Tag Archives: theatre

Confessions of a Theatre Reviewer

9 Jan

I have a confession to make: my title will probably be the most interesting thing about this article.

Deliberately titillating, that provocative word confessions is really no more than a sad attempt to disguise the fact that this will be just one more article written by me about me.

I usually write theatre reviews and, as everyone knows, reviews tell you more about the reviewer than the show. (After all, no matter what show I go to see, I’m always there. It’s this inevitability – rather than the quality of the work – that explains why so many reviewers become jaded.)

So, if this is just another article about me, why write it at all?

It recently occurred to me, that as of last year, I’ve written as many reviews about other people’s shows as I’ve had reviews written about my own shows. So, I guess, I’m in a weirdly privileged position.

Dear Theatre-maker, I know your love-hate relationship with reviewers, and I think I can offer some insight. (Or, if not, at least I’ve harnessed another opportunity to write about myself.)

Dear Theatre-maker, these are the things I must confess:

  • I’m excited every single time you send me an invitation to a show.
  • I don’t especially like to go to your opening night.
  • I like to bring a plus one.
  • I know what I write is not very important, certainly not as important as what you write.
  • I’m aware that everything I write is sloppy. I’d like to take more time and write for posterity, but I know that posterity doesn’t buy tickets. (What I write is mere fish wrap, hence the above image.)
  • I’m not trying to market your show, but I know you are. So, if I like your show, I’ll include a line or two you can use as a pull-out quote.
  • I dislike the idea of grading or comparing productions.
  • I’m not trying to make you famous. (I’m not trying to make me famous. It’s with great reluctance that my reviews have a byline. I’d prefer not to include my name at the conclusion of what I write, but I believe the obligation of accountability outweighs the pleasures of anonymity.) And, if fame is what you are trying to achieve, I think you should carefully consider why. I think you should also consider what that desire suggests about your attitude to other people. I’m not saying you shouldn’t seek financial gain from your art – but because I believe artists shouldn’t starve, I’d also rather they remain in good psychological health.  
  • I want people to read what I write. So, if you like my review, share it on your socials.
  • Personally, I don’t read reviews. I think a fair percentage of reviewers write terribly. It’s sometimes said that we reviewers are failed artists, but that’s not the whole story: many of us are failed reviewers as well.
  • I read your program only so as not to misspell the names of your creative team (though sometimes I’ll still get them wrong anyway.) Apart from that, I studiously avoid everything you write about your show: marketing, advertising, director and writer’s notes … everything. In fact, reading your program notes afterwards can feel like a type of gaslighting; I saw the show, and now you’re telling me, in such authoritative tones, that my interpretation of the show is wrong? (But I understand why you write these notes. Many of the notes I’ve written as a playwright have simply been repeated back at me by reviewers and, as a result, the reviews have been a delight to read.) 
  • I know you won’t like everything I write, and I’m OK with that.
  • I give your show much more thought than you probably imagine.
  • I find the spoiler-rule frustrating, but I’ll abide by it. I don’t like it when you act as though I’ve broken the rule when I’ve merely outlined the scenario. I have to be able to say what your show is about; I can’t just gush hyperbolic platitudes.
  • I don’t like it when you suggest I’ve misunderstood your play. You’ve shared it, and now it’s ours.
  • I know what I write is subjective. I know I have personal preferences and interests, and I know they’ll inform what I write. I don’t believe there’s an objective viewpoint, and I think those who assert there is are either naïve or lying.
  • I’m not interested in your politics. Or, more to the point, I’m interested in them in a way you might find surprising. To be honest, your piece of theatre is extremely unlikely to change my political outlook – but I do love to learn what political perspectives are being held by other people, artists included. When you behave as though your art will change hearts and minds, I think it’s a little odd. I’m not saying it won’t, or it can’t, but to have that as your driving purpose is to assume your audience is less sophisticated than you.
  • I like to be thanked for my review. Even a one-word message will suffice. Here’s one you can cut and paste for future use: Thanks.

