White Rabbit, Red Rabbit - Street Theatre

 Nassim Soleimanpour's play is an intriguing experiment. The title itself refers to an experiment that's described in the course of the play - one about conformity and group behaviour. And in many ways, that's what this is - an experiment in conformity and group behaviour. One that's being played on the audience as well as the performer.

In many ways, this most resembles Boho Interactive's "Word Play" from last year - also an experiment, with some intriguing moments - though White Rabbit Red Rabbit definately sustains its experiment better, largely by letting the experiment be two-sided - the actor is as much unprepared for what's coming as the audience. 

Performing tonight was Eliza Bell, whose departure from Canberra has been noticed and somewhat lamented (she's so very good). Performing cold without having ever read the material, she remained engaging, engaged, emotive and true. 

I do think Soleimanpour's script is a little ... manipulative. But I would say that. I'm the rabbit being experimented on. There are a few more experiments running before the week is out and ... if you don't mind something that's going to stretch you a little, you can join Nick Byrne, Raoul Craemer or Kat Bhathena and get experimented on a little.

The Government Inspector, Belvoir/Malthouse

This is just plain funny. It's hysterical. And to say why, to summarise, is to give away large chunks of the jokes. No, it does not bear a lot of resemblance to Gogol's play ... although, having said that, it does eventually veer back towards the ostensible source material - but as a pure, unadulterated comedy, this plays incredibly well.

It's not obvious that this should be the case. Simon Stone's productions from "Thysestes" to "Hamlet" have, occasionally, had their moments of bitter humour, but this is an entirely different beast - a spoof of actors, of the haphazard process of creating theatre, and the hopes that somehow, somewhere, it'll all work out okay on the night.

The cast, too, aren't always noticeably comedic actors. Robert Menzies, who's strength at playing serious, haunted, tragic figures is undeniable, translates his mournful nature into hilarious pessimism. Greg Stone, so disturbingly moving last year as Polonius, takes the hysterical perskittiness in a different direction. Mitchell Butel, Gareth Davies and Zahra Newman have more recent comic form, but push their comic personas in intriguing new varieties in several new directions.

Does it compromise by not bringing across Gogol's original? Well, yes and no. The political satire of Gogol's play is pretty minimal, really - it's about how the easiest way to fool people is to make sure they want to be fooled in the first place. And that carries through in this new variation on a theme - while letting the comedy reign free and wild.

Very recomended.

Witches of Eastwick, Supa, ANU Arts Centre

John Dempsey and Dana P. Rowe's musical of John Updike's novel (via the George Miller-directed film) was a late period Cameron Mackintosh production (he's only produced one new show since, the stage version of "Mary Poppins", co-produced with Disney). It's an odd piece in may ways - a cross-breed between the English mega-musical with big power ballad sings and spectacular effects and the American history of musical comedy with jokes and bouncy chorus numbers.

In Supa's production, it plays largely as a vehicle for five of the leads - the three titular witches,  with Louiza Blomfield suitably earth-mothery as Alexandra, Vanessa de Jager all fluttery nerves as Sukie, and Kelly Roberts acidly sarcastic as Jane; plus Jarrad West as the darkly compelling man they conjour into town, Daryl Van Horne and Michelle Klemke as the interfering gossipy busybody Felicia who acts as their nemesis. All are cast to perfection - the three witches in particular harmonise gorgeously under Rose Shorney's musical direction. The chorus makes a good collective, too, on numbers like "Dirty Laundry" (although I do think some of the dancing comes on a bit as "we need dancing here" rather than anything particuarly expressing plot or character).

If the material starts to derail shortly after halftime, it's largely the material that's at fault - the three witches lose their individual personalities and become an unidentified clump, the show really misses Klemke after she leaves, plus the plot developments come a bit too fast and unclearly motivated. But the company remains game for it and rides out the messier plotting before a big female empowerment ballad finale (with unfortunately cliche-ridden lyrics).

