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

Meaning is made, regardless.

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

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

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

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

I will present an alternative response.

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

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

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

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

As such, it’s fairly dull.

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

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

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

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

For example -
Big Bang theory
\

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Contrast to this:

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

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

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

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

Despite the fatigue that comes with the end of the year – there is a huge amount of energy and chatter around STC’s major show of the year. Traditionally the last show of the year is a cracker – Soderberg’s Tot Mom in 2009, Uncle Vanya in 2010 and this year Gross und Klein.

This is a big show.
Touring, co-production.
Commissioned translation.
Big ensemble cast.
Big Profile.
And yet, it’s about some pretty small domestic concerns.

It is an epic production, but with domestic ideas.

I once had a mainstage theatre programmer in a job interview, tell me that the reason why no Australian playwrights are commissioned for the mainstage is because they write domestic ideas that don’t suit large stages. My response to that was, give them the space and they’ll write for it. Also I don’t necessarily think that “domestic” equates to “small” or “insignificant” or “non-epic”. The truth of that matter is, that Australian playwrights may be a little too practical sometimes in that they write for the spaces where they think their work will get on… and usually the new Australian writing friendly spaces are intimate, smaller venues.

But that’s another conversation, for another time.

I think the conversation around this production, is more to do with what I’ll call “cultural clout.”

Interestingly, even with big shows, not always do things go according to plan. This co-production as a part of STC’s unashamedly “European season” was to include the work of director Luc Bondy – but he had to withdraw from the project due to back problems.

Here’s an example of Bondy’s work:

Now. Here’s the link to the STC Blog – which is an interesting read by Jo Litson – allowing us into the backstage mechinations and decision making:
http://stcblog.posterous.com/gross-und-klein-benedict-andrews-talks-about

What did you think of that article?
How did it make you feel?
What is your impression of this culture we have?

It made me feel a bit, um… awkward.

Well, a bit crummy, actually.

Not only because the big names dropped were all male (yep, besides Nevin- who is an actor more than a director – not a big D “director” female mentioned) but because there was something of Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, realising she just had to look in her own backyard.

The talent to direct this show was right here, all along! Well actually, he wasn’t. He was living elsewhere, overseas.

And in the article, the set designer Johannes Shutz (a German designer) is praised for his work, but Alice Babidge whom “he’s worked with many times,” is not. And yet – her costumes -and her career are long standing in this country and for that company and her work (in particular on this show) is stunning.

What’s with us? Huh? We forget to praise our own, and we wonder why our talent leaves for other shores. It’s true that unless our artists are overseas, or praised by people (audiences and practitioners) from other countries, we are very OK with ignoring them.

We want art from other countries to teach us how to be edgy. And for many Gross und Klein will be a weird and bizarre and different show. But really, it’s not. I’ve seen weirder things happen at PACT, or Blacktown Arts Centre. For the STC audience, they’ll love it because Cate Blanchett is in it (and don’t get me wrong, she IS spectacular as Lotte -absolutely) and they’ll watch this style of theatre because it’s “German.”

But it’s not really.

It’s an English translation, by an Australian director.

And it’s still fairly tame and casual.

But I guess in evaluating what is hot and what is cold, and what’s big and what is small – it’s all relative.

It’s brave of the STC to broker these international relationships. It’s brave to make such a large scale touring work. And I can do nothing but applaud them for having that large scale vision.

But I cringe at our cringe worthy sentiments… where the second option for director was an Australian.

There’s something more about this cringe though… and I’ve been thinking more and more about the cause of it it’s resurgence or prominence.

It is very, very likely that artists in Australia have been sold a lie about legitimacy.
It is very possible that someone may not be considered a legitimate artist unless they have studied.
It is also possible that a part of that rhetoric is being pushed by institutions in order to justify their fees and their branding.
It’s why thousands of actors audition each year for NIDA.
It’s why most directing graduates waste years of their lives in Assistant directing jobs.
Australia has a cultural problem. We want to be legitimised internationally for our work. We look to other countries for legitimization or acceptance – and perhaps that’s because we don’t seem to be very generous to our fellow artists.

We don’t seem to offer them the benefit of the doubt, or the generosity of time or resources or even simple curiosity in each others work.

And I think that’s really sad.

I dream of a cultural shift.

I dream of a cultural landscape where we are safe in ourselves to such a degree that there never need be any doubt that as an artistic community we have removed snobbery (intellectual, financial, and otherwise) and we have regarded work on it’s terms – not it’s background or it’s implied status. Where we are just as likely to see Artistic Directors show curiosity in the Performance Space or PACT as they would in Belvoir.