And to end this article, I’ll take my own advice.

I’m absolutely thrilled about the upcoming year of theatre, and so, in advance, to all Theatre-makers, an enormous THANKS.

Paul Gilchrist

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Thoughts on the year in theatre 2024

27 Nov

I’ve had the enormous good fortune to see 81 shows in 2024. Yes, a lot – but other reviewers see more.

This year, in response to productions, I’ve written 46,000 words. (To give some perspective, Hamlet is 30,000 words, The Great Gatsby is 47,000, and some random monkey banging away at his keyboard for 12 months is 46,000.)

I don’t get paid for my writing (though if someone wants, I can easily supply my banking details.) And I don’t do it for the tickets. I do it so I can write about theatre. (Would I have wanted to see so many plays without writing about them? No. I enjoyed seeing most of them, but I enjoyed writing about all of them.)

If you’re reading this article for my “Best of 2024 List”, you’ll be dissatisfied. I don’t see art as a competition, so I won’t be ranking productions. (I have become Disappointment, the Destroyer of Dreams.)

I’m writing this reflection simply to share some observations of Sydney’s theatrical world – because I believe sharing not competing is the essence of art. My observations will be, unavoidably, limited and subjective.

FIRSTLY, TRIVIALITIES: THE WORLD OF REVIEWING.

It appears there are more people writing about theatre than ever before. My current publicity list includes over 40 Sydney-based sites or publications. Despite this (or because of this) there’s still a tendency for many reviewers to write in marketing language. I’m not sure if this is a result of inexperience or cynicism. But there are some really interesting new voices, as well great material written by some old hands.

Despite the large number of reviewers, theatre companies are increasingly using “audience responses” in their marketing.

Despite the large number of reviewers, indie companies can still struggle to get critics to come along to their shows.

The trend to grade productions out of 5 has become almost universal. And it feels like an arms race. Not many shows are awarded 2 stars; if you want to garner attention for your site, you give a show 5 stars. I’m waiting for someone to award 6. (Give 1 star and you’ll also get noticed, but the invitations might soon dry up.) I’ve resisted the trend because I don’t feel productions are comparable in any sense that’s interesting. And, fortunately, I don’t have an editor demanding I follow the fashion.

I’ve noted theatre-makers expressing dissatisfaction with reviewers. (I’ve also noted the sun still rises in the east. Nothing gets past me.) Considering the nature of the relationship between artists and critics, some animosity is probably inevitable. I’ve heard complaints that too many reviewers are not experienced enough. I’ve heard complaints that reviews are not harsh enough. I’ve heard complaints that reviewers evaluate productions according to their politics rather than the artistry of the creatives. There also appears to be some moral discomfort when someone who produces art also writes about it (like myself). Obviously, I’m either trying to feather my own nest or piss on someone else’s. Sycophancy and vindictiveness, it seems, are more believable motivations than a genuine interest in the artform.

Reviews used to be referred to as fish-wrap, alluding to the fact that today’s newspaper becomes tomorrow’s rubbish liner. Now, with most reviews online, they’re less like fish-wrap and more like nuclear waste – a poisonous, unwanted byproduct that just never goes away.  Personally, I’d like to see more reviews written in a manner that would make them interesting to read even if you were never going to see the show. I’d like reviews to invite readers to think more about the dramatic form and more about the ideas that the shows explore. I don’t expect all reviews to be like this, but I think there’s space for something more than glib, thought-free, idiosyncratic evaluations.

NOW THE IMPORTANT STUFF, THE PRODUCTIONS THEMSELVES.

It’s an absurd generalisation, but the overall standard in Sydney theatre seems higher than previously. Perhaps this is because the number of venues remains low and so access to them is more competitive. Or maybe it’s just a result of more discerning programming. Or maybe there’s something in the water. Whatever the case, I’ve been privileged to see many superb productions.

