Review: Howie the Rookie

Howie The Rookie
Red Stitch Actors Theatre
18 March 2011
Red Stitch Theatre
to 16 April
www.redstitch.net

Red Stitch first brought the bloody incredible Howie The Rookie to Melbourne in 2002. I wasn't here, but am among the many who are thrilled to see this new production, which is part of a program celebrating the tenth anniversary of the independent company that regularly puts our funded companies to shame and brings us the scripts and the performances that Melbourne audiences deserve to see.

Mark O'Rowe's an Irish writer rightly won a stack of for his 1999 epic of redemption and loss. With language scooped from filthy Dublin gutters, it's told through two monologues with a present tense immediacy that drags us into a world so violent, devastating and fucking funny that we can't imagine how we ever thought that bashed boys with scabies or obese scrags in white leggings could be anything but beautiful. It's the kind of writing that makes me hurt because it's so good.

Paul Ashcroft (The Howie) and Tim Ross (The Rookie) attack each half with the kind of guts and energy that would let them win a Dublin pub fight. Ashcroft's physicality is frighteningly confronting, while Ross brings out the humour that could so easily get lost in the mess of piss, blood and scabies cream.

Greg Carroll's direction lets his actors draw deep and fill the stage with an energy that sparks. But I would have loved to see him trust the text a bit more, as there were moments that felt like they were underlining what was already bolded and hightlighted. It's so well written that the audience don't need to have it drawn so clearly; especially at the end of part one, which was given away too early. Don't warn us with mood; kick us in the guts as hard as Howie has been.

Even if our lives will never reflect the world of this play, the story has so much heart and goddam humanity that we have no choice but to know their rough and damaged souls. And this is where I get frustrated with Red Stitch. Some shows are so caught up with creating an authentic "them" (and showing the astonishing skill it takes to create "them") that the story struggles to be ours. We're so busy watching and admiring that we don't get lost in the world and have that inexpressible connection and understanding that every artist and audience longs for.

If it sounds like I'm being excessively picky about a company that I love, it's because sometimes they are so close to brilliant that the tiniest distractions can seem huge.

And don't you dare let it stop you seeing Howie The Rookie; it's a night of theatre that drags you into those filthy gutters, stabs your heart and leaves you breathless.



Photo by Jodie Hutchinson

This review appears on AussieThearte.com

Terrific Writing Tips #4: read Amy's blog

Tell us your story
Aim to Change BLOG

The more I learn to write, the more I get that it's just telling our stories.  Amy would blush if I called her a writer, but her story is inspiring.

Sharing what happened to us (even through fictional worlds and folk) is when writers, performers and people connect with other people. How amazing is it to see a play, read a book/article/blog/poem on the back of a toilet door and feel that it was written for us? Of course it wasn't and the writer has no idea who we are, yet we recognise ourselves in their work because their writing comes from something real.

This is such a different experience from respecting or acknowledging the wordy aptitude or dictionary knowledge of a writer, but ultimately being a bit bored. Writing that isn't from some part of our selves doesn't connect.

It's hard and brave to write from the heart and it's something I'm still working on. It's easier to hide in words that are composed to tell anything but our truths.

So, I want to share the story of a young woman whose words have been inspiring others for three years.

I read Amy's story after I had a bit of a health hiccough,  saw a couple of horror photos and realised that I wasn't the hot and healthy 30-something I imagined myself to be. Seeing the word obese next to your name is hard and I felt as angry and frustrated as I did when I was a miserable and lonely fat teenager. For all the talk of accepting people for who they are, being a chubster still sucks.

So, it was off to the doctor and time to acknowledge that my clothes really didn't shrink in my wardrobe. And it's going well. I'll never be the size 12 I was in my 20s (for a few weeks), but I won't be heading to diabetes either.

Amy is a stranger who has inspired me and convinced me that giving up isn't an option. This is the beginning of her blog called Aim to Change.

