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.

There are a few moments in time when I have walked into a foyer, into an industry do with my only pair of high heels on (I usually am seem in Blundstones or scuffed mary-jane’s: to the point where a friend of mine is convinced I have been the foot/shoe model for City rail’s “mind the gap before boarding” poster) feeling like I am ready to pounce into sparkling action, dazzling all in my path with my razor sharp wit. Other times I feel I have as much charisma as a beige plaid sofa left in an alley way, waiting to be marked by stray cats or claimed by desperate students.

Regardless of my beige sofa-feelings I embraced the day, and ventured to the b- Sharp Launch at Belvoir Street Theatre. Sort of feeling safe in the warm cave at Belvoir… also a little cautious I was tragically on time and sat quietly before the event warmed up. I am not completely sure how/why I received an invitation: I have stage managed a show a year (bar my time in Canada) for B-Sharp but I am not one to question why, just gratefully excited to be able to celebrate a season of new shows and perhaps indulge in a few tasty little canapés as they circle around a room of ferociously hungry (yet coy!?!?!) theatre people.

There was something overwhelmingly relieving about the faces in the crowd… besides a few sparkling faces I know well, this was not like walking into my resume… there were plenty of unknown faces. And I tried to put the names and faces to projects flashing up on the screen… delighted that the season heavily contains new Australian content.

Before too long a very efficient photographer had snapped a quick happy pic of me, the gorgeous and talented Helen O’Leary and he demure but bright eyed Fiona Butler which later appeared in the Sun Herald. I totally unaware, struggled into the office on Monday morning…to the joyful chirruping of the managers and the CEO who had noticed my grin in the “social pages.” And the dark blue feeling inside me twisting around in my gut, didn’t come from a late night of vice, but the question “Am I a wanker?”

Now, I am not going to claim, to have never been a total intellectual tosser on occasion. That would be a lie. The truth is, I absolutely love the theatre. I am not the sort of friend or colleague or friend who will say they will see your show, and hen not turn up. I am not he sort of person who will not go to the theatre, if I hear that the show is crap. In short: I will see anything, I will pay money to see any piece of independent theatre. I will also attend anything I am invited to. Perhaps good manners? Curiosity? Perhaps the hope that I might meet someone new and fascinating? Perhaps I am a sucker for a beautiful canapé invisibly presented by an amateur super model? Perhaps it’s excitement of the unknown. I am an experience junkie: I prefer events over possessions and the theatre is the perfect event: ever changing, always different.

Recently I saw Jonathan Gavin perform in the “Day in the death of Joe Egg”. I had the great priviledge to work with a few years ago and upon hearing he was dazzling the audiences at the Darlinghurst Theatre, I promptly booked two tickets. Whilst in the foyer, I also chatted to an actor I hadn’t seen around for 6 years, an actor I had recently met through the Short & Sweet Gala and another actor who is brilliant in more ways than many: especially since she is a lovely person. Gavin’s performance was nothing short of exceptional, his foyer presence, nothing but selfless. It was whilst I was chatting to him that I realized how much the theatre community is interconnected… and perhaps if we played the 6 degrees of Kevin Bacon: it would ultimately show that we all know each other and will work with someone absolutely fabulous sooner or later… and we are destined to work in the same theatres at some time or another.

Another thing occurred to me. Recently I have had a new Canadian script I have been pitching called “F**k the Homeless” rejected nearly everywhere. (Yes, I can hear you laughing as you say “well, ummm Gus… the title is a bit… Well… COMPLETELY offensive!”) And though I was miffed that no one wanted to take this risk, I didn’t feel the need for unleashing my inner beast upon the artistic directors of these various companies. I did hear, however, that some people do. “WHY?” I wonder. “You want to work with these people, perhaps because you trust their judgement …why would you question it, just because their judgement doesn’t fall in your favour on this occasion?” Everything in the artistic world is based on opinion. And all good shows will have their time in the light (and even some duds too!)… but really, is it worth burning your bridge to understanding and new challenges, because of one little “no”? It doesn’t reek of longevity to me! After all, the arts community is what we make it. It’s what you choose to support on a day to day, week to week basis.

