It’s not easy taking a punt on a new play, and the scariest punt imaginable is the play which is absolutely positively new and from an absolutely positively new writer. In this case the sleight of hand is interesting: and the context is interesting. The Griffin Theatre Company and Sydney Theatre Company have joined forces to produce Anthony Weigh’s new play “Like a Fishbone.”

Some may have seen Lee Lewis’ production of Weigh’s 2000 Feet Away, which was programmed as a part of the B Sharp Season in 2007 (which won the Sydney Theatre Award for Best Independent Theatre Award in 2007), but since that time Weigh has had plays produced at The Bush Theatre in London… including Like a Fishbone in May/June 2010.

The punt in this circumstance is programming a play by an Internationally based Australian playwright, whose world premiere happens months before the Australian production- and watching the reactions to the script in Europe before it heads to Australia. It’s an interesting case. When a script is produced in one place, in the hands of one director- is that then to be the definitive script? Is the published book in my hand the copy that was also used in the Bush Theatre production? If it is received well there, will it be received well here? And vice versa?

I rarely read anything about the plays I review before I see them. Often I am drawn to a particular artist- writer, director or performer… and I have certain theatres/venues I like to attend- and I happily declare my hand. I choose to go where the Australian writing is. I choose to look at the new plays… I find it an amazing challenge and a thrilling agonizing pressure/pleasure to be the receiver of the newest of the new. So it is no surprise that I have favoured the stages of the Griffin and Belvoir and The Old Fitz- the three at the forefront of new work.

I make it a policy not to know too much before seeing the play… which can make it difficult when wooing a date to come along with me. Often I will be asked “what’s it about?” or “is it going to be good” and the glib response of “I don’t know” pops up in response to both questions… and so I send a link to the potential date… and await to see if there is something appealing in it for them- always an interesting litmus test of the market appeal of a play… and depending on how the show goes says something about the bravery of my date… or in the compelling nature of my company.

Sometimes, I have the great fortune of having the mighty mind of Mr Waites to bounce off- we have turned to each other and said “WOW” simultaneously… we have delighted and been dismayed by many shows together… but regardless of his opinion, I always remain true to my gut response when I write. And so…

I write my response. (So swiftly, it seems that grammar and spelling are sacrificed in the finger-pecking fury.)

I finish.

I post.

Then I read what everyone else has to say. In this circumstance I then read:
http://eightnightsaweek.blogspot.com/2010/07/review-like-fishbone.html

and I saw that Elissa Blake had given the play a 9 out of 10… and then I looked a little further afield and it appears that the critics in the UK had quite a different response to the text:

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/review-23845046-like-a-fishbone-sticks-in-the-throat.do

http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/b89088b8-7ad8-11df-8549-00144feabdc0.html

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/like-a-fishbone-bush-theatre-london-2001362.html

I draw attention to this not because I think there is a right and a wrong way to read a play- either in text or in performance- but to show the different discussions. I have reservations about this piece as anything more than an interesting intellectual wrestle. I also feel that the play may have started in the wrong place… where the conflict begins- is this an internal conflict or a theoretical one- is it international or completely domestic? What does it mean to be transformed? (Yeats ringing in my ears: “transformed utterly… a terrible beauty is born”) What are we left with, once all the words and thoughts have been spoken. We have wrestled verbally, intellectually and physically- and we are left with…. what? A broken song from a remorseful mother?

No doubt about it- a handsome production- and Griffin and STC must be proud… It is a punt I am thrilled to see happening. An Australian play with an international profile- nice.

Also quite thrilling was Cate Blanchette’s acknowledgement of the traditional caretakers of the land on opening night. Five stars for that acknowledgement up front! But I must slightly suggest that Griffin should not be referred to in the diminutive as a “small theatre” partnering with a “large theatre”… As far as I am concerned, the Griffin is one of the most culturally significant institutions of Australian Theatre- it is the home of National Playwriting… Out of that space (previously known as The Nimrod) Belvoir was born. Let’s not forget, that though small in stature, The Griffin punches WELL above it’s weight. And always has.

This review was originally published on http://www.australianstage.com.au/

White drops of rain trickle in luminescent light down the wall of an office. On a table in the room is a white model of a town. There is the sound of the rain in the streets outside.

In an architect’s office a blind mother waits. She has travelled by bus to talk to the architect. She has travelled by bus because of trackworks. Trackworks because of the flooding. It is raining. She is wet. She waits. Confronted by a voice of a woman, the mother asks to see the architect. It is soon explained. The woman is the architect. “You can be both.”

The architect is responsible for designing a memorial after a community was devastated by a tragic shooting at their local school. The mother feels responsible for passing on the wishes from her daughter: that the memorial is not what they want.

Both women equal in many ways: fierce, intelligent, passionate and yet completely different in world view… completely opposing in philosophy and in their purpose. One places her unerring faith in God. The other, places her unerring faith in herself.

Themes flip between the role of God, the role of architecture (and art), the role of a mother, who has the right to represent a community, the effectiveness of group consultation, what is it to leave a legacy? Like a Fishbone is a series of arguments about authority and righteousness, which ultimately examines a deeper philosophical dilemma- a person’s life purpose.

It is a handsome production- set design by Jacob Nash is suitably cold and efficient, complimented beautifully by costumes designed by Bruce McNiven. And Verity Hampson’s Lighting design is subtle and effective- shifting us elegantly from the poetic to the stark throughout the course of the narrative.

