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

“The more you sweat the less you bleed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s some UFC for those interested…

And now for a Fenech montage…

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

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

What?

WHAT?

What do you want from this review?

You want a structure? A nice turn of phrase?

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

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

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

Alison Croggon
Cameron Woodhead
James Waites
Jason Blake

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

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

Hey, remember this?

READ ALONGS!

Yeah, anyway.

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

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

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

Um…

To keep artists employed and non-artists baffled?

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

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

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

SO THE PLAY…
Is it about Thyestes?

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

And why not?

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

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

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

THE SUMMARY

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

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

It’s been a long time since I have seen anything like BURIED CITY.

I’ve been walking around in the world – my world – my Sydney world – absorbed, utterly consumed by this production – and I am excited to be the one to say, I got it. I got it, I have it, and it sits in me now, I am forever changed. And for those who have been reading the reviews of Buried City as they slide out of weary festival fingertips, I am here to offer you an alternative reading of this work -so you can see what I see in it.

In the former salt and tomato sauce factory, now known as Belvoir, the Festival punters in their collared shirts and their neat voices mill politely in the glossy foyer. Light catches the crisp white wines as the casual chatter hums in usual pre-show socialising. We wind our way upstairs through the framed posters that now sport the faces of now-celebrities – who, once upon a time worked for parity pay along side the cleaners, the box office staff and the artistic director.

When we enter the space we are confronted with the rib-cage of a construction sight – scaffolding reaching to the heavens – and the light from the outside world (the true world- not an invented backstage/outside world) is dappled through green mesh and chain link fence.

If you look closely you can see figures slumped in the set – sleeping or staring or not. There’s the usual worksite debris – bottles and milk crates – a first aid kit which is rusting on it’s hinges – don’t be fooled – what I’m describing is not merely incidental/accidental moments of decor.

Perry walks in – dinner swings in a plastic bag. He sings a song. Within minutes, Effie, the security guard – occasionally lit in her demountable office by the flickering light of “Australia’s got Talent” – wakes and warns the sleeping Russell. Meynedog taunts Perry. Russell finally wakes. She tries it on with Effie, who is eating an orange. Haz arrives with Val – who they are to each other – what her story is well – it’s anyone’s guess (at first).

And yeah. It doesn’t seem like a lot happens. But in the first few minutes of the show – summarized above – it’s all action. What is astounding about this is what a work like this shows, and conceals and in balancing both aspects what it truly reveals about the audience.

There is a very interesting scene -(if you have a program/script it’s described in 8 italicised sentences on page 20) where Russell and Haz confront each other. Haz – after admitting his love of the gym (for health, not vanity) is challenged to a fight with Russell. There are some moments of contact – a lot of posturing and occasional grappling, some talk, some proviocation, they may grapple a bit – and Haz ends up wrestling Russell into a chair. And Haz walks away. There is silence amongst everyone. A deep pause yawns through the space. Meynedog says flatly “that was terrific guys.”

I laugh. Loudly.

In that 4-5 minute fight scene, I was propelled into a range – a rush- of thoughts –
“Oh come on, just hit him”- “I bet Russell’s going to win this fight” “Yeah, but he’s pretty drunk and old” “yeah but he’s angry”, “but haz goes the the gym” “Does, he really? If he does, why doesn’t he just hit Russell and get it over with?” “Why doesn’t someone on site break them up?” Why doesn’t anyone else SAY something?” “Russell’s going to kill him.” “Haz is going to smash him with a bottle.” “There’s going to be blood.” “Russell’s going to fall over.” “If Haz get’s him on the ground it’s all over.” “Shit this is taking a long time.” “Why is Haz being so chickenshit?” “Why don’t they just hit each other?” “Come on, just hit each other.” “Get it over with – someone hit someone.” “Meynedog should hit one of them.”

And in that moment I heard myself. What? Me? Willing a fight on? Sitting there silently – I was wishing violence. I was confused why they weren’t bashing each other. Why? Because I hold that frustration – that aggression within me? Because I wanted something to happen. BUT IT WAS HAPPENING. I was watching two men challenge each other – challenge themselves. I was pitying Russell and I wanted him to have a victory – equally as much as I wanted him to be floored by Haz.
Strange. A truly confronting realisation.

When I saw Haz walk in with Val I thought – she’s going to want to leave. But she didn’t. She had no where else to go. And she called me on my own assumptions about her – from how she was dressed – what she looks like – and smashed, all my assumptions and prejudice about her – I assumed a beautiful, powerful woman: but really she was lost. Chronically lost.

Perry – the most secure – and yet the biggest self-sabotager there is. Is a gambling addiction a sign of an optimist out of control? Is a a desperate person’s attempt to get rich quick? And what of Russell who presses a $20 note into Meynedog’s hand? And where is Perry in all this? Singing simple songs of sadness?

And there we have Meynedog – a man child – spending time smoking dope – and yet rattling off facts and new ideas from the new scientist – the collide between foul-mouthed child and brilliant, energetic mind. He makes a tower of buckets for a basketball game. He makes a pendulumn out of a milkcrate – he makes his own fun – he amuses himself – he’s no theif, he’s no idiot.

And we have hard-talking Effie – with a huge heart and big dreams and an unwaivering personal philosophy – that is part faith in religion and partly faith in herself.

And we have Russell – exhausted, drunk, disillusioned – and despite what you may have read, the most interesting thing about this character is not the fact he’s a unionist – it’s what he philosophises -”I spend more time buying stuff for my kids, than I do,talking to them – and the stuff I buy just breaks anyway.” Russell is the real deal – the baby-boomer enslaves to a world they created – and crippled by the progress they put in action. He is stuck in what he used to fight for – and without a clear idea of where or what he’s headed.