I’ve really enjoyed the sheer amount of new work presented this year; over 50% of what I’ve seen. I want to thank the season programmers for this, and all the indie producers who took a chance on the untested. (I will point out that there’s a tendency for some new work to be longer than needed. I think a good rule of thumb is that 90 minutes is as long as you should ask an audience to sit without an intermission. Yes, intermissions have gone out of fashion, so if it’s new work, and you’re in charge, please consider closely the show’s running time. Many pieces would gain from a tighter edit. In fact, few phrases in the theatre vernacular are repeated with more glee than A short show is a good show!)

As well as new work, there’s also been an enjoyable variety of old classics, the return of some Australian soon-to-be classics, and some thrilling contemporary work from overseas. A healthy theatre scene should be a mix, and at least for me, this year of theatre in Sydney got that mix just right.

To praise our directors in particular, the use of space has often been magnificent. In this regard, I’ve seen absolutely brilliant work at Belvoir, Ensemble, Sydney Opera House, Seymour, KXT, Old Fitz, New Theatre, Flight Path, Riverside, Qtopia, Carriageworks, Flow Studios and the Fringe. It’s been a joy to see directors embrace the potential of a space rather than merely attempt to minimise what they think are its limitations. To praise our designers, there’s been some terrific shows with a minimalist aesthetic. There are productions playing with technology, and doing so in an exciting way, but it feels as though our fascination with gadgets is waning.

I’ve never been a fan of theatre that’s little more than sitcom, and there appears to be less of it.

There’s a continuing interest in theatre that purportedly is Telling our Stories. I’ve written elsewhere how this phrase has morphed into the odd assumption that theatre is fundamentally a type of non-fiction. However, though the phrase Telling our Stories has been used this year, it hasn’t dominate the description of productions as much as previously. For example, in the last few years, it almost became the default position that any one-person show was a sharing of actual lived experience, but in 2024 I’ve seen some great one-actor shows that had no pretence of autobiography. We need diversity on our stages, but the fictional form doesn’t need to be sacrificed for this to be achieved.  

I’m reluctant to make a judgement as to where we actually are in regard to diversity. The majority of companies claim to be committed to the concept, and the difference between now and, say, 15 years ago is substantial. But I’ve spoken to artists who are dissatisfied with what’s been achieved, and who feel that though the language of inclusion is spoken, it’s not always sincere. Diversity will remain a live issue, partly because theatre that doesn’t reflect the society in which it’s created is doomed to irrelevance, but also because the philosophical assumptions that drive our desire to achieve it are still muddy and require further discussion. Expect me to write more about this next year.

The standing ovation has become common. Does that mean audiences are more appreciative of what’s happening on our stages? I hope so. A cynical friend has suggested that the standing ovation is just a way of reclaiming the experience from the performers, or simply an automatic response from individuals frustrated by the requirement to sit still and relatively quietly for such a long time. Or, says my friend, it’s a way of shaking off the art, like frantically removing a spiderweb into which you’ve accidently stumbled. (I wonder if it’s perhaps more the shower you might take after a visit to the dentist; you’ve submitted to the necessary drill, and your smile might now be healthier, but only because blood and bone have been splattered everywhere.) I’m not one for standing ovations; I have enough trouble putting my socks on in the morning, let alone leaping instantaneously to my feet. But perhaps it’s also about what I value in the art. To respond so physically, so completely, to a piece of theatre means I haven’t had time to savour its subtlety or to be threatened by its thorniness.

But, most likely, most people are just quicker than me.

So I’ll give my standing ovation now, at the end of the year.

Thank you Sydney theatre-makers, you have shaped things of Beauty and shared dreams of Truth. We have asked for bread and you have not given us stones, and we are richer for it.

Paul Gilchrist

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People Will Think You Don’t Love Me

22 Nov

This is a fascinating piece of theatre. The arresting title is an introduction to its key concerns. Philosophers as great as Plato, Augustine and Foreigner have all wanted to know what love is – but an even deeper tradition has long questioned the meaning of those mysterious little pronouns, the you and me of the phrase people will think you don’t love me.

