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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audience conversations, audiences, Politics, Theatre

in conversation: on richard ii, julia gillard, sexualised language and why we are so a-political

RICHARD II made me incredibly proud. I was proud that this work was being made in Melbourne, being made by an independent company, MKA, and being supported by programs like Speak Easy. Most of all I was so very proud that Olivia Monticciolo and Mark Wilson just won’t shut up. I was proud that they grabbed Shakespeare’s text with their teeth and dragged it into our ugly present. This is independent theatre at its best: vicious, dangerous, entertaining, hilarious and completely of this moment in time. Not to mention that both performers are incredibly addictive. You just want to see more. 

RICHARD II surprised, delighted and angered me at every turn. I think the quality of the dialogue that emerged from it shows just how hard these theatre-makers are working and how hard they are making their audiences work. So here is my contribution to this conversation. I grabbed two lovely young women I’d never met before and put a microphone in their faces. The two were Tori Ball and Louise Mapleston and they had plenty to say. Thank you to both these two, to Josiah Lulham for doing the introduction, to Sarah Walker WHO TYPED A THIRD OF THIS AND MADE ME INCREDIBLY HAPPY IN DOING SO and, of course, a massive thank you to Mark and Olivia. Seriously. Thank you. Keep fucking shit up. 

RICHARD II promo image by Sarah Walker

RICHARD II promo image by Sarah Walker

FLEUR: Tell me what you just saw. What happened to you just now?

LOUISE: I had a bit of a giggle and a lot of thoughts. It kind of brought me back: it was very obvious about Julia Gillard and the Labour split and I guess I hadn’t really thought about it in a long time, and it’s kind of cool now we have the space and a way we can kind of look at the whole ordeal in retrospect.

TORI: I think it was very Australian. They were so passionate, and then towards the end they were just like “Ah, we’ll just have a cup of tea and not worry about it”. I think they were really making a point about how we think about politics.

FLEUR: As in we build up to something great and then undermine ourselves?

TORI: Yeah, by just choosing to not actually follow through and do anything.

FLEUR: Why do you think we do that? What makes that uniquely Australian?

TORI: I’m not sure we’ve ever had any motivation to actually have to put ourselves out there. I dunno. I feel like for a couple of generations, it’s been pretty safe here, relative to other countries.

FLEUR: There’s been a thought that I’ve heard thrown around this year that part of the reason we are as we are as a nation is that other countries have been defined by fighting against a colonial power, whereas our defining moment as a nation was fighting for that power.

TORI: I think that’s relevant but, even though we’re still fighting for others people’s power, that moment was so long ago. I don’t know if we still identify that way.

LOUISE: I think we do. If we’re looking at the English coming into Australia and colonising things, in Richard, she [Olivia Monticciolo as Gillard/Henry] was there already. She was already there, and he was like “Fuck off bitch, fuck off bitch, I’ve already got this”, like, taking something. I think that showed the greediness, and I think it showed extreme sexism. I mean, sexism’s just everywhere, but there’s a real vocabulary of slang and words that we use in this show that really show that as well.

FLEUR: What sort of words? Say some bad words for me.

LOUISE: Oh, mate. (Laughter) Like ‘cunt.’ ‘Cunt’ is huge. ‘Fucking bitch,’ and things like that. After travelling a little bit, I’ve noticed that we definitely use those words a lot more than other countries. I don’t know if we use ‘cunt’ a lot more, but it is in a very aggressive way.

TORI: Totally. Our culture is so absurd in the way that we’re so willing to use those terms derogatively.

LOUISE: But everyone went silent when they made a joke about “Oh yeah, well my dad’s alive”. Everyone was laughing at calling her a fucking bitch and things like that. This person is right there in front of us but this guy’s already dead. Why do we have more respect for the dead than the actual humans living here right now who are being discriminated against?

Olivia Monticciolo, production photography by Sarah Walker.

Olivia Monticciolo, production photography by Sarah Walker.

FLEUR: The moment that I found really interesting in terms of the sexism was when I’d forgotten she was female. As you do, because it’s not particularly extraordinary. They started the play by saying “I have a vagina, you have a penis” so they wanted us to remember but then I just slipped back into thinking of her as a character – as a leader – rather than as a woman. Then there was the moment when he got the numbers. He started yelling, “I’ve got the numbers, bitch. Suck on that! Suck on my numbers, bitch!” And suddenly it was so overtly sexual and degrading again; inescapably man vs woman in that moment.

TORI: That’s interesting. I didn’t even think of that. For me it was more a reflection of what I think a lot of people are frustrated by: how temporary our politics are.

LOUISE: It just seems so childlike. I guess that’s the whole point is that our politics is still so child-like. It is still a whole lot of adults insulting one another.

FLEUR: I guess it reminded me of that moment in politics when you go “really? Is she still having to be the Woman Leader and not just the Leader?” Yeah. Yeah, she is actually.

LOUISE: In terms of relating it back to the story, I think it is so clever. King Henry who took over, he was seen as a decent human.

TORI: I could see it coming. The change. How the power would change but I didn’t expect the transition to the Julia Gillard thing. That was really interesting.

LOUISE: Except her dancing! That was where I went “what is going on?”

TORI: I thought that was like her day-dream/nightmare moment.

FLEUR: The lap dance moment?

TORI: With Mark dressed as Julia Gillard. Yeah.

