Ah… writers… some of my favourite people. And playwrights – my favourite – whom I refer to as “sociable hermits.” Playwrighting is one of the most difficult writerly forms because it is so collaborative.

One playwright recently wrote on my Facebook Wall: “Why do plays take such a long time to write?”

And I responded with two thoughts:

“Because the voices in your head keep squabbling?”

“Because there are 26 letters in the alphabet and you’ve only got 8 fingers (and 2 thumbs?) – if you had 26 fingers I think it would be 3 times faster.”

Being a writer is quite a solitary act. Being alone alot can result in paranoia and self-interrogation and over-thinking and insomnia. Combine that with a rehearsal room full of attractive, ambitious, talented, intelligent actors and director – and it can be extremely challenging.

Being a playwright takes great audacity, great vision and sturdy self-awareness. It also takes time and people skills.

So I’m a fan of writers – I direct them, I produce them, I review them. And I am honoured to be talking on a couple of panels at the NSW Writer’s Centre’s Playwriting Festival… It’s on the 3rd March, I hope to see you there!

**********************************************************************************

The blurb of the Writer’s centre goes like this:

“The NSW Writers’ Centre is a government funded not for profit organisation that exists to promote writing-based culture and the rights and interests of writers in NSW. The Centre provides a dynamic program of activities each year including writing workshops, course for writers, publishing seminars, festivals for writers and writing competitions, as well as providing mentorship opportunities, manuscript assessments and providing support for writers and writing organisations in Sydney and across New South Wales.”

The blurb of the Playwrighting Festival goes like this:
The first in our festival program for 2012 is the Playwriting Festival curated by award winning writer Kate Mulvany.

The Playwriting Festival will bring together some of Australia’s best and brightest playwrights, dramaturgs, artistic directors and reviewers including Van Badham, Vanessa Bates, Wayne Blair, Jane Bodie, Fraser Corfield, Duncan Graham, Kevin Jackson, Andrea James, Leland Kean, Mark Kilmurry, John McCallum, Tony McNamara, Tommy Murphy, Debra Oswald, Lachlan Philpott, Polly Rowe, Diana Simmonds, Sam Strong, Augusta Supple, Alana Valentine and more to be announced.

The program will cover the craft and business of playwriting with panels on the changing face of Australian playwriting; the pros and cons of working with directors and dramaturgs; what mainstage theatre companies are looking for; working in the fringe theatre scene; the reviewed versus the reviewer; and the playwright’s role in the production process. A full program will be released very soon.

There will be script sales, gourmet food and coffee, plenty of free parking and you are welcome to join us on the veranda at the end of the day for a complimentary post-festival drink. NSW Writers’ Centre members also receive a generous discount on festival bookings.

Bookings can be made from 30 January. NSW Writers’ Centre Members $55 / Concession Members $45 / Non-members $80.

Kate Mulvany

Kate’s play The Danger Age was shortlisted for the Sydney Theatre Company 2004 Patrick White Playwright’s Award and she was the winner of the 2004 Philip Parsons Young Playwright’s Award, for which she was commissioned by Belvoir to write The Seed. The Seed went on to win the Best Independent Production and was nominated for Best New Australian Work at the 2007 Sydney Theatre Critics’ Awards. It was also nominated in 2008 for an AWGIE Award, the Queensland Premier’s Literary Award and received a honourable mention in the Asher Awards. After two sell-out seasons at Belvoir The Seed went on to tour Australia and in 2012 it makes its Melbourne premiere for Melbourne Theatre Company. In 2009, Kate’s play The Web was co-produced by Black Swan Theatre Company and Hothouse Theatre Company. In 2010, her play The Wreath was developed for Bell Shakespeare’s Minds Eye initiative, and she completed a new adaptation of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, which toured Australia in 2011 for Bell Shakespeare.

CHECK OUT THE WEBSITE: http://www.nswwc.org.au/?page_id=1613

I believe that each act in our lives is an act of accidental or considered curation. Curation is a selection process and the end result is that meaning is made – whether accidental or intentional. There is meaning in what we choose. Or meaning that we don’t choose (which, is, actually in itself, a choice).

Meaning is made, regardless.

Ontroerend Goed and Sydney Theatre Company joined forces for the Sydney Festival to present A History of Everything at The Wharf 2 Theatre. A company of young theatre makers (both Belgian and Australian) decide to embark on creating this dual-hemispherical reflection of history in 1 hour and 40 minutes.

And of course, there is failure inherent in such a project – there is no way EVERYTHING can be encompassed in one show. And the choice here, is to either accept the failure and delight in it: or the choice is to scrutinize the failure and question it.

I will, for the sake of discussion, not follow suit with my blogging/responding/reviewing colleagues – all whom delighted in it, it seems.

You can read them here:
John McCallum
Lenny Ann Low
James Waites

I will present an alternative response.

Deep in the realms of human experience, there is an innate awareness that emerges (I think in teenage years) that we are completely alone. At that point, belonging becomes everything – as goths and punks emerge with heavy make-up and a trembling sense of disconnection. Wa are absolutely and utterly alone. Alone in action, and opinion and life trajectory. No-one will live the life you will live. That uniqueness is awe-inspiring and confusing and sometimes very solid and sometimes easily crushed and completely overwhelming. Sort of like trying to track a history of everything.

It is at this point of identity formation – the teenage years – that curation or choice- becomes intense, self-aware and paramount to daily function. It’s high stakes. Choice is branding. Choice is everything.

On a giant map of the world the history of the world is played out backwards. And so here we are watching a backwards clock tick – we watch clever conceits fill the stage.

A group of people tell a history of the world. Despite there being seven bodies contributing to this performance (and that’s not including director nor designer) with a variety of background and nationality, but what we are presented with, is “A” history. Single. History. The 7 identities dip into the fast back-spinning timeline – but not significantly – only momentarily. And despite some attempts – we are safely nestled in the history of the western world (a fairly male focused history it is too) with momentary glances at the east. This history is dominated by war. Not medical advances. Not philosophical thinking. We are watching a fairly clear trajectory of a homogenized, western consensus history.

As such, it’s fairly dull.

