Film Review: Inception

Inception. 148 minutes. Rated M. Written and directed by Christopher Nolan.

Three cheers for Christopher Nolan who has delivered one of the most curious, layered, intellectually engaging, visually arresting and superbly crafted films of the year. While it is certainly no masterpiece, it is a film that will have you discussing its grand and adventurous epic story-telling and mind-bending qualities in equal measure.

Nolan has always been a filmmaker to inspire passionate debate. His stunning reboot of the Batman franchise (Batman Begins in 2005), is considered one of the most perfect examples of the comic book big screen adaptations, while his Memento (2000) was a supreme example of reverse narrative engineering.

Dominic Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) is a highly sought-after ‘extractor’ – someone who is able to infiltrate people’s sub-conscious dream state and identify their secrets and ideas before stealing them. A wealthy Japanese businessman Saito (Ken Watanabe) challenges Cobb and his colleagues to perform an ‘inception’ – where instead of stealing an idea that already exists, an idea is implanted in the target’s sub-conscious. The particular ‘target’ of Saito’s ambitious plan is Robert Fischer Jr (Cillian Murphy) – heir to a rival business empire. Robert’s father Maurice (Pete Postlethwaite) is terminally ill, and Saito wants the young heir to dismantle his father’s empire, effectively eliminating Saito’s competition.

In spite of all the advance claims of the film being too cryptic and obscure, it’s actually a relatively simple premise that becomes increasingly involving as the cast find themselves trapped in the dark and threatening, multi-layered sub-conscious world of fear, regret and lost love. Tom Hardy, Ellen Page and Joseph Gordon-Levitt are outstanding as Cobb’s co-conspirators while DiCaprio gives the overall impression of being at sea with the one-note emotional nature of much of the material – particularly the occasionally distracting storyline involving his wife Mal (Marion Cotillard) and his memories of the first time he attempted an ‘inception’.

Hans Zimmer’s (Sherlock Holmes) score is brilliant, while Nolan’s regular collaborators cinematographer Wally Pfister and editor Lee Smith are in magnificent form – capturing Guy Dyas’s (Elizabeth: The Golden Age) eye-popping production design and Brad Ricker’s inspirational art direction to absolute perfection.

Theatre Review: The King and I

The King and I. Music by Richard Rodgers. Book and Lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II. The Production Company, State Theatre, Victorian Arts Centre, Melbourne.

Truly great musicals – of which Rodgers and Hammerstein’s The King and I must be close to the most perfect example – set every creative team who takes them on an unenviable set of obstacles. The first one is the audience’s experience of the show that has gone before. (One of mine was a disastrous performance in London’s West End when, suffering from laryngitis, Susan Hampshire – who was playing Mrs Anna – had a go at I whistle a happy tune, and then they just cut the rest of her songs. It was, as you might imagine, appalling. Strangely, however, the show is so good that it still managed to shine through the hapless attempt at its presentation.)

I also have exceptionally fond memories of Melbourne’s Arc Musical Theatre Company’s production (many, many moons ago!) – starring Sylvia Picton as a glorious Mrs Anna and Tony Kentuck as The King. And then there is the 20th Century Fox film – the indisputable and most perfect account of this musical there has been, and will ever be.

And while I’m not predicating that every attempt at staging The King and I is measured against the resources of a major motion picture studio, I am certain that the overall experience of a production of this musical (similarly to The Sound of Music – which 20th Century Fox, fighting their way back from financial and artistic oblivion on the back of the troubled (and expensive) Cleopatra, threw everything they could at, resulting in similar perfection) must offer something else other than just a serviceable account of the material.

The Production Company has consistently provided its stars every opportunity to shine in their staged concert performances of some of the great, mostly American, musicals. For some inexplicable reason, this is the first of their productions I have seen – and, in her welcome piece in the program, Production Company Chairman Jeanne Pratt is entirely correct: it won’t be my last. This opportunity to see and hear Rodgers and Hammerstein’s gem almost had me booking to go back and see it a second time. Almost.