I choose to support people who are genuine and funny and kind. People who I will still like and want to talk to even if they never do another show again and s decide to buy a pretzel cart and climb the corporate pretzel ladder. I choose to support independent theatre which is new, Australian and made for an audience who is waiting to be entertained. I believe that many wonderful writers and performers and directors are no lesser people, just because they happen to be between gigs right now. Last year, one established director told me “don’t call yourself a director unless you are actually directing something.” Well I disagree. If you are a writer or director or actor, you have it in your very being you are preparing all the time. You can’t help it. Call yourself whatever you want, because you know what you are. And if you are truly an actor/writer or director.. your time will come.

And in so far is it wank or work? I offer this ambiguous answer (or is it?) from Mr. Shakespeare (I said I’d never quote him.. now I am .. what a wanker! But geez.. its perfect…and sums it up for me…)

“This above all – to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day
Thou canst not then be false to any man”

Being in the business of the theatre is not just a job, it’s a lifestyle choice. The choice results in a certain self-righteous smile when paying your rent at the bank and the clerk asks you if you want to consider a mortgage. “No,” you think to yourself… “I am not of the 2.4 kids/car/mortgage/$100 haircut every second Wednesday variety of person, ” and as you confidently stride out of the bank, your shoulders start to slope, your head bows and your heart feels a heavy dullness as you realize that, that in itself, shows something of the transience of what you do.

Theatre is like life itself, with a certain “now you see it, now you…” kind of aspect to it. The instant the light fades; the audience claps (hopefully), the actors take their bow: It’s over. It will never be the same as it was, even in a re-mount. “You can never step into the same river”, which is the brilliance of it. The creators of the theatre event, theatre (in a universal sense) and the audience are constantly moving/evolving / experiencing and to try to stop or preserve it would be against the very nature of the beast. It is the immediacy, intimacy, the “carpe diem” aspect of it, the “Now! See it now!” impetus that makes the active act of seeing theatre such a revitalizing force. That is its strength. That is its purpose: to remind us that “it’s now or never.” Theatre is not something that is a passive pastime.

The problem to returning home with a swag full of experience is that no one has seen anything you have done – no one knows what you do. No one, that is, but you. The memory of it is living in you. Only you know what you are capable of. As Tom Stoppard so eloquently expressed in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, “We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.”

What makes people brave enough to engage in this thing called the theatre? What makes them invest so much of themselves in this art form? Theatre people may not have the material markers of “success” like other people do. They may never own a house nor have a really glorious superannuation fund or a gleaming gold nest egg. They may not reach the stardom that would encourage paparazzi to chase them. But its not fame nor fortune that drives someone into the theatre: and if it is, they may be sorely disappointed. If you want to be famous perhaps you might want to audition for a reality TV show or try out your best Jedi moves on You Tube. There are plenty of ways to be famous… and being a theatre person is fairly low on that list.

There are a lot of things that can stop you from doing what you love. You could be terrified of the competition. Of failure, of judgment (of others and even more terrifying your judgment of yourself). Lack of money. Lack of time. Lack of space? I have had many pitches rejected… more than I have had accepted. Rejection is apart of this game. And although I don’t like it… it’s not a deterrent. Everyone’s a critic, everyone has an opinion… And so they should. I am more excited by a critic who is brave enough to call a spade a spade… than one who sings platitudes to a company for their “effort”. But it is difficult to be brave. Its hard to put yourself out there to be judged and rejected, time and time again. Sometimes I don’t feel so brave. Sometimes I can’t see where or when
The problem to returning home with a swag full of experience is that no one has seen anything you have done.
my next show will appear: and the dread of being asked by anyone especially long lost “colleagues”, “so, what are you working on right now?” is enough to cripple me into a spiral of self doubt and into eating a litre of gelato.

A few weekends ago, I sat on the grass outside Currency Press. I was there as an anonymous and interested member of the arts community to honour the memory of Alexander Buzo who passed away last year.