Dramaturgically, we know where we start, and we know where it ends – and what is revealed in the interim is nothing new. And the journey is not particularly surprising or exciting nor is the way in which it is presented. After all the effort and the interest – what we are left with are two theories. Of us: evolution. Of the universe: the big bang. And for me those ideas are very contemporary (less than 200 years old). Such contemporary-ness roots us in the now – therefore reminding us of the performers context. BUT the performers contexts are still not fully exposed – we see only slithers of self. And as a result this history is fairly pedestrian.

Another failure for me is the linear nature of the dialogue. It is a form of curation – a linear structure which ignores multiplicity. Histories do not wait – they are formed and re-formed and re-written. The objective attempt to track history is impossible beyond one’s own life experience – plus, objectivity in reportage is always tainted by the teller’s individual perspective. The tellers of this history seem to make sense of things through lining up events as though countries were like a line of dominoes. To do this to history, is to deny the natural cacophony of humankind. We are a non-linear, non-causal mess – and history makes it look like there was a plan – but there wasn’t. And there still isn’t.

Other visual dramaturgical problems include the timing of when the signs which read “war” were taken away after being placed.

The timing of some events being enacted took precedent over other events – the dropping of the bombs on Hiroshima – but the reality is that all events are of equal importance – therefore they should be at equal pace. I suggest the a break neck speed is probably more effective.

For example -
Big Bang theory
\

Why I felt this show failed, and failed within it’s own “knowing failure” is that it did not reach beyond our (the audience’s) expectation, or beyond our understanding or our knowledge. This was a fairly safe list of events with only faint glimmers of unique and individual contribution from individuals. “This is when i was born” etc.

Devised work and this style of theatre making has an opportunity to be utterly unique and surprising. It is a difficult task – sometimes impossible to manage all the information, all the ideas, all the input. but when it is achieved – it is stunning – like nothing else you’ve ever seen. But the truly amazing work that is made is when we as an audience are elevated – or encouraged to be illuminated. This aimed at show-casing the performer – not showcasing the idea.

Versions of “everything” will always differ. My version, my timeline, is different to yours. My notation, my interests are different to yours. It is curated.

And that is why History is an art not a science.

History is completely subjective. This show was not. And yet it was.

But it failed to be as subjective as history is, even Herodotus had his prejudice, and that speaks to and of the time he lived in. Surely that is what the “youth” can offer us? It could have been a great view of “history” and “everything” specifically relevant to those who were making it – in their context and time. But this felt like history built on consensus, not uniqueness. And that doesn’t really interest me because it is without conflict (not war, I’m talking conflict) and histories conflict. They must because they are subjective. If they don’t conflict, there is something wrong, there is something missing – personal perspective, personal opinion – risk.

The content of this production is nearly completely without risk. personal or artistic. And this lack of risk gives it the over-riding impression of high school improvisation classes.

Contrast to this:

My favourite touchstone about art and evolution is Kaufman’s film, ADAPTATION. Which succeeds in examining the failure of tracking a “flower’s” story. Wrapped up in this piece of meta-film is the struggle with writing – how to encompass the simplicity and yet the complexity of things: of flowers, of people, or sex, of story, of success – all in the one film. It’s about art. It’s about story. It’s about self.

Here’s some segments I was thinking about whilst i was watching A History of Everything:

I can get that from the internet if I Google “key things that happened in history.” but I can’t get what those unique artists wish/dream/worry/understand/value of the history of everything according to them At THIS time. At THIS moment. As they understand.

BUT… This show needs to be applauded and appreciated for the attempt – for the attempt at an inconceivable, forever impossible and imperfect task. The Sydney Theatre Company is also to be applauded for it’s risk takng/bravery in programming such an audacious and ambitious project. Artists must have the freedom to try the impossible… and I think this is a brilliant notion: more artists should attempt the impossible. More artists should bravely face inevitable failure. More artists should be asked to interrogate what they know of the world and where they are and where they are from.
But there needs to be more.

Grass in the backyard of The Sprague family is bleached blonde by sun and neglect – the usual emblem of a happy, well-cared for family home: a plush green carpet for backyard cricket – is, instead, crisp and struggling. And not unlike the relationships within the house.

In 1991, when Gordon Graham’s The Boys was premiering at the Stables in Kings Cross, I was a world away from Sydney. On the verge of adolescence, I was living in a small rural town populated by illiterate, single (teenage) mums and flannelet-shirted highschool drop outs. I busied myself reading poetry and Patrick White and listening to poorly taped versions of Pearl Jam’s debut album (and wishing I was friends with William Wordsworth.) It was the era of grunge- of a style of music and a mindset which I (still) affectionately regard as a form of neo-nihilism. It seemed to me that the candy-bright bubble of greed in the 80s collapsed in a recession “Australia had to have.” Movie stars and musicians were overdosing – bright eyed young men killing themselves. Australia was no longer just a place of Paul Hogan, zinc-creamed noses, boxing kangaroos and larrikin attitudes…

Twenty-one years later, in 2012 there is a similar feeling lurking about in the collective consciousness. The dotcom boom (the contemporary equivalent to the 80s bubble machine) has created a financial confidence which has been crashing across the world… Australia only now starting to feel the shudder of the Global Financial Crisis shock waves. I’m living in Sydney, in an apartment near three adjoining terraces reserved for those recently out of jail and within stone’s throw of a strip club. I read a lot of Malcolm Gladwell and I wish Alain De Botton was my best friend. Saturday night soundtracks include the occasional domestic which finds its way onto the street a woman accusing a man of betrayal and screaming in poor grammar for him to face up to his wrong doing/ the man barking back generic insults “slut” “bitch” “cunt” etc.

In times of financial hardship – when education is the luxury of a few – we are reduced to the most base and basic self-interests – pride. And it seems to me, that often the poor are people with the most amount of pride. Pride in their car, in their strength, pride in their survival, pride in their status, or their house, or their family. And as theatre often reminds us, pride comes before a fall.

Is it any wonder that this production has re-emerge at this time to crack us in the face with broken fist? Perhaps the hardest of all to shake-off is the fact that we find ourselves again in a situation where our civil society is not as civil or elevated as we thought or wished.