The most exciting news is that a star was born in Melbourne’s State Theatre on Wednesday night. Her name is Emily Xiao Wang, and her ‘Tuptim’ was sensational. So too, but less consistently, was Adrian Li Donni’s doomed Lun Tha, and their duets I have dreamed and We kiss in a shadow were the musical highlights of the evening. But nothing either before, or afterwards, compared to Ms Xiao Wang’s absolutely perfect rendition of the early ballad My Lord and Master. Silvie Paladino came close with her sterling rendition of Something Wonderful – but something was missing. Ms Paladino had yet to make the necessary connection to the number: she just didn’t seem to believe it. Yes, it’s a great song – a standard. But within the context of any kind of performance of The King and I, it becomes a great love song, not an anthem – and Ms Paladino’s handling of it was masterful, but a little too efficient.

Chelsea Gibb appeared ill-at-ease as Anna Leonowens, and I never imagined I would hear I whistle a happy tune performed as a big broadway belt. Frankly, I hope I never do again. It’s the first big, instantly recognisable moment – and it served to set a series of alarm bells ringing in my head. I need to declare that I am a R&H traditionalist – and if this was going to be a post-modern interpretation of one of the great acting/singing/dancing leading ladies of the music theatre canon, it was going to be a very one-sided affair. Fortunately, Ms Gibb warmed up as the evening progressed and revealed (to me anyway) a strong upper register that she would do well to instinctively trust a great deal more. Having thoroughly adored her Roxy in Chicago (where the big ‘Broadway belt’ belongs), the revelation of a vastly increased range was exciting.

The King and I, without the famous polka, just isn’t The King and I – and the supreme disappointment resulting from the fact that Kathryn Sproul’s otherwise perfectly versatile central structure didn’t get out of the way so that the most famous sequence in this musical could happen on the huge State Theatre stage was quite palpable.

Musically, Orchestra Victoria – under the direction of Peter Casey – handled the score beautifully. My only reservation was the decision to split the orchestra in two (with the strings on one side of the stage and the brass, woodwind and percussion) on the other. I found this reduced the impact of the sound considerably – resulting in a less than satisfactory over-amplified sensibility. The lack of cohesion also took its toll on The March of The Siamese Children – where it seemed, for an instant, that this wonderful piece of music just got away from them. The choice to split the orchestra like this seemed to also make something of a statement about how much more important the staging imperatives were to the musical ones. Unhappily, even though Terence O’Connell’s direction was beautifully handled, it didn’t illuminate anything particularly new and invigorating about this work that might have meant the splitting of the orchestra was a wise or valid idea.

Alana Scanlan’s choreography (with the exception of a half-hearted polka) was perfect – and the long, troublesome The Small House of Uncle Thomas ballet in the second act was spectacularly imagined and brilliantly danced.

But at the heart of The King and I, is the King – a sensational role for the right performer. And Juan Jackson is precisely the right performer. His near-complete command of this fascinating and entirely unconventional leading man was superb, and one can only imagine that as the season progresses, he will become more comfortable with the many complexities of the role. Further down the track, it’s not at all difficult to imagine Mr Jackson making something of a signature role with his future performances as The King in The King and I.

The death of the King is the death of a wide-eyed, amazed, bewildered child/man who is on the precipice of achieving great things for his country. I cry every time I see the film. I was not moved in quite the same way by this performance. There is a big heart beating in The King and I – that is its monumental power. And when that heart stops beating, it is an immense tragedy. I hope that this wonderful company, through each performance that remains, discovers something more of that heart.

This review was commissioned and first published by Stage Whispers Magazine www.stagewhispers.com.au

Theatre Review: Salonika Bound

Salonika Bound by Tom Petsinis. Directed by David Myles. La Mama Courthouse, Melbourne.

Much of the power of great writing for the theatre comes from the juxtaposition of what is and what is not said – often associated with the vastly under-rated and consistently under-utilised skills of the Dramaturg. In Mr Petsinis’s case, there is an utterly compelling case for him to forge such a relationship because while his latest play Salonika Bound has flashes of brilliance, it is also constantly undermined by verbosity, repetition and simply too much tedious exposition. Equal parts memory play, reunion drama, chamber musical and history lesson, it also continues the disturbing trend of Melbourne playwrights borrowing observation from the vast human tragedy of the Holocaust, without honouring the complexity of its political, human or social context – either then, or more importantly in a contemporary theatrical context, now.