For those not familiar with Buzo: he wrote many plays and social commentaries including such essential reading as: The young person’s guide to the theatre and almost everything else, Coralie Landsdowne Says No, Norm and Ahmed and Big River.

There were a smattering of people stretched out like school children on the lawn listening to a few readings of Buzo’s work whilst idly picking at the grass. I looked around, a few academics, a couple of actors and the legendary Katherine Brisbane co-founder of currency press. We went inside the currency press building and sat wooden folding chairs and settled ourselves for some readings of his plays. Sandy Gore read a section of Coralie Landsdowne. Of course I had read it before, in fact studied it at Uni under the careful mind of Professor Elizabeth Webby (who was sitting behind me at this reading).

But nothing prepared me for the precision with which Ms Gore pinned those words to my heart. She was just sitting there, with a photocopy of the script in hand as the sun streamed through the window of a room too small for this moment. She transformed those printed words on a page into a breathing character. And for that moment I felt it. The gravity of the scene. The world of the characters. Tears formed in my eyes and I thought “how beautiful, how devastatingly beautiful!” How amazing that I have had the opportunity to see this moment. That someone was brave enough to think those thoughts, then brave enough to write it down, brave enough to show it to someone else, who was brave enough to direct it, to publish it, to perform it.

How wonderfully brave it is to contribute to the ongoing conversation of art, of theatre. Despite the possibility of rejection, failure, financial collapse, art happens anyway. Sometimes in spite of and sometimes because of the struggle. Sometimes in the most unexpected places you can find inspiration and remember why it is you even bother. Being brave is really hard, and I guess that’s what makes it so worthwhile.

Arriving back in Australia is an amazing thing. Firstly, there’s the realisation with how much your accent sounds like a cartoon bushman with a mouth full of flies and how much the Australian lingo is a vernacular of similes (i.e. dry as a dead dingo’s etc.) Secondly there’s a hyper sensitivity to all things from the country you have just experienced. For me there is nothing as bright as a red maple leaf emblazoned on a backpack and nothing inflates my R’s like hanging out with North Americans. (Yes sirrrr!) And then there’s the curse of comparison.

When I returned I was expecting a lot of myself and of the Australia I had left behind. The Sydney Festival was about to start. “Great! I am ready to see what everyone has been up to!” I soon remembered why I hadn’t really attended much in the way of the festival before… It isn’t a celebration of Sydney artists… its an international festival of international artists which happens to be in Sydney. Where are the Sydney artists? Oh, they’re the ones serving coffee or the people staffing the box office. Australian content: what is that anyway? Should we, as our Prime Minister suggested in his Australia Day speech of 2006, be closing the door on questions pertaining to Australian identity?

The comparison starts: Why is this an issue here and not in Canada? Australia and Canada are both British colonies. Both artistically and culturally affected by the United States. Both are fairly new countries. Both have a multicultural base. But Canadians are fiercely proud of their arts, their music, their theatre; their identity. Canadians are so committed to the arts that they fight through snow and blizzards to get to the local theatre. The tiniest towns of southern Ontario have a theatre that is supported by the local community. Road signs along the highways not only indicate the next gas station and rest spot, but the next theatre! Why is there an audience for me there… but not an audience here?

Sitting with my favourite university lecturer overlooking the grounds of the timeless sandstone of Sydney University I asked, “What has happened to theatre in Sydney?” I was asking the man who had carefully explained to all of the bright-eyed Performance Studies students the constant “crisis” of Australian Theatre… the man who explained the nature of the “theatre beast” only to be greeted with my whimpers of “but why?” The man who encouraged me to attend as much as I could whilst explaining the fickle tendencies of audiences. He listed the successes of my peers who were overseas, who occasionally sent news of “Aussie does good in (Insert country here)” on the waves to our shores.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved and needed my time away. It’s wonderful and very important that we have artists on exchange having adventures and developing their craft. But what if you want to come home? Australians need stories too! There is evidence of audiences out there: audiences that are average Australians looking for a wonderful experience. Audiences that don’t just exist in acedemic circles, or just within the theatre community. The glimmers of this include Sidetrack Theatre’s “The Promised Woman”(2000) and Black Swan/Company B’s “Cloudstreet”(1998) and more recently the success of the Mead/Cowell initiative of Wharf 2 Loud. Australians love a good yarn! Surely this is proof that you can dispel the “you can’t be a prophet in your own home town” syndrome.