An outstanding performance from Anita Hegh, as the mother gives the piece a warmth and tenderness, which could otherwise be reduced to an intellectual wrestle of righteous ideology. Hegh’s ferocity and fragility is heartbreaking – feels spontaneous and honest. It is a difficult balance to strike as the character of the mother some may find it slightly difficult to empathize with, as her ideology seems old fashioned , naive and unglamorous.

Aimee Horne’s Intern is likeable and balances the scenes with a genuine humour and an authentic spontaneity- and after a barrage of violent ideological exchanges it is the Intern’s speech which grounds us in the simplicity of what is: form follows function. Unfortunately the character of the architect (Marta Dusseldorp) is not only unlikeable, but her transition from hardnosed career woman to compassionate woman is unbelievable.

Like a Fishbone is a play that get’s caught in your throat. Like that of a soft fleshed fish- the translucent , invisible bones of the play are hidden. And before you can fully comprehend what is happening- that which was intended to be a source of nourishment, is now that which is the cause of your demise. Anthony Weigh’s play itself, is largely about the structures – the philosophical structures – which shape us and our world- that frame our perspective. Tim Maddock deftly handles a very intense argument with great skill and finesse.

Like a Fishbone is a wrestle which is personal, and unresolvable and the sport can be best be found not in the end of the play- but in the discussions in the foyer after the show.

And so it continues… The Sydney Theatre Company’s crusade into International reputation with Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night.

Sitting between Blanchette’s Streetcar, and the Upcoming productions of Steppenwolf’s Production of Lett’s August: Osage County… and Thorton Wilder’s Our Town… AND Philip Seymour Hoffman’s production of Sam Shepard’s True West… we now have the great William Hurt opposite our great Robyn Nevin in Eugene O’Neill’s Pulitzer Prize winning play.

It’s a very “International” season, isn’t it? Look at the new play from China! Look at the award winning theatre company from Israel… and Turkey! And see- the inclusion of the greatest Mexican playwright! International. No… it is! Don’t you get it? “International” is the new word for “American.” The cultural empire envelopes our language- we are unable to call things what they are. Our voices corrupted. Our great plays relegated to an occasional airing or the HSC compulsory reading lists- or relegated to independent theatres without money, without visibility.

It breaks my heart.

Absolutely.

The Sydney Theatre company is in the best position to be one of our cultural leaders- it has a highly visible, highly intelligent woman at it’s helm and yet it is stuck in a pattern of programming that which won’t say what it really is- it is programming American plays and hiring American artists to boost it’s self esteem. Like the chubby girl at school always driving around her ungrateful “friends” because she just wants to be liked… our theatre is hosting and promoting American theatre and theatre artists as the best Australia has to offer.

How embarrassing. How provincial.

Thirty years ago The Stables was born out of a need to hear Australian plays, Australian voices on stage… a reaction against the tyranny of the British Empire’s cultural cloak. And here we are again. We theatre folk forget our own history- for a bunch of oral historians we really are utterly terrible at remembering and passing it on.

Why does it matter so much, Gus? What is it about Australian plays that really matters? Aren’t we a globalized village? Aren’t we seeking out the best the world has to offer?

You know, there is music in our language- and music in the languages that our indigenous people were denied in speaking- there is a poetry about our land, there is humour in our experience, there is beauty in our community. There is talent in our country- and eventually this talent gets the shits with being overlooked, underpaid, ignored and passed over for American talent and moves overseas. .. because maybe if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em? The message for actors is pretty clear- you can only be good if you are in American films, discovered in America, trained in America. The message it send to theatre artists of today is, we aren’t good enough.

Well that is crap. We are. We are developing- and will continue to develop, but every time a major MONEYED theatre company puts dollars in an overseas pocket- the reputation and self-esteem of Australian writing and actors suffers. For two artistic directors who seem so concerned with “Greening the Wharf” and environmental sustainability- they don’t seem too concerned with cultural or artistic sustainability.

You know what would make me feel better? If Hurt and company now travel to the US to The Artists Repertory Theatre and put on one of our plays- Summer Of the Seventeenth Doll… or The Torrents… or The Ham Funeral… What do you reckon Cate?

First published on www.australianstage.com.au

Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night is regarded as one of the great masterpieces of American playwriting. Known as an intimate portrait of O’Neill’s family life, the play was handed to a publisher on a proviso that it not be published until 25 years after his death. It seemed his wish was not to be granted and subsequently was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1957- four years after his death.

James Tyrone (William Hurt), his wife Mary (Robyn Nevin), and sons Jamie ( Todd Van Voris) and Edmund (Luke Mullins) live in an old house which is not quite a home with their apathetic summer help Cathleen (Emily Russell). They are a family consisting of adults- two unmarried sons, who are without children, and often without money who exist in the past, and in the secrets which hide inbetween their conversations. There is much said and little given away- stories, reminiscences and contexts are slowly unwound in large, sweeping monologues. James Tyrone, obsessively fretting about finances, favouring the inexpensive over “the very best” – or even the half way decent- the threat of the poor house disintegrating every decision- overwhelming any gesture of love that money could buy. When faced with a delicate ailing youngest son, an unwell wife who is to be ever-watched, and a lazy womanizing drunk eldest son – he retreats into the tobacco trance and whisky haze of his past as a successful actor.