She's already lost over 80 kg as a member of the online Biggest Loser Club (yes the TV show one) – and let's not argue the rights and wrongs of reality TV.

Amy has been a member for three years and in that time has been active in the forums. Here people (mostly women) share their stories and frustrations.  Some are heartbreaking. It's sometimes easier to tell invisible strangers how you feel than to tell your closest and most loved.  Amy is one of the most supportive and encouraging people on the forums. Her advice is always positive and never judgemental (so we know she's not a reviewer) and she's beginning to realise just how much sharing her story has helped people.

I sometimes chat on the forums and am continually inspired by the support and encouragement that strangers – who often have nothing in common except a struggle with weight – give to each other simply by sharing their experiences. (I don't even care that some don't care about spelling and grammar or think that Comic Sans is an acceptable font.)

Even if weight isn't your issue,  read Aim to Change. It's a story about overcoming the overwhelming by taking lots of small steps and reaching out when you need help, by a writer who is brave enough to be honest.

Today it was announced that Amy will appear on the finale of the TV show, which will take her from being a hero to a small group of people to being an inspiration to thousands. I've never met her, but couldn't be more proud and excited for her.

Review: Cafe Scheherazade

Cafe Scheherazade
fortyfivedownstairs
12 March 2011
fortyfivedownstairs
to 3 April
www.fortyfivedownstairs.com

Should I be sad because I already know too many people who never went to Cafe Scheherazade in Acland Street? After 40 years, it closed in 2008 and is fading into memory as St Kilda evolves into a different place.

Therese Radic's Cafe Scheherazade is loosely based on Arnold Zable's book and lets us share writer Martin's experience of listening to and writing about the stories he heard at the famous and loved cafe. Dramatically, I'm not sure that there's enough to draw a non-familar audience through, but there are enough generations who remember the "old" St Kilda to love a re-visit and its strength and vitality is its reflections on memories and the importance of telling our stories.

With live Klezmer music,  Laminex tables and the room's pillars covered in the very familiar brown and gold flowered wallpaper, it's easy to be back in Acland Street. I even had a pang of jealousy because Martin (based on Zable) was served a vegetarian meal, even with the jibes. I never had a famous Scheherazade schnitzel, but I'm drooling at the memory of the plum dumplings.

The owners and customers Cafe Scheherazade share their stories about being Jewish in Europe in the 1940s. Sometimes they are reluctant as some experiences "can never be understood". We have heard similar stories , but this work reminds us how they must keep being told. As too many people don't know how good a cream cheese blintze is with black coffee,  many haven't heard first-hand stories about fleeing Europe. As this generation dies, their stories and voices have to remain.

It's not easy to listen to something that is so far from our own experiences of life, but the discomfort is more ours than the teller's. Our unease is shared by Martin who is compelled to hear how this generation of strangers ended up in beach-side Melbourne, but knows that he cannot ever really understand; even in his imagination he has to stop at the gates of the ghetto.

His unease continues with his reluctance to share his stories. "A story must be answered with another story"; we can't just be listeners.  Even if its facts are twisted to make the teller look good, it's those "wonderful lies" that reveal the real truth.

I live in a Melbourne suburb where there are still more bakeries that sell Challah than there are Baker's Delights, it's easy to buy dairy-free chocolate and there's no such thing as a bagel that hasn't been boiled. Here, European Yiddish culture is as Aussie as a pie at the footy, but there is still palpable distance. This is touched on as a man talks to Martin about "you Australians" and still having no sense of belonging here, even after 50 years.

Fleeing your home and seeing atrocities that even the secular pray never happen again is so hard to understand if you've grown up safe. Perhaps we forget that many refugees (wherever they are from) didn't imagine their futures in Australia. Even if they are welcomed with open arms and minds, "These people are not us" and many came because they had no choice.

