84 Charing Cross Road: Ensemble Theatre

Image Credit: Prudence Upton

The Beauty of Letters - 84 Charing Cross Road: Ensemble Theatre

By Murphy Scott

I don’t remember the last time I wrote a letter. I’m not entirely sure I ever have, though I, like many people my age, have a sort of nostalgia for them despite never having really experienced them. 84 Charing Cross Road at the Ensemble Theatre taps into this nostalgia for younger and older audiences alike to create a theatrical experience that can only be described, in one word, as comforting. 

Starting in 1949 and set across twenty years, 84 Charing Cross Road is comprised of a series of real letters exchanged between sardonic NYC-based writer Helene Hanff (Blazey Best) and the employees of London-based antiquarian bookstore Marks & Co as Hanff requests various English books from and eventually develops a genuine friendship with Marks & Co’s chief buyer, Frank Doel (Erik Thomson). The play was originally adapted in 1981 from the real Hanff’s 1970 epistolary memoir of the same name. 

Given the play is essentially a series of interconnected monologues (with virtually no dialogue), director Mark Kilmurry and movement director Julia Robertson do an extremely admirable job of enlivening the text, ensuring the action on the stage keeps the story engaging without distracting from the characters’ letters. While each characters reads out their letters, both Hanff’s NYC apartment and Marks & Co remain abuzz with characters walking to and fro, organising letters, Hanff’s book orders, Hanff’s gifts to wartime-British side of the cast, and characters reacting to the letters they are sent. This liveliness is helped by the play’s excellent choreography and use of props; Hanff’s letters seem to arrive in Doel’s desk as if by magic, and in one particularly memorable moment, Hanff picks a book out of a package immediately after we see Doel place it in a box downstage. Though this effect certainly isn’t hard to figure out, it is rather complex to organise, and is executed so seamlessly it’s likely many audience members wouldn’t notice it for a large chunk of the play’s run. 

While the play may lack action or much semblance of plot, this is, aside from a slow end to the first half, certainly not a detriment, as the real beating heart of the play is its charm, and the relationships between its characters. Despite an initially somewhat jarring New York accent, Best portrays Hanff with an enchanting wit and panache that contrasts excellently with Thomson’s reserved persona, and the two, despite never interacting face-to-face, have an excellent chemistry that reveals the warmth hidden underneath both characters’ outward personas. Best’s performance is especially notable as she spends almost every moment of the play’s runtime onstage, and around half of that delivering monologues, which is certainly no easy feat. Praise is also to be given to the rest of the cast, Katie Fitchett, Angela Mahlatjie and Brian Meegan. Mahltajie’s Cecily Farr in particular is endearing to an almost extreme degree, and every moment she had onstage was a delight. Her absence in the last quarter of the play was strongly felt by the whole audience. These characters and their relationships, endearing as they are, create an incredibly comforting atmosphere throughout the play, and build up to a strong ending that is both satisfactory and bittersweet, leaving some audience members, I noticed,  in tears. 

This atmosphere is further aided by Nick Fry’s incredible set, which stood out to me from the moment I entered the theatre. Balancing two sets on a tiny stage like the Ensemble Theatre’s is no easy feat, but Fry managed to do so flawlessly. Fry’s set was also meticulously constructed and designed, with incredible amounts of detail and craftsmanship throughout that really contributed to my immersion in the play’s atmosphere and story. Fry also designed the play’s costumes, which, much like its set, are wonderfully made. They are fantastic pieces of historical costuming that evolve throughout the play’s twenty years, shifting from the fashion of the 50’s to the 60’s while still being catered to each individual character’s personality. 

84 Charing Cross Road reminds us why we write letters. In a changing world, the human connection that letters and communication provides us is indispensable. Leaving the play, I only thought about one thing: I really ought to write a letter to someone I love. 

84 Charing Cross Road plays at the Ensemble theatre until the 13th of June. 

Amplified: Seymour Centre

 By Liron Peer

‘Amplified: The Exquisite Rock and Rage of Chrissy Amphlett’ is now on at Seymour Centre from April 15th to 25th. The production reached up and brought Australian pop rock icon Chrissy Amphlett back down into the theatre with us. This production is certainly not your average cabaret or tribute; it offers something more. The work was heartfelt, inspiring, and emotional. Sheridan Harbridge brought us Chrissy’s aura, urging us all to “be the crow.”

Harbridge charismatically and humbly paints us a vibrant picture of this out-of-place yet unflinching girl, Chrissy, and we follow her journey through her first gigs at local Sydney bars, to the Divinyls, opening for AC/DC, to her new quiet life in New York and facing her impending death. Harbridge perfectly tells this story through conversations of those who knew her, often switching to different characters in Amphlett’s life. Harbridge acted as a vessel, letting the story and imagination run through her, then dishing out her own antsy raw entertainment on stage.

Besides bringing charm and humour to the performance, Harbridge ventured into far deeper emotional territory. She truly “went there,” allowing the moment to take over touchingly. Initially, I was sceptical of the show’s self-awareness. Harbridge opens by acknowledging that she is “just an actress” and cannot compare to Chrissy Amphlett in all that she was. However, it quickly became clear that this framing was not only intentional but essential. No one else could have guided the audience better through Chrissy’s life and music. Harbridge carried Chrissy’s spirit throughout with a sense of uninhibited enjoyment that was collective amongst the audience.

The use of lighting was particularly effective, elevating the otherwise simply dressed stage. When performing Chrissy’s songs, the lighting design enhanced the mood of the Divinyls pop rock anthems, bringing edge and grit to tracks like ‘Pleasure and Pain’, a sense of nostalgic youth in tracks like “Science Fiction” and capturing the raw energy of ‘The Good Die Young’. The haze worked beautifully when spotlighting Sheridan in more of the ‘still’ numbers, draping alluringly around her, creating an isolated intimacy between song and audience.

Harbridge’s beautiful and strong vocal ability led us to the heart of Chrissy through each song; she adapted her style of vocals to match the layered trajectory of the Divinyls discography. It was clear that Harbridge not only learned these songs but formed meaningful attachments to them, giving the Divinyls songs vulnerability and depth.

If you want to discover the Australian gem that is Chrissy Amphlett in an entertaining evening, I highly recommend getting a seat.

English: Seymour Centre & Outhouse Theatre Co

Language & Belonging in English at the Seymour Centre

By Lola Carlton

In a time wracked by white supremacist ideals, where English isn’t only a language - but rather a cultural signifier, a representation of status, and often a ticket to freedom, OutHouse Theatre Company has carved out a raw and introspective gem that puts the white western world’s noses in the ancient relationship between language and belonging. 

When I tell people I lived in Italy for only three short months, they assume the entire thing must’ve been utterly glorious, a real La Dolce Vita every single day. But honestly, the thing I felt the most was lonely. I’m an okay Italian speaker, but for a long time I was a professional speaker in English. And the thing I found the most jarring was the fact that in Italian, none of my actual personality existed. As an English speaker, I get to be funny, charismatic, interesting, intelligent. But in Italian, the thing I was the most was awkward and stupid. 

This is obviously a very bland and trivial comparison to the story of the play, but it did allow me to understand the conversation around the isolation of language in a very personal way. English is set around a group of students whose mother tongue is Farsi, (a Persian language spoken mainly in Iran, Afghanistan, and Tajikistan) attempting to pass the TOEFL (Test Of English as a Foreign Language). The four students all have their own unique motivations for staying (or not staying) in the classroom, and teacher Marijan leads them all towards reshaping their tongues, their mouths, and their voices to fit the ever difficult, ever changing language of English. If they learn it, their lives might change in incredibly significant ways. Passports, universities, freedom - but the more they speak it, the more they begin to feel their native language begin to slip through their fingers. In English, they can be anything. But only in Farsi can they actually be themselves.

The script is, obviously, fantastic. By writer Sanaz Toossi, it weaves together an intricate web of loneliness, desire, desperation, change, and control in a way that makes it so no one is really right or wrong. This allows the conflict that shapes the story to be so deeply human you cannot help to be swept up in it. The arc each character moves through feels perfectly moulded to them, and you are never left wanting more. Nothing in English overstays its welcome. 

The performers are also all, individually, brilliant. Pedram Biazar as Omid takes us into the mind of the hollow over-achiever, desperate to belong but so beyond everything around him that his attempts to connect never quite land home respectfully. Setareh Naghoni is incredible as the strong willed Elham, always technically correct but never able to balance that need with necessary gentleness - and certainly, as a white audience member, one of the more confronting characters. Neveen Hanna is the soft but not delicate Roya, who is only attempting English to connect - and whose final moment of defiance lays the necessary groundwork for the rest of the play. Minerva Khodabande as Goli injects the play with the uplifting moments of comedy it very much needs to survive, and feels like maybe the only character who is learning English for not the right reason, but a reason unbothered by the unfortunate ugliness of necessity, desperation, or the creeping limbs of colonialism. 

