It's only Rock and Roll...

Rock and Roll Suicide
Athenaeum Hall, Arrowtown
October 27-29, 2010

When I was 13 I wrote a story for my cousin comprised entirely from the lyrics of David Bowie songs – she lived in the US and I in the UK, and he was the single artist we both admired who translated across the Atlantic. It would be fair to say that even before I was finally defeated by Cat People (there’s only so many times you can attempt to put out fire with gasoline after all) it was a woeful effort.

Fortunately for us all, UnderGround Productions have done an infinitely better job with Rock and Roll Suicide; a rock opera featuring the music of David Bowie. Margaret O’Hanlon directs a vibrant and enthusiastic cast through some novel interpretations of familiar and lesser-known songs. The band on stage are excellent if occasionally the music mix on opening night meant they drowned some of the singers, but the sound fills the hall with depth and rhythm, almost as if at a real gig.

The story isn’t too original or hard to follow which is good because you can concentrate on the music (and that is great!) although a few spoken words might enhance the clarity, especially for those who don’t know Bowie’s lyrics already, as these are sometimes hard to decipher. Joe Rockstar (Max Gunn) wants to be a rock star so he heads to London with his trusty guitar where he is fatally impressed by the star of the moment, Idol (Shaun Vining). He also meets groupie Suzy Diva (Pearly McGrath) and promises her a whirlwind romance which becomes more of a torrid maelstrom of drugs and destruction.

Pulling the strings like malevolent puppet masters are the manipulative record producers, Jupiter (Martin D Grounds) and Vex (Margaret O’Hanlon). Like a pair of scary clowns they command and wheedle; bully and badger until they get what they want – money – at any cost. In garish costume, pancake make-up, dreadlocks (him) and fishnets (her) they wheel on a magician’s cage with plush red curtains and iron bars; fame may look alluring but it is also an illusion; a trap from which there is no escape.

The chorus work and expert choreography (Anna Stuart) makes the ensemble numbers a delight. From the spine-chilling vocal harmonies of Life on Mars – played out against flickering images from the silver screen – to a dozen human cameras flashing their shutters in synchronicity in Fame, the company numbers are a highlight. Golden Years, with arm twirling and finger clicking, is a classic rock song which the lighting emphasises perfectly, and when things get dark in the second half, the choreography for Tonight has a touch of Jai Ho to bring us out of the gloom.

A propos of which, there are some very dark themes indeed as Joe Rockstar succumbs to heroin, hallucinations and attempted suicide. The young Max Gunn handles these excellently and though he may not have the vocal experience to carry the angrier punchy numbers (Changes; Suffragette City) he really hits his stride with the soulful duet When I Live My Dream and the drugged-up Always Crashing in the Same Car.

As he sits vacantly on the sofa during Lady Grinning Soul (another vocally superb cameo for Margaret as Medusa), Anna Ashton performs acrobatics on the pole that has dominated the set since the beginning. It is a fantastic display of strength and flexibility that also (I suspect due to the skimpy 'outfit') drew appreciative whistles from half of the audience. If this is one for the boys, then Pearly McGrath’s fantastic rendition of Heroes as a disappointed and neglected lover struck a chord with the girls and brought the house down. The reprise of Heroes/ When I Live My Dream/ Starman is touchingly tender, although the preceding scene needs polishing in terms of acting and mechanics to deliver the full impact

Shaun Vining puts in a stellar performance as the fallen hero who is discarded for a younger model. His pained demise in Bewley Brothers elicits skin-crawling sympathy as he descends into madness with the assistance of projected images of his distorted face. Tom Lynch and Tom-Tom Productions do a fabulous job with the technical aspects and visual backdrop which enhances the poignancy of the piece with quotes and images of those who died too young through abuse of substances and their mental health.