Layer ontop of this larger context the industry context. Here we are, three years after the “Where Are the Women?” discussion erupted due to the Belvoir Mainstage launch of the 2010 season, with a very male-dominated Sydney Festival. Though programmed by Lindy Hume – this seems to be a festival dominated by male story and male artists. Muezzins, boxing, ancient greeks eating their children et al. I note it merely as a point of interest not to rally any action, nor to criticize the choice of Hume (it is after all up to her, what she program and I reserve her right to program what ever she wants.) But I can’t help but ask the question: what is it about the world of men that we find so interesting and how is it different to the world of women?

(I know. Apologies. A rather long preamble, which I know you’ve skimmed, or skipped. I just wanted to set my thinking about where I’m coming from in my response to The Boys)

Sounds that scrape and jar – rumble and hum under the seats and scream and pulse. Breathing quickens as the level rises and we are trembled by the bass.

We start in darkness a screen door squeaks over hits the wall. Black-rimmed eyes. Voices squawk like galahs. The boys have stayed out all night.

Moss-coloured lounges.

In the neglected corners of the floor, a few light green threads of grass are growing.

A rusted hills hoist, the wires stabbed by pegs.

The website blurb says:
“Brett Sprague’s just out of jail. Reunited with his mum Sandra and brothers Glenn and Stevie, he’s ready to reclaim his life. But things have changed while Brett’s been inside. Girlfriend Michelle may have moved on, Glenn’s moved out and Stevie’s about to be a dad. As Brett’s disruptive force takes hold, tensions flare and Brett embarks on a drink-fuelled rampage, sweeping his brothers along with him – with terrifying consequences.”

It would be a mistake to view this play as a thriller – because the genre is smashed out of the water. It is never is question who did “it.” Not at all. The question of this play is really about responsibility, complicity and throws open the question of “who is to blame for this?” But it’s more interesting than that – not about attributing blame “it’s his fault, it’s the mum’s fault, is her fault for putting up with it”. In The Boys we are observing behaviour and patterns of justification for actions.

The tragedy of this play lies not in the individual’s situation but in the desperation of poverty, inflamed by ignorance which dis-empowers a whole class, a community of people. It is too simplistic to say this is an examination of the culture of the women & the culture of the men. It’s not about male violence – that is an aspect of the action. The women, are fierce and determined and down-trodden AND the men are fierce and determined and down-trodden. Both express violence with equivalent force – women with words, men with physical force: they are, equally matched. And equally as terrifying.

The tragedy, is therefore, not tied to a protagonist, but to a social class. And what is frightening is how familiar and how close we are to this world.

United after a year of incarceration, Michelle (Cheree Cassidy) and Brett (Josh McConville) circle each other like ravenous caged animals. Tearing and grasping at each other. Enveloping each other in fierce and desperate passion by the hills hoist. Sandra (Jeanette Cronin) the matriarch smirks through the tantrums and occasionally bites her cubs to remind them to keep in line. Stevie (Anthony Gee) is struggling and storming about – a baby who’s made a baby. Nola (eryn Jean Norville) is struggling – a baby who’s made a baby. Jackie (Louisa Mignone) who aspires and is trying to be more and trying to help Glenn (Johnny Carr) reach beyond what he knows. Everyone is doing their best – all of them struggling with their situation – all of them clinging to principals and pride and their identity.

And it’s not disturbing because this is unfamiliar voices, or unfamiliar territory or an unfamiliar world – but it is disturbing because it taps into our fear – our fear of being trapped and tangled in a life and identity we can’t escape or ignore. It’s frightening because we fear the power of desperation – the violence of ignorance – we fear the energy of those who have nothing to lose and alot to prove. The Boys strikes at us from our deepest and darkest insecurities – our fear of ignorance, poverty.

But this is not a play about men. It’s not showing us or revealing anything that we haven’t heard before – but we fear it’s force. We also fear the unaffective influence of the women – that are powerless to stop or curb the violence. They are, after all combating years of practiced down-trodden victim speeches. But this is not a play about how women shape or make men.

It’s a portrait of desperation.

The script is not without it’s lumps or bumps – nor it’s over-written explanations. But it’s ideas are intense and evocative and too close, too true sometimes. I am not bothered by it’s inability to solve the social issues it raises – and don’t think the text is about male violence (specifically or exclusively). It is about context. About people’s action within their context. And for me , Brett’s speech is no different to Hilter’s address to the German people, or even the St Crispin’s day speech. I hungered for more moments of light, for relief or for empathy towards these people – I yearned to connect with them more as people and perhaps this would have deepened the horror. An embrace by Sandra of Brett – made me smart -as I saw for a moment that armour revealing a chink.

Sam Strong has led a team of artists to construct a beautiful design – light (Verity Hampson), Design (Renee Mulde) and Sound (Kelly Ryall) are perfectly in sync -terrifying bleak, corrosive collisions. The ensemble of actors muster bold performances, completely focused in their performances as the characters jab at each other to find their place in the pecking order. The production itself is consistent in it’s sway between rage and interrogation, evenly paced and horrifyingly predictable – the calm comes before the storm, always.

Another brave and bold contribution by Sam Strong to the Griffin legacy and to the honouring of classic Australian play repertoire. And it’s little wonder why this show is selling out – it’s a killer combination: provocative content plus stirring soundtrack plus brutal design, and king-hit performances – get there. See it.

Mirrors. Bleach-white lights. Posters of hulking rolled shouldered men staring through their sweat. Sounds of leather-fisted thuds. The hiss from clenched teeth. Glaze-focused stares. Inspirational slogans scream,

“The more you sweat the less you bleed.”

We settle into our seats – as much as we can in the full glare of the well lit theatre -and the glare of the performer. Or perhaps ourselves – soft-bellied, neatly dressed, freshly groomed and perfumed.
They. Those performers – bounce, or steam, or sweat, or spar, or move, or crunch. Repeat. Push. Push harder. Repeat. Push. Push harder. Grunt. Breathe. Furrow. Focus. Dodge. Sweat. Spar. Stop. Breathe. Repeat.

Created by Roslyn Oades, I’m Your Man is an embodied, voiced document containing the experience and philosophy of boxers who represent many different generations, nationality, countries and world views. It is a study of language as much as it is a study of a community. A study of personal movtivation – of ambition – of aiming for success and knowing when to concede defeat. Collected from aspiring and legendary boxers including Billy ‘The Kid’ Dib, Wale Omotoso, Gus Mercurio, Jeff Fenech, Tony Mundine, Wally Carr and an unknown trainer “CJ.”

