it is first encountered by a group of teenagers – as they first learn to work together – the adults in the audience are gently, and surreptitiously, given a lesson in political maturity. (It’s a trick Harper Lee uses to great effect in To Kill A Mockingbird.)

On an even plainer level, the play’s exclusive representation of youth has an irresistible emotional impact. In regard to that most critical of issues, climate change, reason alone should prompt action, but the sight of fear in the eyes of a child is a powerful motivator.

Paul Gilchrist

These Youths Be Protesting by Izabella Louk

Presented by Blinking Light Theatre, in association with bAKEHOUSE Theatre

At KXT until 19 April

kingsxtheatre.com

Image by Karla Elbourne

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The Lotto Line

3 Apr

This is seriously committed crazy.

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.

Paul Gilchrist

The Lotto Line by John Tsakiris

Presented by Studio Five Productions

At Flow Studios until 12 April

events.humanitix.com/the-lotto-line

Image by Patrick Phillips

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The Glass Menagerie

27 Mar

This is a beautiful production of a superb play.

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.

Paul Gilchrist

The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams

at Ensemble Theatre until 26 April

ensemble.com.au

Image by Prudence Upton

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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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No Love Songs

17 Mar

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 Dream Team, 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 A way 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,

at The Foundry Theatre, at Sydney Lyric,

until 13 April

http://nolovesongs.com.au

Image by Brett Boardman

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Cruise

19 Feb

In the war between the generations, the final result is inevitable. All that’s in doubt is what the victors will learn from the vanquished, before they too ultimately join the ranks of the defeated.

Jack Holden’s Cruise was first performed in 2021 in London. A young gay man works at a phone help line. An older man calls, and is disgruntled to be answered by such an inexperienced responder. Already annoyed at one of the older gay men working at the centre, the young man is taken aback. The tension between the generations is established.

This is a 90 minute monologue, with Fraser Morrison playing an astounding number of characters. Morrison’s control of voice and movement is superb. It’s an absolutely extraordinary performance. (And credit must also go to his terrific support team: director Sean Landis, accent coach Linda Nicholls-Gidley and movement director Jeremy Lloyd.)

The basic set up of the piece is that the older man tells the younger man his personal history, of his time in Soho in the 1980’s. It’s parties and promiscuity, dancing and drugs, and true love… and true love’s awful nemesis. There’s oodles of charm, plenty of humour, and at the dawning of that cruelly indiscriminate plague, distress, dread, and soul-deep sorrow.

As an outsider to this world – I spent the 80’s not in dance clubs but in libraries – a piece like this is a beautiful gift. To witness a community in the process of building itself, to observe it openly constructing its history, is a wonderful privilege. (Self-indulgent digression: While in those libraries, I was learning about love in a way very different to that of the characters in Cruise, reading the history of mysticism, first in Christianity, then in Judaism, then Islam and then from further east. So, History and Love – where the lesson is that Eternity is in love with the productions of Time, to quote William Blake.)

And that’s the glorious wisdom of this piece: by knowing our history, by knowing the sorrows and solaces of those who came before, we gain the strength to step into the future. And what’s more, knowing our place in Time is the best preparation for the joys which seem to transcend it.

Paul Gilchrist

Cruise by Jack Holden

presented by Fruit Box Theatre in association with bAKEHOUSE Theatre Company

at KXT until 22 Feb

kingsxtheatre.com

Image by Abraham de Souza

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Antony & Cleopatra

13 Feb

This is an odd one.

It’s probably the most abridged version of this play you’ll see outside a school incursion.

It’s all performed by three actors: Charles Mayer as Antony, Jo Bloom as Cleopatra, and Charley Allanah as everybody else (or at least everybody else who isn’t cut.) Performances are bold and spirited. For reasons that will become more apparent later in my response, design focuses on costume, and these by Letitia Hodgkinson are beautifully lavish.

There’s also a narrator or guide, a role taken by Nathan Meola. He almost gets as much stage time as Shakespeare, though far fewer words. He appears to be adlibbing. He speaks very slowly and quietly, as though he’s speaking to the guests at a spiritual retreat. We’re thanked for the journey each of us has made to get to the theatre, and it’s acknowledged that the journey may have been difficult. (There’s even talk of snow.) We’re asked several times if we feel safe, and at each repetition I feel a little less so. His speaking style is a curious mix of condescension and coercion, made all the more disconcerting by the very convincing illusion that it’s not a created dramatic character being performed. He asserts that we humans are not immune to stories and, for a moment, I question my own humanity – until I recall that he’s ignoring a rather vital point: the power of a story depends on how well it’s told. This narrator recaps what we’ve seen and tells us what we’re about to see – which may seem superfluous, even to those unfamiliar with the play. He also assumes we’re deeply affected by the performance. (In our current theatre scene, in which there’s far too much of telling audiences what to think, it’s refreshing to be told what to feel.)

The marketing describes the production as immersive – which can mean a lot of different things, but here means you may not get a seat. We’re needlessly shuffled back and forth between the foyer (where there aren’t enough seats) and the theatre (where there are plenty.) These changes of location, and the narrator, have a slowing effect, but the whole thing is only 90 mins, including interval.

