The Lewis Trilogy

Saw The Lewis Trilogy at Griffin Theatre today. Of course it was good. Context alone makes it worthwhile.

I’d intended to see it on Saturday, to avoid the final attentions it might receive, but circumstances (ie, laziness, and a pretense of saving money) rendered that not an option as the entire run sold out while I was dithering. The page open in my internet browser, and a random refresh a couple of days later, and I scored Sunday tickets. (I wonder if I bypassed a waiting list that they were spruiking…)

This, the final performance of the three plays. This, the final performance of the Griffin Theatre as it currently stands. To be demolished come 9am tomorrow. (Not likely true, but dramatic.) Renovated. Spruced. A lift being added. Rehearsal space in the ground below. 36 extra seats. A popcorn machine in the foyer.

Back in 2026.

The day was filmed, as per the request of Posterity, so if I ever become something worth trawling through archives for – serial killer would be the easiest option, playwright a distant thirty-seventh – look for the aloof individual focused on a book in the corner, or on the footpath. Also look for me in a cloud of purple confetti as we feted the final moments at the conclusion of it all.

A man asked me if I was from the Phoenix Theatre (never heard of it), was surprised I wasn’t, and told me I had a very familiar face before darting back into the crowd, right before the last play. Clearly my doppelganger is out there being more successful than I am.

The program, slightly cheaper than the STC programs currently, was better. What a change from the gold coin donation they used to be! Clearly the one time I designed a program of theirs, at their request, many years ago (after one of my State of the Program addresses) has flowed on. Definitely it. Clear cause and effect. Ignore the ten year gap.

At the end of the second play of the trilogy, Cosi, Lewis is called upon to turn out all the lights in the old theatre the asylum is using. Reminded me of the end of The Habit of Art. Caught myself not bursting into tears then and there. That old Pixar poignancy of moving on in a melancholic key, yes?

The playwright was in attendance, as presumably were a hundred other important people, going by what the foyer talk was like. You couldn’t swing a cat for the amount of productions people were saying they were working on.

COVID, then work, had stopped me being able to get to Griffin Theatre except for on the occasional weekend, for the past while, so this was the first time I’d been in many years. (I loathe weekend train trackwork.) I forgot the gem it was. The inspiration it provides. I’ve no idea if it is the London equivalent, but I’m booked in to see Giant at the Royal Court come September.

I’ve been writing something, dear reader. Hush hush and all that. I shall continue with renewed vigour tomorrow.

Review: The Duel

The Duel, adapted by Tom Wright (from The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky).

The Duel - Title Page

But as tradition dictates, before I spelunk into the depths of the play I must first review the accompanying program.  And it’s slim pickings today – if you were a homeless person and hovered outside theatres to find discarded programs that you could use as fuel in your trashcan heater…well, perhaps you shouldn’t hang around Wharf 2.  Partly because the program is just one piece of cardboard, partly because you wouldn’t want to offend the sensibilities of the theatre audience, especially in their visually impaired state as they stagger out of the darkened auditorium.  Above is the title page, with the character looking up at the “Gold Coin Donation” box that the stack of programs was placed underneath.  Most people would place a $1 coin in the box, but I dropped a $2 coin in – this unbridled generosity absolves me from having to adopt an African child for the next ten years.

Happy Bloomsday! and Word #1

Happy Bloomsday!

What is Bloomsday?  Why is it on the 16th June?  These are questions that I, having spent a minimal amount of time researching, discovered today.

Bloomsday is a celebration of James Joyce, and his most famous novel, Ulysses.

James Joyce - is it me or is he cross-eyed?

Why the 16th June?  That was the date of Joyce’s first outing with his wife-to-be, Nora Barnacle, when they walked to the Dublin village of Ringsend.  Although with a name like Nora Barnacle, one wonders whether it wasn’t a leisurely swim down the river rather than a walk.

And that’s all you need to know about Bloomsday.  Now go forth and celebrate!