Michael Scott-Mitchell’s set: a large set of frames, treated with a dirty wall-paper finish loom and arc over the Tyrone family. A grubby window at the back of the stage, allow us to peer into a black outside world… There is no suggestion of the surrounding land- but birds sing occasionally, suggesting life beyond the familial.. the family dwarfed by their house- overwhelmed by its presence. Complimented by this are Tess Schofield’s costume designs- which hint at the era the play was written in but bridges the gap between the highly stylized set and the naturalism of the text. There is an appropriateness about the three piece suit Tyrone wears- but it is subverted by the painted pin-stripes… Jamie’s costume appears to be “of era” except for the shimmer in his trousers… at times suggesting, perhaps, that it is hard to know where theatre stops and reality begins?

It’s a sombre and difficult play- for those who have committed themselves, or had themselves committed to life in the theatre, there are moments that sting and questions that are asked… what is the cost of artistic compromise? We see the wrestle as Tyrone wrestles with his past and his self-respect when challenged by his younger sons… we see the momentary glimpses of affection- indicating a deep love- between Tyrone and Mary… we hear the regrets that have stunted the lives of them all. There is an intimacy in this disconnected family- that recognised the failures and failings in each other- that apologises for ghastly blame-shifting and manipulation- but the most powerful and remarkable thing about this play is the capacity for all relationships to find a point of understanding.

Nevin is sweetly lost and brutally vehment as Mary, restless and empty and broken. Hurt is spectacular to watch- it’s a war at times between Tyrone’s stage persona and his real-life persona as it fluctuates and flips. Mullins always consistently clear – adding great dignity and intensity to the ill-fated Edmund. But truly, this is a show which lights up as soon as Russell and Van Voris enter the stage- carrying with them big hearts and unrelenting honesty.

However, Andrew Upton’s direction of the actors seemed haphazard. A gratuitous move to have Edmund run through the audience’s stairs was alarming and baffling- and on another occasion Cathleen enters from “the kitchen” with a message from the cook and is sent off in the opposite direction to return with the response. At times, Hurts physical actions undercut the emotional story thus leaving Tyrone to be read as insincere or Hurt as a “bad theatre actor.” Upton has assembled a brilliant team around him, there’s no doubt about that- and to be in the presence of great plays, grand sets and the most skilled and celebrated in the International business is a pleasure for Sydney’s audiences.

Long Day’s Journey Into Night is a large and impressive production delivering performances by the most remarkable talent of our time, however, it the heart of the piece never quite reaches beyond the footlights.

This is the first play I have seen that is a part of B-sharp this year.

This is the first (and only) New Australian work included in the B-sharp’s first half of 2010 season. It has taken 4 years to write- and was commissioned after Jonathan Gavin won the Philip Parson’s award for Moment on the Lips- which enjoyed much acclaim at Darlinghurst Theatre. I have deep admiration for Jonathan Gavin’s writing- those who saw Tiger Country at Griffin know the power and terror of Gavin’s realism. They know his slick wit and his big heart. They know him for his structural perfectionism- his dialogue… I will now declare my hand: I know Jonathan Gavin somewhat- I know him as sweet and aloof, charming and calm- I have worked with him in 2 different incantations in the last 7 years- I am facebook friends with him- but not “share recipes/ call in times of crisis” type friends. I have long admired his writing. Having said this, I had no idea what to expect of Bang…

Every so often a play comes along and knocks you sideways. Takes your breath away and you are left winded by the feeling that your heart just grew too big too fast. You are silent because you are frightened and in awe. You have been transported and your mind reconfigured. It happened for me with Andrew Bovell’s “When the Rain Stops Falling” and it has happened again with Jonathan Gavin’s “Bang.”

The review below is really an extended out pour of response- and not my best piece of review work- but it’s honest. I didn’t want to churn out the plot and rattle off the names of all involved- I just want you to see it- and I want to sit in the ideas and the feelings of this play. I nearly don’t even want to discuss it. But I will defend it- especially up against Jason Blake’s SMH review http://www.smh.com.au/news/entertainment/enigmatic-leap-of-faith-from-genes-to-jihad/2010/06/13/1276367896128.html which he says ” In Gavin’s program note, he acknowledges the difficulty he faced in writing it, and at times the strain is apparent.” I utterly disagree. I think this is not apparent in this production. I think Gavin has handled the quantity of characters, themes, locations, time periods, beautifully- and for me it wasn’t a fraught experience. It is a dense and unpretentious work- and easy to embrace as it is beautifully structured.

I must mention my complete disappointment that this production was not given a main stage slot. Not just at Belvoir- but anywhere. This is a big play. An important play full of huge and brilliant observations. Why is this play relegated to the “Independent” realm? This play needs a big production- not to say that this is at all diminutive or to say that me mentioning it’s status as an independent production is at all in any way pejorative- what I am saying is- the main stage companies should be nurturing, promoting and producing the best Australian work- the Best new Australian work. It should be exposing it to large audiences- not in 80 seat venues- in venues with hundreds of seats. This is one of the best new Australian plays I have ever seen. Why is it that happens? Brink had to do it- take all the risk for When the Rain Stops Falling. And here we are with Kim Hardwick as the champion and long term collaborator of Jonathan Gavin.

I urge you to see this play.

And if you are Kristina Keneally- you DEFINITELY need to see this play. It is sure to be counted amongst the great plays of the Australian canon.