Production-value wise, this is a pretty reasonable production. I quibble with the costumes for two of the trio at the end of Act One (I know it's a challenge to stick a flying harness under a big flowing dress, but they've managed it for Kelly Roberts so the other two are entitled to something a bit better too). Shorney's orchestra is as solid a combo as one could wish for.

In short, this is a fun, lush evening out with five great cast members at the top of their game and a delightful ensemble supporting.

For departed heroes.

In the last month, three theatre-related people I know have passed away. Two of them I knew well, and I'll memorialise them (I didn't know Jasan Savage well, so I feel inadequate in memorialising him.)

James Waites took his last swim at Coogee Beach on 12/2/2014. I met him only a year ago, though I'd been reading his work much longer than that. I read his contentious run of reviews on the Sydney Morning Herald and The Bulletin, and I started reading his intermittent but fascinating writings on jameswaites.com, and occasionally entering into the brawling in the comments. It was one such contact in the comments where I mentioned I wouldn't be able to see the sold-out Canberra season of "The Secret River" ... where James kindly contacted me and offered me a ticket if I was prepared to host him for a night. I did, we saw it, the review is on this site for anybody who cares to read it ... and we had extensive conversations about theatre, about life, about what he'd seen and experienced, about the world he'd lived through, his current work recording interviews for the National Library, about his involvement with Mardi Gras and about, inevitably, his health problems. I later got a chance to drop round his place in Surry Hills a few times, and to host him again for the July production of "Hipbone Sicking Out". He mattered hugely to me.

Naoné Carrel I'd known for over 7 years. It probably comes as no surprise to readers of the blog that, yes, I do have an association with Canberra Repertory. And Naoné is a key reason why that association went from "vaguely liking their shows and appearing on stage finally in one of them" to "ending up doing all kinds of things with them from crewing to front of house to a brief run of set building". She spread the invitation gratefully and made it impossible for me to consider anywhere else my natural Canberra Theatre home. She engaged, she cajoled, she occasionally micromanaged but she cared deeply and fiercely. Losing her is a loss that will undoubtedly be shared by many.

Once in Royal Davids City, Belvoir

Michael Gow's latest play returns to the autobiographical strain that he's used with "Furious" and "Toy Symphony", though this time he's renamed his protagonist and turned the anger down a little. An exploration of grief, of how and why we tell stories, of Brechtian epic-theatre and of simple moments of compassion, it's an intriguing 100 minutes, though not, as it currently stands, completely satisfying.

The play is very dependant on the lead performance by Brendan Cowell, and I found him a little bit ... disengaging here. Much of the play is his extensive rants on theatre and politics, and this would appear to require a more full-blooded performance than what Cowell serves up. He's sardonic and witty as the dialogue requires, but a bit more heat would have helped an interesting collection of ideas turn into something more emotionally engaging.

The rest of the cast appears in what amounts to brief cameos. Helen Morse as Cowell's mother has fire and energy in her early performances, but then is confined to bed in a coma and can offer nothing more. Tara Morice is wonderfully entitled as a private school teacher who insists "socialism doesn't matter any more", but ... again, her character disappears shortly afterwards.

In short, I felt like I was offered appetisers and I wanted a full meal from this one.

Steel Magnolias, Canberra Rep

Robert Harling's comedy/drama is a gift to actresses. It's incredibly funny (the number of highly quotable one-liners would fill up multiple pages) but also strongly emotional, and manages to capture six rich characters living wildly different and intriguing lives over four scenes located in one Louisiana Beauty Salon. It's no wonder the play went from first production in 1987 to a much-beloved film two years later, and just as obvious why it'd be revived frequently all over the world.

Jordan Best directs a production that does honour to the text. There's a couple of shaky points, which I'll get to, but by and large this is a show that brings the laughs and the tears in equal measure, and keeps an audience engrossed for two-and-a-half hours.