But it is Nicole Chamoun as Marijan who truly owns the stage. Chamoun seeps with charisma and presence, and has an undeniable talent for emotional storytelling that perhaps has not been seen to quite that level on Sydney stages. Perhaps it is her obsession with the language, or perhaps it is simply her skill that draws the audience ever-closer to her perspective, even as we see the cracks in it. Both her moments of whip-crack comedy, and her deeper moments of tragedy were immensely moving, and the final conversation of the play left nigh a dry eye in the house. 

Production design was also on its A-Game. The set design of the classroom was just naturalistic enough to ground the production, costume breathed life into each and every characters’ personality, and a special shout-out must go to lighting, who dutifully waited until the women on stage had perfected their hijabs before allowing us to witness them again - an incredibly special touch to an already fantastic production. 

My only, very minor frustration to what was almost a perfect show, was a simple adjustment in tempo. Emotional moments - especially at the ends of scenes - needed a moment to breath and hit the audience before the lights went off. For such a fast paced piece that completely enraptures its audience, it can afford to take slightly more time. Around important lines, there were moments I wanted just a touch of emphasis to bring what was being said into the light a little more. These issues are extremely common with one act shows in their anxiety to not keep the audience sitting down for too long - but I would much rather a show happen too quickly than a show with a bad habit of dragging us unwillingly along behind it. 

What is language if not a way to express who we truly are? What is identity if not another way to find belonging? And what are our names, if not a way to connect with our deepest self? English takes every one of these intimate questions and wraps us up in a whirlwind of completely contradicting answers. Led by a brilliant team of performers, directors, and creatives, this show will find a way to connect with you no matter who you are. In a time where we find ourselves further and further away from ourselves, and certainly further away from each other, it is theatre like this that forces you to reckon with who you are and why you are, that will bring us all back to some sense of sanity. 

The River: STC

By Max Boag

What does it mean to love? Is it able to be mutually exclusive from the truth? The River is a mystery, but that is not all it is. At its core, this play offers many incredibly complex questions about the nature of love, its allure, and its power over the psyche, in a way that complements the mystery surrounding the plot. This is put together remarkably well by Margaret Thanos, an Alumni of our very own SUDS. 

The play has a small cast of three: the Woman (Miranda Otto), the Man (Ewan Leslie), and the Other Woman (Andrea Demetriades), all of whom deliver breathtaking performances, contemplating on their own experiences with love, and playing off of each other beautifully. In a show about love, and what it means to love, there must be chemistry between actors, and these three seem to have bucketfulls of it to spare. With a title like “the other woman”, you might have some reservations about the nature of Leslie’s character, but he manages to garner all of the audience’s sympathy in his almost Sisyphean pursuit of love as it seems to never work in the way he wants it to. Otto’s and Demetriades’ characters themselves also offer distinct and unique takes on what it means to love. While at times mirroring each other, they hold such different values that the eventual explosive arguments between them and the Man are so different in their nuances and outcomes that audiences leave the play realising that these three characters all just have different views, desires, and experiences with the very same thing: love and connection.

The stripped down set elevates the character performances immensely, while still lending itself to the mysterious and secluded atmosphere present due to the mystery of the story. The entirety of the play is set in a small, sequestered cabin, surrounded by forest. As an audience member, you truly feel how closed off the cabin is from the rest of the world, even if there are other people mentioned in the story. The design emphasises how isolated the characters feel in their pursuit of intimacy. In much the same way, the set also lends itself very well to the more absurdist movement sequences present in the play, with the open exterior of the cabin allowing audiences to peer into dark and gloomy forest, where certain figures moving through dark sheets surrounding the stage heighten the suspense already felt by the audience. This is accompanied by a deeply atmospheric soundscape, making every sequence almost spine-tingling.

At only 80 minutes, one might wonder if The River can clearly achieve its intention, and I believe it does, to an incredibly high degree. But, because it is incredibly thought-provoking, and character decisions and musings offer much deeper insight into the themes of the play, one must come to The River prepared to give their full attention. It is not a show to be taken lightly, but one won't have a hard time becoming enraptured by the show, with its central plot-based mystery, the mystery behind character decisions, and the absurdist movement. The River is an absolutely thrilling and simultaneously transformative theatrical experience that will change, or at least make you review, your perspective on the concept of love, and our human need for it.

For anyone experiencing that itch for a really good piece of theatre, look no further than The River, an enthralling mystery with an incredibly philosophical centre, guaranteed to leave you deep in thought.

My Brilliant Career: STC

Myan Vandegraaff

Photography by Pia Johnson

'My Brilliant Career' Review by Myan Vandegraaff

My dear, fellow Australians.

It isn’t often that we’re able to go to a musical that is for us. Most musicals that are given a large platform in Australia are products of societies outside of our own, and their storylines evidence that. My Brilliant Career is a breath of fresh air from the constant stream of Americanised or European stories, offering something purely and uniquely Australian.

Originally based on a ficto-autobiographical 1901 novel by Miles Franklin, My Brilliant Career is fiercely feminist, outrageously powerful, and full of hope. Set in the outback of rural New South Wales, the story follows Sybylla Melvyn (Kala Gare) on her growth into womanhood, through a journey of self discovery, identity, and ambition, all of which plays out brilliantly on stage. The adapted stageplay was written by Sheridan Harbridge and Dean Bryant, with music by Matthew Frank and lyrics by Dean Bryant. This production was directed by Anne-Louise Sarks. 

The set is perfectly simple, consisting of straw carpeting across the whole stage, with a rotating section centre stage. Upon this rotating section is a large white piano, with other instruments surrounding the centrepiece. As the show commenced, cast members began filing onto stage and playing instruments with house lights still up, invoking a sense of togetherness and unity through art.

The performances in this production are absolutely next level. Kala Gare’s voices just soars throughout the theatre with such effortlessness and composition. In her rendition of Sybylla Melvyn, Gare has truly solidified herself in the Australian musical theatre ethos. Beyond our leading lady, however, we have an incredible ensemble cast who not only consistently switch between character roles, but also between instruments that they play. The immense talent and skill required for such a feat is genuinely beyond me, and I spent a large part of my viewing experience just gawking at how incredible this cast was. In no particular order we had Christina O’Neill (Mother/Helen/Mrs M’Swat/Ensemble), Drew Livingston (Father/Jay-Jay/M’Swat/Ensemble), Melanie Bird (Gertie/Blanche/Ensemble), Raj Labade (Harry/Peter/Ensemble), Cameron Bajraktarevic-Hayward (Frank/Ensemble), Lincoln Elliott (Jimmy/Horace/Ensemble), Ana Mitsikas (Grannie/Rose Jane/Ensemble), as well as musician Jarrad Payne and Musical Director Victoria Falconer. Despite the demanding nature of their multidisciplinary performances, this ensemble had so much cohesion and camaraderie between one another that it felt less like watching difficult performances take place and more like witnessing a group of artists on the same wavelength freely create together. 

What struck me most about this show beyond its five star performances and deeply touching messaging was its dedication to uplifting the Australian identity. Oftentimes, Australian artists are left in a lull of inactivity, from which the only escape seems to be to continue your art abroad. This piece of theatre is just the optimistic nudge that Australian artists need.My Brilliant Careerdoesn’t act in spite of Australia, but in service of—in fact,becauseof Australia. It doesn’t participate in farcities of what it is—it isn’t trying to make it to Broadway or win a TONY—it is made wholeheartedly with Australia as both the subject and the audience. In Sybylla Melvyn, we have our ownLittle-Women-of-Green-Gables, a feminist icon of grit and talent, wrapped in the authenticity of the Australian story. How lucky are we?

Bette & Joan: Ensemble Theatre

By Lola Carlton

Hollywood’s Favourite Catfight: Bette & Joan 

“You should never say bad things about the dead, you should only say good. Joan Crawford is dead. Good.” 

Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, for some of this illustrious magazine’s younger readers, were not only enemies, not only loathed each other, but were the fundamental blueprint for every single celebrity rivalry that has been since. As titans of early Hollywood, defining what filmmaking was and would be for the rest of its glittering history, competition was ultimately inevitable. And yet, Bette Davis and Joan Crawford didn’t just have friendly, professional competition. No, these women despised each other in a way that has defined them both even in death. But why? Both of them were incredibly talented, both of them were famous in their own right, and both of them left behind significant legacies. Such is the delicate question that Bette & Joan at The Ensemble Theatre answers. 