What are you? What am I? To what degree do any of us have a fundamental essence? If so, what does that essence consist of? I don’t mean the particular qualities we might attribute to lovers, qualities like courage, intelligence or kindness. I mean the medium in which such characteristics exist, where they reside. (Analogy: old films were celluloid, and it was in this medium that the particular images that made up any individual film resided.) To cut to the chase, in the currently reigning philosophy of secular materialism, are we simply our physical bodies? If so, then our personal qualities must reside in those bodies. And the tantalising question raised by all this is If you donate an organ to me, do I begin to become you? 

This is the basis of Joanna Erskine’s fabulous play. Michael has a diseased heart. When Rick dies in an accident, Michael is given his healthy heart. And then he changes….

Some people might dismiss the idea as simply weird, or as such a rare experience as to be of little relevance.

But what it’s doing is opening up the concept of selfhood. A couple of decades ago we had an obsession with finding ourselves. It was assumed every individual had an essence and it was the mission of each of us to find that essence and let it shine. More recently, we’ve come to define our essential self in terms of our membership in certain demographic groups. With this sociological rather than psychological focus, we’ve come to see our individuality as a space carved out by the intersection of various statistical sets. We’ve almost replaced the word individuality with identity. We no longer shine like some sort of star, but rather lie small and flat, a mere overlap in a Venn diagram.

But, as I’ve suggested, this play doesn’t so much raise the question of Who we are but What we are.

I don’t want to make the play sound heavy; it’s extremely engaging. (And I certainly don’t want to sound like the kind of pretentious fool who goes to a children’s party and sees innocents being inculcated into the competitive values of capitalism, while everyone else just sees kids playing Musical Chairs.)

But this play won the Silver Gull Award when it was run by subtlenuance, when the parameters were that eligible plays be philosophical or political. Now the award is run by New Theatre, and that phrase has wisely been removed (the average theatre-goer being insufficiently familiar with the philosophical approach to appreciate that their favourite artform is philosophy’s closest cousin. What two human activities are the Ancient Greeks most famous for gifting to Western society? Drama and philosophy.)

Good drama is good philosophy: recognisable situations, presented in accessible language, posing fundamental questions.

And the dramatic form is eminently suited to the investigation of the philosophical concept of the essential self. The creation of individual characters is one of the dramatist’s major tasks. And, as audience members, we judge the success of any particular characterisation by the success of that mysterious trick of combining consistency with unpredictability. Of any character, we want to be able to say I understand why she did that rather than being reduced to the boredom of She was obviously going to do that. And one way theatre keeps that magic mixture of consistency and unpredictability bubbling is the actor, the physical body on stage. Every writer has had an actor in a workshop or rehearsal critique their script: I don’t think my character would say that. One answer is Your character does, indeed, say that. Your physical presence on stage as you say the line is sufficient, because the character exists nowhere else.   

In Erskine’s play, the interrogation of the nature of selfhood is further facilitated by the focus on romantic love. Romance is the type of relationship most based on the assumption that an individual is something particular, something special. (In most other relationships we’re honestly not that interested; we’re content to deal with people as we find them.) There’s a flashback to the night before Michael and Liz’s wedding, where he explicitly outlines why she is the woman he loves. It’s commonplace to assert that people change, and that’s why romance dies. But why are we so hopeful in the first place that the loved one will act consistently? Perhaps sexual love is like the theatrical stage; the centrality of the body somehow implies a permanency of self.

I’ll repeat again, the play is not heavy; it’s a gripping psychological drama (with a smattering of the gothic – I’d love to see more!)

And the awkwardness of the situation, that Michael’s life is only possible because of Rick’s death, provides opportunities for surprising humour. The uncomfortable pauses, the inappropriate comments, the unrecognised hints, all create a linguistic landscape of the alien and the unfamiliar, and under the direction of Jules Billington, the cast present beautifully the tentative navigation of this strange new world. 