What am I doing to celebrate this event, this highlight of the Gregorian calendar?  I pulled this from the shelf:

That says "Ulysses", for those of you who do not have superior vision capabilities

I flipped through it quickly, then promptly put it back on the shelf.  I have far too much to read to bother tackling the apparent monstrosity that Ulysses is at the moment.  But I think we can all agree that I did my part for Bloomsday.

I also finished reading Rock ‘n’ Roll by Tom Stoppard yesterday, and have to say that I wasn’t all that impressed.  It definitely pales in comparison to some of his more famous works, which gives one hope.  It’s good to know that supposed “geniuses of the modern theatre” get things wrong from time to time.  I do realise that reading a play is quite different from seeing it on the stage, but even so, Rock ‘n’ Roll seemed to fall short.  And I’m stopping there, because I’m not saying anything particularly intelligent about it at the moment.

This blog post is quite short, though, and so to fill up some space (the space left by my creativity that has packed up its bags and gone on holidays today), I decided to bring the audience’s attention to a wonderful new word that I discovered today; a word I discovered after a long and perilous trek through a forested wilderness known as the dictionary.  (There was no dictionary involved at all, actually, but it sounds nerdier/cooler/dangerous/awe-inspiring if I describe it as I did.)

The word?  Pandiculation.

Pandicu-what?  How dare you call my mother such a bad name!  Apologies, sir or madam, I didn’t mean to offend.

It actually refers to the action of “stretching and yawning” – it isn’t a stretch of the imagination to guess what I’ve been doing for a sizeable majority of my day today, is it?  Indeed I was considering how pandiculatory I was today as I pandiculated after seeing an actor on TV in the throes of his own personal pandiculations.  But this story of mine is a bit pandiculate-worthy, so I will cease telling it.

Happy Bloomsday again!

Letter #1: To Belvoir Theatre

To Whom it May Concern at Belvoir Theatre,

After seeing your production of “The Man From Mukinupin” recently, I was moved to buy a season ticket from your fine establishment.  Your website, both functional and pleasing to the eye, provided me with a wide variety of options and packages, all of which impressed me greatly.  Please forward my compliments to the individual/team who were responsible for the creation of that visual feast.

After I had visited your site and booked, through the wonders provided by this revolutionary age of telecommunications, a season ticket, I felt a keen sense of satisfaction at “having done my bit”, if you will, for supporting the arts and all that that entails.  I am a keen supporter of the arts, as anyone near to me will happily inform you (during business hours, and after having made an appointment with their secretary).  Why, just the other day I was squirting my pet of the feline persuasion with water after I caught him red-pawed with his claws all over the lounge, and that combination of two parts hydrogen to one part oxygen happened (you may not believe this, but it was a complete coincidence I assure you) to fall haphazardly onto a piece of paper that was on the lounge at the time.  I was furious – here I was, giving food and shelter to this animal, and now, in the process of disciplining it, I had ruined a perfectly good sheet of A4 paper!  I think it will require no stretch of your imagination to empathise with this situation.  But upon further inspection, I noticed the pattern of droplets were quite pleasing to the eye, in much the same way that your website was.  I realised that what I had here was Art!  So I picked up my cat and gave him a treat to reward him for his artistic endeavour.  I think this example clearly demonstrates my enthusiasm towards the arts.

However, much like the path to your famous “Upstairs Theatre”, it is taking a long time for me to get to where I’m trying to go.  I shall strive to cut down the digressions for the rest of this letter – I realise that you are a busy person, and do not wish to take more of your time than is absolutely necessary.

Less than one week after I ordered the aforementioned season ticket, I received it via the “snail mail”, as the young people call it nowadays (a somewhat disparaging term if you ask me, to compare those valiant mailmen and women, who risk life and limb and deliver rain or shine, to Gastropoda).  Like a person who, having passed away and having bequested a winning lottery ticket to a close family member, looks down on this relative from heaven as they discover the ticket, you can imagine my surprise and delight!