Hollywood has never been a comfortable place for women, especially as they get older. Meryl Streep, which many would consider one of the greatest actresses of all time, and certainly one of the greatest working actors of the current era, was offered three witches after turning forty. Aging is not just an existential threat for the women of the silver screens, it is an ever-encroaching reality that erodes their fame, their relevance, and their job opportunities - and even famous people have to buy groceries. This was even more true for the women of the “Golden Age of Hollywood.” Turning 30 was disastrous. And fame was too young and too hungry to feed you for long after you left the public eye. 

Tucked into the intimate setting of the Ensemble Theatre, we see two dressing tables, just in front of what looks like the back of a traditional flat. The stage is otherwise bare. Joan Crawford enters, played by Lucia Mastrantone, and begins what will unfurl as a masterclass of character acting. Mastrantone utterly embodies silver screen glamour, giving the audience a cunning and clashing mix of insecure and magnificent. It would undermine her performance to call it naturalistic, and so I would instead find myself describing her performance as something straight out of a Tenessee Williams play; Blanche-Dubois-ing her way into empathy from the audience. Her razor-sharp humour carries us all the way into the introduction of the other half of this bubbling equation, Bette Davis portrayed by Jeanette Cronin. Cronin is similarly incredibly charismatic, and with a grounded “what about it?” nature that was refreshing not only in Davis’s own time, but once again in ours. As a performer, she shined in her more subtle moments, anything to the smallest twitch of her hand drawing us in closer to her. Physical humour came out swinging in the second act, which beautifully contrasted with the somewhat depressing reality that these women weren’t too dissimilar, and may have actually liked each other without the oppressing, cloying weight of an industry that forced them into bitter rivalry. 1950s politeness versus bullwhip vintage insults begin to battle it out on stage, as these women come

face to face with the realities of working together, in something not quite biographical, but not too far from farcical either. 

On a design level, the production continued to impress. Intermittently through the show, projections of interviews would cast up onto the “back” of the flats facing us, creating a dialogue between these women’s public persona, and the persona they were gleefully or nervously allowing us to witness. Like a noir film, we watch these women transform, or refuse to transform to fit their “public.” The script, although perhaps “slow” for a modern audience, was incredibly clever and funny, taking us into a level of intimacy that felt at times almost uncomfortable to witness. Lighting and costume combined brilliantly into moments that snapped between a scrutinising level of immodesty, and a glamorous blanket of warmth and fur. Even in places where the production felt “cheap” (a.k.a. Joan Crawford bright blue pearls) one couldn’t help but think that it must’ve been done on purpose, to let us in on the secret that nothing is quite as magnificent as it seems. 

As we face the women of fame in the modern era and their calamities, the Chappel Roans, the Charlie XCXs, and even, god forbid, the Emerald Fennels, it is productions like Bette & Joan that allow us to interrogate why the systems that we built to contain and cage female talent have survived for so long. Why do we still find ourselves instinctively hunting for male validation, why do we allow the arts to strip everything away from us until we’re nothing without them, and why do we allow ourselves to exist with the ticking time bomb of “aging out” hovering so close to us? Told through two of the strongest performers on the Sydney stages, Bette & Joan reveals the horrible secret behind these questions: we may respect the women we are forced to compete with, but it’s much easier to weaponise the system against them than it is to allow them to win next to us. Fame, after all, is society’s favourite superiority complex, and none of us truly realise we’re not as untouchable as we think we are, until we’ve already lost touch completely.

New Theatre: Stage Kiss

By Lola Carlton

Here’s to Acting With You, Kid 

What is it about art that makes romance so intoxicating? Acting, for many, isn’t just an art form. It’s an aphrodisiac. Can you possibly leave a good romance on stage? Or does it come home with you, no matter how much you try to compartmentalize? 

More than that, even if you do bring it home with you, will it ever truly be the same? 

These are the sultry questions asked by Alice Livingstone’s Stage Kiss, a two and a half hour exploration of what it means when art and passion collide. If nothing else, leaving you with the sticky-sweet impossibly complex questions of who exactly artists become once they’re out of the spotlight. 

The piece drips with comedic charm; the tempo across the board is almost flawless, physical comedy remained brilliant and kept the piece moving (especially important in its 75 minute opening act), and the script had no shortage of clever in-jokes to make the theatre people in the audience chuckle. A definite standout in this regard was Nicholas Papademetriou’s Director, a golden portrayal of the wandering, pretentious, and slightly self-obsessed creatives we’ve all met. Similarly, Frank Shanahan’s collection of characters were all individually brilliant, and he had some of the most distinct physical comedy moments in the show. 

The first act was light on its feet, and despite its length, was never inspiring one to check the time. Yet, admittedly, the length of the first act does somewhat convince you that the show could end there. The second act then, has quite a task at hand - convincing the audience it should exist. It’s here that one could see the production start to dip in places. There are significantly less moments of comedy in the second act, and the script itself seems to take on this somewhat strange train of thought about punishing the lead female character by relishing in the breaking of her boundaries. But with Emma Delle-Vedove giving us such an empathetic portrayal of a woman dealing with romantic complexities, I found myself leaving with a bitter taste in my mouth at watching her be all but abused by her art form. Perhaps, this is better commented on as the likeability of the character herself, and the talented portrayal of her inner world by Delle-Vedove. Interestingly, Jason Swindlow’s “He” was somewhat better supported by the script in this regard. During the first act, it is easy to be swept up in his artistic romanticism, and yet, when the cold water of his living situation and avoidant tendencies hit you in the second act, you empathise with him, but not quite enough for us as the audience to want to stick around with him. 

This production is kept alive and bounding by its brilliant ensemble: Lynden Jones, Nicola Denton, and Victoria Fowler do above and beyond to keep the story moving, and keep us from settling too much into the discomfort of some of the script’s less attractive moments. They also produced some of the most impressive “background noise” I’ve ever seen, keeping every moment alive. The set in the first act was effectively simple, and developed into a quality portrayal of a run down home in the second act. Accents, admittedly, dipped in and out across the board, and yet with a play as meta as this, when the actors have to play actors playing parts (badly), I can imagine why some of the finer details got a little lost in the wash. 

Overall, the production presents an interesting discussion on the addictiveness of artistic passion, wrapped up neatly in a masterpiece of comedic performance. Although some of the script’s beats slow it down slightly, the performances across the board make up for it. If you’re looking to find out what would’ve happened if that show situationship kept going… Stage Kiss is more than happy to let you know.

Old Fitz: Four Quartets

By Liron Peer

A simple, yet authentic rendition of T.S. Eliot's poetic sequence ‘Four Quartets’, now at the Old Fitz Theatre as part of their late-night program. The four poems featured were written by Elliot during different years through his career, with the latter two poems being written amidst WWII. These poems being, Burnt Norton, East Coker, The Dry Salvages and Little Gidding.

The dingy atmosphere created by the effective collaboration of set, lighting and costume had a transportive feeling of limbo. The space was draped with an old, rough-looking textile curtain, a single lightbulb hanging from the roof, a metal bucket, a crate and a box. Each actor came out into the shadowy space with soiled bare feet and neutral coloured clothing, sending a message that they are conveyors of Eliot's words and story without exaggeration.

Patrick Klavins' direction gave each actor a unique essence brought to their respective poem, particularly through their movement in space and how they utilised the set.

Sandy Eldridge’s specific character choices immersed us in the world of the poem. I enjoyed the distinct dialect she executed. Charles Mayer's embodiment of the story within Burnt Norton was relatable and engaging. When watching Kaivu Suvarna, I was able to extract the message that he was exuding. However, as the piece continued, I felt a slight disconnect that dipped. This was the tight-rope balance that each performer was navigating. Lastly, Grace Stamnas brought an intrinsic intensity to her portrayal, which was refreshing to me.

The contributions from each part of the production had married well together; however, it may not have been enough to grip the audience for its entirety. There was an understanding of the sombre yet hopeful worldview the poems contain amidst a tumultuous backdrop and the insightfulness that it is still very relevant today.

Monster: KXT on Broadway

By Max Boag

Credit Abraham de Souza

With the mainstream success of Adolescence (Stephen Graham, Jack Thorne) on Netflix, viewers could see how young boys, introduced to and influenced by alt-right content either in person or on the internet, start to become radicalised in both their ideas and actions. Monster (written earlier, in 2007), directed by Kim Hardwick, at first glance, appears to be strikingly similar in both its tone and message. However, while Adolescence dives into more of the “manosphere” and online incel culture, Monster focuses instead on what causes a child to become violent. 

The entire play, from character dialogue to exposition, feels like a back and forth argument on whether Darryl’s (Campbell Parsons) inherent lack of empathy and violent tendencies are a product of his environment (how he was raised and the trauma he went through), or if he was simply born that way. The production does not shove this in your face, however. The conversations between Tom (Tony J. Black), his girlfriend Jodi(Romney Hamilton), and Darryl’s grandmother Rita(Linda Nicholls-Gidley) sprinkle these ideas naturally, and, without a solid answer provided, leave the audience to reflect on their own preconceived notions towards Darryl and children like him. 