Achilles Yiangoulli and Argyris Argyropoulos’s songs are pretty, lyrical and melodic – but they do absolutely nothing to advance the plot, and Mr Myles’s direction is too frequently sabotaged by their placement which only serves to ensure that the performance grounds swiftly and completely to a halt. It is only when Laura Lattuada rediscovers her voice at the end of the performance, that the musical element makes sense, but it’s a small price to pay for having had to sit through the interminable musical interludes that also had everyone else on stage treading water for long periods of embarrassingly vacant time.

Antonios Baxevanidis’s performance, however, of the play’s dramatic highpoint – a monologue about the significance of the number tattooed on his arm – was immensely powerful, as was the scene where Mike McEvoy’s ‘James’, Bruce Kerr’s ‘Dimitri’ and Ms Lattuada’s ‘Helen’ debated the essence of the traditional value and cultural significance of a name. It was only these two scenes that resulted in any cultural illumination, and it is a great pity that Mr Petsinis didn’t explore this rich territory of identity more adventurously.

Marshall White’s set and video design was excellent – particularly the way the suggestion of the tiles on the floor were extended into the appearance of crucifixes on the wall.

No doubt the cast will settle into the rough and ready rhythm of the piece as the season progresses, but this is strictly theatre for the converted: those who desire to stare into the mirror of their own cultural imperatives. For the rest of us, it offers only a hint of illumination – even though there is something of a really fascinating idea struggling to get out from underneath simply too many well-intentioned words and far too many songs.

This review was commissioned and first published by Stage Whispers Magazine www.stagewhispers.com.au

Film Review: Toy Story 3

Toy Story 3. 108 minutes. Rated G. Directed by Lee Unkrich. Screenplay by Michael Arndt. Based on the original story by Lee Unkrich, Andrew Stanton and John Lasseter.

It will come as no surprise to discover there’s a lot going on in this third (and apparently final) entry into the popular Toy Story franchise from Pixar and Disney. Pixar supremo John Lasseter is credited with the original story. So, too, are Andrew Stanton and Lee Unkrich. Then there’s the ‘story’ credits, which also belong to Stanton and Unkrich. If ever there was an example of a fantastic recipe spoiled by too many cooks, then this grim and surprisingly humourless film is it.

Young Andy is off to college, and the time has come for him to allocate his wordly possessions into one of the following boxes: trash, attic (for storage) or college. Needless to say, our lovable rogues gallery of toys are duly separated from each other – and the film then focuses on how they all get back together. It’s a well-worn Toy Story formula that has now officially out-stayed its welcome. It suffers, too, from a peculiarly long and dreary set-up, which had the capacity audience of birthday party-celebrating littlies squirming in their seats with boredom.

The unquestionable charm of the ground-breaking original, released in 1995, was that it catapulted us into the delightful, pint-sized world of a group of toys who, in spite of our world-weary cynicism, had undeniably come ‘alive’. The use of toys that, as adults, we affectionately remembered from our childhoods (Mr Potato Head was a particularly inspired choice), were suddenly given renewed leases on life as movie-stars, while the new generation were suddenly as obsessed with slinky dogs, cowboys and little plastic green soldiers as we had been. It was a brilliant masterstroke of generational cross-over and audience engagement – and the resulting global success and acclaim was well-deserved.

It was also the first film to be made entirely of computer generated imagery – and Pixar would use the opportunity to dazzle us with their creativity, imagination, story-telling prowess and, while they were at it, set the benchmark for every film that would follow (A Bug’s Life, The Incredibles, Wall-E to name just three). With Toy Story 3, however, the magic has dimmed. As audiences for these kinds of technological adventures, we are now a great deal harder to impress. Yes, there are some exhilarating sequences of dare-devil escapades and the CGI animation is typically flawless. But perhaps Pixar have spoiled us rotten with their abilities – because much of that eye-popping wonder is now just expected.