Despite the blurb for this show focusing on the following/documenting of Billy ‘The Kid’ Dib’s journey through his preparations for a world-title fight – the show itself is not a single portrait but more like a mirrored mosaic: at times amusing, at times deeply philosophical, sometimes surprising. This is tough talk from tough guys. Guys who talk about money, fame, pride, strength. But not often about fear or defeat. The hype and the slogans plastered across the walls of the theatre see to be truly believed and provide focus. This is a study of the men of this world – and a fascinating achievement to be let into this world.

However, the true vulnerability – the ugly, nasty and difficult side of contemporary boxing is only lightly touched upon. There’s no shortage of bright-eyed dreaming, posturing, bravado – but not a lot of the flip-side, with the exception of one of John Shrimpton’s characters who talks about the loss of his family and what is personally at stake.

The performance technique is fascinating – “the actors wear earpieces and take their lines directly from the ringsides, gyms and dressing rooms of Oades’ recordings” but I wonder how effective this technique is, after the show has been performed many times? Surely this is more effective as a rehearsal/character building technique than a live performance technique? That being said, the headphones gave a visual effect of the idea that every man is in his own world, and locked off from their surrounding environment – a kind of forced focus, which in itself is an interesting idea. The uniqueness of voice is inescapable. Any attempt to replicate will always have an element of parody or adoption. And this technique raises a lot of questions about the actor’s voice – and what vocal adoption is. Replicating speech patterns can often be achieved by first hand expose – surely that, paired with a well notated, thorough verbatim text (complete with all ums, ahs, stutters, coughs, breaths, utterances) would have achieved a similar result?

The performances are delivered with complete commitment by Michael Mohammed Ahmad, Billy McPherson, Katia Molino, Justin Rosniak and John Shrimpton – as they perform beyond their natural voices, their skin and their background and gender.

I’m fascinated by this world and two years ago started becoming quite enthralled by UFC – a vicious form of fighting known also as Mixed Martial Arts – mainly because I found this such a confronting concept – men confronting men of differing techniques with the view of knocking out the opponent. This is not like the (comparatively) gentlemanly sport of boxing. I became fascinated with male aggression – the triggers – the celebration of.

Here’s some UFC for those interested…

And now for a Fenech montage…

I’m Your Man is interesting, not because of the technique employed – but the research generated. Any hidden world, any niche world, any personal world has an innate dramatic tension. What is surprising about the show is how charming the interviewees are. How willing they were to talk with Oades. Mercurios ageless advice to keen your head down and hands up – head down to keep going, hands up to protect yourself is probably the most important message to the audience. The moment of being truly moved happened in the 4 minutes in which the whole cast were silent – the last few moments of the performance – where all that talk and bluster and posturing, comes down to a quiet individual moment of focus- as Dib sets his sights before the battle. It is that moment where something pure and clear, and vulnerable transformed in that performance and in that performer. The noise in his ears stopped. He held the light in his eyes. His jacket glinting with an optimistic showiness. And it was beautiful.

A large white screen before us. There’s music stands and equipment and such. There’s a booth with a clear glass panel. Before too long, the band arrives first – pouring wine or scotch into mugs – gypsies in suits ready to play a gig. They banter. Actors arrive – the usual air kisses and charisma float about the stage amongst the flash of gasping smiles. A mysterious man with a suitcase retreats into the glass paneled booth.

Lights dim.

And so it begins.

What if you were to take the concept of Live cinema (the practice of taking a pre-existing silent film and complimenting it with musical accompaniment by a solo musician) and then expanded that concept to include a cast of four actors to voice the dialogue, a full band of multi-skilled musicians and a foley artist creating all audio for a 1962 B-grade horror film – the result is Live Live Cinema’s prodcution of filmmaker Herk Harvey’s ‘Carnival of Souls.’

Lead by creator/composer/keyboardist Leon Radojkovic, Carnival of Souls is an impressive and entertaining clash of genres and performance styles. Whilst remaining true to the dialogue, the music spans a range of genres and effects – at times, sweet and playful lounge music – at times distorted crashes of heavy sounds. The mix, and match and clash of music is strangely complimentary to this very quaint horror film.

The film itself is an interesting experience – like that of a time capsule snapped open to reveal well worn premise of woman haunted by spectres only she can see after an accident with all the social trimmings of it’s day – the fashion, the cars, the casual sexual harassment/ gender role play and mild forms of melodramatic eye-brow arching.

The experience is quite engrossing – as we watch performers Chelsie Preston Crayford, Cameron Rhodes, Charlie McDermott, Bronwyn Bradley glisten and chatter at the microphone- at times themselves haunted by the film or the ghost of the on-screen actor.

I am a very light touch – and must admit to being suitably scared in sections – which I put down to the surprising and skilled score by Leon Radojkovic -yes. I screamed. I also laughed quite heartily – at the clumsy/quaint film techniques and the gentle predation from all the men in the film upon the mild yet maniacal church organist Mary Henry.

An absolutely impressive, engaging and entertaining piece of work by Jumpboard Productions and the highlight of the Riverside Theatre’s programming contribution to the Sydney Festival.

So there I was, it was designated seating at of one of Sydney’s newer theatres – I say newer but really – it’s just one of the newer spaces converted from older industries sauces/stables/salt – you know this one used to house trains until some guy thought it was an awesome idea to give all the traveling gypsies of the performance scene a proper home – yeah? Well anyway, there I was, somehow seated at the top of the wall of heads ready to look at/listen to a show, when I noticed I was seated right in the middle of the row – with my date, yeah, my um… boyfriend can I call him that? Yeah, I can. He’s called me worse – and then I noticed that the people on either side of me was seated two seats away from me. Martin Portus from Currency House – you know it? Yeah it’s one of my favourite things in the arts – besides those mini pies you sometimes get at the Opera House for a post show/pre-review snack on opening nights. you know the ones? Green paste on top. Peas. yeah.I think its peas. yeah it’s ok. – Anyway. So there I was, James Waites seated right on the end – up in the heavens – me separated from everyone by two empty seats. I was like “woah, this could make me paranoid – I’ve I’ve been exiled by the publicist” – but I’m not one to be defeated by lemons, I’m makin’ lemonade , so I strike up a conversation with Martin – and Martin said something cool in response- like he usually does – yeah, he’s cool. Then I noticed James relocating to an empty row of seats closer to the middle so yeah, I just was like “carpe diem” and we crashed it. Whatever. So sitting there. E9. Row E. Yeah, I’m talking about E. Epic. Epic mid-row seating. And it’s all fine.Yeah, I’m comfy.