Avram and Masha opened a cafe and gave us a taste of bohemian Europe and Black Forest cake, but Cafe Scherherazade gave many a memory of home, where they could "sit and eat like civilised men" and know that they were with others who understood why sometimes their stories were wonderful lies or left untold.

Cafe Scheherazade is nearly sold out, but there are some matinee tickets still available. If you miss the cafe, it's almost as good as being there and the stories told remind us why they must never be forgotten.

photo be Jeff Busby

This review appears on AussieTheatre.com

Guest Review: Wagner and Me

Wagner and Me, with Stephen Fry

Cinema Nova

2 March 2011

cinemanova.com.au

Review by Josephine Giles

Stephen Fry is a rightly celebrated performer who manages to combine light entertainment with his unabashed celebration of intelligence and his insatiable curiosity.  Until I saw this documentary, I felt I couldn’t get enough of the man. However, in Wagner and Me, the dominance of Fry’s personality (and his bad shirts) detracts from this reasonably informative exploration of the music and politics of the German composer.

Wagner and Me is apparently an extended version of an hour long documentary made for the BBC, and the lower production values are evident in the beginning scenes with sweeping camera shots that made me feel a bit sick. Things settle down though, as self confessed Wagner tragic Fry breathlessly introduces us to preparations for the next production of The Ring Cycle at Bayreuth – the spiritual home of Wagner and the site of his famous purpose built opera theatre.

What follows is essentially a course in Wagner for Dummies – justifiable on the grounds that most theatre-goers know little about this ground breaking composer, except perhaps that his operas are ridiculously long, and that Hitler was his number one fan. And I am always pro to any attempts to educate the masses in the magic of my favourite art form.

A narrative tension is created by the conflict between Fry’s passionate love of Wagner’s music, and the well documented facts of Wagner’s (and his heirs’s) anti-Semitism – which Fry, having lost relatives in the Holocaust of WWII, feels duty bound to explore. The documentary gets really interesting when we are shown photos of Hitler appearing at a window of Bayreuth, waving to hoards of delirious fans; and scenes of Nuremburg, where we learn that Wagner sing-alongs often preceded the famous Nazi rallies. Another powerful moment is when Fry talks to a survivor of the Auschwitz, a cellist whose survival depended on playing for officers of the SS.

Behind the scenes peeks at rehearsals, both at Bayreuth and at a very interesting looking production of the Ring in St Petersburg, are interspersed with the historic and political, but most of the music scenes are too short to be really satisfying. While  the shrieking women of the Valkyries are always a hoot, the musical  highlight is a whole scene played on piano which demonstrates the magic of the “Tristan Chord”, and the way that Wagner uses an unresolving musical motif to keep the audience emotionally on tenterhooks until the final chord – some five hours later.

Fry’s love of Wagner’s music, and his delight at being backstage in the master’s theatre, are infectious. But he sabotages identification with this enthusiasm through constant self-deprecatory remarks - “You must think I’m mad” being a common one. As well as being intensely annoying, it destroys the mood that has just been set up – maybe by some sublime music – and here we are in Stephen Fry land again. God knows we get enough of that on the box every week.

This doco could have been, in someone else’s hands, an interesting exploration of whether it is possible to separate our appreciation of a genius’s creativity from our knowledge of their politics. Unfortunately, it comes across here as lip-service by Fry to counter the criticism that his slavish devotion to Wagner’s music will inevitably provoke.

Opera Australia recently announced, to great fanfare, they will be mounting a new production of the Ring Cycle in Melbourne in 2013. If you want to know what all the fuss is about, Wagner and Me is a good place to start. But, honestly, I’d wait for the DVD.

This review appears on AussieThearte.com

Review: ... or Comparison is Violence

The Ziggy Stardust Meets Tiny Tim Songbook or Comparison is Violence
Taylor Mac
Melbourne Recital Centre
14 February 2011

Taylor Mac. Photo by Tim Hailand

I spent my Valentine's night with Taylor Mac. We didn't snog or share sparkles, but it was still so much better than V days I've spent with other men.