KXT on Broadway's intimate theatre space and stripped-down set benefited Monster immensely, as every expression and gesture was visible to all of the audience. For a play that, in between incredibly realistic and fast-paced dialogue, had intense moments of silence, having the audience in close physical proximity to the actors is essential. This proximity, and the lack of an intermission, helped with the cognitive and emotive flow of the play as well. Even with black-outs used in transitions, a practice normally frowned upon for their impediment of the natural movement of a piece of theatre, still managed to carry the performance forward, as a soft spotlight on one of the actors gave the audience a focal point while the set and props were changed, and tense, atmospheric music masked the sounds made by crew and cast on stage. 

105 minutes is a long time to sit in your seat in one go, but for the most part, Monster didn’t feel like it dragged on. The phenomenally realistic acting from the cast and quick but intense transitions kept audiences captivated and reflective throughout the duration of the play. There is a drop off in tension and captivation towards the end of the play, after the climax, where the long pauses between lines, likely meant to show the characters contemplating the events of the play, can disengage an audience that has already sat through an hour and a half of high energy/pressure moments. 

The tension felt and the conflict towards how one is meant to feel about Darryl is in no small part due to the superb acting of the cast. Campbell Parsons gives a very dynamic performance as Darryl, switching quickly between a high-energy mask and more malicious/muted when called out for his actions. Every switch feels distinct and immediate, marked through gesture and expression, and he feels, rightly so, very unpredictable. Tony J. Black, for a new cast member(only getting the script and beginning rehearsals the Sunday before opening night) embodies Tom impeccably; contemplative and calm, with a very volatile centre, which you can see so clearly through his strained speech and anxious body language. Linda Nicholls-Gidley’s Rita and Romney Hamilton’s Jodi both offer so much nuance to their parts as well. Nicholls-Gidley manages to distinctly display Rita’s contradiction in thought, a want to protect her grandson, and a deeper understanding that he needs help she can’t provide. Hamilton’s performance as Jodi holds so many subtleties that make her character all the more interesting to watch, and her outsider perspective on Darryl’s situation, and frustration on it affecting her life unfairly, feels so authentic, audiences can’t help but feel sorry for her. A show set in the UK, with Australian and American actors, will have slip ups in accents, which sometimes can take one out of the performance ever so slightly, but the incredible acting from the small cast is easily able to bring one back into the fold.

The quote "Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable" by Cesar A. Cruz feels especially applicable to this piece. Watching Monster will leave you reckoning with your own beliefs about who exactly is responsible when a child grows up violent or disturbed.

Monster is a very thought-provoking, gripping piece of theatre, running at KXT on Broadway until the 21st of March.

Purpose: Sydney Theatre Company (STC)

By Aden Zaki

Image Credit: Prudence Upton

A family reunion is disrupted by an outsider who provokes invisible tensions to bubble before they pop. It’s a tried and tested recipe for melodrama that Purpose delivers on, although perhaps at the expense of political nuance.

Nazareth Jasper (Tinashe Mangwana), our narrator, is coming home to celebrate his mother Claudine’s (Deni Gordon) belated birthday. Celebrations have been put on hold while his brother (Maurice Marvel Meredith), a prominent congressman convicted of tax fraud, serves the remainder of his sentence. His wife Morgan (Grace Bentley-Tsibuah), embroiled in these crimes, is less than excited to see him; the end of his time in prison means the imminent dawn of her own, based on a deal they brokered to serve their sentences in succession. Crashing the party is Nazareth’ friend Aziza (Sisi Stringer), a social worker from Harlem who gets trapped by a snowstorm while dropping him home. Nazareth has just agreed to be Aziza’s sperm donor, and she could have never guessed who future grandfather is: Solomon Jasper Senior (Markus Hamilton), an ex-radical leader of the civil rights movement and beacon of “black excellence” with ties to all the most influential black families in America. Over the next twenty-four hours she watches the family unravel, although it seems this unraveling might be less the result of their contradictory class status, and more so of one father’s crushing expectations.

Solomon is caught in a bind between his expectations and his desperation for truth. Like any patriarch, Solomon has great expectations for his offspring. Junior was supposed to honour his political legacy in congress, while Nazareth was meant to live the life of spiritual cultivation he never was able to. Of course, neither of the boys can fulfill their roles. And to curb his disappointment, they live their lives in secret. Nazareth refuses to share his work as a nature photographer and his innermost thoughts are reserved for us, the audience, delivered in his narration. Solomon is frustrated by all this secrecy, and yet he refuses to acknowledge it, or, for that matter, any secrets of his own.

It looks like a perfect setup for an outsider like Aziza to come in and unravel things. But, surprisingly, she fits right in. She already idealises the man who runs the house; in the background of one of Nazareth’s expository monologues, she runs around the stage giddy, taking selfies with the MLK shrine in their living room, and filming a Tiktok dance in front of a hanging portrait of Solomon himself. She is blind to any friction between Solomon’s class status and his radical past. In fact, she finds their beautiful home and connections to other wealthy, influential families aspirational. The only tension that arises between her and Solomon is about Nazareth’s sexual identity – more of a generational misunderstanding than a political disagreement. 

So Aziza is not the outsider she seems fit to be. It takes someone on the inside to illuminate the sinister underpinnings of the family, and that person is Junior’s wife, Morgan. Jacobs-Jenkins’s reimagining of the outsider trope is one of the major virtues of his script. Morgan is not beholden to the father’s contradictions, but she cannot afford to ignore them. Her loyalty to the family he’s created has landed her a prison sentence, but it has also given her a glimpse into what lies behind the facade of “black excellence”: a relentless commitment to maintaining their image. It is a joy to watch her stir up a storm on such a pristine set. And out of all the monologues this play manages to squeeze into its runtime, hers alone has the urgency and sincerity required to keep an audience gripped. But like much of the show, Morgan’s uprising comes across less like an indictment of the family’s flimsy commitment to emancipatory politics, and more like a cathartic revenge plot.

On the whole, Purpose is a well-crafted melodrama. It might skim past the tensions between being black and wealthy in America, but it is an undeniably entertaining bombshell of a production.

The Normal Heart: Sydney Theatre Company

By Aden Zaki

Photo Credit Neil Bennett

When staging a play like this, written in such a particular moment, to deliver such a particular message, for such a particular audience, the question of relevancy becomes unavoidable. It is a testament to Larry Kramer’s writing – and perhaps an indictment of the culture he was critiquing – that many of the questions it asks remain unresolved and urgent today. Kramer’s tragic, semi-autobiographical portrait of the AIDS epidemic is stylishly revived by the STC, thirty-six years after they first staged it in 1989. The production takes few risks, but the potent material is served by this simplicity.

It is New York City in the early 1980s. A group of gay men fight to establish an advocacy group poised against a mysterious and fatal disease decimating their community. Although officially led by Bruce Niles (Tim Draxl), an investment banker whose squeaky-clean image provides a marketable face for the movement, the operation is spearheaded by writer turned activist Ned Weeks (STC Artistic Director, Mitchell Butel). As the death count rises, the plot is driven by Ned’s unrelenting commitment to his cause, which rubs both his opponents and allies the wrong way. 

This is especially true of his attempts to spread the advice of Dr Brookner (Emma Jones), the only medical professional taking the epidemic seriously, who warns that to curb the spread gay men need to stop having sex. But then… what are they supposed to do? It’s an idea that offends both the conservative and liberal sects of their grassroots organisation. Ned’s ensuing conflict with both sides opens up questions about how gay men relate to each other beyond their sexuality, questions especially relevant to our post-Sexual Revolution moment, where promiscuity is no longer an expression of a radical politic but a kind of hegemony. At times the play comes across as didactic in its critique of promiscuity, but there is enough counterpoint to keep things tonic. In Evan Lever’s monologue as Mickey Marcus, he recalls embracing his desires and overcoming shame as an instrumental step in his political journey. Is sex worth dying for? Maybe not. But freedom and love certainly are, which is what sex has come to represent to a community for whom it has been denied and repressed.

Steadfast at the centre of these conflicts, Ned is insufferable to almost everyone he knows. Everyone, that is, except his lover Felix Turner (Nicholas Brown), a suave but politically neutered reporter for the New York Times. Their relationship is charming and tragic, but the most emotionally impactful scenes play out between Ned and his brother, Ben (Mark Saturno). This is due to both Saturno’s portrayal of Ben’s tragic ignorance and Butel's indicting monologue, the height of his performance. It’s a shame the resolution of their conflict comes so suddenly, as an almost perfunctory ornament to the final scene. 

On the whole, the production is top class – one would expect nothing less from the STC. It does little, however, to elevate the material. 