I spared no time opening the envelope, and as I teared at the top, the contents spilled onto the table I was sitting at, revealing to my oculars in a flourish many colourful cards and tickets – I can assure you this was the highlight of my day so far!  However, my day was to take a very rapid downward turn, much like an inebriated audience member attempting to navigate their way out of your Upstairs Theatre.  Gird your loins!

The first thing I saw was this:

Letter of Welcome from Belvoir Theatre

While I can appreciate the sentiment supposedly displayed here, and can naught but agree with the size of moniker and the importance attached to it, the word “shoehorn” comes to mind.  I cannot help but feel that while you aimed for a “personal touch”, you nevertheless ended up shoehorning my name, and hence any semblance of valid emotion, into the form.  Not only that, the poor grammar displayed in the first line of this message is disappointing: “Welcome to Company B! Adam,” is two sentences, when it should be one.  I am not usually this pedantic, but just like sandpaper drawn against the skin, so did your grammar rub me the wrong way.  I would request that a replacement form hastily be sent to me with corrections to the problems I have brought to your attention.

One of the options I selected was a “book of program vouchers”, which your organisation generously provided at a rate that was a proper fraction less than the original cost had I not otherwise purchased such a book.  You must realise my surprise at finding that inside the envelope there was no book – indeed there was no piece of paper bound to another in a fashion such as you would find in a bookstore.  I was most distressed.  Fortunately I found these cards:

Program Voucher from Belvoir Theatre

If you had installed security cameras inside my house without my knowledge, and had been watching me, you would have certainly seen my visible relief!  After duly reading the card, and flipping it over as shown below, I realised that these were the vouchers that I had been searching for!

Program Voucher from Belvoir Theatre - Opposite Side

But what else could I expect from a company so valued in Sydney for its artistic merit?  Enormously chuffed, and ecstatic at the art that had been posted to me, I continued my search through the other items scattered on the table.  The next thing to pass through my hands was this confusing card:

What is it?

I was paralysed.  What was the meaning of this card?  The program voucher had requested me to “Read Me”, which I duly did, and here was another card requesting that I drink it?  Perturbed could not begin to describe my emotional state.  My entire life, society had taught me, and confirmed constantly, that you were to drink items that were liquid – not cardboard.  But because I was so taken by the artistic allure of your previous card, I decided there must be a valid reason for this puzzle, this cardboard Pandora’s Box, this tree pulp of a Rubik’s Cube, that I held in front of me.

First I tried to drink it in its original form, placing the card in my mouth and trying to swallow – however the peristalsis had no chance to take effect, as the width of the card prevented its entrance into my oesophagus.  I am not one to surrender to a challenge so easily, however!  The next port of call was the blender, sitting in prime position on my benchtop, as I use it constantly to blend a variety of fruits and vegetables in such a way that it becomes easy for me to drink them, thus providing a constant source of dietary fibre that, in combination with a healthy dose of cereal every morning, helps to keep me regular.  Into the blender the card went, and with the protective lid placed firmly on top, was shredded to pieces.

This would not do, however, as I still could not swallow the pieces well – the moisture in my mouth having disappeared at the most inopportune of moments.  I resolved this by adding water to the blender, and after combining that with the remains of the card, I had at my disposal a yellow concoction reminiscent of urine (though of course I knew it wasn’t!).  It took much willpower to drink the potion, but after pinching my nostrils shut, I managed to consume it in its entirety.  Success!

I then sat at the table waiting for the Art to happen.

A minute later, Art happened in the most explosive way possible – my gastric juices contriving to expel themselves from my body, at great velocity, via my nose and mouth, the table in front of me covered with it, my cat being saved from the torrents only due to its fast reflexes.

