tonyreck21c

hugo race: existential blues

2012-01-05T17:30:00.002+11:00

It is necessary to begin this review of Hugo Race and band, and their recent show at The Toff in Town, with a definition. The term I wish to define and which I think applies to the music of Race is that of 'Existential Blues'. Conceptually, there are three characteristics comprising this subgenus of traditional blues music. I will attempt to elicit and illuminate these characteristics by using examples from Race's punk rock pedigree, the free form melodic structure of his recent music, and the terms of bewilderment implied by the disconcerting lyrics as these are present in his songwriting. In a recent interview Race is quoted as saying: "I'm prolific because I can't think of anything better to do with myself. And there it all is". (Hugo Race: 'I Never Wanted to be in that Expat Diaspora', Shaun Prescott, Mess & Noise, http://www.messandnoise.com/articles/4210739). Confronted by mortality, or the psychopathology of pending oblivion, Race, band, and their current sound as exemplified by the Fatalists album, is laced with a pathos associated with the threat of extinction. With this sombre thought in mind we can begin to examine what it means for a definition of an existential blues.

Unlike many Australian rock musicians that flourished, then disappeared, during the mid 70's and 80's, Race continues to produce music. During Saturday night's gig at the Toff an initially unreceptive audience was assaulted by songs expressing a loathing for insatiable narcotic need, fabulist evil, the intellectual void posed by evangelistic consumerism, and several ballads by Race one of which detailed his indifference to matters of the heart. Further accentuating the risk involved in this approach was, that for the first third of the show, the sound-mix was atrocious. At one point, Race's vocals completely disappeared. Consequently, many in the audience seemed preoccupied, and the ensuing chatter was such that might be experienced at a cocktail party celebrating the Spring Racing Carnival.
But Race, Michelangelo Russo, and Helhound 'Patch' Brown were unperturbed. Here, Race and band employed a strategy that reflected the early ethos of punk rock, its inevitable decline, and its transformation into the sound of the 'New Wave'. In other words, Race and band appeared to suggest that if the audience didn't like what they were hearing then they could all go and get fucked. However, rather than pummel the audience with a belligerent animosity provoked by rejection, Race and band struck their inattentive audience with songs that illuminated the predicament that had arisen between them. Dope Fiends was unleashed upon this audience with the intensity and experiential bitterness of a harrow descending upon flesh. Race's disdain was obvious. But he channeled this into a lyrical critique that eventually silenced the aforementioned chatter. I don't believe I have ever seen a band work so hard to regain the attention of an audience, and then succeed.

Here, this same strategy exemplifies the first conceptual requirement for the establishment of an existential blues. The lyrics of a song are no longer concerned with love, loss, sex, sadness or heavenly despair. Instead, they bleat alienation, indifference, accusation, isolation and the illumination of an intellectual void the presence of which is fundamental to daily life in 2011. The early punk ethos re-emerges within a framework of musical maturity, and it is this maturity that helps define this version of the blues as existential.

Of course, it is plausible to argue that rock music is both a derivative of and a progression away from traditional blues music. That is, the twelve bar melodic structure of the blues has been adapted to, expanded upon and reconfigured into the infinite permutations of rock. Often, rock musicians embark upon a journey to rediscover their 'roots' and this functions as code for delineating a desire to return to the twelve bar form of the blues as well as its earthy, direct sound. Race is no exception here: his 1987 title track Rue Morgue Blues is in part a delineation of the above desire. Furthermore, bluesman Chris Wilson plays harp on three of the album's ten tracks and his presence on the album reinforces Race's desire for retrospection.