Incidentally, I wouldn’t have included Michael Jackson (who seemed to be the odd one out), but I would have added Ian Curtis to the likes of Joey Ramone, Sid Vicious, Marc Bolan, Jimi Hendrix, Michael Hutchence, Phil Lynott, Keith Moon, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Johnny Thunders, Elvis Presley, Kurt Cobain... you can discuss this later at home. The programme includes the phone number for Wakatipu Victim Support for anyone who wishes to speak to a health professional about any issues raised by this production and there are some powerful moments as it treads a fine line between the highs and lows of adulation – never pulling any punches.

Just as Idol was thrown on the scrap heap, so Joe Rockstar follows suit when Jupiter sees he is no longer fresh and brings in a new pin-up, the effervescent Sam Hillman as DJ. He introduces a modern note (although his song, DJ, is from 1979 proving the versatility of the great man) and a hip-hop style with which the cast seem more familiar. It is indeed a credit to Margaret and Marty to get such sterling performances out of people who weren’t even alive when Bowie was at his best. The selection of songs is clearly a personal one, but perhaps more emphasis on the ‘good time’ era might explain why one would pursue such giddy heights in the first place.
 
There are some technical issues which need improvement and may shape up further into the run – the skylight needs to be blacked out or it ruins the lighting effects in the first half; the transition of microphones for the final number, Ziggy Stardust, is a bit shambolic; there are several occasions between numbers where the cast don’t know where to put themselves – it is a very small stage and can look crowded and messy – and it was entirely obvious that the encore was unplanned, although Fame was a good choice. On the whole, however, this is a thoroughly entertaining show.

Rock and Roll Suicide demonstrates how good a musical can be when you actually let the music do the talking. In the words of my favourite Bowie song, ‘Hot tramp; I love you so!’

Romeo & Juliet: Generation X

Romeo & Juliet (Three Spoon Theatre)

Bats Theatre, August 5-15

Credit to the cast and crew must be given for the fact that less than half an hour after finishing one of Shakespeare’s most challenging plays, they are back to tackle the second of the double-bill (Ha!) with commendable relish. Both of these are massive oeuvres and a lot of hard work has clearly gone into attempting to whittle them down to an attention-challenged modern audience.

Although the editing is slightly suspect, director Ralph McCubbin Howell strikes a far better balance with Romeo and Juliet. The young leads are not so much star-crossed lovers, as self-destructive teenage time-bombs, but it is great to see them being portrayed by people who understand the exuberance of youth.

It is easy to believe that Juliet (Claire Wilson) is 13 as she morphs from bashful and bemused to defiant and determined in the space of an evening. She displays her subtle humour in the waking ‘It was the nightingale and not the lark’ scene and is a worthy partner to Romeo’s (Eli Kent) passions.

The Montague mob are adept at juvenile shenanigans with overtones of smut, alcohol, vomit, and ludicrous lovelorn poetry. Benvolio (Jack Sergent-Shadbolt) is almost unbearably cute with his hang-dog loyalty, whereas Mercutio (Allan Henry) is brash and boorish – he is superb in his too cool for school persona with melodramatic gestures.

His death scene is quick and realistic although far from painless. All the sombre moments are strong, especially the episode in the tomb which can often drag on but is here played with a chilling lack of hyperbole, aided by minimal lighting (Rachel Marlow).

Eli Kent is the darling of the drama student crowd if the girls in the audience were anything to go by. High-pitched squeals and sycophantic giggling met his every utterance, like a character from Happy Days. To his credit he didn’t milk these banal responses and managed to keep the production enjoyable for all – unlike his teenaged fan-club.

The preppy look of the Montague’s cardigans, cricket jumpers and waistcoats also recalls 1950s America and the production owes more to Sondheim than Shakespeare. When they encounter the Capulets, led by the dangerous and sexy Tybalt (Dominic de Souza) the stylish fight-scenes (choreographed by Ricky Dey) are well-executed but I keep expecting them to break into song.