LOUISE: And sort of oddly arousing as well.

FLEUR: Oddly arousing? I’d call that extremely arousing. Laughter. Scrap that. [Totally didn’t scrap that.]

I feel that moment was where we got to go “here is the image of this woman” and it is all butt and tits. And nose but she came out butt first. It was just reminding us, this is how this woman is portrayed. Was portrayed every day in the newspapers; every day in the cartoons.

TORI: I guess it is going to be a long time before we can talk about politics without physical differences coming into it.

Mark Wilson and Olivia Monticciolo, production photography by Sarah Walker.

Mark Wilson and Olivia Monticciolo, production photography by Sarah Walker.

LOUISE: Whenever Mark was onstage as King, it was always rather grand – spotlight and ‘look at me’ – and he had those gold pants on but it wasn’t overtly sexual or anything like that. I guess that really shows the difference between this ‘female king’ and the ‘male king’. The seriousness of it. You didn’t take her seriously but you took Mark seriously –

TORI: Even though he was acting like such a child?

LOUISE: Yeah because he had that grandeur and this authority about him.

FLEUR: Someone said to me as it ended that we in theatre have this conversation all the time: “why isn’t more political stuff happening on the mainstage?” and then we come here and this is perhaps the most political stuff I’ve seen on the stage in years.

TORI: Yeah. To represent a former political leader as they did, that’s pretty ballsy!

FLEUR: Yes and to be so in this moment! And in last year but so much of it is this week and in this moment, right down to the mention of the terror alert. Why do you think we’re not seeing more people confronting politics head on in our theatres?

TORI: Short answer? Part of me wants to say that the majority are quite disengaged by our politics. Maybe it is that the section of our demographics that are engaged are quite polarised. It is hard for them to unite to make or see something.

LOUISE: Yeah, the first thing that really comes to mind for me is accessibility. Personally I have no issues with seeing political theatre but I’m probably considered a left wing, yuppie-type. But are people going to be offended if they see these things?

TORI: It’s like “why not? Why not make this?”

FLEUR: I think that is partly about our Australian-ness. I think it comes back to what you said at the start about “oh this is a big point we’re going to make! Awww actually let’s not quite make it.”

LOUISE: Tim-tam and a cup of tea.

FLEUR: Yes! There is something there and there is something about our reluctance to show how seriously we’re taking ourselves. I’m sure this isn’t just an Australian issue but issue-based theatre has kind of a dirty name here because people go “I don’t want to be beaten over the head with an issue”.

TORI: Yet this is actually a space where people are invited to experience it in their own way. It is probably one of the best ways to talk about it.

FLEUR: Yes. It is a metaphoric space. It allows us to create the space we need for these questions.

LOUISE: I guess another risk is looking at the newspapers and larger audiences who aren’t just involved in the little Fringe niche is how they will react to it. It could potentially bring a bad name –

FLEUR: Mark has done worse.

Lou: I heard.

TORI: I just want to see it again because there was so much I didn’t have space to think about because they had so much to say.

LOUISE: I’d recommend it to my mum. She doesn’t know a thing about Shakespeare but she’d really engage with the content and the politics. She’s not particularly arty but I think she would get a lot out of this show. It would make her think.

Mark Wilson, production photography by Sarah Walker

Mark Wilson, production photography by Sarah Walker

FLEUR: And one more question absolutely to finish: could you just say your name and what you do. So like “My name is Fleur and I’m a playwright and theatre director and I fell down last week and grazed my knee and it made me feel like I was eight years old.”

TORI: I’m Tori. I’m an arts student and it was really windy when I cycled today. It was tough.

LOUISE: I’m Lou. I’m a social work student and I really love jazz music.

FLEUR: Thank you so much guys. Holy shit.

You can find Louise here, MKA here and Sarah Walker’s photography here. 

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Politics, Theatre, writing

on angry sexx, tripped, racism, feminism and urgency

It is that time of the year when I miss more theatre than I could ever possibly see. To make up for my absence, I asked two young theatre makers about their new work, why it is urgent and what Australian theatre needs more of. These are both works with such driving passion and they feel so necessary. They are born of Australian culture both past and very, very present. I’m so thrilled this kind of work is being made, even if I can’t see the blasted things. Enjoy and go see some blistering new Australian theatre. 

Rachel Perks, playwright and performer, ANGRY SEXX

ANGRY SEXX is a dark trashy comedy about the frightening places women find themselves in. It uses both spoken text that I have written and physical text devised with Bridget Balodis and the actors. It has bad dancing, pop music and very very very adult themes.

ANGRY SEXX, promo image by Sarah Walker

ANGRY SEXX, promo image by Sarah Walker

Why was this the story you needed to tell? What is urgent about it?

The other day, while waiting to start the tech for ANGRY SEXX I was sitting with fellow human being Bridget Balodis, minding our own business and having a coffee on Errols St. A man walked up to us, paused, looked us up and down and said “hello ladies.” I just stared at him- speechless. You see there is a scene in the play depicting a very similar encounter that ends very badly for the man.

This man, sensing he was unwelcome, started to walk past us but turned back to yell “You should say hello back! It’s what makes Australia a great country.” I cracked and giggled a little at the absurdity of the scene- who was this man and why did I owe him my attention?

At that point the man turned, filled with bruised ego vitriol and yelled “Fuck you, you fucking cunts!”