There’s a determined effort to capture the teenage market with some of the more risqué scenes starring Ken and Barbie (which are hilarious), and a throughline featuring an evil, abandonded teddy bear who rules the Daycare Centre (where our cast eventually end up) as some kind of Alcatraz for toys. It’s really dark territory – and the scenes where the toys prepare to face extermination in a burning pit of fire are just plain cruel and extreme.

When it finally capitulates into long, drawn-out, emotional manipulation, we’re left with the really uncomfortable feeling that the toys in Toy Story 3 are not the only things to have been played with. It’s going to take something else entirely to recapture our imaginations. I don’t doubt Pixar will discover what that might be – but it’s certainly not this.

Cabaret Review: The Truth About Fairytales

The Truth About Fairytales. Performed by Sharon Kirschner. Accompanied by Trevor Jones. The Butterfly Club, Melbourne.

I tip my hat to anyone who dares get up on stage to perform on their own. Anyone who has ever done it knows how terrifyingly exhilarating it can be. I am also always especially thrilled to have the opportunity to see young performers taking to the stage of Melbourne’s cabaret gem of a venue – The Butterfly Club. Here, in spite of its glittering façade, welcoming bar, utterly charming staff, and a fascinating and enviable collection of bric-a-brac, is a stunning little cabaret room and tiny stage that forgives nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Deceptively compact, The Butterfly Club presents a huge range of obstacles to the less-experienced performer. There’s the question of audibility when the piano (and the pianist) shares the stage with you in startlingly close proximity. Then there’s the question of acoustics, diction and projection – both of character and lyrics. There’s also the glaringly obvious and incredibly necessary stage presence – and even though it is a tiny space, it’s a space that demands to be filled. And it becomes very obvious when it isn’t.

Australia is also blessed with astonishing range of cabaret and music theatre talent. And now, with some further dedicated and determined vocal training, we can add one more – Sharon Kirschner. The premise of Ms Kirschner’s self-penned The Truth About Fairytales is faultless. Bursting into the room and bounding onto the stage as a wide-eyed, hyperactive children’s storyteller, Ms Kirschner confesses that she can’t stand regurgitating folklore from yesteryear, and before long, we depart on a delightful journey as Little Red Riding Hood and friends are deconstructed, reimagined and retold. It’s a marvelous conceit, and Kirschner is always in complete control of the telling. Her doe-eyed line in comedy is never less than divine and utterly engaging. Her Facebook Stalk You lyrics (sung to Everthing I do, I do it for you) is the unquestionable highlight, as is her proficient and delightfully self-deprecatingly humourous handling of a cute audience participation moment with a script-reading likely suitor.

The Truth About Fairytales is also a refreshingly Sondheim- (ironic given the luxury of material in Into The Woods) and Kander & Ebb-free zone. Instead, Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal is brilliantly adapted to the story of Goldilocks, while Sleeping Beauty tries desperately to get back to sleep (Pills, Pills, Pills) after waking to discover her Prince Charming is a complete dud. Poor old Cinderella deals with her Prince’s tendency for Premature Ejaculation, while dramatically, the highlight was when the Rapunzel story took on new light with a marvelous rendition of Maybe I like it this way. This was also this point at which Ms Kirschner’s considerable acting training came to the fore – and throughout the potent, perfect stillness of her performance, you could have heard a pin drop. Here, and in fact throughout the entire performance, Mr Jones was the perfect accompanist, and the timing of his sly and witty vocal interjections was equally good.

Ms Kirschner (a NIDA graduate) has the makings of the perfect ingénue, even though her light, lyrical voice – at this point in her development – lacks range and power. Most of the early efforts to reach notes in her lower register were unsuccessful and the notes in her upper register were clearly an effort. I actually wondered why it all hadn’t been transposed into a more suitable key. While she was most obviously comfortable in her middle register, that on its own is never enough to take on a popular and/or music theatre repertoire of any description. There is also the issue of direction, which solo performers in any performance form, ignore at their peril.

But when you find yourself reaching up to catch glittering fabric hearts, tossed joyfully into the air and literally buzzing about the charming, effervescent performance for hours afterwards, you know you’ve experienced something special. And Ms Kirschner is certainly that.