Recently in a playwright’s master class with the powerfully and impressively articulate Van Badham, she explained a few home truths of why she’s not living in Australia. She illuminated the imbalance of the funding for the arts and the funding for sports, she told of the speed and ease with which scripts are up and onto stages in the UK, she explained the importance of the arts in the cultural landscape and in attracting tourism to British towns that have lost their primary industries. She offered bright impassioned words of advice echoed by the wise and solid tim Daly, “just find some friends and put it on!”

As my garden-gnome-esq vice principal in high school said, “Ten little words can change your life: If its meant to be, it is up to me.” Aristophanes, Strindberg and Ibsen made theatre happen. (Not that I liken myself or my style of theatre, level of success or style of facial hair to these dead men in anyway except to say: they made it.) They took a risk. They confronted the tastemakers and the stylists of the time, the conventions, the institutions and did it anyway because they thought they could and someone should. And why shouldn’t we? Doesn’t the Australian Audience deserve it?

All of these questions and thoughts lead me to where I am right now:

Somehow, through a friend of a friend, I was approached to direct a short play for Sydney’s Short and Sweet play festival. After chopping and reshaping and re-modelling the script, we had a sweet romantic comedy performed by two lovely actors. No props. No set. No costumes. No special technical demands and functional lighting. Despite a few misadventures (including a fractured heel of the leading man) the show went on as it always does. To my delight, there was thunderous applause, hooting and hollering and show stopping laughter! Somehow we won judges choice for week 4 at the Newtown Theatre and somehow achieved a whopping 36% of the audience vote! That’s bigger than the ratings of a popular Channel 9 TV show!! Even with my friends and colleagues voting… that would only account of 6% of the audience vote! So what does this mean? Well it meant our show was in the Gala Final of Short and Sweet at the Seymour Centre in Sydney and received “The People’s Choice Award” for the festival… and I have restored faith in myself, in theatre: the ancient art of storytelling and most importantly the Australian audience.

There are already pots on the boil… a night of new One Act plays in June/July perhaps? A world premiere of a new script from Canada in August/Sept… What are your plans?

My name is Augusta Supple. Known to most as Gus. I returned from living and working in Canada as a full time theatre director and playwright: all my successes (and not-so successes) are unheard of in my native land of Oz. This column is about coming home. Returning or should I say re-starting? Reintegrating and re-inventing oneself into the Australian Arts industry after being in self-imposed exile in another country’s arts industry. I will start off writing about me… about trials tribulations and then other perspective from friends and colleagues who have returned home and have struggled to find their feet or voice in a new version of their old country.

I decided to leave Australia in 2003. An easy decision, though I choked on the mantra I had since my late teens “see Australia before you see the rest of the world.” Uni friends would disappear for a while in the wilds of South-East Asia exploring cultures and dodging exotic diseases; a good friend was off to the US sponsored by a big engineering company; other friends made their Contiki tours a part of their lifestyles and some sat around lazily numbering the countries they have been to.

Not me. I stayed in Sydney. I was working here and there in theatres and day jobs, believing the “only as good as your last show” stuff. Directing short plays, writing bits and pieces, stage-managing and set building. I was the friend that helped shows get off the ground and did whatever I could for the good of the cause: Theatre: the perpetually dying art. Immersed in independent theatre, drowning in its gaffer tape and budget limitations… aggressively passive smoking while worthy actors waited patiently for a big break (of a celebrity kind.)