First published on www.australianstage.com.au

A romantic image of travel and domesticity: brown cardboard suitcases, a basket of unfolded laundry, stacks of newspapers tied with straw coloured rope surrounded by pale yellow rose buds litter the stage. Six actors line up against a back wall of mirrors- like that of a police interrogation. It begins…

Direct address from an ensemble of actors. An exploration of the art of story, narratology. An introduction to a story- a preamble to prepare and a proposition. This soft, self-aware entry into this play is well understood in Australian theatre- it is a start which opens up a large world- a reassurring voice which asks us to listen, to engage- to embrace the structure the tone, the forms as they are presented. This voiced start which examines its own sense of starting- its own voice- its own sense does not patronize but prepare us. This is a play of heightened theatricality: a simple static stage design and shape-shifting/voice shifting actors for this exploration of transmogrification, evolution, enlightenment.

A nun, a drag queen and a pregnant woman stand on a train station platform. United by the promise of a 6:45pm train. Sounds like the premise of a joke- and the play will declare that to you – just as you make the connection. This isn’t a joke but a reality which seems unlikely yet conceivable. We see the moments which lead them to this place. This time. We see the things that link them- a bag, a book, a gun. Waiting is filled with numbed expectation- time moves on as they stand motionless. We are told what they notice. A nun reads a subscriber only erotic fiction. A drag queen tells the story of his drag bag. A pregnant woman tells the tousle of transport with her protective husband. A young woman enters the railway station, on a holy mission. In one moment everything is changed utterly.

Jonathan Gavin’s script is simply, incredible. Tightly woven are the stories of migrant families, religious identities, domestic relationships, sexual politics, science, philosophy, history, literature… into twenty-one characters played by six actors- who span ages, roles, ethnicities, faiths, sexual persuasions. It forms a rich contemporary portrait- like that of the Bayeux tapestry of the political/religious war which is waged in the world. This war is not the one of sand and snipers- and exit strategies. There is something more terrifying than this. The war in this play is worse- the silent terror of our own thoughts and beliefs and the actions they invoke.

Beautifully crafted scenes in which it is impossible to remain loyal to any one character- Gavin has exposed the fragility and the violence in us as a nation. What is truly disturbing and enlightening about this production is the realisation that the most brutal of our destructive tendencies come from a place of love, hope and idealism. Everything that needs to be said about our understanding of religious extremism- of guilt- of love – of blame- of anger- or human ugliness- of righteousness- is said in an honest, breathtakingly beautiful way.

Kim Hardwick’s direction is taut, masterfully handling the tender heart and the rigorous mind of this play- and is perfectly paced and beautifully balanced. The ensemble of actors- Blazey Best, Caroline Brazier, Ivan Donato, Tony Poli, Wendy Stehlow and Damien Rice are impeccable as they wing and transform between perpetrator and victim- from victim to monster. No one outshines – they illuminate each other in what is an exquisitely cohesive ensemble experience: drawing to the fore the message of unity and our connectedness through our human experience.

Many playwrights have tried to write this play- tried to say what it is saying- tried to ask of us what it is asking- but it is Jonathan Gavin has succeeded with Bang. This is one of the most moving, beautiful, important, tender, remarkable, intelligent, perfect plays of contemporary Australian theatre and must be seen because it will at once elevate, interrogate, inspire our understanding of the world and each other.

In the black space of Carriagework’s Bay 20 is a woman. A chair. A collection of wicker baskets. An overhead projector. A Computer. A collection of props: lace, flowers, shoes. Scattered in clumps of colour. Heavy black curtains are drawn at the back of space. Lights shoot across the space. The audience scuffs in, some of them chatting, some still wrapped up in scarves- it’s a cold night, some audience members are silently staring at the woman as she fiercely gazes out into the auditorium- two assistants encircling her- positioning her. Folding and unfolding. Dressing. And undressing her. Tilting her head. Moving her hands. Forcing her to tap her foot. There is music playing- the sort that sounds like a female crooner- torch songs- epic love ballads about thwarted romances, broken hearts, longing and survival- one I don’t recognise- I don’t recognise the songs. It’s music from the Phillipines I don’t understand the lyrics. I don’t need to. I understand the feeling.

First conceived in 2002, The Folding Wife is a production which has been developed by Urban Theatre Projects over several years, toured to several locations and harnesses the talents of several people. Originally deeloped in 2007, this production has been remounted for a national tour, for which the Sydney leg, is it’s second last stop before it arrives in Melbourne next week.

The story traces three generations of Filipino women- Clara, Delores and Grace- their strength, their pride, their adaptability. Born out of the concept that the Filipino wife folds, adapts to their husbands- are supplementary to the needs of their husbands – The Folding Wife speaks of the adaptability of women- and in particular what it means to yearn, search and grow beyond your cultural heritage- to look beyond and aspire to break free from the everyday expectation of what a woman, what a wife is- what a person is.

It’s slippery terrain- it could so easilly slip into another “worthy” migrant story. It could easilly slip into the romanticisation of the east or “home.” But it’s not. This story is more than a cliche, or a cautionary tale about racism, or a hard luck story. Or a rags to riches story. It is more than any of that. More than your expectations. It is beautiful. It is honest. It is heartfelt. It is confronting. It sneaks in, charms you with two large dark eyes. I search for words that fit. It is amusing, painful. Simple. Tightly woven. Economical. Astute. Visually rich. Poetic. Inventive- elegant.

