This is one of those tricky reviews. I know for a FACT that everyone is going to love this and see it, and laugh and LOVE it. And I don’t know why, I didn’t. I didn’t love it. And I feel very alone in my opinion. Read more

Every now and then it happens. Like shooting stars, but rarer. Illuminating like chain lightning. Like finding love and knowing how to declare it, and keep it. And when it happens, you have no choice but to surrender to the beauty and the cruelty, the devastation of seeing a truly great work of art and knowing that you feel differently now. You are different, now. Forever.

Going to the theatre, as much as I do, can be difficult. The wear and tear on your heart can be difficult. For us foyer-dwellers we are forever optimistic that we will have those experiences which make the treasure hunt for great art, for great theatre, worthwhile.There’s a lot of kissing frogs in play going. There’s a lot of dates that just don’t work out. But I try to find the merit, provide context and offer encouragement to all the makers of this very demanding art form in the hope that somehow, somewhere, someday it translates into one of the great plays. And Speaking in Tongues is such a play. And Sam Strong’s production is such a production. Read more

Yesterday, amid the heat of Sydney’s summer, the Sydney wharfs were buzzing with people. Lachlan Philpott (fabulous and celebrated writer and leader of ATYP’s Fresh Ink program) addressed a throng of young actors on the eve of their opening night of Tell it Like it Isn’t… ATYP classes were being picked up by supportive parents. Sydney Dance Cafe was hosting the usual lithe bodies and one on one conversations. The water. The heat. I was setting up Playwriting Australia’s banner with the lovely General Manager Elizabeth in preparation of the launch of the 2011 Play Festival season. My phone was buzzing with texts from friends and colleagues wanting to tee-up coffee dates and industry chats… Read more

A garret, where the artist sits. Having spent their last few dollars on red wine and ink and cigarettes and a fair-weather friend. Alone. Abandoned. Without money or friends. Misunderstood. Unloved. Dark and brooding, furrowed and introspective. Wearing a beret…

It’s a familiar image and I’m not really sure where it comes from – Van Gogh and his rejected ear? Dylan Thomas’ untimely death? Jimi Hendrix choking on his vomit? Who needs it? Sounds utterly horrible. Tortured and suffering and then dead. Who wants to be celebrated for their contribution posthumously?
Why is poverty romanticized? Is it the fact that the ideals are kept in tact at all cost – at the cost of comfort and community? The writer who can never allow himself to fall completely in love with someone who nourishes and delights him because it may soften his edge? Read more

This Sydney Festival I have spent the majority of my time at The Seymour Centre – watching as punters swirl and spin off into one of three venues – all with a revolving programme – all with an exciting variety of shows to experience. Last time I was at the Everest I was there to review Mike Birbiglia a stand up comic, on this occasion I was there to see a devised work created by a range of physical theatre performers/dancers which was developed over two continents. Though my first love is text- I am always keen to branch out (pun acknowledged) to other modes of performance and am trying to bring myself up to speed on physical performance and dance.

There is something awe-inspiring about dance, for me. Me who sits, reading or writing or watching or thinking… all quite sedentary occupations and past times – the spectacle of watching someone move and twist and negotiate space with their body is impressive. Add to that a narrative created by an ensemble of performers. Ideas about the observations of humans from an animal’s point of view – and I was very curious to see what the results would be. Read more

Australia Day 2011 was huge.

Not in the flag wearing, cooking snags on the barbeque, sun-kissed skin, sandy feet and cold beer sense. While my phone buzzed with messages from friends and colleagues encouraging me to pop by their Oz Day celebrations for a quick hello and some lawn chair conversation, I was up a ladder with a staple gun, pair of pliers and a metal rule helping prepare for an exhibition that opens tonight at Gaffa gallery in Sydney. The show is by my best mate Tim Andrew and his show is a Big Deal – in name and scale.