I had emailed my CV and a bright enthusiastic letter of introduction to several theatre companies in Canada (a childhood dream to head to the great white north!) with an open mind and a huge amount of trust to places I wanted to see, theatres with a strong history and an innovative websites. I was trawling the internet finding all sorts of things… And then I found it! A show that I thought would broaden my horizons. A “Community Play” to be developed written and performed in, of, for and by the people of a Canadian community. An English director and English designer, a professional team and local people of all persuasions: a cast of 200… of amateur actors… yep… that sounds as far from here as I could get: count me in!

Within a few months I had my ticket, travel insurance, a free place to stay for 6 months (courtesy of the theatre company’s assistant designer) and the rumour of a job. What a job! The only Aussie on this huge, tight budgeted show. I collected curious Canadians, who flocked around me like tourists at the Big Banana, looking and listening to me, asking questions: what did I think of Canada? Where was I from? How long am I here for? and of course the usual questions about Australian weather, vegemite and kangaroos. I was the myth dispeller and the unofficial ambassador for Oz, I was just like Bindi Irwin, but without my own exercise video!

In my first 2 months in Canada, I appeared in “The Kickapoo Indian Medicine Tent Show”: 5 characters, 4 accents (which weren’t my own), 13 costume changes, 6 songs and feigning explosive diarrhea: all in 63 minutes! Not easy money. Especially considering the “afflicted by explosive diarrhea” part of my performance.

Then the show which was the reason I was there. I directed several scenes, created eight ball gowns out of different coloured plastic bags, wrote a couple of songs, edited the script, performed as a frog and was in charge of taking care of the 200 kilogram blind tourettes disorder suffering native man in the cast, who would yell and bite himself when confused by what was happening, which was often (and who could blame him?).

Within 2 months of the show finishing I had founded a lucrative youth theatre. I was also working with a group who made musical instruments for children out of recycled and found objects; co-wrote a show for a theatrical choir for children. I was fast becoming known about town as the children’s theatre expert (and on some occasions Mary Poppins) and scored a much-coveted job at a local arts centre. There were offers and jobs flooding in from a huge music festival to direct their opening and closing ceremonies, a play to direct and dramaturge for the mental health community… I was busy! Working in the arts and popular for my writing and directing (with professionals and amateurs from 5-93years old) who could ask for anything more? Then came an offer to be sponsored for the next 2 years! Decision time!

I thought seasons were somehow regulated in 3 month cycles. 12 months, 4 seasons, Right? 12 divided by 4 is three. Winter starts in December and ends in February. Right? WRONG! The Canadian winter begins in November and continues sometimes until May. When I was finally told this, I cried. Little ice cube tears chinked as they hit the pavement, (which was also covered in ice.)

Two days later it was Australia Day 2005, I was in my office with thick fluffy snow fringing the windows, encouraging me to eat and sleep more. I was occasionally pecking out a script for another show. It had been -33 degrees all week. I hadn’t been outside in days. Then, a phone call. Happy voices of my friends who were barbequing, getting sun burnt and listening to triple J’s hottest 100 bubbled over the phone as I pictured them wearing Australian flags as capes and playing lawn bowls barefoot in the sun and slowly getting drunk on Aussie beer.

Decision time. What to do? Stay in the land of eternal winter where Mr Tumnus and I can drink 8% Quebec beer and make snow angles for most of the year whilst working as a youth theatre director/playwright? Or frolic with my friends whilst getting by on bits and pieces of independent theatre shows: the life that has only existed in my memory and in the responses to curious Canadians?

In my deliberations, my best Canadian friend and designer (who had lived in several foreign countries) said, “the longer you stay, the harder it is to leave” and she suggested any more than 2 years, things start to get difficult. That deadline was fast approaching.

So I booked my ticket home to arrive in the Australian summer. That’s no coincidence. But the weather was not completely to blame. I had a new-found validation. A renewed passion for theatre and new writing. I felt ready to be re-introduced into my native land. If I could make a living in Canada… surely I can make a living in Australia? So here I am. And I’m going to share it all: my history, disappointments and failures, observations and experiences returning to Oz.