Review: Ghosts

Ghosts
MTC
22 May 2014
The Sumner
to 21 June
mtc.com.au

Photo by Jeff Busby

Overwrought and underwhelming, the MTC's Ghosts is as haunting as the Luna Park ghost train, but not as fun.

The 1880s critics generally despised Henrik Ibsen's play for being a pit of degenerate ickiness that dared to talk about nice middle class people knowing about syphilis, sex and incest.

Widowed 40-something Helene Alving (Linda Cropper) is thrilled to have her 20-something son, Oswald (Ben Pfeiffer), back home from Paris and is excited that her old crush, Pastor Manders (Philip Quast), is visiting to bless and open the orphanage she built in honour of her late husband. Meanwhile her maid, Regina (Pip Edwards), is leaning français to impress Oswald and Regina's dad, Jacob (Richard Piper), wants Regina to work at his new house for wandering seamen.

Gale Edwards's translation so simplifies (and Aussifies) the script that the seamen pun is a highlight in a tale that now states the obvious, explains it a bit more and yells it again. And it's directed by Edwards to focus on that translated script.

In performances described to me as "a bit shouty" (I said over played and under felt, but shouty is better), it relies on its words to tell the story. Words tell a story in a novel, on a stage they are the base to start from.

To find the emotional connection with the world and its characters, there has to be a belief and understanding on the stage that sex outside of a good-god sanctified marriage is unforgivable. Unless we can understand and feel that, all that's left is a "so what?". Even the final scene between breaking mother and broken son are close to dull because there was no relationship in the space between the actors.

At least Shaun Gurton's striking design of rain and fog creates some mood and sense of place with Paul Jackson's lighting.

Perhaps the 1880s critics might have liked it.

This was on AussieTheatre.com.

Review: Music

Music
Melbourne Theatre Company
14 November 2012
Fairfax Studio, Arts Centre Melbourne
to 22 December

Music's another play about middle-aged, wealthy middle class academics who think their lives are empty, so it has to be in the MTC program.

Jack (Richard Piper) is a retired 50- or 90-something academic who has weeks to live, his wife Margie (Janet Andreawartha) doesn't care and has a Schubert recital to prepare for, his doctor and friend Max (Paul English) is shagging Margie and asking Jack for feedback on his short stories, and Jack's brother Peter (Robert Menzies) is a miserable Catholic priest who hasn't seen Jack in three years. There's ranting about the dumbing down of the English department, affairs, grief over a child, the accidental description of the quilt from a lover's marital bed in the writing given to the cuckolded husband, and everyone decides that it's time to tell the truth about things that really don't matter when you or someone you sorta like has days to live.

As Billy Connolly describes dull folk as beige wearers, Music wears a beige elastic-waisted fleece pant with a matching cardi.

With writing that brings attention to itself with atrociously awkward alliteration and rhymes that even students from the dumbed down English/Cultural Studies department would roll their eyes at, it's a story made from cliches worthy of a daytime soap. No, I take that back, the melodrama of soap is addictive and surprising in its outrageous inventiveness. There's nothing unexpected in this tale.

Dull story choices aside, what's missing is the heart and relationships that make us care. Situation doesn't make character and exchanging smart-arse comments, well-read quotes and a Les Murray joke doesn't make dialogue. Relationships are made in the subtext, the things not said that say so much more than the chosen words. While each told secrets (that the other knew), the space between the characters was empty, which left them feeling no more complex than  the jaded academic, out-of-love wife,  miserable priest and wanna-be-writer doctor who appeared at the start.

Then there's the music. In the program notes, writer Barrry Oakley says the music's used "more or less" like in opera. My snobby reaction was to wonder if he'd ever been to an opera.  Then I read on. Despite the Beyreuth and Wager references (Hitler liked him, you know), the writer jokes that he "couldn't sit though the entire Ring Cycle – all those hours and hours, days of music".  At least that explains why the music is nothing like an opera and sounds and feels as inspired and relevant as a Top Twenty Tunes for Old Farts cassette from the bargin bin at Big W.

Over at Malthouse, there's another story about middle aged, wealthy, jaded academics. In Wild Surmise, he has cancer, she's had an affair. It's pretty much the same story, but this one soars.

This appeared on AussieTheatre.com

Photo by Jeff Busby

Review: The Gift

The Gift
Melbourne Theatre Company
2 June 2011
Sumner Theatre
to 9 July 2011
www.mtc.com.au

We must thank playwrights who show just how hard it is to be wealthy, middle aged and white. It can't be easy, especially when nasty povo commy bloggers create sites like White Whine or Stuff White People Like. How dare they make fun of things they don't understand. It must be really horrible seeing satire on your iPad2. So it's wonderful that the MTC is there to assure their subscribers that it's OK; it really is OK to be better at spending than making money.

The Gift is another poor rich us story. Dammit, they have feelings too!

The design is so similar to last year's production of David Williamson's Let the Sunshine that I had to check that I hadn't been duped into another night with our national treasure. The characters weren't too different either, but the relief of Joanna Murray-Smith's fresh wit took away the fear.

Sadie and Ed are at a very expensive resort for their 25th anniversary gesture. Naturally, there are jokes about firing their personal butler and when will hotels learn that people don't like paying $9 for a box of mini-bar of Pringles. I find it so much easier to stay in cockroach-infested hostels just to avoid this kind of stress. Anyway, they meet Chloe and Martin, a hip young artists couple who won their getaway in a competition. Away from home, sculling posh wine and mojitos (really?) and clearly attracted to each other...

No swinging isn't middle class enough for them. They talk about the value of art (it's good) and take a boat trip.  And yes there's a literal storm to strengthen the metaphorical one. Actually the program blurb tells you everything that happens in Act 1 (why?), so Act 2 is about firing all those early foreshadowed empty wombs.

There's quite a moral dilemma presented, but not explored. In Act 1, the rich couple talk about watching other people and making up stories. The Gift feels like watching without being involved.  The observation is astute – we recognise these people – but don't know them enough to care what choices they make or feel any relevance to our lives (apart from the Pringles).

Richard Piper, Heather Bolton, Matt Dytynski and Elizabeth Debicki are all terrific performers and Murray-Smith's gorgeous wit shines, but I don't care what happens to these people. So if you see a post on White Whine saying, "My free theatre ticket didn't make me care as much as Masterchef does", you'll know who it's from.

This review originally appeared on AussieTheatre.com

Photo by Jeff Busby