Haz – a voice of cold fact and truth – that slams into my assumptions. The collision in me mounts. In his speech about migration I am confronted in my own thinking. Though desperately grateful for Australia’s multicultural society and all the benefits that has brought (and for the benefits of globalisation) and slightly fearful of that desperate overseas labourers will undercut an Australian workforce.(terrified of the implications of Fair trade agreements)

And what happen in the play? ALOT. People collide – physically, emotionally, idealistically, philosophically, politically. Things are made and broken. Bottles are shared. Confessions are offered. Questions are asked. Flaws and fractured realities are revealed. Pathways are broken down.
And relationships are sometimes tested, sometimes interrogated, sometimes ignored – strong yet fragile like a spiders web. Each person is trapped in the net buzzing and tangled in someone else’s choices. And for us, the audience – we can see how that web could be broken by a swift swipe of a broom head. And yet no-one does. They are stuck – because of themselves, because of their circumstance, because of their culture, because of their society – and it’s too big to handle.

I read this work, as I read a Beckett – the message of paralysis and inaction is the same. I read this work as a living art installation whereby people kill-time/make things/do things in multiple spaces at the same time. There is a circularity about the lives of these characters – a somewhat stuck/ hopeless/ conveyer belt life – of work, drink, sleep, work, drink, sleep. It is a hell we all know and can fathom – but try desperately to ignore.

In reading this work, I confront my own fears, assumptions, prejudices, perspectives, struggles, philosophies.

What is difficult for some about this production is they may be expecting a different sort of show. Perhaps they are unfamiliar with the work of Urban Theatre Projects? Perhaps they are dramaturgical classicists expecting a single protagonist narrative which shows various obstacles, before a deneoument in which all is revealed/discovered and everyone is transformed.

This is not a show working on that formula. And it’s not a text working on that template.

This show is about offering moments – vignettes of collision – in the hope that the audience is transformed.

A part of me wonders if this work was presented (with the same set – the same characters – the same structure) by a visiting German company, if perhaps the reviewers (and audience) would have reacted differently?

It is interesting to compare and contrast BABEL with BURIED CITY. Both with multi-cultural casts – both dealing with big picture ideas – One is 1 hour 40 minutes, one is 1 hour 20 minutes. One with a glossy aesthetic (the beautiful steel cubes) versus a rugged found object/everyday aesthetic (scaffolding). One addresses the audience directly and is keenly aware of it’s theatricality, the other the performers address each other and they are pursuing a technique of performance which attempts to remove theatricality. One answers questions of spirituality the other raises questions of politics and economics. One is made by international “Star” director, one is made by an urban Australian director and award winning playwright.

And yet the reception has been so different.

Standing ovation in one, walk outs in another.

Both are technically incredible pieces of work – by experienced theatre makers. And yet, I suspect that the mode of performance is a little bit “too much work” (as suggested by Jason Blake in his SMH review you can read here.) – in that it asks the audience to examine their reactions, not just to react to the work as Babel does.

Additionally I think the observation of Diana Simmonds that “The trouble with emulating real life is that real life is very often tedious and aimless, that’s why we have editors, playwrights and prefer to watch a well constructed drama – I’m sure I’ve said this before somewhere, but it remains true. Listening to ordinary people rabbit on about nothing in particular is excruciating. Consequently I spent a good part of the evening in pain.” My response to that is – well, I think being in excruciating pain is very much the point. And I think the pointeless tedium she identifies is also a dramatic convention – Waiting for Godot or Happy Days anyone? And reading Cortese’s script – I think this is a fascinating piece of writing – But as I mentioned before, it does not fit a well-made play, 3-act structure – it fits a structure of storytelling which is more montage/live art/character vignette: and I believe this style of writing to be ABSOLUTELY valid, if not innovative and pushing us to examine how we examine “a new play.” You can read more of her response here.)

I think there are some shows which follow a Festival-friendly format – direct address, large-scale spectacle, internationally celebrated artists, perhaps operates on one level of engagement – beauty and wonder and scale. And let’s not forget, reviewers get fatigued – even Jo Litson from the Telegraph tweeted: JoListon: My week: Babel, Circa, Anatomy of an Afternoon, The Boys, Love Never Dies, The Illusionists, Never Did Me Any Harm, Assembly, I’m Your Man. – we’re all seeing a lot at the moment – and perhaps that can blur reading a work on it’s own terms when we are used to reading a certain type of work especially in certain contexts. But I do think it’s important to help audiences read the work correctly – and with all due respect to all my colleagues in crit -I’m sorry, but Buried City is a true triumph not only of artistic experimentation with form, but a triumph of political and social significance to Australians – Alexander Buzo would be proud.

There are moments which are imperfect – one is when Russell and Effie are speaking on the mezzanine level and we can’t hear them one moment – then the next it’s like the audio has been turned up suddenly – I personally would have been really ok with multiple conversations happening simultaneously for me to dip in and out of. Additionally I think the premise that Haz was there to pick Perry up, and yet he didn’t seem overly focused in pursuing that objective. – and these are minor quibbles.

What the director Alicia Talbot has acheived with Buried City is astonishing – and is amplified twofold when you read the text AFTER you’ve seen the show. You see the performances she has found and nurtured in some stunning performers – who are stunning not because of their skin- but because of their craft.

What the writer, Raimondo Cortese has acheived is impressive – a text which is like a moving musical score – which reaches beyond the confines of traditional script formula – and tries to show something that will stir a second layer in the audience. This is not glib nor didactic. And anyone, ANYONE who travels regularly to Blacktown, Bankstown, Granville on the train will hear this level of language, these voices, these people. And to harness that is so, so, so impressive.

The fact that 20 years ago this same Belvoir audience I suspect would have applauded this brave artistic and cultural experiement – makes me question: what is it we are expecting from our artists? What are we expecting from that venue? This is a major coup for UTP and BELVOIR and I’m so excited for them that they have the balls to present this type of “difficult” work.

And I’ll mention the performers – Effie Nkrumah who I fell for last year in Ama and Chan (and who will one day have her own TV show) warms into her role nicely showing strength and compassion. Perry Keyes has contributed a beautifully transparent performance AND his own songs. Hazem Shammas balances his role with a sturdy mix of bravado and fragility, Valerie Berry smashes all representation of asian women as fragile accounting girls with the type of empowered sexiness and existential questioning that was fascinating. Russell Kiefel is, well, all I can say is that no-one could have broken my heart and roused my fury like he did – this for me was the show I saw him in where I became a fan. And of course, hands up who doesn’t think Meyne Wyatt is magnetically charismatic? He just fills the stage and ever moment with the powerful force of energy that makes me scared and obsessed with whatever he’s doing.