What?

WHAT?

What do you want from this review?

You want a structure? A nice turn of phrase?

You want to know if you should see it? Spend that cash you could spend on a case of Victorian Bitter? VB, yeah? The original VB perhaps – you know with the good-looking antiquey label – can you still get that in NSW or is that a metro-Melbourne only thing?

Or are you one of the artists who made it? You made it and you’re checking for your name to see what I’ve written about you? Simon Stone, Thomas Henning, Chris Ryan, Mark Winter, Claude Marcos, Govin Ruben, Stefan Gregory, Anne-Louise Sarks. There. There’s your name.

You know, this reviewing stuff – well it’s tricky… a bit like making a show – you think, “what have I got to offer that hasn’t been said by better, older, wiser, smarter, more scholarly, more caring, more patient people who spell-check their reviews – such as

Alison Croggon
Cameron Woodhead
James Waites
Jason Blake

So everyone’s trying to make sense of this show they saw. there are surtitles that sort of give you a heads up to the scene ahead. But WAIT!

There’s also a book you get so you can read along so you can see when Chris Ryan says the line the way they wrote it on that day they wrote it – or estimated it when it went to print… but I’m sorry, there’s no chime to let you know when to turn the page. And the performers will/might deviate from what is written in the book.

Hey, remember this?

READ ALONGS!

Yeah, anyway.

So, we all know – there’s lots to snigger at in the theatre. Penises often get a good giggle. Look, they’re fun. I like them. I like people who host them. But though they may make some feel powerful or important – to me I think under some lights I start thinking about the muppets. Especially this one.

Also, quite nice to note that no women were exploited in the making of this piece of theatre.

Now, let’s talk about art for a second. What’s it there for? Well…

Um…

To keep artists employed and non-artists baffled?

NO! WRONG ANSWER.
(Though that does happen, sometimes)

It’s to reflect the world and ideas in/of/about the world.

Does The Hayloft Project’s Thyestes do that?
SHIT YEAH.

SO THE PLAY…
Is it about Thyestes?

Um no. But who cares. It’s lots of fun. It’s a show which is a bit naughty – a bit surprising a bit provocative. A bit clever. But it’s more about art – the ambition of/toward unique bright ideas. It’s about making fun of the establishment/challenging it – and Opera – funny how this work is MADE by the Establishment (i.e Belvoir’s Resident Director, SIMON STONE) – so he’s um … sorta making fun of himself, ain’t he?

And why not?

A true artist in his position would. Only a bureaucrat wouldn’t.

And so audiences are impressed – not sure how or why – looking to reviewers for answers.
Well, I reckon the most important thing I can offer you is this:

NOURISH YOURSELF WITH…
Jenn’s Out Of This World Spaghetti and Meatballs
(Check out the original site – I think it’s fun – I like how Jenn is thinking intergalactically about her meatballs, don’t you? But hey, don’t get stuck on the international measurements/terminlogy – we’re Aussie, don’t you know? We can translate – we’re used to it- in fact we LIKE foreign stuff.)
http://allrecipes.com/recipe/jenns-out-of-this-world-spaghetti-and-meatballs/
Original Recipe Yield 8 servings
Ingredients
* 3 tablespoons olive oil
* 3/4 cup chopped onion
* 4 cloves garlic, minced
* 2 (16 ounce) cans crushed tomatoes
* 3 (6 ounce) cans tomato paste
* 1 cup water
* 1/2 cup sugar
* 1/4 cup chopped fresh oregano, divided
* 1 dried bay leaf
* salt and pepper to taste
* 1 pound ground round
* 1/2 cup Italian seasoned bread crumbs
* 1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley
* 2 eggs, lightly beaten
* 1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
* 1 (16 ounce) package uncooked spaghetti
Directions
1. Heat the olive oil in a large saucepan over medium heat, and cook the onion until lightly brown. Mix in 2 cloves garlic, and cook 1 minute. Stir in crushed tomatoes, tomato paste, water, sugar, 1/2 the oregano, and bay leaf. Season with salt and pepper. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to low, and simmer while preparing meatballs.
2. In a bowl, mix the ground round, bread crumbs, remaining oregano, remaining garlic, parsley, eggs, and cheese. Season with salt and pepper. Roll into 1 inch balls, and drop into the sauce. Cook 40 minutes in the sauce, or until internal temperature of meatballs reaches a minimum of 160 degrees F (72 degrees C).
3. Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil, and stir in the spaghetti. Cook 8 to 10 minutes, until al dente, and drain. Serve the meatballs and sauce over the cooked spaghetti.

THE SUMMARY

And look, I’ll make a suggestion that you should see this work – because well… because… well… A case of VB can last you a couple of days, and this show may just haunt you for a lifetime.

(Did you like that tag line? Or should I workshop it some more?)

Many know I really don’t like awards – and I don’t attend them generally. But I want to reassure you all it’s not because I am a twisted, misanthrope – nor because i am “grumpy” as suggested on Twitter this morning, but because I actually think that Awards fail to encapsulate the field of art.

Instead of heading to the Sydney Theatre Awards I decided to stay home, drink tea and remember some of my favourite theatre moments from 2011 – which I Tweeted from my new Twitter account – from the solace of my lounge room.

The Award nominations are selected by a group of very established and well-respected reviewers – all of whom I read, respect, admire and love. And I have no quibble with them as humans or as professionals or as theatre goers – in fact, I may be their biggest fans. I particularly love Elissa and Jason’s dress sense – the most DAPPER theatre couple in Sydney!

I just have a dislike of awards – because it is an arbitary act of exclusivity – and in theatre – it can be so hurtful. I’m not into glamour, I’m into ideas. I’m also into theatre being the winner at the end of the day – the fact it exists is what is wonderful.

I just think it is important for all theatre makers to be reminded that their contribution is felt and remembered and recognised by many, even if there isn’t a certificate or trophy to prove it.