As the retching subsided and I gathered my thoughts, I reflected on what had just happened.  I had never had such a violent reaction to Art before, and the severity of the violence was, to be frank, quite intimidating.  But as I previously mentioned, I am nothing if not a supporter of the arts, and so I took it in my stride.  On the table, next to part of the dinner I had eaten earlier, I saw this:

More Art

It was another card, just like the one I had experienced moments before!  Recalling my art history, images of past times where certain forms of art were shunned, were not accepted originally, and had to be fought for, flashed through my mind.  There was no way that I would allow myself to be one of the naysayers!  Back to the blender I went, card in hand, and after half a minute or so, I had once again another concoction, this time looking suspiciously like a blood transfusion.  Down the hatch it went – my enthusiasm for the Art making the process easier and quicker than before.  I waited.

The cat wasn’t as nimble as before.

As I cleaned the juices that were dripping off my feline friend, I recalled reading on your illustrious website about “complimentary drinks” that came with purchases of season tickets, so I am in no doubt that my method of ingestion was correct.  I do not, however, understand how you can legally distribute such foul items, let alone what artistic purpose they serve.  I demand an explanation!

If an explanation does not come from your office forthwith, I shall be sending a legal representative to your fine, if somewhat misguided, theatre to personally acquire one.  I am willing to give your company the benefit of the doubt in this situation if you are willing to cooperate, otherwise I feel that a trip to the ombudsman would not be out of the question.  I suggest a review of your bar and the various drinks that it sells would show a sagacity on your part that seems to be crucially missing at the moment.

Thank you in advance for your attention to this matter,

Adam (concerned citizen and proven supporter of the Arts)

PS: I look forward to attending your production of “Ruben Guthrie” later this month, so hopefully we can resolve this issue such that there will be no awkwardness between us before the performance.

Review: When the Rain Stops Falling

I mentioned that I was going to see When the Rain Stops Falling here and here, and so here is the review promised, including a review of the program.  Where to begin…how about the cover?

When the Rain Stops Falling - Cover

Now then, what have we got here?  The right section is the first page you see (unless you’re Japanese or Arabic and read your books backwards, but in that case, what are you doing reading an English book?  Stick to your own damn language!) – it’s quite a nice design, very foreboding, very dark, very brooding, very in-search-of-a-capital-letter.  On the left we have an advertisement for Audi, principal sponsor of the Sydney Theatre Company, because nothing says “Sydney Theatre Company” like a bunch of Bavarian mechanics, does it?  Lederhausens were not part of the dress code, though.  Shall we open the program?  Let’s.  The performance doesn’t start for a few minutes.

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 1 and 2

Here we have some brilliant advertising.  On the left, an advertisement for “First Class Private Suites” on Emirates flights, the model reclining on what looks to be an extraordinarly comfortable lounge/bed, in stark contrast to the buttock-destroying seat you have to endure in the Opera House.  On the right perfume is advertised, “Chloe”, and though I had no idea at the time what aromatic delights Chloe would provide, the woman next to me had obviously fell under the influence of some similar advertisement, my olfactories taking the full brunt of the wafts emanating from her.  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 3 and 4

Watch company on the left, Vacheron Constantin – apparently he was 36 when Mozart composed the “Magic Flute”.  And this makes the watch more attractive how?  Because it’s old?  Oh right, the theatre was full of people from the 18th century…now it makes sense.  On the right, Adshel, that wonderful company that has provided bus stops around the city.  Mentioned in the ad is the term “water-harvesting and solar-powered street furniture”.  When was the last time you saw a water-harvesting, solar-powered chaise lounge on the street?  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 5 and 6

Two page brag about what the Sydney Theatre Company has “going on” and “coming up”.  The “coming up” section is just regurgitating what is on their website and in their brochure.  (“Coming up”/regurgitating?  Get it?  Bah.)  Background colour is cream to give the impression of recycled paper so as to cater for the environmental sensitivites of the audience.  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 7 and 8