This review was commissioned by Stage Whispers and was published online @ stagewhispers.com.au

DVD Review: Edge of Darkness

Edge of Darkness. 116 minutes. Rated MA15+. Directed by Martin Campbell. Screenplay by William Monahan and Andrew Bovell. Based on the television series by Troy Kennedy-Martin.

Ranked 15 on the British Film Institute’s TV 100 (a list of greatest British television programmes of any genre ever screened), the six episodes of Edge of Darkness (1985) followed policeman Ronald Craven as he confronted a toxic mix of corporate and government conspiracy within Britain’s nuclear industry in an effort to uncover the truth behind the ruthless slaying of his activist daughter Emma.

Essentially a considerably abridged cinematic remake of the series, Edge of Darkness has something going for it as an edgy, politically-motivated crime drama – even if it doesn’t really classify as a thriller, because it isn’t ‘thrilling’ at all. While it starts well and features a couple of moments of genuine suspense and one outstanding action sequence, Monahan and Bovell’s clunky, disjointed screenplay constantly gets bogged down in all sorts of mumbled, conspiratorial hyperbole before abandoning us in disappointingly familiar ‘we’ve seen this all done so much more effectively a hundred times before before” territory.

Disappointingly, Campbell (who directed the television series and the fantastic James Bond instalment Casino Royale) has obviously struggled with the transition to the rigours and possibilities of the big screen. In spite of the efforts of his reunited Casino Royale team (Phil Meheux and Stuart Baird return as cinematographer and editor respectively), we are constantly reminded of the story’s televisual origins in the way that the film consists of one neatly packaged, tidy little scene after another – all shot in comfortable, medium close-up.

Most peculiarly, there is nothing of 2006’s Casino Royale’s fantastic cinematic adventurousness (just think about that climactic sequence in Venice as one example). And while it might seem unfair to compare the two films, the way in which Edge of Darkness just plods along, by comparison, becomes increasingly difficult to comprehend given the talent involved. Howard Shore’s (The Lord of The Rings, The Twilight Saga) score, too, is similarly serviceable.

Mel Gibson (as Boston detective Thomas Craven, pictured) certainly has his moments as the grim, grieving father and NIDA graduate Bojana Novakovic is great as his doomed daughter. Ray Winstone tries his hardest to make the cryptic and obscure character of Jedburgh work, but Danny Huston (King Richard in Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood) struggles to make his mark as the dubious and evil nuclear weapon corporation chief Jack Bennett. Shawn Roberts (as Emma’s boyfriend David, also pictured) and Caterina Scorsone (as her friend Melissa) are both outstanding as terrified pawns in the game of life or death.

Ultimately, though, it’s really hard to care – and given we’re discussing a DVD, maybe just watch Casino Royale instead. Now that’s a film!

Film Review: The Twilight Saga – Eclipse

The Twilight Saga: Eclipse. 124 minutes. Rated M. Directed by David Slade. Screenplay by Melissa Rosenberg. Based on the novels by Stephenie Meyer.

Having sold over 100 million copies worldwide, there can be no denying the immense popularity of Stephenie Meyer’s award-winning, vampire-based fantasy romance novels that began in 2008 with Twilight. Written specifically for young adults, the stories focussed on life, love, fantasy and – most pertinently – romance. And just like with James Cameron’s Titanic, romance-starved young audiences the world over were captivated.

Traditional (the cynics might prefer ‘old-fashioned’) values of love, faith, honour and respect were interwoven into a supernatural tale about young Isabella "Bella" Swan (Kristen Stewart), a 104-year-old vampire Edward Cullen (Robert Pattinson) and werewolf Jacob Black (Taylor Lautner).

This latest instalment begins with Bella and Edward negotiating the conditions of their relationship. Meanwhile, in Seattle, Victoria (Bryce Dallas Howard) begins to assemble her army of ‘newborns’ (humans recently turned into vampires) to do battle with the Cullen clan in revenge for the death of her mate James (who was killed in Twilight). The life they seek, in return, is Bella’s.