I dislike also the structure of these awards, because they only take into account shows ALL the reviewers from that particular set have seen – meaning that many deserving Indie artists aren’t given the opportunity to be included…

Of course there are practicalities in this – and of course I absolutely applaud any venture which celebrates our artists. I just personally don’t enjoy awards events. I do however enjoy artists and their fine works and i feel very lucky to have seen the work that I have in 2011…

So last night i tweeted a string of rememberences of people, performances or shows i saw last year that haunt me or delighted me – You can check them out on my twitter:
https://twitter.com/#!/AugustaSupple

And I did this not as a means of being grumpy – but really to add to the celebration.
I take nothing away from anyone who makes theatre anywhere – all of it is valuable – i just wanted to supplement the list with my contribution of work that will forever sit in my heart…

Unfortunately one of the critics seemed to interpret this as “Grumpy” – which has a lovely lilt to it “grumpy gus” – but I wanted to share with you that I’m not grumpy… I am absolutely in love with theatre as a form and endlessly proud of all who contribute… And really I am also very hopeful and optimistic. in fact – I think I have said in the past, and it still is true – “I prefer shortlists to winners” when it comes down to acknowledgements.

I just don’t like Awards – the idea of nor the practice of – and especially during a high-fatigue season for me (IE SYDNEY FESTIVAL) my interest in them wanes…

I just question: how can we celebrate and acknowledge artists without the arbitary process of ranking them?

Is it possible to rank or celebrate the “best” when the field is so diverse?

And should we?

That’s all..

But please be ressured – I’m not grumpy. Not pouting. Just thinking.

The bigger conversation:
Augusta Supple” boycotting the Sydney Theatre Awards this evening – instead I will be remembering and celebrating all those artists and shows NOT nominated – including Shannon Murphy & Jane Bodie for This Year’s Ashes, Sam Strong & Christopher Stollery for Speaking in Tongues, Ross Mueller for Zebra… (to name but a few missing champions…)

Matt: I concur!

ME: Thanks Matt – I’d like to say that many shows worthy of recognition aren’t – Helen O’Leary’s MY PARIS is as Indie as it comes – and yet ignored! And Kate Gaul has also been overlooked.

Mark: does anyone really care what critics think anyway?

ME: Yes – I do. I respect all the critics in this town and LOVE chatting with Jason Blake and John McCallum and James Waites and Kevin Jackson and Diana Simmonds – I just think these awards suck!

ME: Here’s the list…. http://www.sydneytheatreawards.com/2011.phpSydney Theatre Awards
www.sydneytheatreawards.com

Tom: But would it be an any more valid or useful event if those you favoured had made the cut, as opposed to the ones that did get picked? By which I just mean it’s all rather subjective surely, and all such awards are generally of little help in determining the true value of a work no matter if you agree with the outcome or not.

ME: Nope Tom – I have always been against awards – I just fundamentally disagree with ranking when it is down to taste. (You may have notice my musical play offs in 2011, Tom? Bruce Springsteen Versus Michael Jackson for example – that proves the point -all excellent artists have a place and it’s impossible to rank them)

Mark: Not to say I don’t respect them, or their opinions. I prefer blogs like yours, kj’s, James. People who are not only just criticising, but actively involved many many areas of the arts. I just find that too many fledgling and emerging artists are too concerned what A critic thinks as opposed to their peers and community at large.

Anna Lise: Well I have all sorts of feelings about ‘Awards’ including this one, but I think Angela and Leticia, and in fact the whole team deserve an award for The Dark Room. And I don’t say that very often!

ME: Dearest Anna Lise – of course I’m not against artists nominated. Not at all – and this year is no different and this awards is no different to what i have said every other year – I believe in shortlists, not winners. And I also feel it important to remind people of the excellent work that hasn’t been nominated.

Christopher: Have we not just, by reading, writing, thinking and talking about theatre, just proved the utility and value of theater awards?

ME: But why an awards, Chris? Why not a giant, open celebration of ALL work? What’s this obsession with ranking? Why not have a networking events – like a Night at the Proms but of Australian theatre? Surely the winners of theatre are those who are making work? or working on making work? There is also no point in having a theatre awards, just so that people can discuss the theatre awards – I would prefer a night which encouraged promotion and curiosity of a diverse representation of the Sydney Theatre community.

Tom: I think the essential problem with all such awards is exactly that they create winners and losers – which ranking promotes disharmony, envy, bitchiness etc: pretty much deadly stuff to the theatre which needs collaboration and trust to live and breathe.

Christopher: because making a choice creates interest and scandal. It also forces us to think and reflect and forges our own opinions in a way that a showcase doesn’t in quite the same way. I think the large xmas party was something of a gathering of the clan that hopefully will be expanded and repeated. Networking nights [although the idea of going somewhere to be networked by and with people is a pretty unappealing prospect to most I suspect] are great too, but having a ‘point’ to the evening – however arbitrary or false – motivates attendance and focus’ minds. Both have their place and are part of a healthy diversity of theatre culture.

ME: Yes Chris, that’s true – but it is a very homogenous field of “theatre” represented by the critics – most who only see mainstage shows and therefore limiting the pool of nominees. Yes indeed i heard about the group party – which I also think is an awesome idea – but, Chris, again, not everyone who makes work was invited. ALSO I think healthy debate and networking happens in foyers – or should – and does around my foyer visits – so surely as an industry we are used to and acceptingof networking by now?

ME: ‎(And on a sly self-referential note Chris) it’s not the awards that have triggered this discussion – but my boycott of it. (Cheeky, n’est ce pas?)

Christopher: I think you have many fine points there. There are many flaws in the theatre culture of Sydney and the coverage of the awards judges is one of them – and let’s not mention the Helpmanns. I think the Xmas party was a felicitous occurance when three companies realised they had planned to party on the same night – it wasn’t intended as a comprehensive event, but that it may turn into one is wonderful. And I agree your boycott of the event has started this thread – but that wouldn’t be possible without the event itslef.

ME: Always lovely to banter with you! And of course (as always) we are both right!

M-Dawg: Awards sell wine, cheese, movies, painters, comedians, why not use them to sell theatre?

James: My favourite show of the year was a bit retro: B Ellis and K Williamson having sex on the billiard table!

Catherine: It is etched in my mind. Haunted by its poignancy. But how did the billiard table feel?