Twenty three years later, at the Toff in Town show 2011, Race and current band perform the consequences of this retrospection. The songs from Fatalists have a fiscal structure. In absentia is the meandering experimentation of The Goldstreet Sessions (2004). Instead, Fatalists is thrifty, if not minimal and synchronised between Race, Russo, Brown, and their respective instruments. At one point Brown strums a single chord in retaliation to the rhythms of Race's balladry. It is a defiant and concentrated musical gesture from a disciplined guitarist quietly capable of positioning his sound between the ambitions of his musical collaborators. Here, an existential blues is formally evidenced as an oppositional strategy that not only substantiates Brown's stage presence. It also interferes with more traditional blues melody by procuring within the ensemble a tonal shock that interrupts an audience sensibilites. Many appear confused, disenchanted and even angry toward the band. One punter will take no more and he escapes to an exterior balcony. But it is also apparent that many have attended expecting music more consistent with the current solo-acoustic fascination as exemplified by singer-songwriter Pete Murray. Race the balladeer is having none of that; while simultaneously aware of, and perhaps capitalising upon this same fascination, it is when he proclaims that tonight's audience should expect the unexpected that this statement is also a directorate to the band. Here, an existential blues is made explicit by the sampled diatonic of Michelangelo Russo's exponential harmonica.

One instrument that typifies traditional blues music is the diatonic harmonica. Race and band are aware of its representative character. But on the Fatalists album it is imperative that the harp resonate beyond its albeit unique limitations. Russo samples his playing of the harp then feeds this back into the overall sound of the band. The consequent sonic levitates in the air above as an omnipotent force that fortuitously punctuates this performance. Russo's sample is at once a manifestation of free will, open form and pure chance. Relinquished is the traditional blues function of the harp as either a lead, rhythm support, or fill instrument. Instead, Russo's harp becomes its own hiatus. That is, it creates its own musical space that dances above and is distinct from the guitars of Race and Brown, while remaining receptive to any chance encounters that may occur between these elements. Either way, Russo's harp is exponential because it propels harmonica method forward by utilising contemporary technology. It is this same open configuration of the harmonica's sound that contributes to the substantiation of a blues that is existential.

Free will, open form and chance are established characteristics of existentialism. But it is the dystopic repetition elucidated from Race's lyrics that situates Fatalists as postmodern. (Some say avant-garde, but as any bewildered postmodernist will testify, the avant-garde has died a thousand deaths and will continue to do so in the same way as a mouse remains stationary on a treadmill). This dystopic repetition is exemplified by a song such as Slow Fry. Here resides the withering paradox of a tune that demands mainstream attention, but is infused with and counterpointed by Race's defiant scepticism. Any attitude of 'Out of the fry pan and into the fire' is tempered by an awareness that in the fickle business of music survival is dependent upon continuing to sizzle. As a reminder to the reader I re-quote Race and his attitude to prolificacy. "I'm prolific because I can't think of anything better to do with myself And there it all is".

This quote by Race is also a statement of Sisyphean intent. Similarly, the relentless dystopia as characterised by his songwriting can also be situated within this mythological/ existential context. (Anecdotally, I recall Race's reaction to a theatre production we worked on. The blurb for the play titled The Antechamber was 'Life's a tour, then you die". His perceived reaction appeared to conceal an awareness that for Race, there was truth in this statement; particularly reflecting his more recent shuffle between European tour and Australian residency). But just as the figure of Sisyphus was condemned by Zeus to an infuriating after-life, and then utilised by Camus as a propensity that illuminated the human predicament as this was contextualised by existentialism, the Fatalists album can also be characterised as Deterministic. (Whether Christian or secular, the context of this Determinism is difficult to apprehend. Suffice it to say that Race's lyrics appear to reside in a godless world). Either way, this Determinism was on display at his recent show at The Toff in Town, Melbourne.