The cuts make the mood changes more sudden which befits the fickle nature of adolescence but threatens to lose depth. Friar Lawrence (Jonny Potts) is given an enlarged role (including some lines surplus to the original play) which alters the intent. It becomes not coincidence that leads to the deaths but criminal negligence. Friar Lawrence is worldly, cynical and highly culpable.

There is no exploration of the motives of the adults in this production. Charlotte Bradley (in the antithesis of her earlier role in Measure for Measure) is a shrieking shrewish Lady Capulet, while Prince Escalus (Thomas McGrath) just appears to turn up and shout.

Jean Sergent indicates that she would revel in the complete and complex role of the Nurse. As it is, with so many of her speeches deleted, she contents herself with expressing one thing with her words and another with her eyes.

Paris (Aaron Baker), Juliet’s suitor preferred for her by her parents, is a pathetic dupe and there is no hint of his munificence. The fact that we don’t feel sorry for him at all allows us to concentrate on other aspects but it lacks some of the rich tapestry of the tragedy. I suppose we can’t be expected to think about more than one thing at once.

It’s a well-enough known story that explanations are largely unnecessary, but whereas this play is often concerned with how a community has ripped itself apart, this Shakespeare-lite 20/20 production is distilled entirely to the dead young folk. It’s Romeo and Juliet for Generation X.

Unequal Balance: Measure for Measure

Measure for Measure (Three Spoon Theatre)

Bats Theatre, August 5-15

Measure for Measure is known as a ‘problem play’, as it holds comedy and tragedy in unequal balance, and director Alexandra Lodge certainly seems to be confused. Having seen the Three Spoon Theatre production at Bats, I am no clearer as to what she considers this play to be about.

The slick introductory dance to the Undertones’ Teenage Kicks (the all-time favourite single of the late great John Peel) seems to suggest it is a play about young people and sex. Well, that will certainly grab audience attention, but as the play progresses she turns her consideration to themes of justice, compassion, leadership, empathy, wisdom, experience and power.

She begins with a blank canvas. All the cast are dressed in white which apparently represents ‘the reaction to anatomy – the idea of cleanliness and outward appearance’ – they might just as well be anaemic smurfs or sperm. The patchily-lit set with its exposed pipes reveals the internal plumbing complete with dripping, gurgling, belching and squelching sound effects signifying the visceral and sexual content. It also resembles scaffolding involved in the building process as steps and levels provide delineations and boundaries.

We are reminded ‘Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall’ or (in the words of another writer a couple of centuries later) that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Duke Vincentio (a sardonic and softly spoken James Davenport) pretends to leave his city and places the ‘precise’ Angelo in charge. Richard Falkner plays him with commendable exactitude that allows no room for manoeuvre.

When he drags Isabella (Charlotte Bradley) down to his level and makes her kneel in supplication, her heartfelt cry of ‘To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, who would believe me?’ is emphasised by shadowy light illuminating her anguish. They dance a tentative dos-a-dos like the sun and rain on a weather vane; they can never share the space because their ideals are poles apart.

Meanwhile, the Duke oversees all, frequently standing above or apart as he is granted the omniscience of an Oberon observing the necessarily messy and human foibles of his Viennese subjects. He manipulates the action and while his bed trick is a good plan and well explained, the head trick is crass and insensitive. Dialogue cuts and stage positioning make him unquestionably the pivotal figure, but his motives remain obscure.

The poetry and tragedy of this play (how often they go together) are simply beautiful. Charlotte Bradley’s calm and gentle yet firm Isabella contrasts perfectly with her brother Claudio (Eli Kent) who is all fluttery hands and jittery passions. One or the other is nearly always on stage and their scene together is the moving counterpoint of the performance. Claudio is imprisoned for fornication with Juliet (Clare Wilson) and his life will only be spared by Angelo if Isabella yields her virginity to him.