I want you to see this show – and I want you to read it as a piece of installation AND as a piece of philosophical orchestration.

And I suspect, you’ll walk away a different person.

We all know the Summer of the Seventeenth Doll. It is the play that rocked the boat in 1955 on Australian stages and that rocking boat headed straight overseas as an example of Australian life. It was play held within yellowing books, standing like white soldiers on the shelves of my high school's English/Drama classroom.

(SIDE NOTE: It is interesting to note that that this play was jointly awarded “best play” in 1955 by the Playwrights’ Advisory Board with Oriel Gray’s play “The Torrents”. Interesting also to note that Armfield’s director’s note rattles off a swag of Australian classic plays- all by men.)

It’s an epic Australian play – a three hour experience – complete with 2 intervals. It’s a big story about the domestic agony of realising “you’ve gone as far as you can go.” The experience of attending the play is a little shocking to our current sensibility – yes, it was only last month I attended a 45 minute show. Most new plays are 90 minutes or under (no interval). It is now – even regarded by the writer as a museum piece – and even the writer’s note suggests as such. The time and circumstance of the characters firmly explained in a set of expectations and social codes that are regarded as “irrelevant” now.

But they’re not.

It’s the eve of my 32nd birthday – and as an unmarried woman, I know absolutely that the status of women has not really changed that much. I know exactly the judgement of my landlord as he looks at my bare ring finger. there is nothing irrelevant there. I feel it. It’s utterly pertinent. Utterly poignant. It’s tough waking up and realising that things will never be the same. Ever. And wondering if you’ve gone as far as you can go.

The most poignant thing about this production is that it shows that to an extent Armfield has grown out of his role of Artistic director of Belvoir. It used to be his backyard dreaming with Geoffrey Rush. But this is where the young hip, cardigan wearers play now. This is where they re-write the classics. This is where the young guard have painted the red revolutionary walls of the foyer white. It’s where the youth has inherited and taken over – wrapped actors in microphones and pinning them behind glass. if ever there was a production which felt like a retro glance to the old belvoir – the company B Belvoir – this is it. And that shift in culture of this company amplifies the message of the play – the growing out of your “glory days.”

And indeed it is nostalgic for those who remember that era – the music, the clothes, the way of life. And there are some in the audience who applaud the time capsule of this play being cracked open for them to reminisce and for us younger ones to gaze in wonderment.

It seems perfectly nostalgic also to have Neil Armfield complete this picture – with his warn floorboard/rusty-tin/mid-last century aesthetic. If you’ve seen a Neil Armfield production and you’ve read the play, what you imagine this production will be like, is exactly what you’re imagining. Nothing radical here. Nothing surprising. Like the ritual of a Sunday roast, really – it satisfies on one level because it is exactly as you expect. And for those who love a diet of Sunday roast – you’ll love this production.

For those who hanker for a thai noodles or kangaroo stir fry – you might be a little uninspired by the forgone conclusion.

I must admit I didn’t love this production. In fact, I was a little bored. And I accept that I am utterly alone in this opinion.

For me there is something humble about the Summer of the Seventeenth Doll. It’s steeped in working class aspiration. It was written at a time before NIDA existed – written a few years after A.A Phillips identified our cultural cringe. It was a time of shifting identity – an awareness of identity. And Lawler lead the charge to have Australians and Australian voices in stage. It was a time of growing and bucking trends – and cultural daring.

And so now to see some non-working class “stars” of Australian theatre do their best impersonation of an Australian accent and being “Australian” is, quite frankly a bit embarrassing. What we have is a naturalistic play which has been made unnatural through the fact that many people working in the arts have no longer have an immediate relationship with working class. Perhaps they may have grown up as children in working class areas, but their education and work opportunities and travel has removed them from the reality of the working class.( OK this is a tangent – but bare with me) It seems that making art, being an actor, being a writer or a director is reserved for those middle to upper class people who can afford to train for up to three years, perhaps travel and survive whilst waiting for work. As such I would suggest that we don’t have a diverse Australian industry (and I’m talking about class and opportunity here) and so our representations of poor white Australia seem to be patronizing at best. Try as she might, Robyn Nevin can’t shake off her elegance and refinement. Susie Porter can’t shake her poise.

The world of the Doll still seems to be a curiosity to audiences – some who are fascinated in the living museum aspect of the production – and some who enjoy the sneak peak into how the other half live (a safe way to slum it?).

This world is one of the working poor, of impoverishment, of making do with what you’ve got. And so the design by Ralph Myers (that has cut out a window in the wall of the Belvoir Theatre, and which has lights hanging outside the theatre like children dressed as ghosts) seems overly excessive and overly theatrical thus nullifying it’s very intention. Yes, realism is in the set and the costumes, and the bacon cooking off stage – BUT – the acting across the board is overly theatrical, overly self conscious and the hole in the wall where we can see/hear the contemporary cars pass by seems to do more harm than good. We sit there marvelling that there is a hole cut into the wall of the theatre (”ooh Belvoir must be doing very well if they can afford to do that to it’s walls…”)

It’s a heartbreaking play- as we witness the glitter and the tinsel rust on the dolls – the feathers fall apart, Olive’s world fall apart. We see the ravages of age. We see the great man, fall. It’s a heartbreaking production – in that this does not have the daring or innovation or tenderness of Armfield’s earlier works.

It is an incredible thing to have a 92 year old playwright, re-draft the play. Yes – plays are living and breathing things. They live in the present because they live in the audience.

I wonder – will this play ever be brought into the 21st century?