Published at www.australianstage.com.au

A major co-commission between Sydney Theatre Company, Ruhrfestspiele Recklinghausen, Barbican London and London 2012 Festival, Théâtre de la Ville and Wiener Festwochen, Gross Und Klein is one of the most anticipated productions of the year. Not much about this production is small. Not only has it a hefty cast of fourteen, and a running time of three hours including interval, but it is destined to tour internationally, with Sydney Theatre Company’s Artistic Director, Cate Blanchett at the helm – it’s a big show. BIG.

But it starts small.

Lotte (Cate Blanchett) is in Morocco. She’s sitting in her apartment, on hiatus from a tour, listening to two amazing philosophers speak on the street below. We hear their conversation through her voice, as she recounts the experience of hearing them speak – but not really absorbing what they’re saying.

Simple.

Small.

But, then again, not so small. Big ideas gathered in a small moment. Big voice, big emotion, in a simple idea. Both at once. Big and Small.

Written by Botho Strauss and first staged in 1978, what we are witnessing is a translation by Martin Crimp (STC subscribers know from the 2009 production of The City) directed by Benedict Andrews.

On Johannes Schutz’ blank, black stage of the Sydney Theatre, rooms appear, shrink and expand. A wire frame. Out of the blackness faces appear and disappear. The world shifts and rows of tables or a bedroom or a window slice the stage. People without name or relation, appear. Speak. Leave.

Lotte’s relationship with her much older writer husband has ended. She is in an emotional purgatory. Like a pinball in a machine, she bounces from one world and one person, to the next – slowly deteriorating as she goes (the opposite of a snowballing effect.) With the whirlwind of interchanges, revolving cameos played by an ensemble of some of Australia’s brilliant actors – Lynette Curran, Anita Hegh, Belinda McClory, Josh McConville, Robert Menzies, Katrina Milosevic, Yalin Ozucelik, Richard Piper, Richard Pyros, Sophie Ross, Chris Ryan, Christopher Stollery, Martin Vaughan keep the show running and revolving as we fluctuate between the expansive and the confined. The big and the small.

Music by composer/sound designer Max Lyandvert adeptly fluctuates in style and force. The cues of the music seem to be delayed as to not merely treat the music as transition cover – but to set the tone or energy for the proceding scene.

It’s an interesting production – full of ideas and moments of tender reckoning. The cast is good, but it is Blanchett you’re there to see. And she is stunning. Dancing with wild abandon, scratching and shifting her clothes. Damaged and lost and funny and sweet. We love Lotte for her honest yearnings and her bumbling articulation. We admire her for continuing, hopefully and honestly into the great unknown. We laugh at her and with her. We find her joy. We enjoy her simplicity. Yet…

It’s a big performance.

It’s a big show.

A big show full of small moments of the ordinary and the everyday, warped and whittled into a pointy sharp stick poking at the wound of disconnectedness.

Currently the most talked about production in industry circles- Sydney Theatre Company’s production Of Blood Wedding by Federico Garcia Lorca translated by Iain Sinclair.

I note this production because though I saw it on opening night, I was not in attendance as a reviewer but as a handbag to Mr Waites.

So I am going to limit my response to 350 words -

This is the second production of Blood Wedding I’ve seen in 12 months, and I am now completely satisfied that I never need to see another production of it ever again. Not because of this production’s brilliance – because I don’t like the play.

I don’t see how a play that is so amazingly mono-tonal in it’s lusty hysteria is preferenced for programming over a deeply nuanced and relevant new Australian play.

If this play was written by an Australian writer (especially now) it would be discounted immediately for it’s obvious love triangle, lack of subtext or nuance and for the bizarre stylistic shift in the second act.

Additionally a really forced production. And I firmly believe perhaps I would have been more interested if Zindzi Okenyo was cast as the Bride, not the cousin.

Design by Rufus Didwiszus is nearly ridiculous (some may identify as European – And by this I mean I found the design to be visually excessive and therefore distracting. The design was as epic and as cluttered an Opera. And perhaps I am particularly referring to the inclusion of a bloodied child on a swing… ) – a clash and collide of styles – which felt clumsy and excessive.

Clearly not my thing. I was bored.

In 2010, Post (Zoe Coombs Marr, Mish Grigor and Natalie Rose) “embarked on a journey to find out which one of us is the best. We devised a system, defined our criteria and started tallying our scores.”

I bought tickets to this show – on the closing night – two reasons why I don’t HAVE to write about it – but I will. Not for any other reason other than I am the second most stubborn person I know… or perhaps it’s because out of the three reviewers I read online I maybe coming first in ambition… or maybe I’m simply the best.

Such a question is such a complex one – delving into the absurd and bizarre ranking we subject ourselves to, especially in the arts. And the torture of analyzing the qualities of a person, their worth, their ambition and their courage and even aesthetic qualities are – seem confusing and endless. This constant ranking really dissolves into a befuddling mess- our preferences swing between the three personas… and we are forced to confront our values.