This scene contains some of the most moving language ever written, but they opt out for a cheap laugh instead answering ‘Were it but my life, I’d throw it down for your deliverance as frankly as a pin’ with a flippant ‘Thanks, dear Isabel’. The difficulty is that the comedy and the tragedy hang so finely in the balance, but they shouldn’t intrude on each other. Claudio still gets to conjure shivers with his ‘Ay, but to die, and go we know not where’ speech, but Isabella’s compassion is undermined.

When played straight, this is far more powerful, such as the beautiful final scene in which she kneels beside Mariana (Sophie Hambleton) to beg for the life of the man who has wronged her. This highlights the beatific soul of the women, all of whom are spurned and abused throughout, including the rapaciously sexy Mistress Overdone (Ally Garrett). It is unusual to see an actor wearing glasses on stage, but it works just fine here; if eyes are the windows of the soul, then Isabella’s is reflective.

The severe pruning leaves the comic characters with too heavy a burden. Whereas Lucio (Edward Watson) is expressive in a whisper, Pompey (Paul Harrop) speaks too fast. True, he is meant to be a jabberer, but many of his words are lost. Elbow (Thomas McGrath) makes excellent work of the physical comedy and muddled expressions, but he could temper his performance with less shouting, while Provost (Nick Zwart) bumbles and stumbles around the stage like a simpleton.

Alexandra Lodge has chosen to mock the theatrical conventions such as the eavesdropping, the mistaken identity, the false reporting, and the reveal scenes common to most Shakespearean comedies. This introduces distance from the audience resulting in a lack of engagement in the dignified demand for justice.

Many of the scenes instantly recall other works rather than creating their own integrity, and the play doesn’t stand alone so much as become a composite of Shakespeare’s greats. This is possibly because the editing simply went for the highlights and ignored the structure. The unresolved ending reflects the directorial dichotomy. It hangs together as a collection of (admittedly very good) vignettes but lacks cohesion.

Black on black on black

Urban Hymns, (Young and Hungry Festival of New Theatre, 2009)

Bats, July 10 -25

We are told early on that this play is “about power and control”, which is achieved through drugs, music, violence and words, borrowed from poetry and spray-painted onto walls. The play is deliberately confrontational from the very first word – a long, drawn-out expletive. The low-level lighting (Isaac Heron, Nick Chester) is probably also meant to provoke, but rather serves to annoy.

The characters talk the language of high flying businessmen (and they are all men apart from two abused females) with their downsizing, redundancy and bringing it to the marketplace but it transpires they are teenagers pumping petrol and with essays to hand in at school. It is reminiscent of Brick with its enigmatic film noir dialogue placed in the mouths of adolescents: “this town is a desert”, “the windy city had wide horizons”, and “I have the distinct impression that being 16 years old was not to my advantage”.

The extremely slow start saw people shuffling in their seats, and it is apparent that director (Fiona Truelove) is using every tool in the drama student shed. With self-conscious ‘actorly’ movements the characters remain on stage throughout and if they aren’t simultaneously shouting and mumbling through their monologues, they are doing handstands or climbing the edge of the set – at least it is a welcome distraction. My companion said, ‘I’ve never come away from a play where people have writhed against the walls thinking, that was a good play’.

The essay that they mention ad nauseum is about Hone Tuwhare, which is a particularly clunky motif. Times have evidently changed a lot since I was at school; the ‘cool kids’ were never this interested in poetry, or homework for that matter. The images of ‘we who live in darkness’ and ‘black on black on black’ are emphasised through the crepuscular lighting and the nihilistic attitudes, like Outrageous Fortune but without the wit and humour.

The teen anguish is painfully raw. Blue (Mani Dunlop) says “I don’t understand why but it’s all falling down”. Her brother Isaiah (Benny Marama), who is “not allowed” to touch her (hinting at undercurrents of family violence), just wants to drive somewhere and “get fucked up”. In the best line of the play, Tobias (Cameron Jones) laments, “I’m too young for university, too ugly for a girlfriend, too stupid to drive, too impatient for school – what’s left for me?”