The whole encounter happened in the space of about thirty seconds in broad daylight outside a cafe.

A few of you will probably think I should have just said hello- that I provoked him, that I was being rude. Perhaps you’ll wonder what I was wearing that so caught his attention? A part of me thinks the same things too. And that’s why I’m making this show. Because the logic is warped, the standards are double and the lines have been blurred. Because I’m figuring this stuff out as I go and I want to talk about it. It took me a long time to adopt the name of feminist and I’m making up for lost time.

How has this production changed you?

This process has showed me the joy of true collaboration. Of working with strong rebellious and outspoken women and with beautiful, intelligent, compassionate men. It has also helped me understand what the hell a dramaturg does. Sort of.

The most challenging part of the process has been trusting my own writing. To be performing your own words, to be fighting for them and believing in them and throwing yourself off the cliff with them is hard. But it feels good when you manage it.

What does Melbourne theatre need more of?

New writing. Political choices. Stubborn attitudes. Female leadership. Laughs. 

To book for ANGRY SEXX, click here.

Fiona Spitzkowsky, assistant director, TRIPPED

The seeds for this play were planted in playwright Nick Musgrove’s brain when he was in high school, after studying Norm and Ahmed in class. No one in his class predicted the violent ending and yet everyone accepted it.

A year ago, he found himself thinking of the Buzos’ play after race relations become a major playing card in the 2013 elections. He began discussions with director Celeste Cody about the idea of theatrically ‘checking in’ with Norm and Ahmed 30 years after they first appeared on Australian stages, to see just how far we’ve come.

TRIPPED promo image by Sarah Walker

TRIPPED promo image by Sarah Walker

Last week the Australian government raised the terror alert level to high. A short time later there were massive police raids on alleged Islamic terror groups. Since then there have been multiple incidents of racially motivated violence.

Tripped tells a story that is urgent, but not just because of the events that have happened in the past week, or in the past year, or in the past thirty years. Racial discrimination, violence and aggressive masculine culture have plagued us for centuries. We need to tell this story because it’s the same story we’ve been telling all this time, and we still haven’t found a happy ending.

What have you learnt from this production? How has it changed you?

This play tells us what we already (should) know: racism is just a form of ignorance, and that extremists exist in every culture, and should not be taken as a representation of the beliefs and behaviours of the greater cohort. But what Tripped has taught me is how quickly we can allow ourselves to be distracted from underlying issues. We see two men onstage, bristling with rage and the potential for violence, but after a light moment, a moment of laughter, we relax and think that everything will be fine now that we’ve had a laugh together, not realising that the core issues are still there, ready to explode to the surface again, with dire consequences.

This is how the play is structured for dramatic purposes, but this may also be how we function in real life, how our media feeds us information: we sit through the news of war in the Middle East and raids in our cities, but it all finishes with a fluff piece so that we can continue with evenings unperturbed.

Also, I learnt that it is impossible to give prop guns to a male cast without there being a lot of hollering and dick jokes.

What does Melbourne theatre need more of?

Personally, I would say new Australian writing. It is so important to be empowering young and emerging artists by allowing them to present their voice onstage. It is empowering for the community as well, as they get to hear voices that are current and relevant to them.

But, having worked with Ezel Doruk on this project, and comparing his experiences in the industry with that of the other two (white) cast members, I would also say that we need more diversity in the stories we tell, and colour blind, yet culturally aware, casting.

To book for TRIPPED, click here

Both plays opened last night in the Fringe hub and run until September 4th. 

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conversation, criticism, My own plays, Theatre

in conversation: cameron woodhead on the city they burned, hetero-normativity, the bible, how i got it wrong

A play of mine, The City They Burned, is currently drawing to the end of a very popular Melbourne season. Overall, it has been received incredibly well by both critics and audiences but on the 9th of September, Cameron Woodhead, senior theatre critic for The Age, reviewed it. Whilst he said that the second act “stands tall among the best indie theatre has to offer”, he called the first act “intensely problematic”, saying that I sidestepped “the homophobic impact of its chief interpretation, which led to the persecution of countless homosexual men throughout history.”  So we sat down in a café to talk about it. 

The conversation was very friendly and respectful but it is hard to be both the artist and the arts writer in the one conversation. When it came time for me to respond to Cameron’s criticism I was surprised by how little eye contact I managed and I’m glad that you can’t get the awkward pauses from this transcript. It is also a strange thing to be the one to put incredibly eloquent criticism of your work on the internet for any googling festival director to find in the future but I believe that conversations such as this are vitally important to our industry. I feel very fortunate to have received such thorough, thoughtful and multi-faceted responses to this work. As with all of this blog, I hope that this contributes to the conversation regarding art, criticism and interpretation.

CAMERON: When I wrote my review of The City They Burned, I actually expected that no one would touch what I was saying with a ten-foot pole. What I’m saying is very confronting and difficult and thorny and hard to hear and hard to talk about.

FLEUR: The cast and the director are all really excited that this conversation is happening.

CAMERON: I think what artists should want is something that makes them look upon their art from a different set of eyes. It is not what artists necessarily do want; they end up wanting as many stars as possible. Art is not art unless you can read it in different ways so from that point of view it always invites conversation. If I can make the artist go “oh wait, I didn’t think about that when I wrote this piece and had I thought about it in this way I might have done things a little bit differently”… Well, that is valuable. It ceases to be a conversation when you ignore the reviews and concentrate purely on stars and tweets.