Valerie Berry moves through characters, time and space with boundless energy, a clear bright voice and a litheness which is hypnotic. She is the very essence of adaptability- she folds into one character, then another- who folds into what ever role necessary- the grand matriarch- the excited school girl waiting to meet Emelda Marcos, the seductive mother flirting with her Australian beau.

Supported by Datu Arellano and Teta Tulay of Manila’s Anino Shadowplay Collective- the piece cycles randomly through chapters- with shadowplay, projection complimenting the scene- building collages of light- texture, words, animation around, through, ontop Berry as the story unfolds.

Writer Paschal Daantos Berry, has written an astute and resonating story- which goes beyond geographical boarders- and gender. Director Deborah Pollard has done an exemplary job, and has orchestrated a show which balances hi and lo tech aspects of multi media – has put the character and the cultural politics in firm view without being didactic or righteous. Pollard is a dramaturgical master- and the structure of the piece is exquisite. Her directing is inventive and intelligent without being pretentious or indulgent.

This is an exquisite piece of contemporary performance which everyone should see- because it is simple, elegant, entertaining and
brimming with beauty.

The Folding Wife |Performance Space, Carriageworks until Saturday May 22, and ArtsHouse, Melbourne from May 26 – 29

The promotional poster for Henry Rollins’ Frequent Flyer tour says “Knowledge without mileage equals bullsh*t” and has Rollins depicted as a screaming torpedo- speeding across the city skyline. It’s a great poster- and reflects the show beautifully.

Before now, I had not ever encountered his work- not in any conscious way- I just spend a huge amount of my waking hours seeking out new experiences- recently I have embraced visual art as my new obsession- and have been consuming history and theory of art in vast binging quantities, insatiably slurping it up with an unquenchable desire to know, see, understand, experience more… Mostly I spend my time reading new plays- I read everything I am emailed by playwrights… and other things too- scientific papers, the back of cereal boxes, letters to the editor, shopping lists left on trains- anything… and before now, I had heard of, but not seen Rollins- I had heard of but not seen his band/s- ignorant. Utterly ignorant of what I was missing.

A few years back, my own narrow minded would have been deterred from listening to anything to do with a person who clearly enjoys weightlifting (nothing wrong with weights specifically- I just dated a body builder who was so vain he was almost a mirror- and I had unfairly coupled vanity/selfishness/superficiality with guys who spend alot of time at the gym)- but again- my ignorance and I am happy to proclaim it. I have been missing out due to my own prejudice- and this is especially acute and ironic as it is a driving preoccupation of Rollins’ message which resounds throughout my body- “time to GET OVER PREJUDICE- and it stops here and now, with you.”

Willingly lead by the recommendation of a friend- I decided to review Rollins- ignorant of his work and therefore my opinion not tainted by blind fandom, I headed to see Rollins at Enmore on Monday night – curious to see who his audience is. And there they were, resplendent in tattoos, black clothes, punk hair- men and women- fierce and strong (and the occasional fifty something year old)… the type of folk who I may have seen at Faith No More concerts.

All I can say is- I am utterly transformed…

First published on www.australianstage.com.au

Out of the black curtained fringe stage, dressed in black shoes, black pants and black t-shirt launches Henry Rollins- complete with tattooed muscles and a voice that could melt rock candy- he starts his eloquent stream of considered consciousness- words are plucked from his extensive labyrinthine mind and carefully carved into a charming coercive and utterly engaging tirade of appeal- for audience, for approval, for understanding, for examination, for compassion, for generosity, for political action, for rigour, for intensity, for freedom of speech, for robust debate, for intellectual wrestle, for harmony, for diversity, for acceptance, for the embrace of all for humanity- and it doesn’t stop.

Henry Rollins- a kaleidoscopic verbal talent- sucks the marrow out of life- consuming, thinking, wanting, investigating, scrutinizing and noting it all- from knowing the Latin for breasts to reciting sections of the American constitution at will- this guy can not, will not, should not, be stopped.

Singer, song writer, writer, publisher, spoken word artist, actor, radio DJ, stand up comedian, frequent flyer, activist, producer and punk rock legend- there is no one that comes close to the awe-inspiring ball of magnetic power that Rollins wields- and it’s not a power which is purely physical nor animal- but a power which is utterly impressive- impressive in that it presses into the corners of who you are and what you think and dares you to examine/consider your view point and your society and your country and demands you do better than what you know, what you think you know, what is around you and what is accepted. That is what impressive is. I am left impressed upon- changed and transmogrified by his performance.

Don’t be fooled by appearances or prejudice. This is not an aggressive man- his intellect is fierce, and he may look aggressive- but it is his curiosity which is aggressive- not him. It is his ability with words to delicately twist the buzzing rubik’s cube cracking in your cranium which is truly breath-taking.

Armed with a microphone and a voracious appetite for living, Rollins’ routine is a call to arms. This show is a St Crispin’s Day speech for the legion of fans (and soon to become fans) to become better people- to be ultimately curious and accepting and compassionate humans- to go beyond who they are or who they think they are and be responsible and accountable for their actions. This show is not about male aggression, or anecdotes about the evils of money or fame or women. This is a show where nothing is taboo, nor censored, but everything is handled with delicate, poetic, intelligent eloquence- base subject matter is never discussed in a base way- in fact more care is taken to elevate any content which may be a little blue. This show is a cascade of retorts, reflections, reviews, ruminations is a call to arms- and the guns are the firing synapses in the minds of the audience.