Punctuated by synchronised dance and large satin curtains dragged across the stage (sometimes just for the pure joy of seeing the curtain shift across the stage) – Who’s The Best is as celebratory as it is confessional. For every victory or strength there is a loss or a weakness… and the futility rings true.

The marvelous thing about this show is how united Post as performers are, in voice and tone and rhythm. a tri-headed organism – sharing differing perspectives, tastes, ideas and backgrounds and yet united by their body of work.

Interestingly the STC have started to reach out into the industry and show a curiosity or investment in the living breathing theatre culture in Australia – and it is indeed fantastic to see different practices represented on stage and well resourced. However, one punter said to me how they felt that there was something missing in this work by post as opposed to their other shows – and the obvious answer there is the fact that Natalie Rose was not actually performing but Eden Falk stood in her place. But perhaps what was missing was the DIY, gritty, bump it in yerself feel to the show. Perhaps it was the fact that it was so beautifully presented that their daggy dancing interludes seemed to be even more pathetic in context of the giant stage… perhaps the intimacy is gone? I don’t know… I am not familiar enough with their work to comment.

But the idea that independent theatre/alternative arts needs/requires/demands an element of struggle in order to be it’s authentic self is, I think an interesting one. Do artists thrive under limited resources? If artists had infinite resources would they be the best – or would it all implode? Can you have too much of a good thing?

Hmmm… let’s take it to an audience vote….

A forest of well dressed, well spoken women gather around a hunched hooded figure as sound throbs and squeals from an electric guitar. They look on in wonder as sound scratches and echoes from an amplifier. Its the noise of a tortured animal – desperate and dangerous. The women look on. They applaud and cheer the young, scruffy man -they toast his brilliance with champagne and offer their money and influence to promote and support his art.

Written by Brecht in 1918, and now adapted by Simon Stone and Tom Wright, Baal is a very bleak portrait of an artist as a young man. An ugly, selfish, self-obsessed, righteous misogynist/ extremist/outsider, seducer/anarchist. Though Brecht’s first play (at the age of 20) -it was not produced until five years later. And then after a period of development with Elisabeth Hauptmann – it was remounted. And here we are nearly 100 years later, on the opposite side of the world with Mr Adaption himself (Tom Wright) and Mr Wunderkind (Simon Stone) reworking this “classic.”

In this production, Baal is a sexual and emotional tyrant – not only to the women he plows through, but to his best friend. We see women, spellbound and silly and self-destructively sacrifice their dignity (and lives) at the altar of Baal’s art/fame. We watch as the artist rants and raves and retaliates against the very society/infrastructure that supports him. We watch as hedonism rules absolutely – scantily-clad orgies on sodden mattresses. The story line is very simple and so I’ll reference that excellent source of theatre/literary criticism – Wikipedia:
“Baal roams the countryside, womanizing and brawling. He seduces Johanna, who subsequently drowns herself. He spurns his pregnant mistress Sophie and abandons her. He murders his friend Ekart, becoming a fugitive from the police. Defiantly aloof from the consequences of his actions, Baal is nonetheless brought low by his debauchery, dying alone in a forest hut, hunted and deserted, and leaving in his wake the corpses of deflowered maidens and murdered friends.”
Which leads us to the message – “pride comes before a fall.”

All these ideas are portrayed very clearly in this production. We see the lifestyle carry Baal into a deeper level of searching for some sort of sensation, satisfaction – or perhaps a barrier – we watch as he disposed and destroys all around him – even those he loves. But the surprising this for me is how little this mattered to me. I watched as I saw self-destructive/needy people destroyed by their own behaviour. And I was left sitting there unmoved, uninterested and slightly bored. And I think this is a wonderful reaction to have to theatre, mainly because it forced me to question -
1. Why was I bored?
2. Why was this story told here and now.

And in examination I guess I uncovered a lot of my own reflections on contemporary society. I must admit that the excessive hedonism and nihilism and self-harming behaviour of my generation – a generation so over-loved by our baby boomer parents we feel numb to everything but our own self-obsession and wants – is everywhere. It is on TV, in magazines – sex, drugs, alcohol, re-hab, scandal, overdoses, suicides, misogyny, use and abuse of people, capitalism, fashion, fame, money – it’s so commonly popularised, so often talked about, and exposed. The underbelly of celebrity and society is so exposed, that I am numb to it too. I feel surrounded by images of beautiful women who are ultimately pawns of male ego. We live in an age where there is no shame. Where there are no taboos. Where extreme behaviour is accepted and somewhat expected. I need go no further than the popular website “Girls Gone Wild” – which I heard about when I found myself at a biker convention in Port Dover, Canada some years ago (it was an accident – I wasn’t there on business) where I witnessed first-hand the roaming camera crews encouraging women to show their bits to camera.