FLEUR: I’ve had a really interesting relationship with what I’ll call The Negative Review because

CAMERON: It’s not entirely negative!

FLEUR: Oh no yours isn’t! No, no, not at all!

CAMERON: Oh right! You’re talking about The Negative Review!

FLEUR: Yes, THE Negative Review as an entity. No, I really appreciate that you did separate the two halves and said “I really fucking loved this and this totally missed the mark for me”.

But I remember the first time I got a really negative review. I think I’d just somehow luckily stumbled out of university and got good reviews and I just thought that was kind of how it worked. I did Insomnia Cat Came To Stay as a development in Adelaide. I went “I’ll just do this little showing and get some good reviews and use them to put it on in a festival”. Then I got a terrible review and I was so… surprised. And devastated. Totally devastated. It had never occurred to me that I was going to get a bad review from this thing. Ah, youth.

The next one that I got was one of yours on Awake, which I hope you don’t remember.

CAMERON: What’s the show about?

FLEUR: Do I have to? Okay. Well I’ll tell you what you said because of course I remember.

CAMERON: Of course you remember! The artist never forgets.

FLEUR: Okay. You said that it reeked of hypochondria and idle hours spent on Wikipedia.

We both laugh. Quite a lot actually. Cameron even claps.

CAMERON: Did I? Did I really say that? That’s not very kind, is it?

FLEUR: But at the time I was devastated but six months later I was able to look at that review and it did change some really big things about my art, one being that I don’t direct my own writing any more and the other being that I stopped doing medical-themed shows.

CAMERON: Well it’s not that you can’t write a very good show about Fatal Familial Insomnia or –

FLEUR: Oh you DO remember!

CAMERON: Or whatever! Some vanishingly rare condition that is only suffered by three people in the entire world! But… chances are probably not.

FLEUR: But it is interesting that I’ve gone from there to sitting down with you and a microphone. But then a review said of a show I co-directed last year that it was like being stabbed to death with a potato. I thought that was hilarious and shared that quote but I’m not going to sit down and chat with him about how he thought it was like being stabbed to death with a potato because that doesn’t mean anything.

CAMERON: Well I have a bit of an issue with people who say things like that because, yes, it is highly coloured but it is not very specific. The main thing you get from a sentence like that is the reviewer drawing attention to him or herself. Everyone is going to do it from time to time. Everyone has an ego but it shouldn’t primarily be about the reviewer. The reviewer is there to talk about the art. You should do that as clearly, precisely and evocatively as you can. What does it mean? It just means he didn’t like it very much.

FLEUR: I think you’ll find it means it was like being stabbed to death with a potato.

Jessica Tanner in THE CITY THEY BURNED, production photography by Sarah Walker.

Jessica Tanner in THE CITY THEY BURNED, production photography by Sarah Walker.

Okay. So to turn to this ‘hetero-fying’ of Australian theatre – can I call it that?

CAMERON: Well the word is hetero-normativity and I hesitate to use it because it makes you sound like a pretentious Under-Grad. Look, the vast majority of the theatre that we see takes heterosexuality as a basic assumption and we deal with that. Most of the time we wouldn’t even remark on it because the vast majority of people are heterosexual. That’s fine. If it doesn’t overtly evoke a non-heterosexual theme or idea then why would you mention it? But that’s not the case with the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, which, fairly centrally invokes men who have sex with men.

FLEUR: Tell me your interpretation of that story in the Bible.

CAMERON: My interpretation of that story? It’s not really a question of my interpretation of that story. The dominant interpretation of that story through all three major monotheistic religions has been to use it to assert that male homosexual relations are wrong and are the subject of divine punishment. I’m not saying that is the correct interpretation but I am saying that is the dominant interpretation, which has been used to horrific social affect for a very long period of time. You can’t read that piece of art without being aware that this is the history: this particular story has had a very serious impact on a marginalised group of people in our society. I don’t think you would do it with any other marginalised group of people. I do not think that you would take a myth that had had a terrible effect on women or indigenous people or migrants and entirely write them out of the story and re-balance the sympathy of the thing so that a different group came to the fore. I don’t think you would do that.

What I’m interested in and why I agreed to talk to you today is to find out why you did that.

FLEUR: Okay. Do you want me to say why I – why I – um…

CAMERON: Yeah, sure.

FLEUR: Okay.

I guess a good place to start is with word ‘Sodomite’ because we deliberately left it in the script. We had a big talk about it. Danny was like “doesn’t that make people think that it is something other than what it is?” “No, because we want people to remember the history of this story but also realise that, whilst the majority of people think that this is a story about how horrific homosexuality is, the Judaeo-Christian version of the story doesn’t have that.” That’s not what the word ‘Sodomite’ originally signified. It was a city first and the Judaeo-Christian Bible doesn’t say why God is damning the city.

CAMERON: It is implied. It is implied. The Biblical exegesis from Ezekiel onwards that claim that it wasn’t to do with male homosexuality all fail. They are all apologising for the blatant homophobia of the legend. None of them deal with the fact that the men in the story at no point indicate even the slightest sexual interest in women. Any interpretation that doesn’t have homosexuality at least somewhere in there, fails to take into account a very particular aspect of the story. An aspect of the story that you wrote out.