Shakespeare’s play is reduced to the story of two people going through a dark night of the soul to find eternal love, or divine love, or some such thing. (At least that’s what the narrator tells us is happening.) The political tensions and the grand clash of civilizations are given little space. This reduction enhances the sense the play is being used as a vehicle for a certain New Age philosophy.

So is it “Shakespeare”?

That’s an absurdly conservative question, based on some disturbing essentialist assumptions. But I’ll answer it anyway.

On one level – a particularly academic one – the answer is No. Shakespeare and his contemporaries dragged theatre away from being what was almost a religious ritual, with narratives dominated by religious perspectives. They moved the artform away from the traditional Mystery play. These Elizabethans still acknowledged that spiritual experiences existed (in a way that, say, Jane Austen seemingly does not) – but they viewed those experiences as part of the wider human experience, not necessarily as its key. To be essentialist, they were humanists.

But, soaked in Renaissance humanism, Shakespeare was not an essentialist. He looked at the world with humility and wonder, and I suspect he wouldn’t dismiss a production like this, but would ever so gently chastise those who might. After all, as his most famous creation says, “There are more things in heaven and earth than dreamt of in your philosophy… “

Paul Gilchrist

Antony & Cleopatra by William Shakespeare

Presented by Come You Spirits

At The Lounge, The Concourse until 22 Feb

theconcourse.com.au

Image by Syl Marie Photography

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Chasing Dick

6 Feb

This is a rom-com. Yes, I know Shakespeare made this sort of thing work, with his poetry and multiple storylines, but it’s a genre I don’t usually enjoy, and one I don’t think particularly suited to theatre.

But, written by Dax Carnay with Aleks Vujicic, Chasing Dick is utterly charming.

A father (Jason Jefferies) and a son (Chris Colley) have both fallen for Dick (Carnay), a trans woman.

Directed by James Lau and Carnay, the performance style is a sort of naïve naturalism, and the characters created are warm and very likeable. Carnay, in particular, is a gifted comic actor.

The result is a show that’s cute, funny, and wonderfully effervescent.

But it’s not just bubbles; there’s some invigorating tensions that give the piece a glorious richness.  

Firstly, there’s a fascinating dual narrative in regard to Dick’s backstory. At one point, her Filipino culture is described as conservatively intolerant of her identity, retrograde in comparison to a more open Australia. In another telling, her original culture appears warmly accepting. Is the character indulging in revisionism? If so, it’s a penetrating portrait of the psychological complexity of migration. Or, are the competing narratives indicative of the inescapable contrast between our anxieties and reality? She feared coming out, but was then happily surprised? If so, it’s an insight into abuse’s inevitable and insidious ability to warp our world view; a single snarl erases a thousand smiles, and can hold us back from so many more.

Secondly, there’s a moving interrogation of the trope of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl (MPDG). The MPDG is a female character who sometimes pops up in romantic comedy, a woman of transgressive energy but no apparent interiority, a woman whose sole purpose appears to be aiding the male characters’ growth. Both father and son fall under Dick’s vivacious spell, but she complains You see me, but you haven’t listened to me! She refuses to be reduced to a fetish; she demands to be recognised as a full human being. But, at the same time as rejecting the dehumanising elements of the MPDG, the positive aspects of the trope are retained. Dick does encourage the men to mature. A cynic might reject the lessons these characters are asked to learn as mere psychobabble – of the Tennyson-inspired Better to have loved and lost variety. However, romance might be the silliest of the serious things, but in a world in which the silliest people seem to have gained control of the most serious things, lessons of acceptance, openness and the importance of genuine love have definitely not lost their vitality.

Thirdly, the play offers a transformative exploration of reductive thinking. Confronted by his unexpected feelings for Dick, the elder of her devotees wants to know What am I now? It’s a powerful poke at conservativism. (I, for one, wanted to scream from my seat Why do you NEED a label?) And yet, in a play that positions us to question the oversimplification of labels, Dick says very clearly I am a woman.

And it’s a truly beautiful moment.

The current fashion in our theatre is to be overtly political, to be direct, didactic – and dull. We like to tell our audience what to think. One way we do this is by loudly asserting the rights of marginalised peoples. Jeremy Bentham famously suggested that any talk of rights was nothing more than nonsense on stilts, meaning it was just airy-fairy fancifulness, rights ultimately being guaranteed nowhere and underwritten by nothing. Inadvertently (perhaps) Bentham’s dismissive metaphor highlights the appeal of the language of rights – after all, everyone does stop to watch a person walking on stilts – though he was correct in suggesting it’s not usually a sight that has a life-altering emotional impact.

But when Carnay as Dick asserts I am a woman, she is not speaking the language of rights, she is not furthering an agenda, she is not repeating the party line. She’s being far more radical than that – she is being honest.

I’m not completely dismissing theatre with political attitude, but a piece like this is an invaluable reminder of how we might best connect with our audiences. It is openness that breeds openness, and I suspect many more hearts are melted by sincerity than ever are by slogans. If justice is to stand, it will stand strongest when built on the knowledge of our shared humanity.

Paul Gilchrist

Chasing Dick by Dax Carnay with Aleks Vujicic

Presented by TayoTayo Collective

At the Loading Dock Theatre, Qtopia, until 15 Feb

qtopiasydney.com.au

Image by Jordan Hanrahan-Carnay and Matt Bostock

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