GDOG: The Sydney Theatre Awards (with all respect to the nominees and judges) are absolute baloney. I’m not sure that, as Chris T enthuses, the intrigues and scandals of this year’s selections and omissions really will draw attention to the broader field… rather they focus our attentions on the predilections, fetishes and peccadilloes of a very, very small group of critics. I firmly believe the only awards any of us should take notice of are ones that my friend Kirsty gets nominated for and the Oscars. And maybe the CONDAs, where EVERYONE gets nominated.

Contemporary circus – high energy feats of human strength and eternal endurance with the added possibility someone could really hurt themselves. Awesome. Except when those acrobats are wearing fatsuits. Kind of takes the “he’s gonna hurt himself!” reaction out of the act – which I believe is an essential aspect of the effectiveness of circus – audience fear and awe.

With the La Clique gang currently in town with tickets to their show at the Sydney Opera House starting at $100 or so, this half-price circus is a little bit half-energy too. And it should be, with the premise being that everyone is completely drunk. BUT that premise should open up a lot of clumsy clowning and slapstick – and unfortunately it doesn’t.

This seems more cabaret than circus – and a little more like an evening of philosophy with Manuel form Fawlty Towers than an internationally acclaimed traveling circus show.

All in all there were some really interesting moments – the dance by the woman dressed in red… the grappling of the two pensioners.

Unfortunately I can’t say much about the show because I wasn’t given a program to help me reference or remember much about it, or compliment the aritists or the production crew. The Festival rep didn’t seem to know if there was one – and there wasn’t one on my seat. So I am limited in what I can say exactly about the show, without revealing all the surprises.

All in all, after seeing La Soiree two nights prior and Petit Mal at Brisbane Festival last year, I didn’t find La Putyka to be presenting anything truly innovative as far as “contemporary circus” goes.

Others may disagree. I wonder if they do.

Written for www.australianstage.com.au

As we file into the theatre we barely notice the creatures slumped on stage as they silently stare or marvel at the foam rimmed beer glasses in their hands. They look as though they’ve been disturbed by a Tim Burton film – or had a vicious fight with a drunk make-up artist. Everything looks a bit well-worn and well-lived. There’s a band tucked up in the corner – a cluster of stripe-legged misfits at a table in front – and two slumped figures sleeping doubled over on a long table.

It’s closing time inside this Czech pub – and the tired publican is trying to, but failing to close up. It appears that we have arrived right on closing time and he is reluctant to host us… and who can blame him, he’s surrounded by the semi-conscious and insatiable. Before long, he is handing out beer and the sense of sinister happenings melts into silliness – after all, this is circus.

Comprising of a live band, a triumvirate of puppeteers, sexy dancers, acrobats and the occasional clown – this is not your usual contemporary circus experience. Instead it is a dark and grubby style of performance. Nothing slick or sensational here – undeniably grotty, ugly, tired- and justifiably so – after all this is a Czech pub, is it not?

The premise is expanded – drinking games and tricks abound and we are confronted with a string of characters – or character moments – most without speech or dialogue, but accompanied with some earthy, Czech-grunge-folk electronica.

This is a difficult splice between performance mode – as theatre though there are moments of story, moments of surprise, there lacks meat to the matter – it is without the hallmarks of theatre: no character transformation, no message or lesson, no journey. As circus, it lacks the energy or the feats of fearlessness. Additionally the inbuilt tension of “if this fails or if they can’t pull this off, it will be physically horrible” – which is created through a few false starts or the occasional fumble is also missing. All tricks, all acts are pulled off without any tension within the act itself.

For some this will be a delightful and refreshing departure from the usual slick and glossy, sexy, glamorous circus shows doing the circuit. For others it will be a little bit un-suspenseful and too eclectic in its presentation. For me, I failed to connect with the festival blurb citing it as “an intoxicating fairy tale” and saw it more of a hungover showcase of mismatching ideas.

Sometimes, after a day of stress and bother, obligation and chores, you just need to see something spectacular. Sometimes you just want to witness exquiste people performing feats of strength and precision. And sometimes you want to get lost in a moment of extreme discomfort watching a man dislocate his joints in order to fit through the head of a ten-inch tennis racquet.

The Sydney Opera House – predominently respected as Australia’s premiere venues – hosting some of the world most talented singers, musicians and thinkers is currently home to a troupe of globe-trotting gypsies. Produced by La Clique (Sydney Festival favourites of yesteryear) this is show which is billed as “an ever-changing collection of some of the most outrageous, hilarious, beautiful and downright bizarre acts you will ever see.”

Comprising of cabaret, burlesque, magic, aerial, acrobatics, clowning – it is a charming night of performances – and it’s true you may get wet, and you may get fondled and you may sit peeking through your fingers, and you may be surprised. But I promise you won’t be bored.

Performed on a small elevated stage in the centre of the Opera House Studio, with audience separated out into three tiers of seating – ringside (you may need to wear a plastic sheet), posh(intimate cabaret table settings) and mezzanine (over looking the stage) – no-one is safe from the sassy interactions from the performers. As the ringmaster of this modern-day side show says at the top of the show – “this is not a sit back and fold your arms kind of show – if you like what you see, let us know!” And so begins a very festive night.

With some familiar faces/acts – and some new arrivals – La Soiree is a mix of old and new, classic and contemporary music and genre. As the blurb says:
“David O’Mer aka Bath Boy will have hearts racing as his aerial bathtub ballet teases and pleases; Captain Frodo will have you screaming with horror and laughter as you witness just what can be done with the human body; The English Gents turn the art of acro-balance into a surreal and uniquely British amusement; punked-up aerial ballet star Bret Pfister and kooky Mooky make their Sydney debuts; Ursula Martinez returns with her cult striptease act… and we welcome the singular phenomenon that is Le Gateau Chocolat for the Sydney debut of his frocktastic take on everything from pop-rock to opera.”

Thought it largely is, it’s not all shirtless men and glittering lipped performers – there is one moment that links this show with the outside world of our everyday realities – when Captain Frodo during his rubber man routine reminds us “Isn’t it interesting, what people do for a living? Perhaps this will inspire you to do the thing that you’ve always wanted to. Follow your dreams.” Of course he is sitting on a series of diminishing tin cans with his ankles wrapped around his neck as he says this. And there is a soul expanding version of Radiohead’s “Creep” by Le Gateau Chocolat.