But the one-liners exist in isolation. Either the characters forgot their lines or they simply don’t follow on from each other, and there are a lot of black holes. Two actors who shine are Isaac Heron who plays Lucius the dealer with an even-paced, confident but detached delivery, and Cameron Jones whose edgy hand-clapping finger flicking Tobias was like something out of West Side Story. His mercurial trickery also brings Puck-like characteristics to mind.

The issues within this play which are worth exploring. The oil fields are drying up and petrol will become a precious commodity – it will have great value in the marketplace, is highly explosive and can reduce ideals to smoke. As petrol cans are filled and passed from hand to hand Truelove echoes the food chain motif. Are we all part of something like a community, or just another insignificant link? Blue claims, in Tuwhare’s words that “we are not alone”.

If someone is educated does that mean they have no right to join in the debate? Isaiah tells Blue, “You’re a jumped up rich kid, accept it! Who cares what you have to say?” She counters that she wants to write the words, but not in an essay, which is why she sprays them, “so that every letter stands bigger than you” and “To remind us all about what’s happening out there in this dark, dark world we live in”. If the writing is on the wall and she is leaving her mark, can she be ignored?

Das (Ian Walsh) pushes the mythical dark apart to create a light through music. “The moment I stepped into the music room my world became to ao marama, the world of light. My world became. I became.” It seems rather incongruous that the person who finds a creative outlet from the legendary black is a white Englishman. He delivers a monologue to tell us how he has learned to fly and changed his old destructive ways. As this is a drama, it would be better to demonstrate this through action rather than relying on narrative.

This is an interesting play, but is done a disservice by the production values. Writer Miria George certainly leaves us with a lot to think about – it would be good to be able to become immersed rather than straining to see and hear it.

Toilet trash

Sit on It, (Young and Hungry Festival of New Theatre 2009)

Bats, July 10 - 25

Writer Georgina Titheridge must have spent an alarming amount of time in toilets at bars and nightclubs to capture the excellent dialogue of Sit on It. Over the course of about an hour, the clientele of the club drop by the toilets to hide from others, make ‘private’ phone calls, primp, preen, argue, fight, vomit and have sex –in rapid succession. Oh, and a couple even go to the toilet – we are told about it in graphic detail. I’m just appalled by the number of people who don’t wash their hands – so that’s how swine flu is spreading! I’m not exactly OCD but I’m off to buy some hand sanitizer.

We are presented with a number of types. The sparkly girls come complete with glittering handbags and salon hair – Jenny (Eve Marina) wants to do some ‘nasty dancing all over boys and stuff’ while Jen (Prue Clarke) just wants to be nasty. The long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans girls are ‘obviously lesbians’ – Millie (Anna Pearson) aks her friend Bill (Ashleigh James) why they are there and I would have to echo that question. It’s Ladies Night, so they can get free drinks, but it won’t exactly be salubrious, as the plywood toilets (set design by Joel Cocks) indicate.

Mike (Daniel Watterson) who keeps straying ‘accidentally’ into the women’s toilets is a good character and maintains his level of insecure bluster throughout – so perplexed by his sexuality that he propositions anyone and everyone. Dan (Jonathan O’Kane) also seems confused, becoming awkwardly drawn to Mike moments after turning down Wendy (Gabrielle Beran) who was quick to whip off her top in a cubicle, because it was more romantic than shagging by the sinks.

True to stereotype, most of the characters arrive in pairs, including an underage kid Bell (Gussie Larkin) hiding from her big sister Carla (Zoë Towers), and the two slapstick clowns Tammy (Jackie Shaw) and Vanessa (Phoebe Smith). The Moaning Myrtle wallflower, Francis (Ana Clark) in a highly unlikely dress, tries too hard to be appealing because she hasn’t any friends of her own. The ladies loos can be a very lonely place, as Millie discovers when she attempts to get someone to stop and have a conversation.