I wonder if Ray Lawler would ever consider contemporizing the play? That time and culture is not forever lost. There are still nomadic fruit pickers. There are still women who live and work as though they are ten years younger than they are… I wonder if in 100 years at Belvoir will this classic be “adapted” as other classic texts have been adapted by the current Belvoir crew?

After a sophisticated large scale, main stage dose of Lally Katz in the form of Neighbourhood Watch at Belvoir, Sydney audiences have an opportunity to view some of her earlier work, small-scale, intimate and full of possibility programmed as a part of the Griffin Independent season.

A piece of clever programming on the part of Sam Strong and the Griffins, to ride in the air currents of Belvoir – and a wonderful opportunity to, like the play itself, go back in time to visit the work of a younger Katz (circa 2005). This play was developed with Clare Watson (director) and the performers Suzannah McDonald and Katherine Tonkin. In this remounted production – a Melbourne import six years on – fun is the primary concern as we watch the wild adventures of two girls and their developing relationship. And it feels like a time capsule. And time is important. In the play. And to us, the audience. This is a 45 minute jaunt into a time, a place, a memory – well, multiple memories – and through time travel. We are seeing an early Katz, but through the lens of her recent acheivements. This production is time travel in itself – but we all know you can’t put your foot in the same river twice… these actors are older, Katz is more established – and there is an aspect of retro about this production that goes beyond the music and costumes. I am seeing a retro-Katz.

Hazel and Ruby are best friends. They are bound together through music, adventure, perspective, fear and a horrifying event. In a world of infinite choice and adventure, they flick between time, memory, make-believe and space – living and re-living the past with joyful nostalgia. They parallel each other – supplementing needs, witnessing realisations and philosophies, diving in and out of pop music… we see them delighted and terrified by their own imaginations – by their will in a vortex of love and companionship.

What is wonderful about this production is that we see the playwright writing what she knows, there and then – writing her friendship. Writing about intimacy between friends.

Smashed is a reminder of the joy and playfulness of language, of story, of memory. It’s also about invented, imagined and realised terror. But above all, it’s about how we are affected by time, space, each other – how things are eternal and always – how things don’t die, they just change.

Set designer Rob Miller, lighting designer Richard Vabre and sound designer Kelly Ryall honour the sophisitication of Katz’s current career with a beautiful miniature world – making Ruby and Hazel the biggest thing in that universe – and yet maintain the playful and chaotic spirit of Katz’s wild imagination. It’s a lovely, intimate, wonderful show – not too much – just enough to fill up your hand and your heart…

We sit in silence as the world of Lally’s Katz’s play is wheeled out before us… garbage bins on wheels and the weekly routine that unites us all. Catherine is sitting on the wheelie bin waiting for the world to wake up… It’s a street full of familiar movements – barking dogs, snooty neighbours, gum leaves returned purposefully in a plastic bag. It’s the ordinary world made extraordinary, by virtue of placement on stage. A world privileged through notation. How often do we let these moments of the infinitely ordinary slip by unannounced and unceremoniously disappear into the past?

Initiated from a foyer conversation between Katz and Nevin over two years ago, the conversation broadened into a larger more complicated conversation. An offer from Katz’s neighbour to strike up a friendship, a conversation with Julian Meyrick, Annette Madden, Eamon Flack and Simon Stone.. and now a conversation beyond the rehearsal room walls – the audience.

To ensure you gather the full picture, there is a very interesting call and response style article here: http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/theatre/double-act-20110707-1h32r.html

… which is, in and of itself an intriguing portrait of intergenerational respect and regard… asking some tough questions about the boys club of the theatre scene (yes, this is STILL an issue – and the proof is in WHO are the people developing, championing and directing the plays and programming choices)… questions about theatre… questions on the value of criticism…questions about motherhood… the personal and the professional collide…

And of course you can check out the reviews: John MacCallum gushes here: http://www.theaustralian.com.au/news/arts/robyn-nevin-at-home-in-made-to-order-role/story-e6frg8n6-1226103708657

Mr Blake is similarly enthusiastic: http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/theatre/broken-hungarian-is-a-rhapsody-in-the-key-of-nevin-20110728-1i28g.html

Even the bloggers adore it: Australian Stage: http://australianstage.com.au/201107284610/reviews/sydney/neighbourhood-watch-|-belvoir.html

Diana Simmonds: http://www.stagenoise.com/reviewsdisplay.php?id=558

And of course James Waites (my very own Ana) loved it, too. Enthusiastically reassuring me that it was more than a winner for me to take my new love-interest to (who is not a fan of text-based theatre in general) http://jameswaites.ilatech.org/?p=6822

Based on Katz’s intense and constant friendship with her neighbour Anna, the story is quite simple. In fact, there is everything to love about the script. We delight in recognising the familiar sounds, the curious turns of phrases, where we the audience are asked to make links to our own lives and reflect on what it means to find a friend, a guide, a mentor who chides and consoles – who shares without familial duty or familial expectation.
The world in Neighbourhood Watch is attractive and easy because it invites us, the audience in, asks us to watch the story in comfort and familiarity. It feels good. It feels like a relief to sit in the presence of a story which reminds us about living, loving, about connectedness, resilience, compassion – the nourishing ideas that are sometimes usurped for the flashy all-nude, beer-soaked rock and roll, design bludgeoned sets of the main stage Sydney Theatre scene. And though the play relies on the darling of the Sydney Theatre scene – after all it WAS written for her – and the reviews are all about Robyn Nevin – there is something audiences are (and will react to) in this play. A sense of adventure found in simple conversation? A desire to love and be loved? The idea of community, of home, of place, of belonging? Yes all of those things.

I find it curious though, that yet again I find that the script is three-quarters there. The story is enough, without the dead love interest (who seems dwarfed in importance by the love between Kitty Kitty and Ana), the lessons are clear and perfect without it having the pressure of a death involved… the stories are enough without a re-enactment of wartime Europe… the climax is fairly predictable and far too neat, too glib, too easy…

With so much realism in this play (except for the design), it is difficult to know why the end is so unnaturally hurried, so unrealistically tidy. Infact I think the strangest thing of all is that there is nothing we are left questioning, there is nothing to be discussed philosophically or logistically in the car ride on the way home. And I wonder about that.