Tom Matthews as Michael has an extraordinarily challenging task – the portrayal of two characters battling it out in one body. He achieves this superbly, achieving genuine nuance (and avoiding any temptation to employ the garish strokes more suited to horror.) The duality of his inner world is reflected by the two women in his life, his wife Liz, and Tommy, the partner of Rick who donated his heart. These two characters have tremendous arcs, as they try to come to terms with the most unusual of circumstances. Ruby Maishman’s Tommy moves poignantly from suspicion and the coldness of grief to a wondrous softening as she begins to find Michael’s behaviour oddly familiar. Grace Naoum’s Liz brilliantly transforms from a daggy, uptightness to a bewildered anger, as she finds only loss where she expected victory, and knows not who to blame.

I’ve talked a lot about the philosophical provocations of the play, but its glory is that it’s still grounded in the psychological. As Michael begins to display attributes of the bolder, more brutal Rick, we’re asked to consider whether he is merely acting out his desires. Now that Michael is finally healthy, is he simply claiming a bigger life? Is the whole I-have-your-heart-now-in-my-body-and-it’s-changed-who-I-am a materialistic justification for what are actually just choices? It’s an old trick: disguise decisions as determinism. It’s beyond my control, says the man who really, really, really wants to do it.

In the most stimulating way, the play takes on some of the most dominant assumptions of our culture. It interrogates materialism in two ways, positing its natural but rather disconcerting conclusion, and by uncovering its dubious allure. And it does all this in the way drama does best: offering no answers, just an engaging story.

Paul Gilchrist

People Will Think You Don’t Love Me by Joanna Erskine

presented by Little Trojan in association with bAKEHOUSE Co

at KXT until 30 Nov

kingsxtheatre.com

Image by Phil Erbacher

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Hedda Gabler

28 Oct

The joy of a classic is twofold: you’ve either seen it before and are fascinated by the choices made by this particular production, or you’re seeing it for the first time and are sharing in an experience that has enthralled millions before you.

This version, adapted and directed by Anthony Skuse, will thrill audiences both familiar with the play and those to whom it is entirely new.

Skuse has tightened the piece so it runs a brisk 90 minutes, a remarkable achievement as there’s not much fat to trim off Ibsen’s original, a piece that can run two hours fifteen.

Hedda has just returned from her honeymoon with her more conventional husband Jørgen Tesman. It’s clearly not a perfect match, a fact underlined by the play’s title: Hedda’s maiden name. In the drawing room of the couples’ newly acquired home is a portrait of her father, General Gabler, watching over all. And, waiting in a drawer, is the set of pistols he bequeathed his daughter.

It’s tempting to read the plays of the second half of Ibsen’s career as documenting social issues. When Nora leaves her husband at the end of A Doll’s House, it can seem like she’s slamming the door on the whole damned patriarchy. And, I guess, if you like your theatre as a type of animated slogan, a sort of cutely repeating GIF, who am I to say you shouldn’t. But I do wonder if reducing Ibsen to a message is to rob the dramatic experience of its richness. From long, hard experience, I’ve come to the conclusion that the best way to pass the time in the theatre is by paying attention to the actual play, rather than holding tight to some theory you brought pre-packed from home.

Ibsen, I suspect, is best appreciated through character rather than message. Famously, he claimed to have spoken to his characters, heard their voices, noted their choice of dress. They weren’t puppets for his particular philosophy, but people….with all the wild heaving breathing contradictions that implies.

Skuse’s version honours this gloriously Life-affirming approach, and Hedda as performed by Ella Prince is beautifully rich and complex. Prince’s Hedda is intense and bewildered, focussed and fraught, iron-strong and vapour-vulnerable. She’s both the pistol and its puff. She’s a long way from some other Heddas I’ve seen: silly middleclass housewives who are close cousins to Emma Bovary, bored with their lives and self-medicating with fantasy. Prince’s Hedda longs for something more, but in a way that’s so genuine, so potent, that it doesn’t so much indict the mediocrity of the society she’s trapped in as offer a Dionysian vision of ecstatic fecundity, of human flourishing …. of tragically lost opportunity.