Determinism is a prismatic concept. Here, I should contextualise and specify my use of the term. During the Toff show it was apparent that the inherent contradiction that permeates Race's music and Fatalists is as follows: a musical form dependent upon chance that is exponential in practice exists in dichotomy to lyrics that in general, express an attitude of destiny consistent with the rigor and control in which these lyrics are performed. Put simply, chance and control collide to produce performances that are simultaneously risky yet musically familiar. Russo and his sampled harmonica personify chance, Race and his lyrics personify control, and Brown's minimalism mediates these two extremes. This is why the Toff audience was initially confused by its experience. Race and band are an acquired taste. But once that taste is acquired it becomes a contagion as infectious as the melodic pummel of Serpent's Egg, the ironic, aspirational pop of Slow Fry, or the disconsolate insult upon the sensibility of an audience that in effect, is Dope Fiends. These are all characteristics of an existential blues. Restless and dogmatic, cynical but experimental, disobedient, offensive and yet a tantalising rumination upon a musical genre that continues to fascinate musicians and attract an audience, this dog just will not lie down.

HUGO RACE, with Michelangelo Russo & Hellhound 'Patch' Brown.

The Toff in Town, December 10, 2011, Melbourne.

dirty pictures 2011/ production shots

2011-10-27T10:14:00.002+11:00

'Hit me up' Cory Corbett & Rain Fuller

'Got a Light?' Ben Kazlauskas & Simone Smith

'Saturday Night' Rain Fuller & Simone Smith

'The Life of the Mind' Cory Corbett

'Nightlife' Rain Fuller

'Hamming it up' Cory Corbett, Rain Fuller, Ben Kazlauskas & Simone Smith

'Stay or Go?' Rain Fuller & Cory Corbett

Photographs: Adam Hammad 2-6
Sue Kent 1&7

dirty pictures-a new australian play by tony reck/ collingwood underground theatre, oct. 13-23, 2011

2011-09-28T07:56:00.000+10:00

the dollhouse: life in miniature

2011-09-20T13:08:00.002+10:00

Photography: Daisy Noyes

The name-tag belonging to a staff member at 45 downstairs is laconic in its defence against the irascible theatre patron. 'Hello', it says: 'I'm doing my best'. An expression comprised of verbal economy, it is also an unintended reflection of Daniel Schlusser's contraction of space for this adaptation of Ibsen's A Doll's House (1879). This normally expansive basement warehouse has been reduced to an ill-fitting rectangle. The front row audience is situated some two meters from the stage. Behind the performers is a flat, galvanised tin wall. The only methods of escape are several miniature windows and a zipped door. Both audience and performers eyeball one another in a gaze that is simultaneously disconcerting and sublime. This is audience participation of a most surreptitious type. The usual desire to remain an impartial observer has been neutralised by a cunning manipulation. We, the audience, are not outside, but inside. Yes, we are behind the walls of the dollhouse.

In preparations for Christmas the Helmer household is characterised by an atmosphere of nonchalance, if not outright triviality. Torvald Helmer lounges before a flat-screen TV. Engrossed by the interactive simulation of a violent Playstation scenario, he remains oblivious to the machinations that will consume his public and private reputation. Meanwhile, the highly qualified but spineless Doctor Rank epitomises the impostor and his usual pedestrian claim to possess the powers of mystical healing. Furthermore, the director of The Dollhouse himself occupies a position on stage. Microphone in hand, Schlusser criticises the original script for its earnestness and quietly informs the audience that Ibsen's contemporary, August Strindberg, publicly attacked A Doll's House in 1884. Incandescent in her conflicting levity, Nora Helmer, the pivotal character of this production, appears to hover above the surrounding inertia. She is simultaneously more frivolous, while being more disturbed by her frivolity, than all who are present. The reason prompting her near-hysteric state is revealed with the arrival of an old friend, Kristine Linde. Linde is down on her luck. During a discussion about employment Nora reveals she has fraudulently accumulated a large debt of which her husband Torvald has no knowledge. (She did so in order to save Torvald's life when he was ill). But has kept details of the debt from him so as to not offend his puritanical sense of male pride.