Dushan, Scott Gooding and Kane Felsinger in THE CITY THEY BURNED, performance photography by Sarah Walker.

Dushan Phillips, Scott Gooding and Kane Felsinger in THE CITY THEY BURNED, performance photography by Sarah Walker.

FLEUR: For me it was this idea that God decides before getting to the city that these are Bad People. It is this judgement from afar. A higher power deciding that an entire group of people aren’t worthy of living. And it doesn’t say in the Bible why. They had turned away from God and God has decided that they are going to die.

I felt that it did the story a disservice to agree with that interpretation that they were all going to die because they were homosexuals. I wanted to re-claim it as the story of a higher power deciding from afar that people are bad for no clear reason. I wanted to remind people of how we now view this story but also modernise the concept of ‘evil’. [Note: For those who haven’t seen the play, our Sodom is modelled on the industrial city of Shenzhen. The Sodomites are damned because they cannot keep up with the demands of their CEO and company executives. Canaan brings in twice the revenue. They are discontinued in the most brutal way.]

There’s what I call ‘Biblical fan-fiction’, stuff written probably around 18th Century. There is this Book of Jasher (and Jasher is a lost book so it is certainly not original), which describes why Sodom was bad. It describes a traveller coming to the city and a Sodomite hits him in the head with a rock and he bleeds. The Sodomite is like “now you have to give me money ‘cause I got rid of that bad blood out of your head.” And the guy is like “I’m not going to pay you for hitting me with a rock.” So he gets taken to court and the Judge is like “yeah, you totally owe him for getting rid of the bad blood.” So that is what the 18th Century thought of as a Bad City.

Through different stages of history there have been different explanations of what made these people bad. I thought that maybe it was time to do a representation (and maybe I was wrong), which acknowledged that it never states why they are so evil that they should all be destroyed. I feel like it would do more of a disservice to say, “yeah, this is a story about how bad homosexuality is.”

CAMERON: I don’t object to it not being a story about how bad homosexuality is! How could I? I don’t want that! No one wants that! It’s the way you’ve re-written the story. You’ve created a theatrical world where homosexual desire does not exist. It doesn’t exist. You’ve got an upper-middle class dinner party with various bogan workers invited, all of whom talk about their wives and families to no great purpose. You’ve got angels who exist purely for work and don’t seem to have any kind of sexuality at all. Then you’ve got this fabulously complex vision of female sexuality played out through the daughters. I think that what you’ve said is an evasion. You can’t get out of hetero-normativity by saying that “if we’d included homosexuals it would have been homophobic.” Hetero-normativity isn’t that much better. Would you rather have rocks thrown at your head or be ignored totally? Of course you would rather be ignored totally but, all things being equal, there is a better option than being ignored totally. Why not take it?

From what you’ve created, having as complex a vision of male sexuality as you do of female would make it a stronger piece. You’ve written very strongly for the women and not so strongly for the men. And the women do have focus for a long time in act two in a way that the other characters don’t necessarily get, but if you wanted to actually horrify us… Well it (the attempted rape in Act One) erupts out of nowhere. Even the most un-desiring homosexual rape still has sexual desire in there somewhere. You don’t get it. You don’t get sidelong lusty glances from the men to the angels. It is by far the most brittle aspect of the entire performance.

As a gay man sitting there watching, I had grown up with this story. I grew up when sodomy laws were only just beginning to be repealed. It has gone from something that was reviled and criminalised to something that we now, superficially at least, accept as normal, almost in a too eager way so that we don’t have to think about how awful it was before. It is a very confronting piece to watch from a gay man’s perspective. You probably have lots of gay friends and I’m sure they will all come up to you afterwards and say “I thought that was a really great piece, Fleur” but if you put this review in front of them, they would probably say “he’s got a point.”

FLEUR: My thought with both the rapes in Act One and Act Two is that they came from a position of wanting power rather than sexual gratification. And that line of thought has been talked about through studies such as the one where they asked rapists to describe what clothes their victims were wearing and them having no idea, which points towards it being less about sex appeal and more about power. Although I’m sure they could still tell you the gender of their victim.

CAMERON: Look, I don’t buy it. I know there is a big fat movement that wants to distance rape from sexual desire and talk about it in terms of power and I think it wants to do that for a couple of reasons, some of which are genuine and some are a bit dodgy. The dodgier side of it is that it makes sexuality a sort of squeaky-clean thing and makes the act of rape monstrous. I don’t think that helps either the victim or the victimiser nor does it accurately reflect what is going on. In every act of rape there is at least one person who wants to have sex. Always.

Although, having said that, I really liked the fragment in Act Two where she [the eldest daughter] talks about her rapist crying. I thought that was awesome. I really loved that: the idea that someone is doing this stuff and is nevertheless pathetic and knows what he’s doing is wrong but does it anyway. I thought that was quite insightful and powerful. It is complex. It’s not what people expect.

Brianagh Curran and Shoshannah Oks in THE CITY THEY BURNED, performance photography by Sarah Walker.

Brianagh Curran and Shoshannah Oks in THE CITY THEY BURNED, performance photography by Sarah Walker.

FLEUR: There was Menagerie and… What was the other piece you mentioned in the review?