So -what about all the “provocative” aspects of the show. That is, the nudity. Well, a bit ho-hum, really.

And this is what I think about nudity on stage – It’s a bit like blasting the audience in the eyes – we get distracted. We start thinking about other things – so to pull off nudity on stage (pardon the pun) – I think the story has to be the strongest, most compelling thing – and it must be told in a strong and compelling way.

And for me, it wasn’t.

The adaption itself seemed to be obsessed with the sound of the language – declamatory and forced and overt – and therefore clumsy. The delivery seemed equally as staccato, stylized and forced. I found the style itself alienating (harking back to Brecht’s ideas within Epic Theatre – which is interesting since I don’t think he’d yet developed that idea when he wrote BAAL – so to overlay that directorial style on this texts seems somewhat anachronistic). I found the characters to be utterly basic and one dimensional – with little to no sub-textual level and therefore without any major transformation or change. And I wasn’t sure what I was being asked to feel. Was I to feel sorry for Baal? Or his friends? Or the women? I felt was disconnected from them all. I also felt like it was all a fore-gone conclusion. They brought about their own demise – but did I care? Nope.

And so I asked myself, “why don’t I care?”

Is this an example of my own numbness? Perhaps. But I guess it came back to the fact that I feel like that world- where desire is soley manifested in the act of sex, and sex is confused for love. And stimulation is synthetic and drug-induced and it is so far away from my life, reality/experience that I had no connection to it – at all. I watch on as the embarrassing pink-fleshed animals of my species destroy each other and I think – well… I’ve learnt nothing – this is what I assumed of this world and it follows what I believe – ego is ugly, fame is fickle, fame creates a false sense of power, entitlement and immortality, having no values hurts. So I was vindicated, but not transformed.

So I was not shocked. Not engaged with. I felt disinterested in the story and the characters.

Why was this story told here and now? Well, I guess it’s a reflection of moral decay – as discussed above. A portrait of hero-worship at its most sick and destructive. Sure. So is Amy Winehouse’s descent as documented in the tabloid newspapers of 2007… what does Baal add to this portrayal of tortured artist?

Well, I must admit the set and the lighting by Nick Schlieper was simply spectacular – like that of Olafur Eliasson – and of course, it wouldn’t be a STC show if something (water, snow, glitter) didn’t rain down on stage. So thumbs up for the set.. I just found the story dull, the characters un-likeable and the language overly formal and over the top and overt. (Vocally, the most interesting moment for me was the last 90 seconds when we heard a slice of naturalism.)

The new Ross Mueller play at the Sydney Theatre Company has already nearly completely sold out, so rumour has it. And all I am going to say is BLOODY AWESOME! Congratulations Sydney Theatre Company, I hope this recipe for promotion of new Australian work continues… do you think within 3 years we’ll see Cate Blanchette in a new play by a new, new, new (completely unheard of) female Australian playwright? I’m keeping my fingers crossed!

But in the meantime, Zebra is good fun. It’s not brutal, weird, nasty, bleak, exhausting… it’s intelligent and has moments of great insight and is very easy to watch. It truly feels like we are watching some of our truly great Australian talent at work, I only wish two thirds of it wasn’t in an American accent. But, I think the cast is great – the design is perfect (my favourite this year), and Lee Lewis has done a really generous job mediating the American/Australian cultures and keeping the conversation, more than a one-on one male status squabble.

First Published on www.australianstage.com.au

It’s snowing outside. The morning light drifts into the windows onto the worn floorboards of an Irish pub in the middle of New York. Sporting memorabilia clutter the service area of the pub – worn, leather baseball gloves, a basketballer’s shirt pinned under glass. There is a jukebox, and green leather bar stools. A patchwork of framed photos tile the walls. A man bursts in, he’s been in a car accident he’s bleeding and he heads straight to the pub’s bathroom.

It’s 2009. Ten o’clock in the morning. The Global Financial crisis has brought America to its knees – everyone is feeling the pain. Barkeeper Robinson (Nadine Garner) has resigned herself to file for bankruptcy – there, on the bar is the paperwork to prove it. Larry (Colin Friels) – immaculately dressed in a three piece suit with jackets draped over his busted right arm is there to meet his future son in law for the first time. The love of his 26 year old daughter’s life. Enter Jimmy (Bryan Brown) a man in his 50s who is the love of Larry’s 26 year old daughter’s life. A lot has lead them to this place, a lot of effort, a lot of honesty, dishonesty, love, bravery, money – everything. And here they are – two men so similar yet so different – both with an agenda. One feels he can buy anything he wants and certainly doesn’t want his daughter marrying a man two years his junior – the other, having survived the crash (literally and financially) is looking for a new lease on life.