Director Lyndee-Jane Rutherford uses the device of having the actors talk to themselves in the mirror, so they can face us as they speak to each other. This could involve the audience but the characters are all revolting so we’re simply not engaged (pardon the corny pun – it’s contagious). The only decent person in this club is Monica (Debs Rea) who is a total skank – Amy Winehouse style – with the beehive to match. She doesn’t blink when her implants pop out and blithely takes her knickers off (I can only assume because she worries they are giving her VPL), but she generously offers a complete stranger the use of her cell phone because she’s got lots of credit.

Parts of the action are incisive as the girls get increasingly dishevelled and unappealing – why do we think we’re sexy when we’re drunk? Others, however, betray a lack of insight, such as the cat fight. Those girls were spoiling for a fight, pumped with aggression and would have punched and kicked when they were down – to portray them as pathetic handbag wavers may get a cheap laugh, but there are already plenty of those and this is ultimately disappointing.

Incidents are played out for maximum comedy effect which conversely spoils the impact. Although the dialogue is perceptive, the stereotypical characterisation and over-the-top acting style leave the performers with nowhere to go. The screaming fever-pitch climax is intensely irritating, and although there are some good comedy sketches, there is not enough depth or development to really class as a play.

This has been done before and better (Willy Russell’s Stags and Hens is currently enjoying a renaissance) and Titheridge herself has trod very similar ground in the fantastic Babycakes with more style. If you’re that age and you know the actors, it’s probably a scream, but if the acting is toned down and the directing more subtle, it could reach a much wider audience.

A Pearl of a Play

Oyster, (Young and Hungry Festival of New Theatre 2009)

Bats, July 10-25

Struggle is an integral part of character, apparently. The grit in the oyster becomes a pearl, and there is plenty of matter for these characters to rub against and develop. Each is searching for individuality, while desperately trying to fit in. The set (designed by Sarah Burrell) of little skyscraper boxes grouped in various clusters of representative isolation heightens the sense of trying to stand out from the crowd.

Dolores (Lauren Gibson) is a serious student with a beautiful voice who is saving for her OE, while getting bullied at school by a triumvirate of mean girls. These three try to be cool by swearing and talking about sex. Dolores confides in her friend Velma (Karin McCracken), an animal activist (although she does eat oysters because that’s different) who seems comfortable in her own skin.

Velma’s boyfriend, Marek (Sam Hallahan) is a Polish anthropology student who is interested in prophets and why they have stopped hearing voices. He claims that spirituality has been replaced by consumerism and champions his intense socialist principles, all the while scrounging money off Velma.

She works, or rather, volunteers for Gaia (Cara Louise Waretini) whose extremely dull eco-warrior persona spouts diatribes of facts and slogans in the sort of student debates that everyone else fell asleep through. Her brother, Napoleon (Will Colin) is a Trekkie, claiming ‘People become Trekkies for all sorts of reasons’ and ‘It’s cool to be different’, but he’s not and tribal affiliation is no substitute for personality.

Meanwhile, Chevy (Tom Horder) finds religion and hands out ten brochures a day – his dialogue is delivered at a good pace and his gentle demeanour is appealing. Each character is seeking individual salvation, and when we see them all some years on, they have found it to varying degrees. Relationships end, expectations lead to disillusion, family commitments curtail personal freedoms, and Marek has a break-down in MacDonald’s. Only Dolores seems at ease, ‘I’ll be standing on the barricades singing whatever happens.’

Some of the actors are hard to understand and could emphasise their speeches more by not trailing off at the end of their sentences. Lauren Gibson is a stand-out and her clear and distinctive voice proves that the New Zealand accent doesn’t have to be a nasally mumble of unintelligibility. Jessica Aaltonen also impresses as she makes the switch from vindictive head bully to vulnerable loneliness with convincing ability and depth of character.