The last time gorgeous Taylor was in town, he was at the Famous Speigeltent with The Be(a)st of TM, and it was love at first "play" for most of the audience. He's not the best singer, musician, writer or dresser, but his refusal to let any of that shit matter is what makes him so unforgettable and so loved.

This time, the coloured glass and swaying velvet of our favourite tent was replaced by the acoustically perfect grey box of the Melbourne Recital Centre. The venue was odd, but it took Taylor a breath to remove any residual stuffiness and ensure that every chamber musician that plays there will wonder why they always leave with a bit of glitter on them.

The Ziggy Stardust Meets Tiny Tim Songbook or Comparison is Violence is Taylor's first real cabaret show and it's not too different from the personal "plays" he is known for, except there are more cover songs and a bit (only a bit) less personal material. As I feel compelled to compare, he also seems more confident as an artist. If his Be(a)st was asking if we liked him (we did), Comparison says "fuck you, I like me and that's what matters".

This cabaret is songs by David Bowie (as Ziggy) and Tiny Tim, because these were the artists that lazy (his word) journalists kept comparing him to. Ziggy because of the makeup, glitter and homosexuality and Tiny because of his ukelele. Neither is a fair, accurate or worthy comparison, but the result is finery that includes glittery tulip makeup and enough purplely-pink, colbolty-aqua and shiny-gold crochet to make my inner-six-year-old seethe and my 40-something self remember that black isn't always cool.

It also lets him blow our minds as "Starman" transitions to "Tip Toe Through the Tulips" and he reminds us that the subtext of any comparison is a criticism that we're not as special as we thing we are.

Taylor's authenticity is inspired by others but naturally incomparable. He shares stories of his favourite cabaret queens and how seeing John Cameron Mitchell's astonishing Hedwig and the Angry Inch (he was auditioned when Ali Sheedy took over as Hedwig) left him in tears as he recognised a world that was his and realised that shows, drag and life don't need to be a compromise.

There is no compromise this stage. He knows that life isn't all rainbow colour, but his black moments – like comparing AIDS to glitter – show that that even the vilest parts of life can be shine with some work. And much of his stage shines with his drag. Whereas drag is often a way to hide, he uses its extreme divineness to reveal himself and find those moments of comparison that unite an audience. He also defines drag as the personas we choose. It's rare that anyone sees our selves that appear when no one is watching, so why not make our drag as wonderful as we'd love ourselves to be.

Dammit Taylor Mac, I love you as much as I love David Bowie and John Cameron Mitchell and think of you every time I wear glittery eyeshadow.

This review appeared on AussieThearte.com

Photo by Ves Pitts

This a fabulous recent interview with him about the show.

Review: The Wau Wau Sisters' Last Supper

The Wau Wau Sisters Last Supper

the Arts Centre

2 March 2011

the Famous Spiegeltent

spiegel.theartscentre.com.au

If the Wau Wau Sisters end up in hell for being sacrilegious, well I'll be there with them. So will you if you're reading this; and the good folk who got in upstairs because the thought of going down on God or their sister was too much for their sensibilities will be looking for a loophole that gets them down below for the fun.

At The Wau Wau Sisters' Last Supper in the holy temple of the Speigel, I had my first communion wafer in many years – from a scantily clad schoolgirl with glittery stigmata. I felt almost pious. So much that I was almost jealous that one sister had Jesus coming in her room.

As the sisters say, they're not dirty; they're fucking filthy. Filthy meaning fucking hilarious, sexy as all-go-get and so taught and bendy that you really want to take them home to play with.

The last time I sat at the temple of Wau Wau, I thought their awesome acrobatics outshone their comedy and am thrilled to say that The Last Supper leaves me choking on such a statement. Their material is now as tight as their abs, but feels as free as their onstage morals.  Throw in one of the best double trapeze acts around and audience participation that left reluctant participants dancing, there's no wonder they now sell out wherever they go.