Ross Mueller’s career spans less than 10 years and already he has had plays produced on mainstages in Australia, the UK and in America. For those who saw the precursor to Zebra!, the Griffin/STC co-production of Concussion (produced in 2009) would be familiar with his sense of humour and his penchant for surprising character detail. But don’t be fooled, Mueller has a significant level of sophistication in what he is writing and there is a heart amongst the witty quips. And at the heart of Zebra! is a question of what is the value of love? The wonderful sleight of hand with this script is this – that you may think that the story is speaking of one thing, but within the last twenty minutes, we see that despite all the masculine breast-beating, despite the status struggles and the wheeling and dealing – love – though just as fickle and transient and hard earned – is still more powerful than money.

Lighting designer Damien Cooper has excelled himself – beautiful, beautiful work evoking morning light through light snow to the harsh blast of a pub in full swing and everywhere in between working symbiotically with set designer David McKay – we are completely transported to an Irish pub in New York.

Lee Lewis’ production appropriately fluctuates between the hyperloudtalk of bolshie moneyed America and the laid back casual larrikinism of Australia. Colin Friels’ Larry is full of boundless energy – large and bursting with opinions and hyerbole and beautifully contrasted by Bryan Brown’s slow Australian drawl. Nadine Garner is the perfect pivot point – fierce, funny and with a unique and understated sadness. Lewis’ direction defty negotiates the difficult spaces between cultures, the multiple quick-talking tangents and the politics of money and love –and we are left believing that despite everything that happens with money, business or love– there are no losers. And it is easy to see why this production has nearly sold out the entire season before it has barely begun.

It was late last night/early this morning when I posted my response to my first Sydney Festival review for 2011.

With some shows, it is hard how to respond without the inevitable lens of my experience colouring everything I see. This is where theatre lives in me. The resonance of things around me – people I love and have loved, conversations I have had bouncing and resounding in me -an echo, reminding me, or highlighting certain truths. This performance brought out the memories of my uncle Greg.

Greg was in some ways a mythic man: tall, elegantly dressed in a dark suit in his sister’s wedding photo. My father in a cream Safari suit -in many ways his opposite. I was a teenager when I first met Greg. He had been the absent uncle who lived in Sydney, far from my country hometown. An artist, a collector of taxidermic animals, a man who’s house was heavy with kitsch (my favourite as a girl being the teapot shaped like Miss Piggy) and a drag queen who offered me his little bo-beep outfit when I was on the verge of being introduced as a Masonic Debutante…

He drank fluffy ducks, plucked his eyebrows, owned a black, irritating and nervous pomeranian called “Tuxedo” and when he returned from Sydney, he persistently survived the cruelty and the bashings a country town offers the unusual and the interesting. The last time I saw him, I was 17 and moving to Sydney. He was lying on his couch, sallow faced.. waving with a limp hand at the suitcase of “life starting things” he’d packed in a suitcase for me to take. A dustpan and broom, a can opener, a green velvet rug, a crochet blanket he’d made himself. As I said my goodbyes that day, and grabbed the yellow leather handle of the case he said “Gussie, the gay community in Sydney is wonderful – if you are ever in trouble, you’ll always find someone to help you. They always helped me.” Greg died of an AIDS related illness that year.

Everyone has someone in their like that they can to look to as an example of pure, unashamed individuality. For me I have always sought out those who, in the face of it all – expectation, normality, the beige-ness of a predictable career path – have been determined to live a life truest to how they feel and who they are. And at times, the bravest of these people have often been members of the gay community.

This review can be found:

http://www.australianstage.com.au/201101054113/reviews/sydney-festival/a-life-in-three-acts-|-sydney-theatre-company.html

The Sydney Festival is upon us. Banners are flapping in the summer breeze throughout the city streets. Festival programs still fresh and flat – soon be crumpled and curled in handbags, as they are thumbed and re-thumbed at cafes, in ticket lines, during the daily commute. Somehow, before the fanfare and the thronging festival mayhem of summer concerts fringed by picnic rugs, a private conversation for public consumption opened at The Sydney Theatre Company. A conversation rich in history, sexual identity, ferocious humour, playful performances, pig-headed idealism and passionate politics: an intimate conversation between Mark Ravenhill and Bette Bourne.