As a huge fan of Lally’s writing (yes I played a decapitated head in a musical of hers years ago) – I love it because it is bold and unexpected. I love it because of the wild imagination, the insatiable ten thousand miles a minute thought process. I adore all the infinite and bizarre possibilities that Lally opens up in her writing. The painful awkward embarassments, the true-life horror. The unexpected. Neighbourhood Watch is not the usual Katz fare… perhaps it’s the responsibility of writing for one of Australia’s most incredible actors – or perhaps the dramaturgical advice? But this is a departure from the sassy, wild and ridiculous pain that we are usually subjected to and instead we are served a calm, comfortable love letter to friendship.

Though this is clearly a play about Kitty-kitty’s healing – Ana is the focus of the show. The reviews attest to that – and though this production is drenched in Robyn Nevin awe – it is Megan Holloway’s Catherine who is the centre of the story… and for me she is perfectly understated, utterly average and normal – unglamorous and yet sweetly curious.

All performances are beautiful – as one would expect – this is the finest cast in Sydney (yes Megan Holloway was on my January list of who to watch for 2011… and let’s not deny that Garber has been given his own adjective by Blake “Garberesque.” Simon Stone’s second outing of a revolve in the Belvoir Space works beautifully on this occasion… and there is a simplicity which puts the performances and the writing first.

As it should be.

Some dramaturgical lumps and bumps aside, and a stylistic departure for Katz, this is all in all, a good show. A charming show. Full of wisdom and wit and fine performances, worthy of an audience who can bring their love of the everyday with them to their seats.

Seagulls are, as any ornithologist knows, carnivorous scavengers. Pack birds. Birds that possess a unique mob-mentality and a very clear pecking order. Baby gulls bully their parents with powerful squawks. They will ready to elongate their necks and let forth an alarming noise when courting or challenging other gulls. As a teenager trapped, growing up in the pastoral “paradise” of a northern NSW coastal town, I would sit on the dunes and watch as the gulls scurry about, robbing teenage surfer boys (and their accompanying bikini babes) of their fat, hot chips swaddled in butchers paper. I’d watch the gulls squawk and flap, demanding chips. I’d watch the surfers squawk and flap at the seagulls. I’d overhear the myths (or were they?) of if you give a seagull an aspirin (hidden in a chip) they explode.

That was half my lifetime ago.

Now, in what may be remembered as Australian theatre’s “Age of Adaptation,” Belvoir’s latest offering of The Seagull has found its place amongst the pecking order of productions- with potential punters urged to “Check [the website] regularly for updates or contact the Box Office closer to the performance you wish to attend for returns.” Following in the tradition of Diary of a Madman, potential punters are also invited to queue for “Standing room tickets [that] will be released at 9.30am on the day (2.30pm on Sundays) for all performances from 9 June – 17 July. These tickets are only available in person from the Box Office and are limited to two per customer. ”

The people have spoken. they’ve paid their money. They’ve made time in their busy schedules for what is one of theatre’s events of the year – Benedict Andrews, David Wenham, Judy Davis, Emily Barclay, Anita Heigh, Bille Brown, Terry Serio, Anton Chekov, Ralph Myers – the names are assurance of ticket sales – but does that automatically mean it’s an amazing piece of theatre? All of you Seagull ticket-holders out there can exhale – this ain’t a turkey, you’re definitely on a winner.

I feel no great compulsion to re-tell the story – or to necessarily provide effusive and snappy adjectives next to the names of the artists involved… to satisfy your curiosity about the critic’s reception I will steer you towards John McCallum’s review in The Australian, James Waites’ web-log e-pistle and Helen Barry’s review for Australian Stage.

What I think is so beautiful about this production is how familiar it feels – how normal and everyday -despite the hyperventilation some may experience over seeing Judy Davis or David Wenham. I think for those who are hunting that experience – of being amongst the constellation may be hazed by the truly beautiful ensemble work – and it is a magnificent ensemble… transparent and present and casual and normal. There is nothing vaudeville or tacky or arrogant about this cast or production.

The wonderful opportunities within adaptations are many – re-locations, cultural translation, contemporisations – which are all pretty standard. Previous productions of The Gull for me have emphasized Nina and Kostantin’s career frustrations – or the romantic longings/unrequited fascinations of the younger characters. Suitably for the the audience Belvoir speaks to, this production for me was very much centred around Trigorin (David Wenham). We watch as he suffers the tyrannical emotional, roller coaster of Arkadina, his fascination with the ever tumultuous Masha, his lust for Nina, we hear of his compulsive writerly observations, there’s an empathy for him – more so than for Kostantin whom previously I had regarded as the focus of the play.

This production stirs up something deep in us – we are presented with images that seem to trigger our past – perhaps a feeling of a place, or of being outside, or somewhere else or on the verge. We see the longing of the characters – their impatience for change, for fame, recognition, for love, for finality or security. We hear the lament of love or life not being quite as dreamed or expected – and we watch the self-sabotage as they face a life of suffocation or staleness or struggle.

Andrews’ Seagull sits perfectly balanced. Between the easily accessed, recoginsable universal truth perhaps this is the public truth which pertains to the outward expression of what we want – and the secret, dark shameful truth of that which we desire/yearn for the private truth of who we are. And despite being one of the grand director’s of Australian theatre, Andrews allows his cast to sit naturally within this naturalistic play – not needing to direct (or design) over the top of the story. Confident in the narrative. Confident in the actors, who are complete in these portraits.

For those who feel fatigued from wading through the all -consuming obsession with Russia our mainstages see to have of late – you’ll be relieved and delighted at this ever surprising, elegantly presented, beautifully balanced piece of art.

I doubt I’ll ever need to see another Seagull in my lifetime. I’m sure this production will haunt me always.

Like the assassination of JFK, the collapse of the Twin Towers, it can be argued that one’s first kiss is equally a transforming experience. It is a powerful action which is emblematic of bravery and desire and focus for the risk is unrequited affection, embarrassment, humiliation and the prize is the first step towards ultimate intimacy.