Although I found Jeremy Allen’s set initially disorienting – something like a hospital ward crossed with a dingy bohemian apartment – it grew on me. The action grounds the space and brings it to life. So too does Nigel Levings’ naturalistic lighting, streaming in through windows from side stage. By the end, my only wish was that they had made better use of such an interesting set, as much of the action was confined to the centre platform.

Michael Griffiths and Rowena Macneish, on piano and cello respectively, sit at the fringes of this stage. Hilary Kleinig’s accompaniment is stylish and minimalistic. It successfully carries the momentum through blackout transitions and underscores emotional beats. Occasionally the duo are joined by vocal performances from the cast, who loiter around the edges of the stage too, awaiting their next scene. The vocals are sharp, but the evenly compressed three part harmonies are almost too clean for their surroundings, which might have suited a more raw performance.

Keeping the cast on stage to watch the plot unfold with us is perhaps the most interesting of Dean Bryant’s directorial decisions. The play is divided between the struggle of one man and the horror his community is facing. The physical presence of this community on stage draws focus to the collective mourning. It also prevents the scenes of terrible suffering from feeling voyeuristic. You get the real sense of a whole community in reeling, one whose fate you have been invited to participate in, not merely to witness.

During intermission there was a sense of solidarity among the audience, who filed into the foyer with gentle pats on the back and hugs and reminiscences. After the curtains were drawn, a neighbouring couple told us about their experience of the crisis. One of them had seen the first STC production back in 1989. He said the play felt much more polemical back then, which I imagine I’d agree with. Perhaps some distance from the political moment of its conception has given the show room to breathe, allowing it to speak on issues which, although less fatal than the AIDS crisis, are nonetheless endemic.

The Social Ladder: Enesmble Theatre

By Lola Carlton

“So Where Did You Grow Up?”

In the state of modern politics, the American class system is only too obvious. As a matter of fact, it’s so glaringly obvious that we often forget that Australia has a deeply rooted class system of its own. Imported directly from the UK through colonisation, if you want any luck in ascending the class hierarchy in modern day Australia, there’s a collection of things that must be embraced. And, there’s certain ugly parts of one’s upbringing that must be cut out like parasites. It is this conversation The Social Ladder has with its audience. A deeply intimate and highly local reflection, The Social Ladder doesn’t just ask why someone would ever want to climb the ranks, it explores the sheer ridiculousness of how those delicate attempts must be made - and how easy they are to screw up. 

The stage at the beginning seems confusingly bare. Ensemble is known somewhat for their flashy production value, so having a completely bare experience was almost out of character. We shouldn’t have worried, however. In a brilliantly staged foundation for the entire two hour experience, three lamps drop slowly from the ceiling, each representing the three layers of the Australian class system; working, middle, and ruling. 

Williamson’s script has a knack for helping his audience feel right at home, and the comedy of the show certainly embraced calling to cultural references that allowed us to both laugh and interrogate the conversations happening on stage. Too often when a production comes to Sydney, or a script is adapted for Sydney stages, we the audience end up missing out on those finer points of context simply because we haven’t grown up with them. The Social Ladder cleverly evades this problem, and in doing so, allows the production to have the same conversation theatre has had before in a much more nuanced way. This nuance continues with the production design elements as the show evolves. Mandy Bishop as Katie Malloy is constantly in costumes that feel almost too chic, performing taste rather than embodying it. The couple’s house in the second act also ends up feeling more like an art museum than a residence, further separating them from the lived in luxury the Mallory’s exist in.

Mandy Bishop puts up an incredibly strong performance as the epitome of the social climber middle class Australian experience. Both a brilliant comedic performer and with strong character instincts, she is both deeply unlikable for the working class folks in the room, and uncomfortably understandable. A particularly memorable moment for me in this regard was the brilliantly tight expression she wore for the first 15 minutes of her stage time. Her chemistry on stage was distinctly marked by the reality she knew, they knew, and we knew that she was using them. Despite this, I found myself still wanting her to succeed. And although perhaps her character didn’t quite learn anything from her ending, quietly, I didn’t want her to. Katie Norrie is the distilled representation of the provincial Australian insecurity we’ve carried since the First Fleet, and her value system is so baked into Australian Culture, if she had changed “for the better” by the end, it would’ve been unsatisfying. Instead, Bishop’s performance allowed us to giggle at her depravity and unraveling, whilst also pointing the mirror back at us, and making us all a little uncomfortable as we left the theatre. Wondering if we were also that annoying. 

My stand out of the night was Jo Downing as Laura Gregory: a working class school teacher married to an impotent creative. Downing both had incredibly strong comedic instincts and understanding of tempo, but she also fully understood the stakes in a way that made her performance ever evolving and interesting. Laura Gregory the character understands why the things in this No Exit-Esque dinner party are happening the way they are, and Downing in response finds both the dry absurdist humour of that understanding, and the quiet horror of knowing that everyone around you is using your work and talent whilst simultaneously being completely willing to abandon you at the drop of a hat. Beautifully expressive and deeply likeable, she represented maybe the closest thing to an innocent character this play had to offer.

The Malloys, in contrast, functioned more like characters out of a Pinter play. Both Sarah Chadwick and Andrew McFarlane delivered incredibly sophisticated performances - a direct quote from my notebook being “I love to see a well trained actor.” Both of them represented the Australian upper class, McFarlane as the true-blue Aussie Conservative, and Chadwick as the English transplant, better than everyone just by being from the original family house rather than the granny-flat. Their on-stage chemistry was fascinating, an odd mix of desire and disdain all mixed up in the knowledge they needed one another to stay in power. Sarah Chadwick continued to impress as her character gained nuance towards the end of the piece, yet still remained impassive and untouchable, never fully in reach of the Norries, and certainly not available to the Gregorys.

Johnny Nasser and Matt Minto gave entertaining performances, and although they had great chemistry with the other actors on stage, struggled to offer their characters the nuance that the women on stage had - as well as perhaps jumping too quickly on the punchline which undercut some moments of comedy. They were, however, both strong comedic performers, and as their friendship was tested by their mutual betrayal, their ability to switch loyalties depending on who was on the winning side was an impressive example of their emotional intelligence. All three men on stage created fascinating examples of widespread conservative, centrist and leftist arguments - and more interestingly, that the people behind those arguments, no matter how flattering they might sound, were often hiding a weak moral backbone behind masculine posturing. 

Across the board, this cast produced some truly remarkable performances. All six had excellent vocal technique and comedic ability, making this show’s two hour run time fly by. The stage work, script, production value and tech all elevated the performances three-fold and brought us into an uncomfortably relatable world. This is in no small terms a professional show done by God’s honest professional people. If you’re looking for a hilarious and pointed dissection of high-society Australian culture, you’ve found one. Although you may cringe and grit your teeth the entire way through. 

A Chinese Christmas: KXT on Broadway

By Faye Tang

A Chinese Christmas opens on a scene of intentional bathos. A musician masked in jewels, whom we later come to know as Lady Dai (a Chinese noblewoman known for being a well-preserved mummy), plucks the guzheng and presents an impressive arsenal of instruments, both traditional Chinese and makeshift. The music is mystical, impressionistic, composed and played by Jolin Jiang who, in her silk robe and shimmering headdress, informs the audience that “Heepa is coming”. We sit in a tense silence, waiting for Heepa—who, eventually, bundles himself onto the stage, in a tee and shorts and silly socks, whooping with Zillenial glee. 

The setup is playfully metatextual. Audience members filling both sides of the KXT, clad in Christmassy tees and sneakers, become Heepa’s (un)dead Chinese ancestors. Lady Dai lectures Heepa about xiao, filial piety, but when Heepa provokes us, it’s we the ancestors that sit in respectful silence. Mostly, Heepa’s conversation partners are himself and the props, and what an array of them! Despite the stage being so cluttered, almost past the point of homeliness, writer-actor Trent Foo’s expertly physical, endearing performance, along with Cat Mai’s clever lighting design, constantly make and remake vivid scenes.

Memories, also, are made and remade. Heepa’s traipse in the underworld isn’t just a showy retelling of a childhood caught between cultures, but also a plea, for the ancestors to work our magic and convince his unflappable grandmother Paw Paw, with whom he’s “beefing”, to come to his Christmas party. As Lady Dai takes Heepa through flashbacks to his core memories, he starts to realise that things didn’t always happen the way he thought they had. Paw Paw is always kinder than he’d imagined, more understanding. “It didn’t happen like that,” Heepa says, grappling with his own interpretation. “Paw Paw was angrier… wasn't she?”

Foo’s humour hits home for those in the know, littered with references to diaspora life and passing quips about the formidable Wu Zetian, first and only female Emperor of China, hilariously implied to be a relative of Heepa’s. Tiang Lim, as Paw Paw, also gave an incredible performance. She’s well-accented, loud and cantankerous, phrases in Mandarin and Cantonese flying from her mouth to reprimand her naughty grandson.