When the lights dim then rise, illuminating a large, lush square of red carpet, there is a neat and friendly man ready to address us and provide a brief moment of explanation. “My name is Mitchell Butel and I am an actor.” The audience giggles and applauds. For those keen to see/hear Mark Ravenhill, one of the UK’s most provocative and controversial (and celebrated) playwrights (author of Shopping and F**king, Some Explicit Polaroids etc), they will be disappointed. Unfortunately for both Ravenhill and Australian audiences, a recent gall bladder operation has restricted him from making the journey to attend the festival with Bette Bourne. And in his place is a bright and neatly presented Australian actor, Mitchell Butel.

We are asked to imagine that the theatre is the English lounge room of Bette Bourne… we are asked to imagine Mark Ravenhill in Mitchell’s place. We are asked to settle in and listen to this presentation – complete with a slideshow, songs and sips from a golden teacup that is fit for a queen – an astounding life told in 2 hours. The queen enters, a dazzling jacket and slacks, lipstick and a sturdy working class voice that booms and bellows, chimes and charms the audience punctuated by a brutal cough and a vocal timbre that rattles, guffaws then melodically rolls over Shakespearean verse. The slideshow contains photos obtained by the show’s picture researcher Sheila Corr, and pictures from Bette’s own personal collection. We are asked to listen to a reading of a conversation, taped, transcribed and re-told by Bette and Mark (via Mitchell).

Narrating/reflecting on his life, Bette’s story speaks of social circumstances, fashion, theatre, lifestyle, lust, drag, and the general divergent thinking of a man who lived, loved differently and lived to tell the tale. Tracking the life and the attitudes of mainstream versus queer culture in the UK – from the first moments of school boy dalliances, to crossing Trafalgar square across the cobblestones in drag, to heading an OBIE award-winning internationally-touring drag show – this is a rare and precious gift to witness Bette re-tell, patiently explain, introduce all those who have touched his life, informed his decisions as a theatre maker, as queer: but ultimately as a person. This is a political show, and it’s a social show – the two are inseparable. Occasionally the frame of the theatre event itself overwhelms the story and we have slices of performance – momentary interactions, re-creations of events a reading of The Importance of Being Earnest (Bette as Bracknell, of course), a tap routine, a bawdy joke or two, a sultry song of warning/advice…

The most powerful moments in the evening are those that catch Bette in a memory, voice softens, a mild and clear truth is spoken. With the bluster and the sequins and the fabulous grandeur of it all – the remarkable experience is not the glamour or the stardom – but the domestic, everyday pain. A father unable to acknowledge a son’s achievements, an un-ending list of friend’s names lost to AIDS, the disappointment in the crumbling of a commune which was based on love and alternative ways of living.

So compelling is Bourne, that at times Butel, who is graciously probing with questions not his own, in an inherited context, and last minute situation – is lost in the moment of the story. Indeed we all are. And Butel is promptly shepherded by Bourne. We keenly listen as the swell of gratitude rises in us – gratitude for those who are examples to us all -of how to live – passionately, generously. And how to act – revealing ourselves as we are, not as we are expected to be. A Life in Three Acts is not merely a breathing biography of the grand dame of drag/British rep theatre– and stories of yore. This is a reminder to always

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.

A post-event note on Stockholm- which I did manage to see- I scraped-in and sat in some dodgy seats in the last week of the production- I was largely curious to see what the fuss was about- why it had disappointed so many- why some complained of it being over-produced… why some complained of a glib script… why some complained that the actors were satisfactory as actors but not as dancers- and if any of this matters in the larger scheme of the story.

This is not a review- if you want a review- check out the SMH- or the STC website… this is my response, a personal response to Stockholm, not a review.

I don’t envy the Artistic Directors of Sydney Theatre Company- it’s a tough position to be in. And I’m not talking about the fact they are inescapable celebrities. That company has a huge lurching history- a sense of elevation/mystique amongst the regular punters and the general public- a grandeur to aspire to be apart of for practitioners- the STC is Cate Blanchette’s theatre… Robyn Nevin’s old theatre… seen to be filled with rich, grey-haired partrons who sip their white wine whilst ruminating the glossy production of their evening out- the hottest overseas script (or well worn Australian classic) over blue cheese and glittering Sydney Harbour lights…

Do you programme for the people who already go to your theatre- and what they seem to enjoy (if subscription sales can be interpretted as a measure of “enjoyment”) – or do you programme for a potential audience you want to attract? In recent times I am not sure who the STC is programming for- or what is being said about the wider world. Now and then I get the distinct impression that the role of the STC in the landscape of Australian theatre is to inform us of what is popular elsewhere- theatre (and film) practitioners are flown in, to give us an International cosmopolitan experience without having to get our passport stamped. I just wonder if this international perspective is granted to our playwrights in the Northern Hemisphere- do theatre companies in Britain find a need to produce new Australian plays in order to show/prove their cultural capital as an internationally relevent and connected company?