To kiss – to touch or press with the lips in a token of affection (according to the Macquarie Dictionary) – especially when pressing one’s lips on another’s lips -to kiss is to offer softness and intimacy which only two people can share at one time (by virtue of the fact we only have one set of lips each.) The exclusivity of such an act makes it powerful.

It is no wonder that it is the focus of so much literature, art, music. The latest production in Belvoir’s Downstairs theatre, The Kiss is a neat quartet of theatricalized short stories by four very distinct writers -Peter Goldsworthy, Anton Chekhov, Kate Chopin and Guy de Maupassant. Linked only by their title – this posy of plays spans time and geography as the blurb states:
“Maupassant looks at sexual power and the politics inherent in relations between women and men. Chopin deals with deception and the choice between love and money. Chekhov shows how the imagination can take a single moment of reality and build it into a fantasy that becomes more important than the original. And Goldsworthy takes a kiss and turns it into an aching portrayal of Australian teenage bravado gone horribly wrong.”

I will not attempt to reveal the premise for each story here – but I think it is well summarized by Jason Blake’s review you can read here. And I quite enjoyed Helen Barry’s response tot he show and you can find it here.

With so much destruction, despair and tragedy in the world regularly televised via the news AND regularly sensationalized on Sydney’s stages – it is a delight to have a lighter, more intimate, tender topic explored on stage. It is then no wonder that due to the thirst audiences have for love and love stories that within 4 days of opening, The Kiss has been extended for an extra week because of audience demand.

The challenges in this production are many. First – how do you present four pieces of literature theatrically? How do you curate and arrange the pieces for maximum impact – and in a way in which the audience is happy to go along with the shift in gears between the pieces? How do you cast the four pieces, with four actors within each – especially when one of the pieces has an extensive carousel of characters? How are they visually linked? Will the audience applaud after each piece -or is it like a symphony with four distinct movements? How do you immediately establish time and space appropriate for the world of the story?

All interesting directorial challenges.

Most interesting for me is the curation of the pieces into a coherent production, and the challenges associated with the theatricalisation of literature. The unfortunate thing about the presentation of many short pieces in one evening is that invite unnecessary ranking and comparison – often evoking the “I liked the second one best” style of conversation. I’m not going to enter into that type of discussion – I chose to view the production as a whole, more than the sum of its parts.

It is in this instance I will look to Elevator Repair Sevice’s production of The Gatz – a full unabridged theatrical reading of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby as an instance where this worked – when the text and the world on stage were parallel and complimentary, not an enactment of the story – but a physical world separate to the narrative was being played out on stage whilst the novel was being read with visual echos of the text.

For me, The Kiss was heavy on the text – without much visual relief, the exception of this is the piece by Goldsworthy. Largely though, the suite of plays felt like a moved radio play whereby the experience is one of the audience attentively listening – and there is a lot to listen to. In the case of the Chekov – holding all the characters in one’s mind is a feat of extreme memory -and the direct address is relentless as we are told everything, and shown very little. This is perhaps the flaw with the whole production – as an audience member we are fatigued by words – the anticipation of the moment of the kiss or significance of the kiss in each piece is well and truly drowned by literature. We sit as though children being read bedtime stories – passively consuming facts, opinions and intentions. As such there is little to be revealed or discovered in character or story which is truly surprising- there is no subtext to tease out, for the characters reveal their internal cogitations quite freely.

The immediate, spontaneous power of a kiss – the action – is deflated by words. The question is – how is this experience theatre and not merely a reading? Why stage “literature.” What makes a story a story, and what makes a play a piece of theatre?

Peter Brook says theatre calls for space, spectator and an event. And this is true of The Kiss, but does that also mean that if an actor read directly from the story without any movement or characterization that that too would be a piece of theatre?

The wonderful thing about literature (as opposed to plays) is that is a truly intimate experience. Sitting with two hands clasping both wings of a book, eyes lowered within a foot of the paper – silently ingesting the latent words within… The act of reading is private and personal and intimate. Theatre is less private by it’s very form – a public display of affection, if you will – and something of the small, tender quietness of a kiss (and of literature) is lost when it is declared in such an overt and open forum.

Perhaps I was hoping for something a little more action, I was hoping for a kiss and what I got was a lot of talk. And as some lovers may know, a tender moment can be crushed by conversation – it can fatigue or inhibit bravery and spontaneity and desire.

That being said, Susannah Dowling’s show is absolutely perfect for the new direction of The downstairs space – a space which is about development and experiment and forging new ground. Lighting design my Teegan Lee is beautifully warm, performances by Catherine Davies, Rita Kalnejais, Yalin Ozucelik and Steve Rodgers are energetic and bright as they cycle through an impressive kaleidoscope of characters, and the costumes by Luke Ede are particularly impressive and it is a well produced show.

For those keen on watching some kissing, you might be better off at Scruffy Murphy’s on a Friday night, those that love literature will delight in the language and the timelessness of love. And those who delight in the sweet agony of anticipation – a la Keat’s Ode on a Grecian Urn – “Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,/Though winning near the goal – yet, do not grieve;/ She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,/For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!” you may also enjoy this diverse and beautifully written bouquet of stories.

For others… I offer you Elvis…

I’ve been typing. I have been sitting here typing. There are four sentences half-formed and mangled below this sentence. It’s been five days or so since seeing The Business and I have been sitting on it. At times like this I think of my patient, fluffy white-haired Professor Gay McAuley urging me in my undergrad days to calm down in my knee jerk responses to theatre, to take my time and cool down. It’s something I’m not good at when it comes to theatre. It feels too immediate to be complacent or calm about. It feels like I shouldn’t can’t give it space… Like the signals through the fire from Artaud’s imagination. And since my undergrad days… over time I guess not a lot has changed. Well, somethings have changed. When I first started reviewing I would turn around a review in 12 hours… in fact… that carried on until 2009… when I thought better of it and I’d give myself 24 hours. I have just found out that I have been asked to write a review for www.australianstage on this production which I will later tonight – and there is a difference between the two sites/modes of writing and thinking. So this is not a review. This is a response. When I write for www.australianstage.com.au I have a deadline of 48 hours and i am writing a review. For this site – well… it varies – I am usually writing a response and I write about my own personal context/thinking around the play’s ideas/industry context. This site is really the place where I am at my most honest and intimate – and sometimes I need some time to listen to what I really think. And sometimes I just want to prove to myself that just because I write for myself, doesn’t mean my boss isn’t a bastard. She is.