Rollins is impressive- his honesty is impressive- his synthesis of ideas is impressive- his memory is impressive- his physical presence is impressive- his voice is impressive – his ability to hold the attention of an audience with merely his voice and his ideas for three hours is beyond impressive- it is simple incredible. I have never, and probably will never see anything like it ever again. Do yourself, and the world a favour: see Henry Rollins.

In the dizzying haze of Stories from the 428- I didn’t get out much to other theatres- I spent alot of my time with a laptop on my lap top or gesticultating wildly at actors (and occasionally chasing them around rehearsal rooms)… and so was mildly shut off from my regular review circuit. During that time, however, one play was mentioned to me in passing by people who had access to “the outside world” as I remembered it- and that play was none other than Tom Holloway’s Love Me Tender.

I, of course wanted to see this play and I wanted to pay to see it too (recently a facebook friend discovered a rant/article first published on www.aussietheatre.com a few years back about the politics of comps and I still hold true to what I said then- PAY FOR WHAT YOU BELIEVE IN!)- so had to wait for the bus to roll on before I could see why everyone was asking me if I’d seen it…

I will also declare that in 2008 (The first year of Brand Spanking New) I commissioned Tom to write (any thing of his chosing) and this was on the back of his AWGIE win… it was a play called ” If I Was to Stay I Would Only Be In Your Way” (it seems song lyrics are prevalent amongst Tom’s titles.) That being said I only met him for the first time last year at the launch of Griffin Theatre Company’s short play compilation: “Short Circuit.” So this is not a review this is a reflection on what I am left with post show. (I didn’t get one of the very schmick programmes with play concealed within- sadly- there were none on the night I went). I am not going to give an account of the story- you can get that from www.australianstage.com.au and if you are after the context of Euripides’ Iphigenia in Aulis- keep an eye on James Waites’s site for a review he’s the master and has a brilliant perspective on this production and he’ll be writing it up soon (so he told me over coffee). My blurt is really what I saw/now remember.

As a co-production between Company B and Griffin Theatre Company- which has a beautiful historical symmetry to it. Belvoir grew out of Nimrod – and here’s the Griffin is (now housed in the old Nimrod space) nurtured by Belvoir in the months leading up to the rennovation of the Stables. Like a set of visual babbushka dolls- I am reminded of the Stables theatre- the show fitting in the Belvoir St Theatre beautifully. There is a lovely symmetry at work spatially- a set made of astro-turf, encased in a perspex sheild- diamond shaped for the Belvoir space- but also reminiscent of the Stables space.

The play opens with rapid fire exposition- a description told with much urgency by Arky Michael and Kris McQuade. And there isn’t much room to ease up once the foot is on this verbal accelarator. We are asked to image/remember alot- too much? We are asked to sit there and ingest a barrage of ideas/commentary as McQuade and Michaels physicalise the visceral poetry of Holloway’s work in their functionary roles of the chorus. Sometimes I found it hard to keep up- hard to listen- and I think that is the point. Alot of this is about the all consuming nature of love- of lust- how images and thoughts and feelings push themselves into us consciously and unconsciously.

Simple and impressive, Lutton’s direction is cleanly/keenly delivered. The play space for the actors is sodden, misted and shiny- glittering under lights. The performances are tight and punchy. It looks like at Lutton show (thanks to Adam Gardnir)- and feels like its coated in STC slickness.

However- looking around the audience of theatre patrons- many were asleep. Drowsy grey haired patrons- sleepy. Was it the mist? Was it the lights? Was it the rapid fire delivery? Why weren’t they awake? Why did I feel sleepy? It felt dreamlike- soft- poetic- and again- I’ll take that as it’s intention. The sneaky, taboo thoughts that press themselves into us are subtle- there is no bolt out of the blue. This is a slow leak suggestion- as sexual suggestiveness can sometimes be- it smears itself across everything like vaseline over a camera lens- and we feel the clarity slip from our thoughts.

Then-
BASH! Like being woken by ice water- or the maniacal rattle of an early morning Marrickville jackhammer- the most astounding dance sequence I have seen in the theatre in recent times. Recognisable, raunchy, repulsive, embarrassing: completely perfect. As Belinda McGory writes and gyrates and pulses her gradually soaked body to teenpop obnoxiousness- I am left shaken- horrified and broken in my seat. The sleepy heads regained their posture now their nap had been broken.

The ideas are loud and clear- the sexualisation of children- the tragedy of intimacy- the burden of sacrifice… and I am trapped an unwilling audience watching the horror of what I know too well to be wildy true about the continual sexualisation of children- played out before me. I am glued. I’m not moved. I am stuck staring- gawking compulsively. Gawking. Powerless and gawking. One reviewer said that there was no connection to the audience. Perhaps- this is a telling (not a showing). The connection is more to do with the audience’s imagination than with the actors- moments of this play could have been a radio play- it is in us. That’s the point. That’s the problem. Holloway’s play asks us to listen and think and imagine- there is very little shown… and that is also the art of seduction. I got sucked in. I went there. I was horrified by what I found.

And grateful.

Comprising of three projects- Entitlement by Faustina Delany, Evol by Bits & Pieces (Joanna Erskine and Flip Nicol) and The Seance Project by Mark Pritchard and Sophie Webb, this is work which has been developed without any firm outcomes or performance indicators to answer to- this was time and space without restrictions and what was yielded was a fascinating adventure into the unique flavours of the developing artists.

