As someone dedicated to new Australian writing AND independent theatre it is extremely remiss of me not to have previously attended a production by subtlenuance (Paul Gilchrist and Daniela Giorgi). Read more

A grubby, dank apartment hovers over a black abyss. Read more

A long tangled web of video tape pours down onto the stage – glinting in the half-light like seaweed in a forgotten cave. Read more

A summer night. Friends in t-shirts and hoodies roam the empty streets of Bermagui – drinking, climbing things – cars, fences, railings, garden beds. Loud music. A car with a dirty windscreen. The windows down. Hot chips. A bonfire at the beach. Rugged bushland surrounds the beach. A campsite. A girl you might kiss. A friend you might owe money to, you might fight with… Read more

It was one of those grey washed winter Sydney days when I made my way to see Terminus – I had heard the buzz around town and had flirted briefly with buying tickets. Read more

Seagulls are, as any ornithologist knows, carnivorous scavengers. Pack birds. Birds that possess a unique mob-mentality and a very clear pecking order. Baby gulls bully their parents with powerful squawks. They will ready to elongate their necks and let forth an alarming noise when courting or challenging other gulls. As a teenager trapped, growing up in the pastoral “paradise” of a northern NSW coastal town, I would sit on the dunes and watch as the gulls scurry about, robbing teenage surfer boys (and their accompanying bikini babes) of their fat, hot chips swaddled in butchers paper. I’d watch the gulls squawk and flap, demanding chips. I’d watch the surfers squawk and flap at the seagulls. I’d overhear the myths (or were they?) of if you give a seagull an aspirin (hidden in a chip) they explode.

That was half my lifetime ago. Read more

On a red velvet throne sits a lazy and leather-clad rock god – with a fawning female at his feet. Read more

Like the assassination of JFK, the collapse of the Twin Towers, it can be argued that one’s first kiss is equally a transforming experience. Read more

It’s a bright mid-May Saturday, when I coerce a playwright to head to NIDA to see a matinee performance of a new(ish) Swedish play. Read more

A forest of well dressed, well spoken women gather around a hunched hooded figure as sound throbs and squeals from an electric guitar. Read more