Cameron: Menagerie and On the Misconception of Oedipus. The myth behind Laius, Oedipus’ father, is that he abducted and raped the youth Chrysippus and everything that happened to Laius’ family – the curse, him being killed by his son and the son sleeping with the mother and blah, blah, blah – was down to this act of homosexual abduction and rape. Hardly anyone knows that aspect of the story. Homosexual abduction and rape used to be called, in the ancient world, The Crime of Laius, and it was then, as it is now, a really taboo subject. I think Tom Wright was gutless for not exploring that aspect of the story. However he made that decision and I had to judge him on the basis of what he’d done, as I had to judge you on the basis of what you’d done. You can’t stop people from making these decisions. All you can do is say “I noticed you made this decision. Isn’t it interesting that you, a heterosexual playwright, should ignore this?”

As for Daniel Schlusser’s Menagerie, don’t even get me started. Tennessee Williams’ homosexuality was portrayed as this hideous, loveless, fleeting thing. Daniel Schlusser would never have done that to a heterosexual playwright where their sexuality was integral to their work. That was one of the reasons I really didn’t like it and that didn’t come through in my review of that show but I was angry after that show.

But it’s not like I think the Melbourne theatre scene is overtly homophobic. Hetero-normativity is much more subtle than that and it comes about through an erasure, through a blurring, through an unwillingness to engage. I’m not laying down any laws. I’m saying, “this is something to be mindful of when you’re making art on subjects that invoke non-heterosexual acts, people and themes.”

FLEUR: In the last few weeks there has been The City They Burned and there has been The Sublime and the responses have been very personal to the people that responded to them. In The Sublime it was mostly the female reviewers who were the most offended and you were fine with it.

CAMERON: I don’t know if I was fine with it but I hedged my bets. I think some of the female reviewers are right to be deeply uneasy or even outraged by the way this material has been presented and performed. However, I note that some of those same reviewers looked at your piece and completely missed that –

FLEUR: But they could say the same of you though, Cameron.

CAMERON: Everyone has blind spots and that’s why it is important to have diversity of opinion. Art is there to be ambiguous, to give us a chance to bash out ideas against each other and see what falls out. The fact that works like The Sublime and The City They Burned overtly encourage that is fundamentally a good thing. You can’t really write a play that explores power and write homosexual characters entirely out of the story. That is an act of radical disempowerment in itself. There would have been ways of addressing your themes that were even more complex and challenging than what you ended up with.

As I said, I loved the second half of this piece! If the first half had been anything like as powerful and meaty as the second, I would have given it gobs of stars and told everyone to go and see it. I still said everyone should go and see it! I still think everyone should!

You’ve written a really good play. I think the review would have been blander if I didn’t think you were a really talented writer. It got to me that someone who was as talented and educated and with it as you are could come at this problem and not see that this was an issue.

Many thanks to Cameron and the entire cast and crew of The City They Burned for their passion for and belief in this work, which is robust enough for me to use it as a very public guinea pig.

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conversation, interview, Theatre, writing

in conversation: cat commander on collaboration, questioning yourself and australianess

Cat Commander is a beautiful playwright and actor. Her upcoming show, YOU TOOK THE STARS, will mark the first time that she has been the writer rather than the writer/performer/producer/everything else. It is a massive step for us as playwrights, when we first place our words into the mouths and hearts of others. Cat and I sat down over liquorice tea to talk about this new stage in her life and career.

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The first image that comes up when you google search ‘Cat Commander’

Fleur: Turning on the recorder. They are informal. The one I just typed up ends with “I’ve got to go because I need to eat some chips” so don’t feel that it’s like “NOW WE ARE TALKING!”

Cat: Okay. Okay.

Fleur: So tell me, Cat, what have you been thinking about this week?

Cat: The new sensation of what it’s like to be the playwright who is not onstage. I’ve done my job. I don’t have to do anything else. I feel like I could have done with a distraction this week to keep my mind off the fact that I don’t have anything to do.

Going into rehearsals today, I added an extra line. Maybe I did it because I felt like I needed to be involved. I also think the line needs to be there but I wonder if it was a bit of me going “argh! I don’t have anything to do and I feel a bit left out!”

Fleur: Are you loving that though?

Cat: Yeah! That’s good too! Part of me is going “oh you’re going to really miss it when you see it onstage and the people are applauding” but part of me is also going to love standing at the back every night.

Although there’s nowhere to hide! In rehearsal today, Kasha (Kaczmarek) delivered one of the monologues to me. It was this surreal out of body experience of going “I wrote that!” But it is also something I would say! So somebody has taken shit that I’ve said and is saying it back to me but making it make sense for their own brain! Kasha and John (Shearman) are such good actors. Even though I know what’s happening, I’m surprised by the way they make it real for themselves.

Fleur: Do you find your nerves different – you haven’t got to opening night – but are you actor nerves different to your writer nerves?

Cat: I actually feel pretty secure about this play because the bit that I enjoyed doing, the writing, I’ve finished. If it had gone on at first to third draft I think I’d still be panicking. “Fuck! I don’t know what this play is about!” But there was a massive jump between the third draft and the fifth or sixth or whatever this one is. I’ve figured out why I’m writing this and why I think people should see it and why I feel like it is worth of actors putting their time into. I think that is the thing I’m asking myself constantly about theatre: Why should people see it? Why should they pay to see it? Why ask actors to give up their time? I know what it’s like. I don’t want to give an actor a piece of work that’s not worthy of their time and energy.