The heart of the show is the sometimes testy, but ultimately loving, relationship between Shelby (Nell Sipley) and her mother, M'Lynn (Karen Vickery). And this heart beats strongly. Shipley is warm, impetous, determined and brave, and it is impossible not to take her to your heart. And Vickery delivers a goddamn powerhouse performance - I've not seen her on Canberra stages before and now I want to see her frequently. She brings heart, soul, style, wit, charm, and devastating passion as required.

The best lines of the show go to Clairee (Liz Bradley) and Ouiser (Judi Crane) - and both bring their best one-liners out hilariously - Bradley as the ex-lady-mayoress finding new joy in a new career later in life, Crane bringing her curmodgeonly best as the ever-cantankerous Ouiser. There is a slight case of wobbly accents and wobbly lines here and there with both, but hopefully this was opening night nerves and will settle down shortly.

As the two employees of the salon, Truvy (Rose Braybook) and Annelle (Amy Dunham) are slightly backgrounded in this production - Dunham as the newcomer gets a bit more to do with hilarious naivety and social ineptitude (she's even that rare thing, an endearing born-again-Christian) while Braybook is likeable and charming.

Michael Sparks' set is a beauty, with plenty of clever little details (the back window, for instance, isn't in the text but adds humour and style to the show). Emma Sekuless' costumes are mostly smart and stylish (although the costumes in the final scene for Bradley and Dunham seem to be slightly out-of-kilter - they're a little too "ridiculous fashions of the 80s" for a production that's otherwise in-period but not in-your-face about it). In a show where hair is vital, Charles Oliver and Penny Vaile's work is spot-on and makes Truvy's work look great.

In short, this is a great launch to Rep's 2014 season, combining lots of laughs and just a few tears for a charmingly loveable production.

Oedipus Schmoepidus, Belvoir

Back for another year ... and it's with a bit of a conundrum. Because advance notice from the various critics was that this was a horrible, self indulgent wank of a piece that would have me despairing of my choice to take up another Belvoir subscription for the year.

And certainly, there's the potential for wank in abundance here. The setup is that this is an attempt to examine death through the examples of the major works of the western canon of great writers - Aeschylus to Wilde, Chekhov to Voltaire. And to see what great truths these works can reveal to us. The writers are a collective called post, made up of Zoe Coombs Marr, Mish Grigor and Natalie Rose, who describe themselves in the second line of their bio as "straddling live art, theatre and contemporary performance practices". I can practically hear rat in the ranks screaming "shoot me now".

Which, by coincidence, is exactly how the show begins - with Marr and Grigor both shooting themselves in the head (with appropriate amount of splatter). And then getting up, to repeat the process of death with daggers, swords, poisons, neck-cracking, hand amputation and other brutal methods, over and over again. It very quickly gets ridiculous, like a live-action warner brothers cartoon - repeating patterns of mutilation over and over again. Ending with a bang, we move on to a long, slow cleanup - then we meet the volunteer performers.

An ensemble of somewhere around 20 performers, the volunteers have had three hours worth of prep and are reading their lines from screens stuck up above the audience - sometimes in unison, sometimes solo. They act initially as a greek chorus as Marr and Grigor discuss the insights that might be able to be gleaned from the great works of the western canon - except they never get around to providing any acutal insights, instead being bogged down in increasingly ludicrous similes and diversions. Meanwhile the chorus get to do all manner of odd things - from walking through reciting a line, to demonstrating what death might look like, to wearing silly costumes, to dancing.

Needless to say this is a very odd evening. But it's not unproductive - the general spirit is a sort of larrakin absurdism. And of course, nobody can really tell you what death is like - the very point of death is its finality, that nobody can report the exact experience from the inside, even the greatest and wisest men of the western canon. But in the meanwhile ... it's possible to extract enjoyment, silliness, and moments of delight, even in the face of our impending demise.

I found this sorta inspring, entertaining and diverting. And it delivered something that I doubt I'll see much like any time soon. If you were going into this for any greater depth ... you were going to be disappointed,and perhaps this accounts for the hostile reviews elsewhere. But, dammit, I liked it.