criticism, Fragmentary Response

fragmentary/inadequate responses: antigone, perhaps there is hope yet, jurassica, separation street

These days this blog doesn’t see a lot of writing about specific shows. (Actually it doesn’t see a lot of writing full stop because argh.) The bulk of my show responses now end up on Triple R’s Smart Arts, where I do a regular segment with Richard Watts. In preparing for this, I usually write several pages of notes and it recently occurred to me that perhaps artists might enjoy having some of these notes made public so as to have something in writing.

I do not want to contribute to the plethora of too short reviews so I have decided to deliberately present these as fragmentary thoughts. I want to acknowledge that the one paragraph of space I will give each show is inadequate. I will reach no conclusions in this word count and form no judgements but I hope these add something to the conversation. Call them love notes. Call them whispers. Call them poorly punctuated. Call them inadequate, fragmented responses to a tiny portion of the immensely thought-provoking art this city and its artists are producing.

ANTIGONE, photo by Pia Johnson

ANTIGONE, photo by Pia Johnson

ANTIGONE

This is what I walk in with. Politics. The horror of politics without room for human dignity/compassion/awareness of suffering.

This is what I walk out with. “Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.” Anne Carsons.

This production feels urgent/relevant/pressing, cheek-flushingly/mouth-dryingly/knuckles-whiteningly so. No, not because of phrases like ‘off-shore’ (which are a direct translation from the Ancient Greek) but because this is a moment in time when grief/rage resonate. The city/state/country throbs with it. So should our theatres. This one does. Tonight, this one does.

PERHAPS THERE IS HOPE YET, photo:

PERHAPS THERE IS HOPE YET, photo: Theresa Harrison

PERHAPS THERE IS HOPE YET

This is what I walk in with. Dissatisfaction with the spectacle of large-scale circus and its audience’s manic need to clap at every moment of splendour as if to say yes/yes/i saw/you did that and i saw it/you flew high. Applause stops thought/breaks phrasing/rewards performers and audience alike for the completion of their task/concludes our emotional/intellectual investment. I also bring with me a curiosity as to how circus could speak of climate change.

This is what I walk out with. What happens when you make circus small/immediate? What is the impact on the audience of ‘chamber circus’? We see/feel/empathise with the fragility/vulnerability of their bodies. We ground the spectacle in humanity. Every joint crack/sweat drip/jaw clench is registered in our own bodies. Framed as a dreaming on climate change, this vulnerability/deliberate endangerment/repeated callousness/ignorant disregard for their own/each other’s well being becomes an analogy for humanity in all our wilful ignorance of the future and what the shattering of glass/rising of oceans will do to us all.

JURASSICA

JURASSICA

JURASSICA*:

This is what I walk in with. A memory of my grandmother’s last night of consciousness. Sitting with her waiting for morning and her children to arrive. I didn’t say “goodbye”/“I love you”. I kept thinking there would be another moment. Her last words were mine alone.

This is what I walk out with. What would it be to watch this work through a different set of eyes/hear through a different set of ears? Ones that hadn’t heard a grandparent’s last words. This work hits/stabs/strikes a place within me that makes it impossible to deny how much our viewings of family narratives are shaped by our own narratives/families.

Red Stitch’s new focus on Australian writing places freshly developed scripts on the same stage as international works with much more money/time poured into their development. A big ask. The readiness of this script/how it sits beautifully within their season is a testament to the writer and the company’s process.

Seeing a bi-lingual play presented without apology or subtitles temporarily puts the audience in the position that many migrant families exist in on a daily basis. Households with a cavernous divide running the length of the living room/an unmissable crack in the plaster/snarling gap in the stairs. Parents who came to this country to provide for/protect/shelter their children and, in doing so, sacrificed their own relationships/ability to communicate with these children.

SEPARATION STREET, photo: Greta Costello (I think)

SEPARATION STREET, photo: Greta Costello (I think)

SEPARATION STREET:

This is what I walk in with. If your understanding of children’s theatre is still pantomime, you are living in the wrong century. And the wrong city. Melbourne is bringing it.

This is what I walk out with. An acute sense of being the outsider to the story and to childhood. This work begins with a literal separation. Adults take one path and kids another. It was a beautiful analogy for parenting. We are a step out of time/behind/in front of/creating/shaping the world for them. When they step into it we sit behind glass and watch them explore its alien surface alone. We can only watch. And cry. We can do that. I did that. I cried at the bravery/curiosity of these tiny/playful explorers.

Mr and Mrs Darling and Nana rushed into the nursery too late. The birds were flown.

SEPARATION STREET, photo: Greta Costello (perhaps)

SEPARATION STREET, photo: Greta Costello (perhaps)

*I saw Jurassica on a preview night and spoke about it with the permission of the company and director. 

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