“Yes, yes… Augusta… we know … we’ve heard you bang on about this before… but what did you think of the play?” I hear you sigh-

“Well…” I answer, I didn’t think much about the play- I felt much about the play. I got sucked into that vortex of the world and dwelled in a dark place tangled up in the dark knotted vines of desperate and violent need- but everytime I did, something jerked me out of it… A visual trick- a moving set, a dance routine, a sound effect, a liquid desk top or a spritely direct address to the audience. Everytime I felt myself slip into that soul-heaving trembling space, I was made aware of all the conventions.

Perhaps that’s a good thing- perhaps that a psychological safeguard to make sure that the audience is not left damaged by the experience? Perhaps if we are jerked out of the experience by production values it stops us descending deeper than is safe to? Because once you have seen something, you can’t unsee it. It haunts you. It lurks in your mind’s eye. It changes you.

Perhaps ancient theatre models of confrontation were designed as a means of triggering catharsis… but in this age invested in psychology and nihilsm- what is theatre for us- is it entertainment, a balm to soothe the wound of the everyday? Is it the doorway into an alternative world/way of seeing the world? Is it a safe space to experience the horror and intensity which lurks beneath the surface of things? Perhaps all of this- to some degree at all times, in all genre and platforms… I know what theatre is for me and why I keep coming back- regardless of what I am seeing and how it is presented. I love theatre because it reassures me. It says, “Augusta, you are not alone in your yearning and your pain and your passion and your indecision and your fervour. You are human. You suffer the same as any other. You are resilient and broken like anyone around you. You are alive, and the act of your engagement with this moment is proof. You feel, therefore you are living.”

Stockholm, felt to me to be like my heart was being plunged repeatedly in buckets of water- one hot and one ice cold. A never ending drenching. I felt the heat and the warmth of glowing soft skin and the razor sharp rasping voice of violence. I felt the exhaustion of the battle- and the exhilaration of the sexual highwire act. I felt the joy and the magnetism- I understood the swing between the two opposite and conflicting experiences- the embodied pressence and the cerebral distance. Heart vs logic.

It’s ok for me to have the experience fluctuate and flair out at different moments. I’m going to embrace it as a built-in defense mechanism- to save me from being overwhelmed by those aspects which I recognise in myself, in my past, in my relationships. I am safe to confront myself- because look- they are dancing- because look- there’s a different light casting a shadow over Socratis Otto’s back… because it’s theatre.

I will take a little moment to think about what it means for two of the last shows of the main stage season to be directed by a foreign guest directors (and both film practitioners)- my interest in discussion is not necessarily the “foreign” aspect- but the film aspect.

When I was writing my thesis all those years ago on audience reception theory of a new Australian play one of my interviewed subjects made the comment along the line of theatre as the place where people learn before they become film makers… and it seems in this age of CateNAndrew that its where filmmakers go to feel legitimized as artists. I find it stunning that an opportunity is given of this kind to a filmmaker (with no noted theatre credits in the program) and is not afforded to some of the local Sydney Theatre directors… Nice to note that Cat was there on opening- but did not make the speech- I believe she had arrived back from the Streetcar tour that morning… Andrew made a speech which hinted at risk and innovation… again I’m not really sure what he was referring to- putting a show int he hands of a filmmaker? Letting someone have a slot for a verbatim piece of theatre? Verbatim theatre in general? Programming something that hasn’t been written yet? Regardless, his speech was again a recitation of the program and the sponsors more than a comment on the work itself.

In addition to this I find it somewhat patronizing to the theatre directors of Sydney and beyond that according to the STC website “Steven Soderbergh is donating his fees for Tot Mom to the US National Center for Missing & Exploited Children and the Sydney Theatre Company will make no profit from this production.” One wonders about the Australian missing and exploited children- will Neil Armfield head over to NYC to direct the Opera of Lindy Chamberlin’s story and donate it to an Aussie charity?

Is Soderbergh slumming it in theatre in Sydney? Well if you stuck around opening night- you would have seen some guerilla filming happening- a “side project” I heard about- seemingly based on a mock production of Chekov’s The Three Sisters- with faux opening night speeches in the tone of a satire of the theatre industry.