And though Heepa himself didn’t go to Chinese school, anybody who did will be floored by his rendition of the Tang-era poem recited so often by reluctant Chinese diaspora children and struggling Chinese-learners that it’s become something of an institution in itself: Li Bai’s 静夜思 (Jìngyè sī). The poem’s last line, which roughly translates to “I lower my head and think of home”, delivered with tenderness by Foo, struck a chord with the play’s reflections on that aspect of home which Heepa has fought to understand—his Chinese family and culture.

Heepa’s unreliability lets plot twists unfurl in a satisfying, expert way; they aren’t so absurd or abrupt as to break the suspension of disbelief, but are cued in subtly, realisation dawning on the audience only when it’s too late to stop the tears. For anybody hungering after a sweet and teary Christmas romp, and especially for those reconciling two or more cultural backgrounds, A Chinese Christmas will touch you to the core and remind you to say “I love you”—even if it’s not something your family ‘does’.

A Chinese Christmas is playing at KXT Broadway until 20 December.

Irving Berlin’s Holiday Inn: Riverside Theatres Paramatta

By Aidan Hale

It’s that time of year again. Christmas lights are up, beaches are packed, and everybody is just about fed up with work and exams. It’s the holiday season, and what better way to spend it then by watching an all holiday-themed musical?

Well, ‘Irving Berlin’s Holiday Inn’ at Riverside Theatres Paramatta will be sure to scratch that holiday itch. The musical by Chad Hodge and Gordon Greenberg adapts Berlin’s original 1942 screenplay, and with it all the caustic charm and spirited sincerity of classic American 90’s romcoms.

You’ve seen this story a hundred times: two men fight for the love of one woman. Singer Jim Hardy (Rob Mallett) is the loveable straight-man set on building a quiet and peaceful life; the other, dancer Ted Hanover (Max Patterson), is the sly and (somewhat) sleazy rival who wants to make it Hollywood big. This time though, our love story is set at the titular Holiday Inn, a farm bought by Jim in Connecticut where music and dance ensue only on, you guessed it, the holidays! At the Holiday Inn, love blooms between Jim and previous owner Linda Mason (Mary McCorry), which is then complicated when Ted pushes Linda to become his new dance partner.

The adapted script is certainly not going to blow you away. It’s the kind of love story that’s become the run-of-the-mill: containing the same thousand romcom tropes coupled with weird pacing and structure (the Holiday Inn isn’t established until just before the second act!). A classic or not, the script is a bit of a dud.

However, what will get you smiling and clapping is director Sally Dashwood’s keen interest in playing up the melodrama of it all. The production has this cheeky, hilarious, and slightly sardonic self-awareness oozing out: actors conducting the live band faster to mess with the music’s tempo and rhythm, breaking the fourth wall to treat the audience as the in-world patrons of the Holiday Inn, Jim and Ted unknowingly and happily dancing with each other as Linda gets whisked away. These stylised choices demonstrate a great understanding that what will get the audience onboard with this musical is emphasising its playfulness.

Choreographer Veronica Beattie George also understood the assignment. Tap-shoes, canes, jump-rope, the whole ballroom blitz; it’s like a travelling fair came to town and you couldn’t get more playful if you tried. Paired with the capable and talented ensemble, the choreographed dance and swing really elevates the music. On that note, Music Director Dylan Pollard does well to preserve and modernise Berlin’s original lyrics, keeping the catchy tunes while adding a new pep to its step.

A standout musically was McCorry’s Linda Mason, who sung beautifully and often left me in awe of her incredible voice. Performance-wise, Paloma Renouf as New York superstar and Jim’s ex-fiancé, Lila Dixon, was an absolute pleasure to watch. Bombastic, loud, and a little bit ditzy, Renouf plays the showbiz stereotype fantastically. It was always a delight when she was onstage.

And delight is the best word to describe this production. Although I found the musical was full of tired tropes and weird pacing, ‘Irving Berlin’s Holiday Inn’ was seriously just a delight!

Appropriately festive and a jolly good time, ‘Irving Berlin’s Holiday Inn’ is playing at Riverside Theatres Paramatta until December 14th.

How to (Almost) Get Away With Murder: Dial M For Murder at Ensemble Theatre

By Lola Kate Carlton
Edited by Raven Carlton

The murder mystery genre is a cornerstone to the world of theatre. A money-maker; selling out shows to crowds who generally know what they can expect. This is to say it can be both entirely stereotypical, and deeply comforting in turn. Ensemble Theatre tends to avoid the humble murder mystery where they can, leaving it to smaller theatres. So, it was a surprise to see Dial M For Murder grace Ensemble’s stage. In this smoky, complicated, love triangle-filled, almost-murder mystery, we witnessed both what shines through about the genre, and what makes it so difficult to master. 

Ensemble Theatre is well known for its production value, and Dial M For Murder was no exception. Upon entering the space, the richness of the set immediately jumped out. Director Mark Kilmurry has expertly presented us with a world that grounds the audience through the stakes and drama of the piece’s action. Warm toned wooden browns and deep, luscious reds littered the room in a beautifully naturalistic 20th century apartment. Congratulations in this regard must be given to Nick Fry, who soared above and beyond in both costume and set design. On the wall sat the abstract interpretation of Yeats’s Leda and the Swan by Jerzy Hulewicz, which told us this may be a story we’ve heard before, yet in an entirely new way. It also hints us into the action of the piece — a woman overpowered, a godlike figure turned animalistic, an innocence betrayed. Both of Ensemble’s theatres are thrust theatres, which center the audience’s focus entirely on the action from three separate angles, while simultaneously creating a feeling of intimacy that can sometimes be lost in rooms of this size. This proved to be necessary as the relationships of this play got more intimate, and infinitely more complex. 

The play opens on two young women, Margot Wendice (a married woman), played by Anna Samson, and her paramour Maxine Hadly, played by Madeline Jones, setting up the play’s first complex relationship. Margot’s husband, Tony Wendice, played by NIDA graduate Garth Holcombe joins us as our murderer, seeking revenge on his wife for sneaking out on him by plotting her death (which would also conveniently leave him access to her fortune) and utilising letters from Maxine as forms of blackmail. Thus, the second complex relationship is formed. Tony Wendice does not act alone, however. He enlists schoolyard-playmate-turned-vagabond, David Soncin, dangling further blackmail over his head to inspire him to act. The cast is rounded out by Kenneth Moraleda, as the Inspector, who, perhaps, is the only unconnected party. 

My stand out of the night was Holcombe, who presented a genuinely menacing yet deeply charming villain, especially through his presence and physicality on stage. Although I found his vocal choices through the first half somewhat confusing — they leaned almost musical in their range rather than going for a steadier delivery — this issue smoothed over for the most part in the second act. Particularly strong moments for him were his scene conspiring with Soncin, (who I was convinced he was going to kiss), and his quick, brilliantly insincere emotional shifts depending on who was in front of him. I did truly want him to get away with it all. Samson gave a sophisticated portrayal of an aristocrat, even in her moments of struggle and panic. Her vocal work was generally strong, and her emotional work in the back half of the play was interesting. Through the front half, she struggled in moments to connect to the other actors on stage, particularly with Hadly, which made the believability of their relationship suffer. However, her physical work at the end of the first act, and emotional deterioration through the second act were effective. Hadly, in turn, gave us a witty and earnest portrayal of a New York City tragic artist, although wrestled with the same issue of connection that Samson did, and her accent work leaned slightly into caricature. Both Soncin and Moraleda were very strong, both understood the genre they were acting in, and I left the theatre wishing I had seen more of them. Across the board, all had solid moments of grief and emotion, but I was looking for stronger relationships and a more deliberate use of pause and timing — apart from Moraleda, who I felt was very comfortable in the comedy of the piece.

Murder Mystery is a genre that requires quite a significant amount of detailed preamble and exposition, which often slows down the first act. When trapped in context or specifics, it is often difficult to experience in-the-moment emotions. This, unfortunately, was exacerbated by the play’s exploration of relationships. Although the complex web of lovers did heavily aid the drama in the back half of the show, the first half had much of the world-building to slog through, which weakened the experience. This, ultimately, is an issue belonging to the Murder Mystery genre itself, and although frustrating, fingers cannot be pointed onto cast or crew for causing it. However, in the final moments of the first act, fight choreography by Scott Witt masterfully snapped the audience back to attention, which was significantly elevated by a connection to in-the-moment action from both Samson and Soncin. This was particularly effective in their use of sound — too often in stage-fighting we forget that we make noise when things hurt — but Samson delivered a truly nerve-wracking performance in her stunted breathing through the entire scene. 