Where HBO’s True Blood plays hardball with the vampire/shape-shifter genre, Twilight plays softball, with the ever-popular team of impossibly beautiful people back for more teenage angst, thwarted passion, shape-shifting – all held together by some fantastically sharp editing from Art Jones (Hard Candy) and Nancy Richardson (Twilight). And while the audience registered their considerable approval when Mr Lautner finally removed his shirt, Ms Rosenberg's script (with the exception of one hilarious scene between Bella and her father Charlie, played by Billy Burke) eventually somersaults into self-reverential parody and, ultimately, unrelenting tedium.

Slade (Hard Candy), who famously Twitter-slammed the first movie, manages to make his mark with a sensational, rain-soaked opening sequence (starring Australian actor Xavier Samuel – pictured – who acts everyone else off the screen in his big Hollywood debut), before being numbed into submission with more of the franchise’s signature flowing ‘flowering meadow’ scenes, tree-hopping vampire sequences, and vampire vs vampire vs werewolf battles. There’s yet more shots of the cast standing around in the epic, beautiful locations pondering their future – which one gets the unfortunate feeling they don’t actually comprehend.

The fractured proceedings are all underpinned by Howard Shore’s (The Departed, The Aviator) particularly atmospheric score and Cinematographer Javier Aguirresarobe’s (The Road, New Moon) beautiful photography.

There is much to respect about Ms Meyer’s commitment to the value of genuine and meaningful inter-personal relationships, but one cannot but help feeling as though there is just not enough to it all to warrant what will become five films (The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn – Part 1 is scheduled for release next year with Part 2 due in 2012.)

So while it would seem that young, predominantly female, audiences simply cannot get enough of Twilight, let’s hope the filmmakers haven’t seriously under-estimated their young, demanding audiences’ patience. Or their intelligence.

Theatre Review: Dead Man's Cell Phone

Dead Man’s Cell Phone by Sarah Ruhl. Directed by Peter Evans. Melbourne Theatre Company, Sumner Theatre, Melbourne until 7 August.

‘Magic Realism’ is a magnificent concept. When it exists in its most startlingly pure, unadulterated form, both the ‘magical’ and ‘realistic’ elements flawlessly blend together to enhance our understanding and appreciation of not only where it is possible to ‘be’, but how it is possible to ‘feel’. Tony Kushner’s Angels in America and Peter Jackson’s The Lovely Bones (from Alice Sebold’s novel) are my definitive examples, to date, of its existence in the theatre and cinema respectively. In both of these examples, the elements – combined – had the extraordinary power to alter my comprehension and experience of time and place.

Obscurity and self-indulgence, the perilous traps into which artists exploring the abstract and surreal metaphysical worlds constantly risk disappearing into, are the arch-enemies of the world of magic realism. To avoid them, every opportunity must be fully explored, resolved and embraced – with clarity of imagination, intellect, heart and soul – to ensure that we’re not able to see the cracks and joins that are required to elevate us to this fantastical metaphysical realm.

Sadly, missed opportunities abound in this deadly, tram-crash of an offering from the MTC. As a result of Mr Evans’s determinedly stage-bound and unimaginative staging, Ms Ruhl’s self-reverential play is revealed to be much worse than it is (although I actually suspect it’s not that great anyway). Even fully-laden jumbo jets eventually (and magically) get off the ground, but Dead Man’s Cell Phone lumbers along the runway courtesy of questionable structure, a teeth-grindingly twee scene in a stationery shop, a overly camp airport terminal sequence accompanied by some unconvincing stage-fighting (even though the man sitting behind me was audibly quite impressed by the sight of two women fighting), and interminable scenes of psychology for pre-schoolers.

Jean (Lisa McCune) is in a Laundromat when she discovers that the reason Gordon (John Adam) won’t answer his cell phone is because he’s dead. When she continues to answer his incessantly ringing phone, she rather conveniently finds herself introduced to his family – all of whom have been scarred by Gordon’s apparent rampant narcissism. And on and on and on it goes.