Despite the reservations I have about the STC programming choices and their social and industry implications- the fact of the matter is that TOT MOM as a show, is a little on the dull side. Once you have finished being overwhelmed (which will tyake 20 minutes) by the screens (and the conservative part of who I am is a little annoyed that the screen/mobile/ipod-free sacred space of the theatre has been cluttered with screens), and impressed buy the accent work as perfected by voice coach Jennifer White, and by the collection of actors assembled onstage…. once the smoke screen of that has cleared you will notice a few things.
1. This is an editted re-enactment of a TV show… not necessarilly progressive in the realm of verbatim theatre.
2. The case and the story of Caylee is the most unimportant aspect of the message- the message is about American journalism and media- hence why the case can still be underway and it’s result does not influence the show.
3. There is a few structural problems (yes I said problems and they should not to be confused with “innovation”) with the script- including a third act introduction of a similar case about a missing 5 year old called Hayley- which seems to be included so the parent’s appeal- a heart warming reminded that they are ” real people with real lives” can be included in the show- but really without any other justification. And a clumsy false ending which was greeted with applause 4 minutes before the end of the show. There are other problems with this script- namely the very rudimentary portrayal of the search for Caylee’s body.
4. The strange emotionlessness of it all- in that I was not angered by this commentary on the American Media, I was not surprised, I was not moved, I was not disturbed- it was curiously intellectually un-nourishing.
5. The program notes are more interesting than the show- and the discourse within the program notes showed an interesting idea- which did not quite translate beyond what we already assume/know about American TV, celebrity and the American Justice System.
6. If this show was mounted in Florida where Nancy Grace is known, the case is known and the culture is being commented on- I think I would have by far had a greater respect for the act of commenting on the American Media and Culture- but as it is- presented in an Australian city to people who don’t know the case nor the celebrity journalist Nancy Grace- the comment is dis-empowered.
7. As a script- this is really a film.

Culturally- I think we have a great objectivity towards American media- and a great understanding of its corruption of justice and it’s love of opinion and sensationalism so this becomes an exercise in preaching to the converted… which was effective for about 20 minutes and then repeated for the remaining 70 minutes.

My review as published :www.australianstage.com.au

When walking The Wharf’s long glass corridor earlier this year, one of the shows programmed for The Sydney Theatre Company’s 2009 Season stood apart from the others, sporting the image of what could be understood as a cluttered dressing room filled with props, costumes and even a disco ball- Steven Soderberg’s “Untitled.”
That untitled project has since found its title: “Tot Mom” and is as American as it is palindromic. Soderberg’s project is 90 minutes of verbatim theatre where in all the transcripts are taken directly from the source- primarily The Nancy Grace Show- covering the disappearance of Caylee Anthony a 2 year old girl.

In July 2008, 22 year old mother Casey Anthony reports her child, Caylee Anthony is missing at the insistence of her parents George and Cindy Anthony. The missing person’s case quickly becomes a murder case when “evidence of human decomposition” is found in Casey’s Anthony’s car and she is incarcerated within the month for child neglect, lying to investigators and interfering with a criminal investigation.

Five huge screens hang in the Wharf 1 Theatre- on which the god-like presence of Nancy Grace (Essie Davis) vocally puppeteers the 36 characters who come into play during the presentation and discussion of the case. The ensemble, consisting of well-loved theatre actors (Wayne Blair, Zoe Carides, Darren Gilshenan, Glenn Hazeldine, Genevieve Hegney, Damon Herriman, Peter Kowitz, Rhys Muldoon, Emma Palmer) are lined up on stage on basic black chairs numbered 1 to 9- from which they spring forth and deliver up to 11 characters each. In front of the seated actors is a small patch of marsh/swap in which silent searches are conducted between scenes. Designers Peter England, Tess Schofield and Damien Cooper have located the production very much in a theatrical space- despite the obvious importance of screens in this production.

Steven Soderbergh’s feature film career is a dynamic list of popular/mainstream and celebrated Arthouse classics including Academy Award winning Traffic, Oscar nominated Erin Brockovich, Palme d’Or winning Sex, Lies and Videotape (as writer), the recently released The Girlfriend Experience (as featured at the 2009 Sydney Film Festival) and currently released The Informant! staring Matt Damon. His producer and executive producer credits in film are lengthy and impressive- a canon of work which is mind boggling- where does he find the time? So it comes as no surprise to learn that he has been shooting a side project with the actors in Tot Mom whilst creating the show.

This is not verbatim theatre in which there is consultation with the people or the story being presented- but rather an embodied edit of cleverly re-enacted televised interrogation by an American current affairs presenter. The show highlights the quantity of people who weigh-in and are able to capitalise on the tragedy of others, the hype which surrounds infanticide, the vulturistic manner in which journalism picks at the lives of others, the highly manipulative way in which we are lead into opinions, or forced to remember heros who are summed up by their social tags. The show is commentary on commentary- and within the first twenty minutes we are suitably in shock and horrified at the mechanism of reality made entertainment: this time this is reality made entertainment and then realistically parodied. Nothing we don’t already know.

As with many multi-voiced verbatim theatre plays- the actors transform between characters (with the exception of Essie Davis) – a very fun party trick to see how a posture, a baseball cap, a stance can completely change the actor from one persona to another: and despite the commentary on commentary , this becomes the sole novelty of this production.