There’s been some response to The Business. Check out the responses – Diana Simmonds, or SMH or even the Daily Telegraph – but there is something in John McCallum’s response that catches my eye…

Two ideas in fact - “A program note claims this is “the missing work in Australia’s dramatic canon”, but anyone who was around in the 1980s – the period in which Jonathan Gavin’s play and Cristabel Sved’s production is set – will remember the theme well. David Williamson, Louis Nowra and Stephen Sewell all wrote about it.”

and

“There are some moments when the spirit of the original surfaces.”

OK. Time for me to back up…

Firstly, there are a couple of things I have to declare…and for those who came along and heard me talk at the launch of Short Circuit in 2009 (Griffin’s publication of Short plays) you would have heard my outrageous public declaration of how much I am completely in love with Jonathan Gavin. I believe him to be one of the finest writers, ever.

Not just Australian writers.

Not just living writers.

He is one of the finest writers, ever.

What sets him above and apart from many writers is his ease in balancing truth with perspective, poetic language with naturalistic dialogue, brutal action with finely tuned intellect. His characters are flawed, loveable, broken, robust, funny, sharp, people full of complex and uncompromising quirks. The stories he tells are of love, patience, human ugliness, disappointment and fragility – but always with a sly grin.

Those that saw Bang (Belvoir 2010) know his capacity to structure a story, wrestle a character and devastate/delight an audience.

So it was with great anticipation I introduced my theatre date to The Business. Before the lights dimmed, he asked me what I hope to expect from that evening’s performance – I replied something in the order of “some fragile yearning, a great moment of brutal hilarity, followed by a moment of severe and devastating reckoning, an out-loud laugh and perhaps even to shed a tear…”

I don’t know Vassa Zheleznova by Maxim Gorky – it’s not a play I’ve read- not a play I’m likely to read (not with the whack of new plays by writers sitting on my desk awaiting my attention). I am aware that many of the artistic directorate of Belvoir have a fascination with the Russian writers (remember that rash of Russian that spread its way through Sydney theatres in 2009?) – so I am not surprised that a commission was born out of a desire to re-invent 100 years on. Interesting to choose Jonathan Gavin for this project and to produce it in the upstairs theatre (one would think Van Badham would be absolutely ready to tackle a commission like this…). Interesting to see this play in the uber company context of Belvoir as the younger generation inheriting the Belvoir brand/space from the older guard and making it their own. And this is a play which looks at women in positions of power and has Cristabel Sved in the director’s chair.

I’ve been reading the play – lucky for me, Gavin’s script is also the program. I can read the play, without the clutter/distraction of the design. And it is a well written play. interestingly, the draft that is published went to print before rehearsal, so the play in text form is very different to that in production and so I think it is only fair that I separate out Gavin’s script from Sved’s production.

Largely it appeared that the look of the play – the design – overwhelmed the message of the play. The style, not the content was the star of the show. What they were wearing seemed more important than what they were saying. And what they were saying, is pretty clear – money makes people ugly and rips families apart. However, this message is difficult to be transformed by when the portraits are so cartoonish, cliche and linear, and basic in their presentation… I was waiting for the moment when I liked, or understood or felt compassion for any of the characters – it didn’t happen. And that is my bias – it is something I do need in order to connect with a story. And it was Kate Box’s portrayal of Anna which I felt gave the play the seriousness, the sensitivity and the gravitas to make the message more powerful. It is clearly Anna’s play – but I’m not sure if it was intended to be – surely this was to be Van’s story – about the survival of a woman desperate to retain what is hers, in a family of selfish narcissists?

Was that Gorky’s intent? look, I have no idea. I don’t know his play – and frankly, i’m not really interested in a 100 year old Russian play – BUT I am interesting in a brand New Australian play or a brand new Australian adaptation. Frankly, all this talk of Gorky seems a tad irrelevant if the play is made, set in and about Australia.

Now this all depends how important the original text is in relation to the new work. For me, I try to encounter a new work, as a new work – even if it is inspired from an older/classic text. Strangely in text it is written that this is set in the 1980s. And i can’t help but wonder why? If it is so, as dramaturg Eamon Flack asserts, that -

“The Business is the play that the quintessential Australian playwright David Williamson never had the stomach to write… no Australian playwright in the 80s managed to deliver quite the mix of savagery, immaturity, excess and dramatic crassness that the decade truly deserved…”

But I have to ask – why does this/my generation care? Why do we care about the 80s? Why are we talking about that time- hasn’t the bull bolted and now we are left closing the gate? Where is the savagery, immaturity, excess and dramatic crassness that this decade deserves?

I was born in 1979. I was a child in the 80s. That 80s excess was the boom to the 90s bust, then the 00s conservatism. And now we are in the 10s- a rise of youthful entrepreneurial-ism which for many may look like a new era of excess the late 00s (pre GFC) may have looked like the new millennium’s 80s, for which now the post GFC backlash of the late 00s/early 10s is the new 90s disillusion.

My question then is – why is the savagery not directed at ourselves – our generation? Why is this set in the 80s and not now? Such a move or choice surely dilutes the King hit to our own generation – we are removed from the sting of the punch as we sit laughing at/reminiscing at the Ker-Plunk game on the table, squirming at the shoulder pads and the Tab jingle. We laugh at and react to the design, before we listen and relate to the message. Why is the nastiness and selfish of the current “me” generation not being ripped apart in front of our eyes in a familiar setting? Shall we wait another 25-30 years before we can see a story of our current political and personal ugliness? And so i agree with Flack “nothing that happens in The Business isn’t still happening” – I agree, so why not just set it now? Why not set it in “no time?” and let us the audience make the connections, instead of creating a pseudo-museum piece? i think the design, as beautifully executed as it was, distracted from the writing. I also think that the design informed the performances – and i wonder how, it this was treated in a neutral or contemporary or abstract design who that would change the performances?