The second act picked up speed considerably, now that the audience was up to speed, we could figure the mystery out alongside the actors on stage. The emotions of the piece finally had a chance to feel the limelight, and we got to see all the relationships in the play stretch and shine. Lighting and sound both made much more interesting choices, praise here must go to Matt Cox and Madeline Picard. Further, makeup and costume was particularly impressive in the back half — the reveal of the bruises around Margot’s neck being a bonechilling moment. We also got to see each character think through their situation and choices more, with them being forced to make high pressure decisions very quickly. There were moments of physical melodrama which I felt took away from the presented naturalism, and the struggle in creating relationships in the first act meant that many of the climactic emotional moments in the second fell slightly flat. However, overall, the piece significantly improved through its latter half, which hints perhaps that this may have also been the nerves of opening night affecting its front end. Indeed, the moments of moral consideration — especially when Maxine attempts to bribe Tony — were incredibly interesting, and left me wishing for more exploration into how the complexities of the play left no true innocent standing. 

For such a popular genre, the humble Murder Mystery is surprisingly difficult to execute. It requires stakes without melodrama, connection with grave consequences, and usually an entire act of world-building before anyone can have any fun. Director Mark Kilmurry has presented a strong example of the genre, and has done so through expanding on the elements that make it genuinely enjoyable and interesting. Dial M For Murder, despite falling into some of these common traps, presented a production that made up for its shortfalls in spectacular production value, and a very strong second half. It also leaves its audience with a question many in the genre are too afraid to ask — what is a legitimate motivation for murder?

‘Dial M for Murder’ is playing until the 11th of Janurary at the Ensemble Theatre.

Old Fitz Theatre: Born On A Thursday

By Aidan Hale

Imagine: the date is 1998, Christmas Eve. Bathed under dim yellow lights, your neighbour is in the kitchen making himself a cuppa. He’s there to tend to your backyard as you get ready for work. He drinks his cuppa, then gets on with it; radio in the backyard to keep him company. This is the most any day gets: quiet, comfy, and a little bit boring––sometimes broken up by the excitement of phone calls mistaking your residence for the butchers. 

While I wasn’t born before the cultural disruption of mobile phones and phishing scams that was the 2000s, Jack Kearney’s new kitchen-sink drama, ‘Born On A Thursday,’ certainly made me feel like I was. Set across a year (more or less) from the end of 1998 through to 1999, Kearney’s witty and heartfelt script deconstructs the familial struggles that we Aussies love to keep unspoken and unheard. 

At the centre of the family struggle is April (Sofia Nolan), as she suddenly returns from her life as a dancer in Denmark and crashes her Sydney home unannounced after 18 months of radio silence. Nolan captures the out-of-sorts eldest daughter of the family well. Often, she acts as the audience surrogate, as keenly interested in tearing open the family’s sealed envelope of her brother Isaac’s (Owen Hasluck) tragic football accident as we are. Her insistence (sometimes a cruel one) in forcing the unspoken to be said is sincere and intense, engaging the audience in the play’s backyard mystery.

As April disrupts the rhythms and traditions rooted in her family, the late 90’s Australian suburbia set constructed by Soham Apte and Angus Nott encapsulates this disruption. Apte and Nott’s set ingeniously tracks the passage of time by the flip of a calendar and changes of the season. A crack in the wall reveals the house’s backyard, where April’s arrival is marked by an unkept garden. Over the course of the play, the garden becomes less unruly as the characters grow accustomed to navigating their family quarrels.

Supporting the family through their quarrels are friends Howard (James Lugton) and Estelle (Deborah Galanos). Lugton plays the affable and caring (perhaps too caring) neighbour, and Galanos the loud and eccentric friend of the mother. The dynamics of both with the family encapsulate what Director Lucy Clements does best. A sharp attention-to-detail given to characters and their small relational idiosyncrasies: vigorous defences when traditions of crossword discussions are challenged, faltering eye contact when Isaac’s football accident is mentioned, and so on.

However, I cannot mention sharp attention-to-detail without also giving my overwhelming praise to Ingrid’s actress Sharon Millerchip. My God, what a performance! Millerchip undeniably elevates this production to soaring heights with her carefully crafted and lived-in performance of an unfaltering mother surviving day-to-day. Closed off and exhausted, yet caring and persistent, Millerchip trims away at the hedges obscuring Ingrid to lay bare her beating heart as she fights fervently for her son to live a normal life.  

As seasons change from summer to winter and the backyard is uprooted, so are the family’s quiet assumptions. At times, this leads to severe challenges: screaming matches, unfair compromises, and for many––their darkest moments. But then winter fades into spring: new roots grow, and the world starts to settle. And once the clouds part and the blue sky is seen, we as the audience are left with something familiar. Something quiet and comfy. And although ‘Born On A Thursday’ at the Old Fitz isn’t grandiose and explosive, it is anything but boring.

‘Born On A Thursday’ is playing at the Old Fitzroy Hotel until December 14th.

Photo Credit: Phil Erbacher

Sydney Theatre Company: The Shiralee

By Sophia Grover

Tough and Tender...

From laughter to tears, love to jaw-dropping twists, Sydney Theatre Company’s new adaptation of D’Arcy Niland’s “The Shiralee” delivers it all. Directed by Jessica Arthur, this production transforms the well-known Australian novel into a poetic and deeply human story about growth and the weight we carry through life, our “shiralees”. This adaptation by Kate Mulvany (who also stars as Marge, Macauley’s wife) is beautifully done - perfectly paced, well-structured, and engaging right from the first scene - the two and a half hours flew by!

The story follows Macauley (Josh McConville), a rugged itinerant worker travelling through 1950s Australia with his young daughter, Buster (Ziggy Resnick). What begins as a reluctant partnership becomes a heartfelt journey. Through shifting towns, strained relationships, and lots of Aussie wit, the story evolves into something universal, a reflection on how love can both burden and transform us. The play also touches on themes of generational trauma, depicting the influence our parents have on the way we behave and choose to parent. It is both entertaining and quietly profound; a reminder of the depth and compassion that come from understanding a person’s upbringing.

The acting is phenomenal. Josh McConville gives a compelling performance as Macauley; you feel every fiery frustration, at times almost too well – I was genuinely scared! But the capacity to build such strong relationships with the audience, to the point where we sympathise and viscerally connect with the characters and their struggles, is truly remarkable. Kate Mulvany deserves particular mention, not only for adapting the story but for her portrayal of Marge. Her performance is subtle yet powerful, full of micro-expressions and incredible tone. The small cast of only eight deserves high praise, and the production was very well executed. It is rare to be this immersed in theatre, to forget that you are really watching people act.

Jeremy Allen’s set is minimal yet symbolically rich with a curved timber floor, fire pits glowing beneath the stage, a functioning water well, and sparse natural elements, all of which elevate the rural Australian landscape. The use of shifting props allows for seamless transitions between locations without interrupting the play’s momentum. Lighting (Trent Suidgeest) and sound (Clemence Williams) are minimal but balanced, enhancing the dynamic tensions and the locational environment.

For those who grew up in Australia, you’ll find this play wholly nostalgic and incredibly witty. And for those just visiting, it’s a creative introduction to the Australian culture.

Whether it be a line, character, or scene, this play will find ways of resonating with you. It reminds us that even parents who don’t see eye to eye can find unity in love for their child; that no one is too strong or too old to cry, and that our children can often be our greatest teachers.

But be warned, you’re sure to be singing “Aeroplane Jelly” for the rest of the week!

Beautifully written and brilliantly acted - “The Shiralee” is running at the Sydney Opera House until 29 November.

Riverside Theatre: Daytime deewane

By Katie Ord

Electricity is pulsing, pumping, pounding in the air.

On a traverse stage, the audience is locked into their seats, ready for an immersive ride.

And Daytime Deewane delivers!

The vibrant rhythm, director Sepy Baghaei has brilliantly orchestrated, is unparalleled, matched only by that of Shakespeare or Lin Manuel Miranda.

Set in the legendary daytime raves in 1997, London, Daytime Deewane is a tender portrait of what it means to be torn between respect for one’s culture, customs and traditions and rebellion - where freedom is tasted on the tongues of many Pakistanis but dare not uttered in their houses.

As the dance floor fills and the afternoon unfolds, Farhan (Ariyan Sharma) is still clutching his school bag - a fish out of water, a long way from home, a goody two shoes and a proper Pakistani boy. He meets his cousin there, Sadiq (Ashan Kumar), a cool, confident and stylish Pakistani boy with a natural grove for the music and a tongue mastered in rap that rhyme is a native language.

Mixing spoken word poetry and Bhangra fused dance music, the play creates its own rhythm, each scene excellently executed, the tempo, spun by composer and sound designer, Chrysoulla Maarkoulli, is the perfect blend of EDM and a Shakespearean ballad on steroids.