And, where can we get those Fuck Yeah undies?

This review appears on AussieTheatre.com

Review: The End

The End
Malthouse Theatre presents a Belvoir production
25 February 2011
Beckett Theatre, CUB Malthouse
to 11 March
www.malthousetheatre.com.au

Samuel Beckett said that "Words are all we have." I'm a word lover and if it weren't for theatre makers, I would have missed too much of Beckett's astonishing writing.

As Coner and Judy Hegarty Lovett showed me the painful bliss of the Beckett's Molloy novels at the 2010 Melbourne International Arts Festival, performer Robert Menzies and director Eamon Flack have convinced me that Beckett's plays are just a hint of his genius.

The novella The End was written in 1946 (originally in French), before Waiting for Godot (1953) and Beckett's Nobel Prize for Literature (1969). His first person storyteller is kicked out of an institution and back on the streets he knows too well. Conned out of his rent money, he heads to the country and finally returns to the suburbs "... beyond the stupid hope of rest or less pain". Beckett's characters are usually in despair, but they show us a light so dim that it's often uncomfortable to laugh – and Beckett wanted us to laugh.

On a bare wooden floor with a cross to mark his place, it's performed as written. Beckett's language is so compelling that the story, for all its drama, can become secondary. Reading Beckett is about the words and language and I don't hear the narrative voice when I read him.  What Menzies's remarkable performance does is turn the wordy narrator in to a character so unforgettable that the words become the music to his story.

Menzies and Flack have created a telling of The End that surpasses the words and creates an experience where the emotion overwhelms the admiration – and the admiration floods in after. This isn't a show to miss.

This review appears on AussieThearte.com

The End is in this book

Back to Booktown program released

Back to Booktown
Clunes
14–15 May

Readers and writers love a good book festival, and if you've been heading to gorgeous Clunes for the last few years, you might not want more people to know about this gem.

The workshops and talks are always worth the trip, but what excites every visitor is the streets filled with book shops and stalls. Yep, streets full of new,  pre-read and hard-to-find books – without a Kindle in sight.

Director, writer and Clunes local Tess Brady says, "Our town is building a future on books – books as valued objects, that people want to pick up and keep on their bookshelves, pass on to their family and friends and dip back into. Despite the seeming doom and gloom in the industry we do see that quality printed books will continue long into the future."

For all the current hoo ha about online shops killing physical bookshops and electronic books destroying the printed ones; we know that we still love experience of holding and reading a book – and that isn't going to change. (This is a great blog about it all.)

The workshops are already nearly sold out, but there are plenty of free talks, workshops for children (including a look at the lovely Mannie and the Long Brave Day by Martine Murray and Sally Rippin), food stalls, cafes for afternoon tea and you will go home with more of those things we put bookshelves, read on the tram and pile up next to our beds.

Guest Review: Nixon in China

Nixon in China
New York Metropolitan Opera
22 February 2011
Nova Cinema
to 3 March

Review by Josephine Giles

Cinema Nova has been showing the Met Opera in HD series since its launch a few years ago. The seasons always contain many well known and popular operas, showcasing singers, orchestras and directors that are unarguably the best of the best. But, for me, the real value of the program lies in the opportunity to experience operas that are rarely, if ever, presented in Australia.

Nixon in China is one such piece, and is a must see for anyone interested in opera, or even theatre for that matter. My disappointment at the mediocrity of much contemporary opera leads me sometimes to the point of giving up hope for the survival of the art form, but Nixon is an antidote to such despair. Long term collaborators Peter Sellars and John Adams, through their intelligent and superlatively creative treatment of a world changing event, successfully answer the perennial question “why opera?” with “this could only be an opera”.