Delany’s piece Entitlement was inspired by an excerpt from Baudelaire- “It is an immense joy to set up home in the heart of the multitude, amid the ebb and flow of movement, in the midst of fugitive and the infinite. To be away from the home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home.”
In a room hemmed with people (more than seemingly anticipated as many sat cross legged on the floor) a woman in a slip lies on the floor witha square of light illuminating her torso- a pomegranate rests ontop. Within minutes a sound of an aeroplane landing- repeatedly- and we are locked in darkness. with only the faint green glow on the exit sign- she is naked and moves violently in the darkness we can hear her feet thudding the floor and her arms slapping in flailing desperation. Silence. She is clothed- the lights return. With some stunning imagery and a languid reading of a loveletter (or perhaps a farewell note) Delany’s piece was surprising and visually beautiful- a coil of salt created with a hard bristled broom which wound bigger and bigger with each circumnavigation only to be trampled carelessly underfoot. Alot of interesting moments which may have ressonated longer if we were allowed more time with them- as opposed to the momentary peepshow of the ideas. This is not usually my field (being such a text based obsessive) so having slightly browning pomegranate shoved into my mouth was surprisingly confronting- and I was confronted alot by this piece… but in a way which made me interrogate more rather than shut down.
Evol was next- a travelling multi-stationed adventure about Love and the miscommications that it can illicit. Lead by two group leaders around the space- Carolyn Eccles and Cameron Ellis the audience was divided- labelled, ranked and lead through a series of vignettes- puppetry , a monologue made of cliches, awkward kitchen flirtation, group painting session, the room of lost love and an audience blind folded dance sequence resulting in popcorn and movie night made of the lovestories of the people of Carlton (which was perhaps one of my favourite moments). A huge amount of work and many ideas were associated with this piece… again moments of audience invasion which seemed utterly appropriate since love is often a very invasive emotion/pursuit.

Finally we are solemnly ushered into a room for only the believers- a cabaret seance for Sophie Webb- a startlet, an actor cut down in her prime in New York who can only talk to our host who manages to channel Sophie’s talents… her singing, her piano playing, her tap dancing- her love for performing. A candle fringed room with a piano, and plastic roses- a few items of Sophie’s scattered amongst the audience (a dress, black jelly beans ). A seance with members of the audience- and a wall of headshots of Sophie. Leading us through the ritual of the seance and occasionally summoning Sophie is (hilariously) Sophie herself. We watch as though completely perverse- like those watching endless footage/news reportage of the announcement of Heath Ledger or Michael Jackson’s death… ending in a wholely breathtaking kareoke rendition of “I Will Always Love You”- this is cabaret kitch and self-referential entertainment which explodes the self-indulgentness of celebrity and starpower in an age when acting is synonymous with either celebrity or failure.

All in all- a wonderfully diverse night where we can see what is ticking over in the minds of some brilliant emerging artists… I’m glad I went. And I went not as a board member of Shopfront nor as a reviewer but as a curious punter. This was a fabulous acheivement of the YAK committee- namely David Kirkpatrick and Arnab Ahmed who did a stunning job -and I was utterly impressed with the quality and the smooth curation of the evening.

A notoriously difficult time of year, January is a tricky time for independent theatre in Sydney- the post glow of Christmas gluttony has left everyone feeling a little less generous with their money- the razzle dazzle of the Sydney Festival’s international acts descend upon the city with a budget quadruple (at least) than most independent theatre’s see in a year- and then there is the hydra-headed short play festival which gulps up time and talent feeding itself on guilt and competition- and then the rival of all theatre: wonderful weather with it’s cricket season and beckoning beach adventures… so its a tough time to be on…
When I first encountered the writing of Alex Cullen she was suggested to me by Van Badham for the inaugural Brand Spanking New in 2008- I sent her (and alot of her Wollongongian writerly colleagues) the guidelines and she submitted a very early draft of Trolley Boys. When I had read it- I had a great amount of interest in the robust urban dialect- the obscure location- and the bizarre b-grade sci-fi references… however wasn’t quite what I was looking for- a little long and in need of some development time- but worthy of attention… and some brave choices which needed to be fully fleshed out. I liked it enough to ask Alex to submit something shorter- and that is how The Devil Has a Townhouse in Tamworth came to be a part of BSN 2008.
A year and a half later- Trolley Boys has made its debut at The Old Fitz, the Tamarama Rock Surfers again putting new Australian work at the forefront of their programming. This production is the second (I know of) Dahlstrom has directed by Alex Cullen, having directed “Leftovers” at the NIDA showcase in 2007 and contains five actors who hail from NIDA, WAAPA and one from a practical background in comedy. There is alot of training spread throughout the CVs- and impressive lists of experience.
However, this is not a production for those expecting well crafted staging- elegant performances- this is rough and tumble gutsy grunt farce… it’s school yard graffiti- it’s street slang ribaldry- and feels like a bluelight disco which has been over-run by zombies and shopping trolleys. Its cheesy- and poor taste and silly… and expecting it to be any deep parable on the state of the world will only make you disappointed.
Though I am going to declare that this production wasn’t really my thing (I’m not keen on zombies in general but I know some very cool reviewers who spend ALOT of their time with 80’s B-Grade horror who would find this a hoot!). I am going to suggest that perhaps this would have been a very fun show for some of the more rambunctious 18-25 year olds at ATYP could really sink their teeth into- and clown about with… in this circumstance the level of the practitioners, the venue and the mainstage slot leads us to expect something a little deeper, darker or more meaningful- when really there is a niche for this type of postmodern farce- and I suspect this year’s Sydney Fringe would embrace this style of performance and give it an appropriate home.
Meanwhile- having a full length new play produced anywhere in Sydney is a major feat of courage and focus and is worth supporting: Alex Cullen in 10 years just may be one of the most prolific comedy writers of her generation… we need to support writers not just in their time of golden success but when they are developing and figuring out what works and what doesn’t.