The closing apocalyptic rant as all the characters sit around has some good lines but no cohesion – one monologue follows another and it risks sounding like a high school debate. Vivienne Plumb is poet and short story writer, as well as a playwright, and much of it is more suited to the page than the stage. For example, Gaia and Napoleon share particularly unrealistic dialogue and the description of the visit to Phnom Penh is more like a short story than a piece of drama.

The understated direction (Rachel More) helps connect all these characters in their ever expanding network. Elegant touches – the angel reaching out a hand; the reading of letters by the writers themselves – suggest buoyancy in the maelstrom that is adolescence. With a little polishing, this piece could truly be a gem.

Blow by Blackening

The Blackening
Bats Theatre, 10 – 27 June

We are looking forward to this play. Various reviews have described it as ‘homegrown theatre of unease’ with ‘considerable dramatic tension’ (John Smythe); ‘a New Zealand version of Sam Shepard’ which is ‘all very powerful, intensely theatrical, melodramatic, and occasionally poetic’ (Laurie Atkinson); ‘one of the most polished productions you’ll see this year, [and] one of the most deeply disturbing’; ‘this script is pitch black [and] scary, taking us into unsavoury psychological territory’; ‘This is quality work. You won't leave the theatre with a smile on your face and a skip in your step, in fact you might just want to sleep with the light on for a while...’ (Lynn Freeman). So far; so intriguing.

And it’s got Jed Brophy who, as I know from watching Trainspotting and Skin Deep, is an excellent actor. So, as I say, we are looking forward to this play.

The set (Tony De Goldi) doesn’t disappoint – it’s one of the best I’ve ever seen at Bats; the carpet of leaves crunching under foot in the frosty atmosphere; the gnarled tree with a pile of apples beneath; the side of a caravan with blinds drawn; the washing line strung off to the side hung with floral dresses; a swing seat like a crucifix or a portal calmly positioned centre stage right – all hint at myriad possibilities and high expectations.

One character sits sharpening an axe as we file into the theatre. His rhythmic strokes and compulsive commitment auger bad things to come and they synchronise with the obsessive concentration of the other character who rocks gently to the music in his headphones – each isolated in their private world. Then the birdsong flits across the senses (superb sound by Stephen Gallagher) and Jed Brophy enters.

He is Mal (first bludgeoning symbolism – the clue is in the name) and he has returned from somewhere to the family orchard. He has been away for ten years and doesn’t know that the apples have got blight and his younger brother Broody (music man, played by Jack Shadbolt) fell out of a tree when he was ten, landing on his head and resulting in a disability that leaves him with the mental age of six.

He (and the audience) is helpfully told all this by the axe grinder, Dan (Jonny Moffatt), in clipped tones and ill-fitting overalls. This workaday outfit contrasts with Mal’s city suit, as he spins yarns about being a manager and a pilot, none of which turn out to be true. Dan is all repressed something-or-other – rage; sexuality; resentment; tenderness; your guess is as good as mine.

Mal alternates between smiling conviviality and flaring temper, while Broody is awkward but adorable with childish gestures in an adult’s body. They seem to be getting to know each other and Mal builds Broody a go-kart so he can enter a race, even though Dan won’t let him go beyond the gate into the wide world (that’s us – the audience).

Neither will Dan let Mal sleep indoors, and he sets his sleeping bag out among the leaves and under the stars. In the moonlight he thinks he sees May, his former girlfriend and Dan’s wife, but she turns away without speaking to him. So did he see her or was she a dream, or is she a ghost (she’s all dressed in white and we’ve never seen her)? We’re told he hurt her, but he loved her and then he left her, and he is surprised she has settled down with Dan. But has she? It starts to get confusing.

He wakes up to a beautiful dawn and a perfect cross fade – I’m noticing the lighting (Jennifer Lal), which may not be a good sign. Things seem to settle down to normal, or whatever passes for that on an orchard miles from anywhere with suggestions of psychosis. With signalling verging on the semaphore, Dan says they have to chop the trees down to prevent the disease from spreading. Mal finds an apple still clinging to the tree. He plucks it and bites into it but it is rotten and he spits it out at us – right at us; that’ll teach us to sit in the front row.