First produced in Houston in1987, Nixon in China has taken 24 years to reach the Met stage, and this production, recorded just two weeks ago, marks 39 years to the month since the historic event of the title. Director Peter Sellars (yes, the one who was simply too big for the Adelaide Festival) suggested the subject matter to Adams and produced the premiere season. Since then the production has not been significantly altered, but progressively tinkered with to take into account changes in the cast plus the varying requirements of opera theatres around the world. This simulcast essentially recreates a 2006 English National Opera production, with adjustments made for the massive stage, expanded chorus, and the extra resources available at the cashed-up Met.

Sellars also directs the simulcast. Its seamless mix of full-stage shots and close-ups left me wondering just how many cameras it took to film this stage production in such detail – and where the hell did they hide them all? More lingering though is admiration for the absolute focus of the performers, keeping in mind that a simulcast leaves no chance for retakes if one is to blink or cough at an inopportune moment.

Running at almost 4 hours (with 2 intervals), this opera would appear to be not for the faint hearted. However my exhaustion at the end owed more to do with the emotional power of the opera than its length. Composer and conductor John Adams, with librettist Alice Goodman, has created an opera that communicates a profound humanism – not easy when you’re dealing with polarising political leaders like Richard (Tricky Dicky) Nixon, Kissinger, Chairman and Madame Mao, and Chinese Premier Chou En-lai.

As with Adams’s other masterpiece, the opera Doctor Atomic (about Oppenheimer and the Manhattan Project), Nixon in China starts with, then moves  beyond the well documented facts of the historical into a poetic imagining of the inner lives of the protagonists. It begins with comparatively theatrical naturalism, accompanied by the now familiar harmonic and rhythmic patterns of Glass inspired minimalism: the staging progressively becomes more surreal, as the music – sometimes surprisingly lyrical – takes on different flavours, including wistful references to the music of the 40s. This all culminates in a moving meditation on the nature, responsibility, and cost of power. The final scene, exploring the doubts and frailty of the leaders, all of whom were on the brink of their political or physical demise, is devastating. I would never have imagined I could be moved to tears of sympathy for such a bunch – but I admit – I wept.

Heading the cast is baritone James Maddalena, who created the title role in 1987. Now in his mid-fifties, Maddelena at times struggles with the prolonged vocal demands of the music, but he embodies the character of Nixon so perfectly it is impossible to imagine any other singer in the role. The other principals unfailingly match Maddelena’s high standards, with spectacular singing and detailed, nuanced acting.

The only criticism I have of the simulcast is the now ubiquitous interviews with the singers as they exit the stage at interval. Akin to thrusting a microphone in to the face of someone who has just swum a 1500m Olympic Final and asking how they feel, these interviews are embarrassing and cringe-making.  I just wish they would leave the poor singers alone so they can get back to their dressing rooms for a pee, or even a stiff drink, if that is what they need. I can see the Met is trying to humanise opera singers in the minds of the public, and it can be interesting to hear these singers talking in accents far removed from their stage personas. Fascinating too are the shots of backstage at the Met between acts. However, in a piece as profound as Nixon in China the interviews are a regrettable interruption of the magic created on stage.

  

This review appears on AussieTheatre.com

Do we really still care about David W?

Oh dear, Don Parties On and On and On has opened in Sydney and we have to start caring about David again. Gee, thanks super political writer  Annabel Crabb and lovely Ms TN Alison Croggon for responding.

Haven't we got better things to do? I saw some amazing shows this week and they're not getting a squillionth of the national media attention.

But then, if I'm to believe David Williamson, I'm one of "a handful of self appointed cognescenti" (dumbfucks in the more common vernacular) who want "to prevent the public from enjoying what they happen to enjoy now." 

David didn't like the Crikey.com review of his latest cash cow and told the reviewer so. And if any one needed a tall horse that week, it was a tough find, as many joined David on their own high equus.

When I first read the comments on Crikey, I thought it was a a satirical genius pretending to be a pompous, verbose playwright who was really hurting because a web reviewer didn't like his play. I was wrong as. It really was David. He even gave a formal reply (you have to be a Crickey subscriber to read it, but there is a free trial).