What ensues is an intelligently crafted carousel during which each character attempts to mitigate the effect of their innate human flaws, but fails to do so. Torvald physically batters the manipulative lawyer Krogstad, Dr. Rank reveals to all his adulterous intention and Nora catapults her distressed self toward suicide. Absent for much of this chaotic descent are the often referred-to Helmer children. There occurs a momentary suspicion that like George and Martha from Albee's sardonic play the Helmers have created phantom off-spring to appease their inadequate selves. However, the subtle suggestion that it is the Helmer children outside the dollhouse who gaze in upon their parents is a chilling endorsement of thwarted innocence and the perceptive power of childhood. Flowers appear, stuffed through tiny windows. A tirade of Lego pieces dumped upon Nora's head dispenses with her delusionary self and most importantly, a letter arrives.

Torvald Helmer discovers the actual detail of the fraudulent debt. He believes his career to be ruined and blames none other than Nora. His dogma cannot accept the public shame and private betrayal brought upon him by a woman who has taken it upon herself to act in an independent manner. Even if this has meant that in doing so, his life has been saved. Consequently, what this production testifies to is the re-emergence of a patriarchal order in contemporary male/ female relationships. Here, The Dollhouse is a revisionist work of hyperrealism directed by a male who succeeds in suggesting he is simultaneously scathing of the production he has created. This is a peculiar yet fascinating irony that catapults The Dollhouse into a stratosphere of 'Now' that is uber- contemporary. Once opening night nerves settle into a confident rhythm this production has the potential to slay its audience in the aisles.

The Dollhouse: adapted from the play by Henrik Ibsen

Performers: Nikki Shiels, Kade Greenland, Edwina Wren,

Josh Price, Daniel Schlusser, Cate Bastian & Gabrielle Abbot

Director: Daniel Schlusser

Producer: Sarah Ernst

Set Design: Jeminah Reidy

Lighting Design: Kimberly Kwa

Costume Design: Tiffany Abbot

Sound Design: Martin Kay

Assistant Director: Daisy Noyes

Production Manager: Emma Valente

Stage Manager: Alison Huth

Assistant Stage manager: Shannon Power

Sound Operator: Ben Redford

Publicity: Fiona Macleod

dirty pictures 2011-publicity shots

2011-09-15T07:24:00.001+10:00

Rain Fuller, Cory Corbett, Ben Kazlauskas & Simone Smith
Photographs: Christopher Deere

auditions: dirty pictures; a new australian play by tony reck

2011-07-20T10:07:00.000+10:00

2 MALE & 2 FEMALE PERFORMERS REQUIRED: PLEASE SEND HEAD SHOT & CV TO tonyreck2010@gmail.com

MEDIA RELEASE: 19.7.2011

Dirty Pictures is a new play by Melbourne writer-director Tony Reck

"A voice in the dark speaks of a crepuscular world, one in economic and ecological crisis. On a laneway wall an image of Michelangelo's Hand of God burns out; over exposed, any chance at salvation has become a 30 second grab of melting celluloid. 4 anonymous characters engage one another in the endless repetition of The Deal. Drugs and money, love, sex and the technofetish... You want it then baby it's for sale. A shot rings out... then another... A cock crows in the wilderness and a wild dog howls. Lost inside the mountain a young man searches for his disintegrating self while a mother mourns the loss of her abandoned child. Whatever you desire... DIRTY PICTURES is multimedia performance of the streetwise kind. You will know what it is like to lose everything. Somehow, you will find the strength to move on..."

Reck's previous plays include The Great Divide, The Tar Machine and The Antechamber. He is an unflinchingly honest writer-director, one unperturbed by demonstrating in the theatre the less savoury side of existence; as well as the human capacity for forgiveness and the trauma of lost love.

"The Great Divide & The Tar Machine have few parallels in Australian theatre today..."

Jonathan Marshall, InPress.

"The best of the times and the worst of times..." Ralph McLean, 3RRR.

"Some very good writing in The Great Divide and some lovely performances..."

Geoffrey Milne-774 ABC Melbourne.

"Whatever you do don't eat the chicken..." Melynda Woodward, Artshub.

"An uncannily rendered Aussie noir netherworld..." John Bailey, RealTime.

Dirty Pictures promises to be a bold and uncomprimising night in the theatre.