It’s easy to surrender to the world of each performer. This is up-market entertainment… with some tickets in the $120-mark to supply you with champagne, not just rockstar lighting – this is not a quaint cabaret variety night – nor is it the grit and sawdust of travelling circus – this is slick, sexy, surprising sideshow.

Opening night at Sydney Theatre, of the much anticipated Babel (words). When the lights went out, the music stopped. The audience stood in their seats applauding with gusto. I sat and clapped.

It happens sometimes. I feel completely disconnected with the audience, as though I have just witnessed a completely different event. Babel (words) starts with a bang a crisp dialogue delivered in gesture and voice. It’s interesting. Very.

But as the night wore on, I was worn out by “interesting.” I was fatigued by the cleverness of each idea which was stretched and explored and expanded and explained. And then once I was fatigued by the same direct address didactic tone of the work, I began imagining other possibilities for the metal frames on stage – i willed the performers to climb the tower they had made. I wished that they would swing and twist acrobatically on top of the structures. I wished for a shift in light- in colour and intensity. I was distracted.

In my review below – I tried to explain what I felt was missing from the piece… and perhaps it was my empathy – or any sort of emotional connection with the individuals as their characters emerged?
I then started to question who this audience was that had stood and applauded and then tweeted so passionately the hour after the show finished?

I wondered why the very confident punter known as “Abc” commented on the Sydney Festival website claiming: “Excellent … it is EUROPEAN! Australian dance companies please watch and learn what is called contemporary dance. ”

Wow.

A statement like that which completely ignores the work of Graeme Murphy, Bangarra Dance Company and Shaun Parker. Cultural cringe, anyone?

All of a sudden I started to examine the subtle and uncomfortable implications of a largely white audience watching this work.

I also started to recall how it was very obvious which performers were Japanese, American or French and yet the two Australians – where was their cultural representation and “voice” in this piece? If you didn’t read the biographies, you wouldn’t know except for a moment where in a performer identifies herself in cliche – a very broad accent punctuated with the word “mate.” And yet – were the others presenting cliche? Or were they presenting culture/language?

The other difficulty I had with the piece was I was confused who to follow – and who were what characters. Was the narrator a robot? Or a woman? Or a time machine? Or a Blow up doll? Or a wind-up doll? I was confused about who she was and what she was doing or what she was representing.

I also wondered what the piece would be without text. Without narration or direct address. Would the music and the title be enough for me to “get it?”

It seemed that in the attempt to avoid miscommunication about language and communication, I became disconnected in the hunt for meaning, emotional connection.

But, it appears, others last night weren’t fatigued. They didn’t question the political context of these ideas. They weren’t distracted.

I was.

Written for www.australianstage.com.au

In the inside cover of each Sydney Festival program, you’ll find the show which is destined to have the ultimate enmasse “wow” factor – the show that blasts its way through all advertising, all promotions and sells out after everyone has been lathering each other with effusive talk which hypes up the event into the “must see event of the festival – previous years it was Robert Lepage, or the Schaubuhne’s Hamlet – this year it is Babel (Words).

On the vast stage of the Sydney Theatre – usually reserved for grand scale work and bold touring out-of-towners and Cate Blanchett – there is a series of steel framed structures. They sit simply, occasionally catching light, like an oversized desk toy. The start is spoken by a woman, gesticulating wildly as she explains the history of human communication.

According to the book of Genesis in the Bible, language was splintered by God as punishment for building a tower and all the people’s language was confused. The story explains why there is a diverse array of languages.

Babel comes from the Hebrew word “balal” which means to jumble.

And this production is a jumble of form and genres, performance modes and practices, cultures, music, bodies which is drawn from eighteen performers from thirteen countries with fifteen languages – but there is a precision in it’s content which defies the usual association of chaos with the word “jumble.”

Using both physical and verbal languages, performers respond to a collage of ancient musical styles described in the program as “an intense vocal fusion of East and West, live Hindi beats, taiko drumming and medieval music.” The performers shift: sometimes a forceful unified ensemble – sometimes a splintered cacophony of solo work – sometimes a sensuous duet. And it is technically precise and often the vocal work is very crisp.

With set design by acclaimed British sculptor Antony Gormley, and choreographed by Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui and Damien Jalet – there is no shortage of spectacle. No shortage of impressive physical vignettes executed with precision by musicians Patrizia Bovi, Mahabub Khan, Sattar Khan, Gabriele Miracle and Kazunari Abe and performers – Navala Chaudary, Darryl E Woods, Damien Fournier, Ben Fury, Paea Leach, Christine Leboutte, Ulrika Kinn Svensson, Kazutomi Kozuki, Sandra Delgadillo Porcel, Helder, Seabra, Jon Filip Fahlstrom, James O’Hara and Damien Jalet.

However.

Interesting that this was billed as contemporary dance in the festival – also interesting how much this dance relied on spoken text of various language to make its point – and it wasn’t necessarily a particularly new point – nor delivered in a new way.

Although this work is, from all outward appearances, one which confronts ideas of nationhood and of cultural identity – it failed to reach into real confrontation. It did not show the true consequence of prejudice between cultures or nations– the holocaust, the war on terror, a world which is fractured and destroying itself through the superficiality of our species and the fear of difference. What is presented is a fairly homogenized whole – one where English is predominant language, where despite the varied cultural backgrounds, some performers were consumed by a very European contemporary dance mode. It is a fairly safe and friendly show – more of a medative reminder that under our skin, we all feel pain and love, and reach for apples.

Without truly committing to the idea of cultural atrocity, without us witnessing the horror of miscommunication or misunderstanding – a horror that goes beyond an airport interrogation and without acknowledging the political consequences of “difference”, the content morphed into a harmless investigation about self in society.

As such this was a fairly simple experimentation with cross-cultural performative practices and an entertaining presentation of a multiplicity of styles. As far as a portrayal of the story of Babel – the story was used as a departure point for the artists to explode into investigations (but not interrogations) of themes of identity and to express all they can about tensions between the internal and the external world. And that is entertaining – though in sections long winded and at some points so exhaustively examined it leaves little room for the audience to come to any great independent epiphany.

But, this is a technically impressive piece of work – which has already delighted Sydney by its message of inclusivity and unity.