David, if you want to convert us who didn't break a rib at DPO, please get this voice onto the stage. If  Don and his mates chatted with such indignation and hurt, I would have been rolling off my seat and giving dirty looks to anyone who dared write a nasty pasty word about you.

We've been told, by you David, that we (anyone who didn't like DPO) are too dumb (or up our own self-important bums) to understand the satire.

Ok, so you're holding up the satirical mirror, but instead of the fluro-lit circus mirror that makes these folk look like pock-marked wobbly freaks, you've dimmed the lights and chosen one of those skinny mirrors that makes you look so good that you want to carry it around with you and insist that people only look at your reflection.

The silly old boomers Don and Kath still shag, still look pretty hot, have a brilliant house, luxury cars, an articulate grandchild who reads books and an adult son who still comes to them for advice. 

Why thank you David, yes we are lucky and would you care to join us for supper so that you can write us into your next play? We're opening the Rockford's Basket Press from the cellar and Richmond Hill cheese box will be at room temperature by 9.30.

Next thing you'll be writing about a 40-something red head who wears too much Laura Ashley (always from the half price rack), isn't keen on leaving the inner city, admits she votes Greens because it's the easiest option, gets most of her political knowledge from QandA (yes David, I saw you on it) and claims that she can tell the difference between an oaked chardonnay and an aged semillion in a blind tasting. 

Clearly the reviews didn't close the show and I suspect that anyone who chose to give DPO a miss based on my opinion, probably did so because we have similar thoughts about theatre and life (and they can taste varietal differences in plonk).

But for balance, please read what Alison, Richard and Martin thought.  Naturally, also read the ones David said were good. Here's the one from Variety and The Herald Sun is meant to be a rave, but all I could find was this one.

Of course, the above reviewers will be meeting in a secret spot later today to decide what we want to stop the public enjoying next week. I'm suggesting that cup cakes be banned from children's parties, cinema choc tops be filled with hot sand and post-sex cuddling be restricted to 60 seconds.


White people love David
DPO review
A much better boomer show on at the same time
Let the Sunshine review

Nixon in China at the Nova

A screen will never capture the experience of live theatre, but I didn't get to New York for the Met's recent revival production of Nixon in China and I was too poor to see it when the original came to the Adelaide Festival of Arts in 1992. Given I saw Einstein on the Beach in the same year in Melbourne, I've regretted missing Nixon ever since.

But the Met have been filming their operas and Nixon is on at the Nova for the next week or so. I'm excited.

The exceptionally wonderful Peter Sellars is the director and John Adam's score is a minimal masterpiece.

If you loved Tomorrow in a year at last year's MIAF and Philip Glass's operas, Nixon in China is a must.

I saw it this morning (Jo Giles is writing a review). BEST four hours I've spent in a long time. Even on a screen, it's an experience that left me not wanting to breathe in case I missed something. This is what opera is meant to be. And you get to see what the Met is like backstage. I'd see it again.

Here's some info about it.

Here's how to book.

This is the kind of production that might change your expectations of what theatre, music and opera can be.

Review: 'Tis Pity She's A Whore

 'Tis Pity She's A Whore
Malthouse Theatre
19 February 2011
Merlyn Thearte
to 5 March
www.malthousetheatre.com.au

I'm looking forward to Marion Pott's first program at Malthouse. To date, everything I've seen her direct has excited and inspired me and even if 'Tis Pity She's a Whore didn't leave me dancing in the streets, I certainly enjoyed it.

John Ford wrote Whore in the seventeenth century, not long after the popular playwright Shakespeare died.  Potts loves the complex and centuries-old language that often alienates our lazy contemporary ears and what I love most about Potts's direction is that she shows the emotional intent of the language and tells the straightforward story without dismissing the poetry and sound of the original words.