Finally we get to something worthwhile, after enduring the threat of paper cuts for 6 pages.  Left, cast list and other information, including “There will be no interval”.  Known in the business as “if you need to go to the bathroom, do it now”.  (To stand up to go the toilet during a play is more of a faux pas than a mobile phone ringing – especially if you relieve yourself in the aisle.)  This is further enforced by the allusions to water in the title of the play.  Right – slow dance encounters table obstacle.  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 9 and 10

Profiles of the actors.  All of them are “proud members of Equity since <year>”.  I don’t know what this Actors Equity is, but it sounds like a cult.  Maybe it’s the actor’s version of the Freemasons.  Carmel Johnson (third person pictured) wins the “longest column” competition.  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 11 and 12

Profiles of the non-actors (i.e., the people you don’t see on stage and hence don’t much care about).  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 13 and 14

Writer and Director profiles.  What’s with the serious faces in the headshots?  If I ever get a play staged, I want my headshot to be of me pulling a stupid face.  Mind you, the audience would probably think I had some type of disability if I did that – more publicity!  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 15 and 16

Writer’s notes, and Director’s notes.  Also known in the business as “the group sex pages”.  The amount of group-love that goes on here is unbelievable.  Where’s the gossip?  Where’s the slander?  Where’s the “I hated having him as a director, he ruined my work”?  Sadly it is missing.  Sanitised for your immediate consumption, no reflux.  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 17 and 18

Residual group-love from the previous page (like the wet spot on the covers in the morning, or is that stretching the metaphor too far?), and lots of pretty pictures.  Aww.  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 19 and 20

More pictures.  How exciting.  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 21 and 22

More group-love from the Designer.  That’s Ayer’s Rock upside down at the top, although during the play it looked more like a giant pillow.  Oh, and I believe it’s called Uluru nowadays – have to be politically correct and all that.  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 23 and 24

Yet more group-love from the Composer, and Characters and Settings on the top right for the slower people in the audience who can’t follow the play properly.  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 25 and 26

A family tree on the left, possibly alluding to the picture of an upside down tree back on page 18 and page 20.  Possibly a bit of intratextuality going on.  How literary.  Sydney Theatre Company credits on the right.  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 27 and 28

“About Brink” on the left.  Brink was the original company who produced the play in Adelaide.  They believe in: “diversity = life, slow food = great taste, on the brink = a leap in the unknown”.  What slow food has to do with theatre production is beyond me.  Also on that page is a quote from Julian Burnside QC: “Without the law you can’t have society, without the arts you can’t have civilisation”.  Has he heard of Sparta?  Although I agree with the general point he’s making.  More credits on the right.  Almost there!  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 29 and 30

Sponsors.  And more sponsors.  Really, who cares?  Yawn.  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 31 and 32

All the patrons and donators to the Sydney Theatre Company.  Picking one at random – “Fertility First”, who donated an amount between $1000-$2000.  What business Fertility First has donating to the theatre is beyond me – perhaps they think watching something on the stage increases the chances of an IVF treatment being successful?  Maybe their slogan is “come for the performance, leave having been knocked up”?  Next!

When the Rain Stops Falling - Page 33 and 34

Last page!  Advertised on the right is a chance to win a “romantic trip to Copenhagen”, presumably something that would come in handy if you were traumatised by the play.

And that’s it.  Phew, we made it.  And next time I promise I won’t go through the whole program – if only from necessity because I will run out of jokes on the subject of “art patrons”.

There were many ads at the start, but they weren’t scattered through the rest of the program which I liked.  However, the content of the program wasn’t as satisfying as I had hoped for.  The price?  $10.  The pages are glossy, which adds to the value somewhat.  But what is the final score?  Drumroll, please.  I give When the Rain Stops Falling, the program, 6.5/10.

Onto the play itself.  I thought it was great.  At the start of the play it is raining, and a fish falls from the sky, smashing onto the stage with great force, landing in a small puddle of water and splashing the liquid to both sides of the stage.  One wonders whether the splash has been rehearsed and determined to only splash stage left and right, rather than up stage and down stage – possibly giving the audience a more interactive experience than they would want.