It’s a brilliant collection of work (and I say this not just because Tim is my friend – it just so happens all my friends make brilliant work – it’s not why we are friends – but it certainly seems the case that I have remarkably talented friends). Sculptures, paintings, film, prints and giant wall-paper murals cover the walls. Though one can see his love of colour and him commentary on the idea of fakeness – what I love about Tim’s work is that he strives to be as authentic as possible. He’s not shallow, or trying to present anything other than who he is. He’s a white, male artist in his early thirties – and his work speaks of his interests and anxieties: there’s mild horror themes and deeply personal confessions and opinions. Read more

Every Christmas when I was little, in my grandfather’s back yard in Coffs Harbour, I would sit amongst the wisteria eating unripe passion fruit and imagining adventures for myself. I’d frighten myself with stories of what lived under the house – and laugh until I couldn’t breathe at the jokes I invented. I’d imagine the possibility of being homeless and sleeping on the mossy ground under my favourite hydrangea. I’d convince myself I could be completely self sufficient and sleep in the garden if I was in such a situation. Luckily for me the garden of choice was my Grandfather’s garden – with vegetable plots and fruit trees including a gnarled grumpy looking grapefruit tree and a sacred mulberry tree worthy of the Fred Astaire tune “I’m in heaven” that I’d croon gleefully as I stained my skirts and stuffed my face with purple berries.

In one of the garden beds was what Pa called “a sensitive plant” – every time I touched its soft fringed leaves they would contract like a venetian blind, neatly minimizing itself into a single blade of green. I would wait for it to unfurl and I’d delight to see it shrink at my fingers…

I’ve been thinking about the value of sensitivity. Mainly because I am sensitive. And it is who I am. Read more

I love children’s theatre. I love the creativity of children’s theatre. I love the audiences of children’s theatre.

Whether it is theatre made by children for children (Shopfront Theatre’s junior ensemble always delights me) or if is children’s theatre made by adults, (Eg The Tragical Life of Cheeseboy or The Book of Everything) what is most important is the imagination of the audience and the inventiveness of the artists.

(And please note I am not talking about “children’s theatre” in any pejorative sense.)

For me inventiveness and imagination is the essence of theatre and is most powerful when an image, sound, word that stimulates or inspires in it’s viewer (participant/meaning maker/audience) more than merely the tangible, obvious meaning of what it is made of/what is being shown. It’s that extra level of engagement i am fascinated by – the suspension of disbelief -the willingness to access the possibility of all things.

When we as adults accept the possibility of things, we become brave enough to contribute to the world and consequently (whether we like it or not) change happens. Read more

I couldn’t get tickets to the The Giacomo Variations. As an avid reader of biographies (currently I am reading Brave Mouth a Billy Connolly biography -a book stolen at Christmas time from my parent’s house) I was thrilled to be able to join the mass of pilgrims to hear Jim Sharman and John Malkovich speak in the magnificent Sydney Town Hall this evening.

Other critics (Fairfax and News Ltd critics) were busy at the Theatre Critics Circle Awards at Paddington RSL, delighting in the best of 2010. Some onliners and I waited patiently at the Box office for our tickets to what would be a very stimulating and rewarding evening examining art forms and acting, story, character, career, ensemble, collaboration, celebrity, family, seduction –

This was not quite “Being John Malkovich” as “‘Being’ by John Malkovich” a deeply invigorating conversation I am lucky to have heard…. Read more

There has been a simmering discussion amongst AWOL (Australian Women Playwrights On Line) about the presence (or lack of presence) of female writers included in the mainstage theatre seasons. Currently in Main stage seasons women are grossly unrepresented – and it’s not because there aren’t any women writing plays. There are. When curating the multi-playwright seasons I have produced in the last 4 years, I have not struggled to find quality female playwrights, and not just any female playwrights – excellent playwrights.

In late 2009, the Philip Parson’s Award hosted a panel discussion “Where are the women?” to which 200-ish female theatre workers turned up to prove exactly where the women are (Just in case Belvoir couldn’t see them, as their 2010 suggested) – they were filling the theatre. that day I sat with Suzie Miller and Vanessa Bates. When confronted with the argument that women aren’t being programmed because scripts and directors are assessed on merit not gender – Miller told of her experience which was having a play of hers knocked back for an Independent Season at Belvoir, only to have the very same play receive awards and productions overseas. Rachel Healy turned to Neil Armfield and said, “Well, Neil, it looks like we stuffed up.” And I think everyone in that audience agrees: there has been some major stuff-ups when it comes to theatre companies being committed to equal opportunity employment. So much so Melbourne Theatre Company have since implemented an EEO policy. Read more