Despite being a two-hander, the play always feels dynamic. It mixes soliloquies and spotlights with stichomythic dialogue. It fuses lightning-fast costume changes with crystal sharp lighting cues. The rhythm is so palpable it sends currents of electricity and spine-tingling energy from stage to audience. It asks you to join the dance, literally! And speaks to you with and without the fourth wall.

The rave club is a black shiny traverse stage with a mixture of loudspeakers at either corner, and a low hanging lighting rig that runs around the whole stage, emits an electric pulse timed to perfection. Brockman’s immaculate lighting and set design reflects a liminal space, functioning as a transitional bridge where people can shed their normal identities and experience a temporary state of ambiguity and transformation.

Similarly, the play’s concern with biculturalism is equivalently evocative of a liminal space. Transporting us into the lives of two British Pakistani boys. It’s a space between cultures, one often characterized by ambiguity and a continuous process of reconciling or integrating different cultural values.

Yet, it’s also a space where audiences on either side of the stage feel fearless and capable of dancing across that bridge with Farhan and Sadiq. We feel the bravery of Sadiq’s decision to leave London, his law degree, and his Pakistani expectations behind. His decision feels like a cultural betrayal to his family but a personal loyalty to himself and his inner dignity. And at the same time, we empathize with the fear in Farhan’s voice, still too innocent, naive, and young to cross that bridge that defies his family’s expectations, to answer the question “everyone will need you, but what do you need?”

But for a moment, at the daytime rave, Farhan seems to forget all that, and loses himself entirely and utterly in the music. A new, proud, and hot, courage emerges - one drizzling in rizz, steaming with confidence, and dazzling with dance moves. A masculinity that is rephrased as “peacock energy”, a term which metaphorically mixes something spiritual with something beautiful. A metaphor that helps us unlearn a masculinity that is aggressive, dominant, or sexually entitled but one that is self-confidence at its humblest.

Azan Ahmed’s writing fearlessly takes these steps, allowing the play to shine in its radical joy and its bold, stereotype-defying performances. The choreography of Shyamla Eswaran is magical and spellbinding, beautifully synced to the rhythm of our hearts. Movement becomes a way to clear our minds, make us weightless and free. Peace is not only a mosque, it’s also a dance floor.

There’s a moment in the play that will stay with me forever.

A spotlight falls upon an aged Farhan. He’s remembering that moment in the past before the daytime rave was shut down forever. He’s an accountant now, a father with a wife and children. But the spotlight brings him back to the dance floor. And suddenly he summons the radical joy once more. With a wave of his hand like a wand in the sky, he commands the light to spin like an electric current around him - and we feel the surge of strength that empowers him to uproot his life and his new family in quest for the man that gave him his first taste of freedom.

New theatre: The Laramie project

By Aidan Hale

In 1998, 21-year-old gay man Matthew Shepard was kidnapped, beaten, and tortured on the outskirts of Laramie, Wyoming. Matthew Shepard was found the day after tied to a fence, bloodied beyond recognition, and in critical condition. Six days later, he died in hospital a victim of a horrific hate crime. Suddenly, all eyes were on Laramie, and an ensuing media storm sent the city and the wider American public into a fervent debate on morality, crime, and queerness.

I spare no pleasantries or detours in detailing the gruesome tragedy that was Matthew Shepard’s murder. Nor does the New Theatre’s production of Moses Kaufman’s ‘The Laramie Project’ (2000), Directed by Mark G. Nagle and Assistant Directed by Nick Bradshaw. And, frankly, that’s exactly how it should be.

Kaufman’s play follows him and his team between 1998 and 1999 as they interview the people of Laramie, navigating their responses to the murder of Matthew Shepard. The play is constructed from these interviews, as well as personal records from Kaufman’s team, court transcripts, and other factual documentation. What is then represented by the actors is verbatim: a picture of a city debating, bereaving, grieving, and accepting a tragedy it didn’t know it could execute.

Nagle’s production of ‘The Laramie Project’ values this picture of Laramie above all else. A variety of vibrant, dynamic, and methodically detailed tableaus are assembled by the ensemble cast to construct the city. A line of bodies splayed out against the wooden fence; a sea of black umbrellas mourning; angel wings encasing the anti-queer protests. These directorial decisions muster so much emotion out of the play and do well to invite the audience, us strangers, into this other world of Laramie. It is a severe cliché to say that Laramie is its own character, although I fear that it is also severely apt.

It would be remiss of me to mention the ensemble and not point out the standouts. John Michael Narres and Samantha Lambert offer phenomenal performances, with distinct variations between their characters and powerful stage presences. I was often engrossed during any one of the ensemble’s performances, but I was entranced when either of those two were the focus on stage. Same goes for Rich Knighton’s powerful rendition of Dennis Shepard’s “I grant you life” speech to the murderer of his own son. There were some in the audience crying after his speech (which may or may not also include a few tears from me).

Please be warned, this is a production that may easily make you cry, and it is by design. Space is given by the ensemble to whoever is talking; whoever is talking is often talking directly to the audience. And the content that they talk about is distressing and confronting, but also pressingly relevant now. At the back of my mind, I was always thinking about how America could possibly be swayed by Trump politics after this happened in Laramie. Perhaps that’s why an Australian theatre decided to put on ‘The Laramie Project’–– a reminder of the abject horror behind that thought and a reflection of our own political state.

When dealing with thoughts and feelings like these during this production, cast member Rayyan Khan had this to say: “These are real things that happened to real people. It’s okay to feel those distressing emotions because that’s what those people felt. So, the way we worked around it was to not fight it but embrace it because everything we do is in service of what actually happened.” It is also of specific note that Khan’s portrayal of Matthew Galloway provided much needed levity and humour after the play’s more intense moments.

On these intense moments, Alexader Sussman’s compositions elevate the poignancy that makes this play so confronting. Sound is used sparingly, but it is all the more effective because of it. It gives the production an ever-changing weight to its text that makes the voices in Laramie feel contested and divisive. Yet, it also conveys that some of what’s said holds more importance.

Although I think this production gave the necessary space to be confronting, I must admit I was not fully convinced on the set. Set Designer David Marshall-Martin builds Laramie out of shapes; sculptures of wooden fences and concrete stairs whose shadows vaguely resemble buildings when darkened by Tash McBride, Raphael Gennusa, and Rubis-Chanel Carlton’s lighting. It is an impressive idea and sometimes works. However, bringing these set pieces back into the light reveals that the space is a bit too cluttered. And, with all the height that the set brings, I was a bit disappointed at how frivolous the use of levels felt.

All-in-all though, New Theatre’s production of ‘The Laramie Project’ is fantastic. Seeing it in the context of today’s world reveals again why this play was genre-defining. And I believe the people watching the night I went share my sentiment. The audience were still clapping well after the actors left the stage. If that doesn’t motivate you to go see this play, then I will: go see this play!

‘The Laramie Project’ is playing at New Theatre until November 1st.

SELKIE: Old fitz

By Elena Garcia Araujo

The Old Fitzroy Theatre in Sydney is one of those rare gems: a pub theatre with old timey vibes where history hangs in the air. Known for staging the underbelly of Australian theatre, it has long been a home for emerging artists and independent productions. Affordable and unpretentious, it is the place to be if you are chasing raw and ambitious indie theatre, and Selkie is a good place to start.

Written by Finn O’Branagáin and directed by Kurtis Laing, draws on Orkney mythology to tackle the heavy themes of domestic violence and coercive control. In folklore, selkies are creatures who live as seals in the sea, but shed their skins to live as humans on land.

Here, Rónnad (Celeste Cortez Davis) sheds her seal skin and finds herself stranded without it. She is “rescued” by Séan (Josh Hammond), who takes her into his home, clothes her, and vows to help her retrieve her skin. But the skin is gone, and its absence becomes the play’s central tension. Without it, Rónnad cannot return to the sea, leaving her bound to Séan and the relationship, no matter how suffocating it becomes.

What makes this production truly stand out is the movement direction by Josie Stanger-Jones that works seamlessly with the music, the sound designed by Matthew Forbes. Much of the relationship unfolds not through dialogue but through physicality: every breath, every hesitant touch, every lingering glance deepens the story. Dance and gesture become the vocabulary of the couple’s connection, mapping out shifts from desire to dependency, warmth to possession.

This low budget set is simplistic in nature, most of the action taking place in the living room built around just two couches. The simplicity throws the focus squarely on the actors, and the chemistry between Davis and Hammond is magnetic. Their connection is palpable, at times tender — intimate.

In the end, what lingers most about Selkie is its physicality. For a play about domestic violence, it finds imaginative ways to dramatise coercion and control. Yet at times it risks romanticising the relationship, softening the brutality of the subject. A more nuanced take could have pushed the work further.