I’m also not ashamed to say that I teared up at a few of the more emotional moments during the play – mind you, they were very manly tears, filled with a large amount of testosterone, and only pooled at the bottom of my eyes, not running all the way down my cheek.  The strange thing I noticed was that only my right eye produced any of that salty sadness.  Does this mean that I’m right-teared?  The set design was minimal but effective, the music was well suited to the action, and the actors all gave good performances.

The story was very skillfully woven by Andrew Bovell (the writer), but I had a few problems with it, mainly that I could predict some of the plot points a few scenes before they were about to happen, which lessened the impact a bit.  Although there is a strange satisfaction that can be derived from guessing what a certain revelation will be before the majority of the audience does – I know I did because it’s very easy to tell when the audience realises something crucial from the assorted oh’s and ah’s and other murmurings.  Perhaps that is why some of the story seemed a tad too contrived for my liking, but this is only a very minor complaint.

As for what it is about – it is the story of four generations of one family, and how the past affects the future, how the future affects the past, and humanity’s response to both the past and the future, our relationship to the planet, our ability for cruelty and compassion, and things along those lines.  If I said much more it would probably give some of the story away, and I definitely don’t want to do that, not after what happened to me yesterday (see here).

Overall, what score do I give When the Rain Stops Falling, the play?  8.5/10.  More details can be found on the Sydney Theatre Company’s website.

The program: 6.5/10.
The play: 8.5/10.

Stoppard the Press!

I just finished reading Conversations with Stoppard by Mel Gussow.  That would be Tom Stoppard he’s referring to:

Tom Stoppard. Keep smoking, old man - one less fish in the playwright sea when you die of cancer!

I saw the Sydney Theatre Company’s production of Travesties recently (one of Stoppard’s plays) – thoroughly enjoyable, except for a person in the back row who laughed after virtually every single line, including the “this is a serious moment” lines.  Slightly annoying.  Although if you define the quality of the play by a laughter-to-money ratio, that back-row pest would come out on top.  The only major problem I had with the play was that it was very good – not leaving much room for a budding playwright to stick their theatrical foot through the stage door.  He is 71 though, so, assuming no accidents, I have quite a few more years than he does.  Oh, and the Romanian Tristan Tzara character (one of the founders of the Dada movement – that will be a post in itself later on), who was speaking with a French-cum-Romanian-cum-confused-memory accent (it will make sense if you know the play) let slip an Australian accent every now and then.  (“Oh, the horror!” you exclaim.  I know, I know.)  Not that I found it particularly undesirable, but I do like to nitpick.  And having never had head lice, I have to search for other ways…

(Criticising the actors is the easiest way to get into theatre, right?  I can’t help but feel there’s a fatal flaw somewhere.)

I recently read an article that David Williamson, a famous and renowned Australian playwright, had retired, leaving a huge hole in Australian theatre that would be hard to fill.  “Great!” I thought, “this is just the opportunity I need.  Finally there is some breathing room at the top!”  Cut to two months later and I hear on the radio that one of the presenters is going to see the “new Williamson play, Let the Sunshine.”  Needless to say, it seems some people don’t know when they’re not wanted, yes?  And needless to say, I will be going to see it, hoping that some of the genius will rub off on me (in a completely non-swine-flu-passing way).

What do I need?  I need to finish writing my play.  What else?  I need hope.  I decided to provide myself with some:

Willy Shakespeare - dead

Sammy Beckett - six feet under

Anton Chekhov - far, far away (but not in another galaxy)

Ha!  Let’s see you write from the grave!  What’s that?  Your bodies have been digested by worms?  What.  A.  *censored*.  Shame.

A tea party for dead writers in Hades – now there’s an idea for a play.

On a different note, I’ve committed myself to blogging for a few posts about nothing.  These posts are in the pipeline and will be coming to a computer screen near you soon!  (It takes awhile to get enough material to blog about nothing, you see.)