With a terrific cast, Skuse surrounds Hedda with characters who are tougher and less comically inconsequential than those some directors choose to present. There’s still plenty of humour, but these characters, though not Hedda’s equal in strength, inhabit a psychological world that is neither inconceivably nor prohibitively distant from her own. Considering the notorious final line of the play, this is both ironic and deeply poignant. The use of space is brilliant, making the most of KXT’s traverse stage, and the simple conceit of having characters occasionally sit with us in the front row is a powerful reminder that Ibsen offers people, just like ourselves.  

Paul Gilchrist

Hedda Gabler by Henrik Ibsen, in a version by Anthony Skuse

Presented by Secret House in association with bAKEHOUSE theatre co 

At KXT until 2 November

kingsxtheatre.com

Image by Braiden Toko

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Wife

21 Oct

Written by Samuel Adamson and directed by Darrin Redgate, Wife is boldly structured.

It spans almost an hundred years, but is created from half a dozen twenty minute or so real-time scenes. We start in the late 1950’s, in the dressing room of an English actress (Julia Vosnakis) who’s just played Nora from Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. She’s visited by an intimate friend (Imogen Trevillion) and her boorish husband (Will Manton). We then skip twenty five years to a bar in London, where one of two gay lovers (Henry Lopez Lopez & Manton) is the son of one of the women in the first scene. And then we skip….. you get the idea.

There’s always at least two links between the scenes: someone is related to someone from an earlier scene, and there’s just been a performance of A Doll’s House.

The charm and intrigue of the piece comes from picking out these connections. (Occasionally, some of the cast’s accent work make this more intriguing than necessary.) The script asks a lot from its actors: establish a character quickly but deeply, then let it go and build another. Redgate’s cast are to be congratulated on their commitment to this challenge. A highlight is Imogen Trevillion, informing each of her characters with a truthfulness that both embraces and belies the brevity and bounce of each performative opportunity.  

But back to those links between the scenes. The family connections might hold the piece together, but the ongoing connection to Ibsen’s play is its beating heart.

Nora famously walks out of her marriage because she feels she can’t be an authentic person within an institution constructed from middle-class, patriarchal norms.

Each of the scenes in Wife either explicitly interrogates Nora’s decision or, by presenting tensions that result from power imbalances in intimate relationships, implicitly returns to the issues Ibsen’s heroine encapsulates.

Does this mean Wife asserts the importance or relevance of theatre? Could a piece of theatre effectively do this? You can’t prove a made-up story is relevant by telling another made-up story, not even a cluster of them. You could suggest it, but you could also just produce the original play and allow the audience themselves to determine the relevance.

And, anyway, the relevance of one play proves, or even suggests, very little about all the rest of theatre. It’s probably best to see Wife (as the title implies) as part of the ongoing discussion of the politics of personal relationships (of which Ibsen was a stimulating participant.)

Excitingly, this play applies a queer lens to the perennial discussion. A director (Peter Walters) of one the multiple productions of Ibsen’s play expresses the opinion that marriage and queerness might not be such a good …. marriage. (The Yes outcome of the plebiscite should be celebrated, but that doesn’t mean everyone now has to get hitched. Nora rejected patriarchal and middle-class values because they prohibit authenticity; might not hetero-normative values deserve similar short shrift?)

In every intimate relationship, multiple forces collide. The brute impersonal drive of sex collides with the rich inner emotional lives of the lovers. And these collide with the social expectations of both individuals, knowing as they do that the world always awaits, just on the other side of the bedroom door, eyes ever to the keyhole. And the collision of these cosmically-disparate forces is star-birthingly spectacular. It’s no wonder that mystics of all traditions, in their attempt to express their meeting with the Divine, have fallen back on the language of sexual love.

To the never-to-be-completed conversation about this happiest of collisions, Wife is a fascinating addition.

Paul Gilchrist

Wife by Samuel Adamson

At New Theatre until 2 November

newtheatre.org.au

Image by Bob Seary

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