Some performers, like Laura Luttuada as Putana, shone because they spoke as if it were written today, while others suffered by concentrating too much on presenting the language or relying on the wonderful music that supported the emotional truth of work.

Potts also uses sound and music to bring a deeper emotional depth to her productions and the original music by Andree Greenwall, sound design and live music by Jethro Woodward's and the glorious sound of the wandering angel soprano Julia County ensured Whore's consistency and delicately intertwined the sounds and morality of the seventeenth and the twenty-first centuries.

I haven't read Ford's text, but know Potts cut characters and script to reveal its bones and those bones are a story about incest. The production tried to distance itself from the brother/sister romance to focus on the consequences of the taboo act and the inconsistent morality of everyone else. It's no revelation that the presentation of women as virgins, madonna mothers or whores hasn't changed too much since, neither has the double sexual standard of men and women – which is handed to the awesome Chris Ryan as a one person bogun-stud chorus.

I would have loved to see the love between Annabella and her brother Giovanni at the centre of tale. To have their romance as irresistible as teen lovers Romeo and Juliet and to make the audience hate themselves for wanting these two together, blessed by their family and loving their baby (who would have all its chromosomes). Just as Ford's world was clinging to ideas of absolute rights and wrongs – those Puritans had some impact – so is our world. Incest is an almost a universal taboo. We still joke about Tasmanians marrying their cousins and loathe to reveal any great grandparents who were first cousins. To have an audience blubbering at their deaths (of course they die) instead of feeling relieved that the problem is solved would have been a far more interesting conclusion and emotionally disturbing night of theatre.

So, 'tis pity that this Whore confirms our morality, rather than questions it – but I still look forward to the seeing whatever Marion Potts directs.

This review appears on AussieThearte.com

Photo by Jeff Busby

Review: Save For Crying

Save For Crying
La Mama
20 February 2011
La Mama Theatre
to 6 March
www.lamama.com.au

"Nice people make matter," says Luv in Save For Crying. Call La Mama NOW and book because it's beautiful and uncomfortable and funny, because it will be sold out and because it's a gut kick reminder about why theatre matters.

Angus Cerini wrote and directed Save for Crying. Cerini writes about people and lives that educated, inner-city, latte-drinking theatre goers (like me) are more comfortable avoiding, ignoring or buying a Big Issue from. He says he writes about bad stuff and what we do about it and tries to answer it in the "art stuff" he makes. Like the bad stuff in life, there isn't a clear answer and Cerini never gives ones. Instead he leaves his writing in a much stronger and more disturbing position where we question our own lives and the bad stuff we turn away from.

Walking into near darkness, it's easy to feel uneasy and also easy to distance ourselves from the action of these people in a cell who are not "one of us".   The genius of this work is how is it creeps up on us until there's no comforting distance and it has become our story.

Luv (Peta Brady), and Alfie (Ben Grant) have their share of bad stuff. They know that five dollars isn't enough for fish and chips, but they can keep it from Ratspunk (LeRoy Parsons) who "everyday he does the not nice things". Each performer is so embodied in their character that there's no time to admire their acting; so much that their "real" selves final bow is a sharp jolt back to reality.

The artistic collaboration on this work has made an astonishing script an unforgettable show. As the actors create broken souls, the design (Marg Horwell) and lighting (Rachel Burke) hide and reveal action and characters in ways that the mere words of a script can never achieve and Kelly Ryall's astonishing music and sound design is almost inseparable from the words.

And Cerini's words are as beautiful as they are disturbing and terrifying. He writes with a language that plays with word order and strips away everything that isn't needed. In the wrong hands, it could feel forced, but it sounds natural in this world. It's a language that is pure emotion and makes us feel the pain, hope and humiliation that these people are trying so hard to block from their lives, without forcing us to justify, over-think or even completely understand what's going on.

Save For Crying is confronting theatre told with humanity and guts. Don't regret missing it.

This review appears on AussieTheatre.com