Ms McCune skips along the pantomime route and never gets under the character’s skin – sacrificing all the wonderful myriad of possibilities for lots of cute, loveable nervously apprehensive acting, which had the audience tittering with affection. The simple fact, however, is that Jean is far from cute. She is a sad, tragic, desperately lonely young woman, and Ruhl’s ultimate sacrifice of her on the altar of impossibly trite and banal romantic convention is utterly disappointing. Sue Jones (as the matriarch of the family) was great – even though I couldn’t help wishing I was watching her play “Auntie Mame” or Arnold’s mother in Torch Song Trilogy (both of which she’d be perfect for). John Adam, Sarah Sutherland, Daniel Frederiksen and Emma Jackson all acquit themselves beautifully within the incredibly limited (and limiting) director’s vision, but after seeing Mr Frederiksen in the equally unfortunate Rockabye, it’s really time for the MTC to offer him something decent.

Claude Marcos’s momentarily clever Laundromat design refuses to get out of the way or effectively transform into anything other than a really expensive props table. That the actors have to wander around moving chairs and tables in the scene-changes like they used to when it was considered creative, becomes really tiring and derails whatever hope there was ever going to be for decent pace. Paul Jackson’s lighting design tries hard to take us somewhere, but never really had a chance because the big, ugly, green-walled Laundromat steadfastly refuses to budge.

Whenever people bemoan the fact that I chose when (and when not to) answer my mobile telephone, I always inform them that “my mobile phone exists for my convenience, not yours”. It’s that simple really. That this little golden rule negates much of Ms Ruhl’s thinly-structured, ‘other-wordly’ and pretentious mumbo jumbo about mobile telecommunications polluting the after-life is just one of the many points at where my interest in the proceedings simply evaporated, never to return. But I did rush home and do my washing.

Pictured: Lisa McCune in Dead Man’s Cell Phone. Photographed by Jeff Busby.

Theatre Review: Blood

Blood by Sergi Belbel. English language translation by Marion Peter Holt. Directed by Scott Gooding. A Vicious Fish Theatre production at Theatre Works, St Kilda until 4 July.

Trust and honesty, like truth, are devilishly slippery touchstones in the theatre, and if this ambitious Vicious Fish Theatre production didn’t quite manage to raise the stakes high enough on opening night, there is little doubt it could. And if it does, it will be something to behold. Watching it tentatively unfold on opening night, it was obvious that the company had the permission to fearlessly explore within Mr Gooding’s beautifully crafted direction, but – with a few notable exceptions – the cast remained almost uniformly apprehensive and tentative in a piece that demands the exact opposite: a primal scream of fever-pitched fear so real you can taste it.

Belbel’s searing, unsentimental play about the circumstances and consequences of a politically-motivated kidnapping, is an absolute ripper – efficient, perfectly structured, bitingly succinct and powered by flashes of brilliant observational satire. And in a week where we had our own particular brand of political blood-letting, Blood’s quintessential theme of unwavering belief in one’s right to self-determined rule over others in any given dominion, appeared to not have originated in Spain at all – but just a few hundred kilometers north in our own national capital.

Janine Watson, as the kidnapped wife of Jon Peck’s politician, delivered a beautifully complex and committed performance, while Peck, too, was excellent in his dual roles of a hapless policeman and the morally-bankrupt politician. Theatre Works’s notoriously cruel acoustics took much of Kassandra Whitson’s big monologue moment prisoner, but her performance as the politician’s mistress and a pregnant policewoman revealed the essence of a really outstanding performance. Alison Adriano, Chloé Boreham and James Tresise all seemed a little unsure and ill-at-ease – with choices, voices and character seeming to almost evaporate within the huge, stark and demanding space.

Rose Connors-Dance’s superb lighting design made much of the distracting and unnecessary set redundant. (I actually still don’t understand why this show had a set.) Connors-Dance’s obvious understanding and appreciation for the definitive power of shadows and darkness was risky, but flawlessly realised – supporting and, in fact, defining the space perfectly. ‘Because of Ghosts’ contributed some disappointingly fleeting moments of intriguing musical soundscape that seemed to exist almost to have lit the flame under the entire performance. That it didn’t quite take on this particular occasion takes little away from the fact that Vicious Fish are an independent company to watch out for. And if everyone has resolved to accept their entire share of responsibility for what could be a rivetting performance of a fantastic play, it would qualify as the show to see.

Pictured: Kassandra Whitson in Blood. Photographed by Paul Dunn.