Pop, who used to thrash the brothers when they were boys, is still on the scene. He emerges from the caravan with a cane in his hand and a hat pulled over his eyes and he roams through the trees looking for Broody. Mal steps up to the swing and takes the whipping on his behalf. Clearly Jonny Moffat is playing Pop, but the question arises, is Dan playing Pop? The caravan appears to be the tiring room and we wonder whether the characters are acting out other characters for themselves more than for us.

May appears once more; again she is wreathed in white and is clearly Jack Shadbolt – there are titters from the audience at the sight of ‘her’ hairy masculine legs protruding from her nightie. But this time she is clearly Broody; Mal is alarmed and Dan disturbingly allows himself to be seduced. The lingerie drops to the floor and is removed to a dress-up box in which the hat and cane are discovered. My friend asks, ‘what is going on?’ Her husband tells her to shush.

Mal puts on the dress and is intimidated by Dan into tears and recriminations. What happened to May? According to Dan, she slit her wrists after Mal left her pregnant. Her name itself expresses uncertainty and implies there are other factors. Is the relationship between Dan and the personification of May physical? Is this another outlet for the repressed emotion in Dan which explodes (Pops) into violence?

The emblematic apples are the death of Mal – quite literally as he chokes on one, after stuffing his face, knowing they are poisoned. The fairytale and biblical elements are overwhelming. He brought a knife with him which he gave to Broody. As Broody toys with it at the end and looks dreamily into the distance, we are left to ponder what he will do with it. Will there be a sacrifice, and if so, of whom?

The bows are a highlight as the actors shake off their multiple personalities and finally connect with the audience. As we leave the theatre we are all bemused. Friend’s husband says he couldn’t engage with the play – judging from the audience response, he is not the only one. No one seems to know what was going on, although they don’t want to admit it lest they seem ignorant.

So they fall back on pretension – exhibit A; ‘Since the opening of this production, I’ve heard some audience members express discontent at the staging conventions (role doubling etc) confusing with the symbolism in the narrative, making the plot hard to follow. However, I found this served to intensify my understanding of the text, in which much of the pleasure lies in attempting to decipher this world.’ (Fiona McNamara). Well doesn’t she think she’s the clever one?

The only thing I can’t decipher is whether it’s the fault of the writer (Paul Rothwell) or the director (Paul McLaughlin) that this play makes no sense whatsoever. Due to the tight production values and the complex characterisation, I think the director can largely be excused. I blame the playwright. When I got home in answer to Him Outdoors (who had wisely refused to come – ‘I won’t like it’) I praise the set, the sound, the lighting and the acting. He nods sagely; ‘Say no more’.

Criticising the critic

Last weekend I went to see a play at Bats Theatre called Winter. I didn't like it very much as I thought it was awkward and pretentious. The dialogue was strained, stilted and completely unrealistic. It was the sort of thing that people write at drama school when they imagine that everyone else has the same over-earnest conversations they conduct in their own head.

I wrote a review for the Lumiere website, in which I presented my opinions. Immediately I am accused of not having a sense of humour, having ADD and having problems relating to people. I find this is the sort of vituperative diatribe that meets many reviewers in this town who say they don't like a play, which is usually written by a local and so their friends defend them.

Fair enough. We all have different opinions - otherwise those CSI programmes would cease to exist - but I find it frustrating when people assume that because you don't like something, you 'don't get it.' Yes, I got it; I just didn't like it. It's like when you don't laugh at someone's joke and they accuse you of not having a sense of humour - yes, I got it; I just didn't think it was funny!

This seems to me to be a very immature attidue; the sort of thing you thought when you were a teenager, but hopefully grew out of. Do we only appreciate reviews when they agree with our view? In which case, what is the point of a review?