Fleur: I’ve always thought that about your writing: what a delight it is for actors. I feel that comes from you knowing what feels good and hard to experience on stage but I hadn’t thought about it as also being this sensitivity to of what it’s like to invest months of time in words when you don’t know why you’re saying them.

Cat: I’ve thought a lot about it recently. I guess there is so much debate going on around theatre in Melbourne. So much of what gets up in Australia is largely irrelevant to us. It is overseas writing.

YOU TOOK THE STARS, promo image by Ben Prendegast featuring John Shearman and Kasha Kaczmarek

YOU TOOK THE STARS, promo image by Ben Prendegast featuring John Shearman and Kasha Kaczmarek

I was just in the States and I had someone ask me – and he was so curious and excited – asking me “what sort of theatre do you put on in Australia? What kind of plays?” And I was like “well… a lot of your plays. A lot of American plays.” And he was so genuinely shocked. “Why would you do that? Why wouldn’t you put Australian plays on?” That’s the question I keep asking myself. I’m really interested in American writing but I want audiences to experience our life on stage. I want actors to act without the falsification of using an accent. It is such a barrier to actually creating something beautiful, actors worrying whether they are getting their accent right. Or you are seeing an actor struggle with a text that’s clearly not meant to be spoken in this languid Australian accent.

Fleur: I ask those questions much more of independent companies, I must say. Why aren’t you producing local writing? It pisses me off when I see independent companies staging another production of LaBute. Look around you!

I’m sure that’s partly my ego as a local writer going “there are amazing writers here! Look! Right in front of you, fuckers! Why are you trying to make work that feels like mainstage? Why are you not digging your hands into the earth of Melbourne and pulling something out?”

Cat: But isn’t it interesting that we have this perception that it’s the funded theatre companies’ prerogative to put on overseas work and it is us, the struggling battlers that have got to put on and support our own stuff. Wouldn’t it be interesting if we lived in a world where amateur companies were going “let’s have a go at some overseas stuff” and it was the flagship companies were going “find me a new work! Let’s pump money into a writer.”

Fleur: Oh I absolutely don’t think it is the mainstage’s prerogative to produce all the overseas work! I would fucking love if one of them went “do you know what? This is our season of new Australian work.” I guess I just want independent artists to be trusting and supporting each other.

Cat: It is just a shame that we don’t have the population or the interest to support a wider range of programming from both mainstage and independent companies.

What I would really like is to have time and support to make sure it’s right before it goes on stage. To know what right feels like. I think that’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.

I think if Melbourne could do with any more theatre it would be really meaty Australian work that up there with the dramatic structure of what’s being produced on the world stage. I don’t think conventional theatre is dead. I don’t think we’re ever going to want to stop seeing two people talking to each other; being outside of it yet still part of it. You are because you’re a meter or two meters or ten meters away.

I’m learning to think more thematically. To go “if I could sum this play up in a word or sentence, what would it be? What is it really about?” It’s not about two people talking to each other. That’s not what it’s about. It’s about people dealing with anxiety and trying to make love exist in the world where love seems so fucking impossible.

Last week I was thinking about myself the way an actor might think about a playwright. If I were the actor doing this play, I would google the playwright and I would find out what had been happening in the playwright’s life. That made me think.

I lost a friend last year and that sent me into a spiral of existential l doubt and questioning stuff. That made me go “oh, the word ‘death’ comes up a lot in this play.” It is clearly about a fear of dying and love is kind of all about a fear of dying. We’ve gotta make meaning out of this weird existence of ours otherwise why are we here?

Fleur: Oh dear. I’m just imagining my actors trying to google me to figure out what made me write The City They Burned. “Well she got naked a lot then got angry at God. Hmm.” That wouldn’t work. But I keep having these conversations with audience members who are asking just that. Where did this come from?

Cat: Yeah, I’m interested to have those conversations because I’ve never had them. I’ve never had that objective conversation where it’s not about “what did you thing of me? Was I doing a good job of the thing I wrote and acted and directed and did all the fucking sound cues?” Now it will be “hey, what did you think of this thing that I helped create.” I feel like I’ve been a part of something rather than an instigator of everything. It feels a bit more like what the artistic process should be like. I’m into this collaboration thing. I’d like to do more of it.

Fleur: It is an amazing feeling. It feels like such a privilege to have all these brains focus on your work with such love. I don’t think you can do new work – and indie, unpaid work – without a lot of love. Theatre is too hard to make without love. You make it with people you are in love with.

Cat: I think there should be ferocious debate and I think you should have intellectual respect for each other. I don’t think it should be 100% yes.

Fleur: Oh it should be hard! Hard isn’t a bad thing. But find those people who challenge that challenge you because they want it to be good. They want to be part of something good and they know you can be good.

Cat: The thing that I like about indie theatre is that part of the process is me cycling to South Bank on a Saturday morning to pick up some monkey ears from an old friend. “You’re a drag queen! You know how to sew! Why don’t you make me some monkey ears?” And there are probably lots of people who could have done that but, again, I want to be working with people I like. And people who make them regardless of the fact that I don’t reply to emails because I’m totally strung out and have no idea what’s going on right now.