A man with his back to us, draws rows and rows of little people shapes with chalk onto an 10 foot black wall. After the lights dim- an arrow which points to a chalk person- he writes YOU. He draws a very large person in chalk with an arrow labels it ME. It begins. A web of coloured balloons floats above the black chalkboard and is hit by shards of angled light- the instant effect is awe and delight.
In bursts of energy and colour- nine performers take the stage demand our attention as the music soars and pulses beneath their bodies. Seeing is truly believing as dance history, genre and acrobatics interweave and entwine together.

I am not a fan of reading programmes, reviews or even media releases before seeing a show- reading for me should be post show and especially during mid-post-show-reflection… Even though I am not a dance critic, nor practitioner- nor have any practical or theoretical experience in talking about dance or movement (and scant practice at seeing it)- I thought writing about Happy as Larry would be an interesting excercise in articulating my experience.

My feelings about the piece as a whole is one of complete awe- watching dancers move for 90 minutes in unusual and unexpected ways- with a sense of humour and entertainment about their performance was delightful. The cheekiness of the performers- even the surprising and unexpectedness of the less identifiable dance components (ie the rollerskating/acrobatics/movement) was thrilling. and the story I found in the performance was that about frustration and connectedness/loneliness- so for me the Enneagram personality types and their pursuit of happiness was not so evident. Infact I did not really notice distinct personality traits in the piece at all. Not that this really matters- I tend to think that a departure point for inspiration or creation of work is not necessarilly important to the end product if the production is interesting and coherent in its own right.

I was impressed by all performers ability to connect to the audience and to work together in an ensemble- there were vast segements of synchronicity and solo work which were interspersed with the pivoting blackboard. The design by Adam Gardnir and Lighting Design by Luiz Pamphola worked together beautifully to highlight the performances and to compliment the stunning original score created by Nick Wales and Bree van Ryk.

This is a stunning and awe-inspiring production full of vibrancy, muscularity and stunning feats of physical precision. Although not strong necessarilly on narrative- Happy as Larry is utterly unpretentious, fun, energetic and surges with intensity. This will be the hot dance ticket of any festival and I urge you to see it if you can!

A very brief note about my experience of Six Characters in Search of An Author which has been programmed as a part of The 2010 Sydney Festival. Luigi Pirandello’s play written in 1921- arguably one of the great classic texts in the Western Canon- is a self-reflexive examination on the creation of theatre, character and life and a comment on the shifting sands of reality. In this version, by Rupert Goold and Ben Power- the framing of the production has shifted to that of a TV station which produces documentaries- and is under deadline to find an ending to a documentary on a child who is about to euthenased. It has been delivered to us with a string of raving snippets from UK reviews- in one of the trickiest of venues- The York Theatre at The Seymour Centre.

For those who know the story- the re-imagining rattles along and the sport becomes the finding of the parallels between the original and the re-imagined. (A fine preoccupation for a play with its history.) For those who don’t- it may seem to be a little confused or oversaturated.

This is a very clever piece of programming-especially for Festival Goers who saw Ostenmeier’s Hamlet- the links to the text of Hamlet are present and even a comment on festival programming and touring… appropriately self-referential.

There were flickering moments in the first half that sparked interest- the operatic scream on screen for the mother as she walks in on her husband with her daughter in the room above Mr Pace’s Hat shop. But on the whole it was rather forced and somewhat piecemeal in performances- in particular some of the “characters” were overly characatured (as opposed to finely drawn characters- which is what the authentic confusion between reality and imagination is hinged)- and the documentary makers seemed more cliched than real… SO the even playing field between the true and the imagined was at all times severly lop-sided. Particulary irritating was the relocation to the TV station- because this would really work best and in the spirit of Pirandello’s text if this was a TV show which was then interrupted by characters. But we are in the theatre. Inescapably in our seats.

Most disappointing in the second act was that the cast/crew did not bother to re-shoot the footage of the Documentary maker going out the back of the theatre into the outside world for this audience. Instead a backstage area was shown (not the Seymour Centre) and we ended up outside in the English snow. I thought this woudl have been effective and interesting if they could have translated their production to the space . Since their production was already about translating through time (the original 1921 script to 2009)and medium (from theatre to TV Documentary)- why not translate through space? Lets be clear here- I have no beef with re-inventions- none. But I have a huge amount of trouble with re-inventions which are half-baked and misunderstand the original text. This concept would perhpaps work best in the medium it is commenting on- TV. But this is a clumsy adaptation of a text, translated clumsilly into a challenging venue.

For some theatre experiences- the first 20 minutes is brilliant and the rest is repetition of the same ideas. In this instance the last 20 minutes were the most interesting- but hardly worth the pay-off of having to sit through an overly cumbersome 1st half.