Largely, I think the directorial tone of this production skewed the play. It is true that Gavin’s writing is at times has elements of large behaviour or absurd, eloquent proclamations- it’s a part of the humour. But in playing to the humour, you lose the humanity – and if you lose the humanity (the sadness of someone on morphine, dying for example – even if they are a bastard), you lose the tragedy and if you lose the tragedy, I believe you’ve lost the comedy. A sense of humour absolutely depends on a sense of human. And for me, this production forgot the importance of human.

However, I am sure I am alone in this opinion. And that’s Ok. I wasn’t there on opening night- so I can’t really relate to Diana Simmonds’ experience mentioned in her review- she loved it. The night I attended the young punters around me groaned and exclaimed their repulsion at the fashion and the music – punters talking over the top of the dialogue… punters in their 20’s?

For me, the farcical presentation ignored the heart of the play – the heart being that of the ugliness of family, families destroyed by greed and selfishness – the mercenary nature of business (regardless of the fact it’s a family business). And so I guess I got the message but like that of a meal made of Tab and cheezels it still left me wanting something more nourishing.

Try as we might, there is no escaping history. We carry it in our bones, our skin – the wrinkles, freckles, scars carry the impact of a life lived – a life of suffering, struggle that no one can avoid. This tender organ – the largest in our body – constantly shedding, in minute scales – contains our unique genetic information which we leave as a trail where ever we go – like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs. Our organs contained within, our silhouettes are defined by our skin – the edge of the outside world touches us through it – and we, touch the world.

It seems a strange way to start a response to a play – but really there is a lot to talk about – and there is much I could talk about, were we at dinner – or even in a foyer. But here, online, I am only going to add small thoughts to this conversation that have already been well covered by others:
James Waites – always the top of my favourites lending his personal perspective and history to the discussion – if you don’t read him, you should… http://jameswaites.ilatech.org/?p=6583, Diana Simmonds my favourite official onliner who gives eloquent free-flowing reportage here http://www.stagenoise.com/reviewsdisplay.php?id=526 and of course the king of print Jason Blake http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/theatre/voice-of-experience-softens-the-edges-of-a-life-lived-rough-and-hard-20110403-1ct35.html…

It cannot be said enough how important it is to have a diverse representation of voices on stage. Of backgrounds, experience, of gender, race and ethnicity. Belvoir has a long tradition of seeking out and nurturing voices of indigenous theatre makers – and the alumni are impressive high-caliber artists. I still have Wayne Blair’s Conversations with the Dead ringing in my cells long after the event. Long after the event.

Here in 2011, we have in Jack Charles V the Crown – a story that is sadly unsurprising – a story of an indigenous man’s rise, fall and rise in white society. A story of abduction, addiction, incarceration, celebrity -everything a modern magazine would advertise of an American starlet’s claims to fame. A story (for those who saw Amiel Courtin-Wilson’s documentary film, Bastardy) that is a theatrical sequel – Jack Charles’ second coming, so to speak. And it is remarkable to be taken on that journey of dark and grubby Melbourne backstreets in the white lit landscape of a Sydney theatre. We are seeing, in the mere fact he is present – a story of hope, survival (of redemption). We watch as the history of this man is explained – enacted, projected, sung. A long confessional interspersed with song and story – a pastiche of experience co-written by Jack Charles and John Romeril and directed by Rachel Maza Long.

The personal part of this response comes from the skin that I have – my white-appearance skin – my skin that holds many lessons learned – and comes from a diverse array of backgrounds – mostly Celtic convicts, farmers, thieves, righteous tee-totaling country women, and (now recently discovered) indigenous Australians. My ancestry, like many Australians, is mottled with dark and light – my identity difficult and displaced. And it is my own. I have always held the view that we are all three bad choices away from being amongst the unfortunates – and perhaps that is why I talk to beggars, why I’ve worked in soup kitchens and for charities – why I refuse to look away or ignore those around me.

And there is a lot that I have questions about – questions that are not there to be didactic or to provoke or scold – these aren’t questions which are crafted out of an agenda. I start thinking about the future of indigenous theatre… I think about the absence of indigenous punters – in all theatres, and on the night that I attended. I wonder if this a black story for a white audience? Where is the indigenous community that live in the surrounds of the Belvoir building – what would seeing this mean to them – to those who have lived moments of a parallel life with Jack – what would it mean for a young indigenous man to hear this story from an elder – to grow strong and determined – to be empowered to be reassured? What does this play do if it merely preaches to the converted? What is the function of this type of theatre – is it to reassure the audience? Are they hopeful? Are they righteous? Are they saddened by Jack Charles’s experience of being trapped in society of white law – but delighted that he has over come it? Are we self-loathing as the audience who would turn on this man if it were our GUCCI glasses, motorola phone he had stolen – or does this offer us the possibility of compassion and understanding – will his story flash upon our inward eye? Will be make small efforts to understand and reconcile – which is sometimes hard to do in this meritocracy we live in.

How will this change or affirm us and our beliefs?

One thing is certain- Jack Charles is a remarkable performer, if for nothing else his stamina and breadth of bravery. Essentially this is what the story, his story is – it is a story of courage and bravery – and the act of appearing on stage, confessing and confronting the past is a tremendous thing. Which is triple what any of us, with comfortable lives, and theatre subscriptions, and well appointed furniture can even begin to imagine. He has lived it large and tough and on the edge – and in spite of it all, he continues in his skin- the skin that has seen so much, and kept so much within it.

My wish is that the stories continue to come – stories that are diverse in flavour and message and genre – stories that are from all people – of all ages- that we continue to learn and find compassion, understanding, bravery and inspiration from each other.