That’s why I can’t do Tinder. People go, “you’re a writer, you should be really good at that!” No! I’m good at writing both the voices! When I don’t know what the other person is going to say I’m like “No! No! I don’t want to be a part of this!” You’re expecting me to give you the part of my brain that I’m using for the thing I care about! Anyway. That’s the next play, clearly. How much I don’t care about relationships. You Took The Stars is a play about how I’m really interested in them and now it is like “I’m completely disinterested because I am burnt the fuck out.”

Fleur: Well that’s a way to end it:

But, you’re fucking excited! You’re about to have your play open! How does it feel?

Cat: I’m over the moon. I couldn’t be happier.

Fleur: Congratulations. That’s really special.

Cat, Kasha, Matt Furlani and John, photographed by Ben Prendegast

Cat, Kasha, Matt Furlani and John, photographed by Ben Prendegast

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Dramaturgical Analysis, Theatre

on dogs in space and baying for blood

Melbourne Fringe Part The First

Please note: these are not reviews. They are responses to work. However, the artists may use these words however they please. Know that I am always up for a discussion and I thank you all for creating your work. 

Laika and Wills, she said productions

It always takes me a few shows to adjust to Fringe. The lo-fi, we-have-a-ten-minute-turnaround-and-four-par-cans-ness of it all. Some shows thrive. They have been conceptualized from the very beginning for just these parameters. They embrace the noise-bleed and if you offered them another ten lanterns they would probably say ‘thanks but no thanks’. Their vision is perfectly articulated by the Lithuanian Clubs cream walls or cackling laughter drifting under the door.

Laika and Wills is not one of those shows and that is fine. They have dreamed big. They are trying to encompass the entire night sky with nothing more than words, some strings of hanging balls, six lighting states and movement confined to a 1.5×3.5 meter stage. That is fucking hard to do. This show is in its very first incarnation and its creators she said productions’ Penny Harpham and Seanna van Helten have plans for it to grow with every stage of its development. They are talking site specific performances, roving through planetariums, animation and touring.

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I longed for a space that could give their words the expanse they needed. With such dense poetic language, the audience needs room for their imaginations to let rip. I feel this could be achieved either by giving them more (as she said productions plan to do, and I think site specific in a planetarium sounds fucking amazing) or giving them much less: by completely embracing the parameters that they have for this season and using it simply as a chance to deliver and refine some truly beautiful words.

The script is buzzing with ideas – big, big ideas – and is thick with research. It contained stunning imagery that will stay with me for some time (Australia being discovered because of a roving celestial body made me smile maniacally because I am a science fangirl) but I hope that in its next incarnation the ensemble brings on board a ruthless script editor. As someone who also loves research, I appreciate the desire to encompass so much into one story but sometimes you need to kill your babies, particularly your well-researched babies. As Patricia Cornelius said at a workshop I attended last year: “Theatre isn’t interested in accuracy; it’s interested in truth.”

I applaud Laika and Wills for its magnitude and for the scope of its dreamings and for its willingness to offer up such a new work. I will eagerly await the continuation of this project.

“(Listen) to what the heartbeat of a play is and… clear the terrain around that heartbeat.” Dramaturge Chris Drummond, 2012

Too Many Weapons: Kids Killing Kids, presented by MKA and Q Theatre Company

(Warning: some of the show photography that I have included from Battalia Royalle is very graphic.)  

I also want to briefly write about Too Many Weapons’ doco-theatre Kids Killing Kids . It is an excellent reminder of just how dangerous making art can be. Particularly inter-continental artistic collaborations. In 2011, four young writers from Canberra, spent six weeks in Manilla adapting a cult Japanese novel for Sipat Lawin. They handed over the script. They flew home and things got “well and truly out of hand.”

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As theatre makers we long to make noise. We long to make people have a truly visceral response and Battalia Royalle got that in spades. The work was seen by more than four thousand people. Four thousand people were splashed with blood and nearly all of them bayed for more. When the audience was offered the chance to save ‘Timothy’ they fought for the chance to shoot him in the back as he fled.

I applaud Too Many Weapons for not retroactively justifying themselves. It would be so easy with hindsight to say ‘yes, yes, that is exactly what we meant, that is what we were saying’! Instead, they let us see their bewilderment as their bloodbath became a cult hit. When the performers asked repeatedly ‘why are we doing this? Why here? Why now?’ they did not have a good answer and still do not.

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I doubt I could have stomached Battalia Royalle. I must admit that I hope I couldn’t stomach it. It would shake my sense of self if I could endure the whole thing and, if I found myself baying for blood I would be truly horrified. But I am a white Australian woman who can barely watch horror films. That’s what being raised without a TV does for you: I no ability to understand violence as fiction. That is part of my identity. It is part of the mythology I tell myself about who I am. I don’t want to be disproved.

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I couldn’t help but remember a conversation with Black Lung Theatre And Whaling Firm ensemble member, I think it was Thomas Henning, after a performance of Doku Rai: You, dead man, I don’t believe you, created in collaboration with Timorese theatre companies Galaxy and Liurai Fo’er. We asked Thomas if they had performed in Timor.

Yes, they had.

How did the Timorese audience differ from their Australian counterparts?

They laughed. They laughed the whole time. Every time the dead man was killed, every painful death they read as comedy.

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Death means something different in a country of civil war. So does art. So does processing. So does forgiveness. I have no answers after seeing Kids Killing Kids, only more disturbing questions and a snarled reminder: Artists, ye be warned.

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