Performance dates, times and locations are as follows:

DIRTY PICTURES, a new Australian play by Tony Reck.

Collingwood Underground Carpark, 253 Hoddle St. Collingwood, September 14 - 18, 8.00 pm.

(Preview, Tuesday, September 13, 8.00 pm).

Further information, please contact Tony Reck at tonyreck2010@gmail.com

the great divide (take-away version)

2011-06-23T15:03:00.002+10:00

THE TEMPEST: THE THEATRE & ITS FILAMENT

2011-05-07T14:57:00.001+10:00

With its vertically inclined seating folded up and packed away, Theatreworks becomes an egalitarian space. The audience sits amongst the performance alongside the paying spectator and the performers themselves. It is difficult ascertaining just who is here to do what. But of course, this is the purpose of erasing the demarcation between that which is to be exhibited and the purveyors of the exhibition. This relationship is a fundamental preoccupation of those who seek to construct dramatic space; one that is usually concentrated upon transforming the passive observer into an active participant. However, during this performance of The Tempest an attempt at altering the experience of the audience has a disparate resonance.
   We have been summoned to the extravagant court of Prospero by an ensemble comprising recognisable theatremakers, and a group of comparative unknowns; all of who have some association with the St. Kilda Uniting Care Drop-in Centre. Pertinent then, is an ironic invitation to sketch a culinary delight on butcher's paper, only to be asked that in its consumption, were we satisfied with our meal. In reflecting the same error a more widely recognised Shakespearian character once made, Prospero will relinquish his kingdom not according to its needs, but instead, displaying an (apparent) naive conceit. Much like the recipient and devious brothers Antonio and Sebastian, the audience is also in attendance at the King's court and therefore, a consequence of Prospero’s decision to abdicate. Concurrently, the outcome of this abdication is then performed by an ensemble of individuals who in contrasting circumstances, have all spent a portion of their lives living on an artistic, or a socio-economic fringe. This is Shakespeare direct from the streets of unfashionable St. Kilda and, as the title of a popular hymn of the proletariat suggests, it's now time for the audience to 'Get a Little Dirt on their Hands'.
   My eventual task will be to review this performance without submitting to platitude or patronising its participants. Furthermore, I have a responsibility to assess The Tempest for a prospective audience; one that may intend purchasing tickets. The unusual complexity associated with this task prompts a rumination upon the ethics of reviewing. I must have a disgruntled expression on my face for when I catch the eye of a trained performer his anxiety is palpable. However, the untrained performers are having the proverbial time of their lives. Marlene Foster as the witch Sycorax offers a raw, if not unique vision of the character she is playing. Most interesting is that the stylised and sinister cackle that charcterises many an actor's interpretation of a witch is also apparent in her performance. But an absence of self-consciousness from Foster results in this acting cliché being subsumed by an authentic expressive quality that is engaging because it is genuinely grotesque.
   Where approaches to acting are concerned, I am an advocate of characterisation over mimicry. Jenine Parke as Ariel epitomises this view. As performer, she utilises her innate awareness of what it is to be present while being observed by other people. Consequently, her emotional contribution is significant in communicating the story of The Tempest. In various and distinctive ways, these two aforementioned tactical approaches to acting exemplify a strategy for the entire ensemble. The performer's task is to communicate form using methods for expressing emotion. Concurrently, the task of a performance is to integrate these distinctive emotional states and express them with some consistency. While there remains an unavoidable division between trained and untrained performances in this production of The Tempest, this consistency is adequately communicated.

As a member of the audience unfamiliar with the plot of The Tempest, I decide to locate my assessment of this production in its capacity to convey the narrative of the play. Here, Prospero abdicates power for the purpose of reinstating to the throne his daughter Miranda. Antonio and Sebastian plot to murder a king while Ferdinand and Miranda find love. There occurs a monumental storm that is a typical Shakespearian metaphor for social tumult, political intrigue and eventual reconciliation; one that is charmingly represented by Ariel spraying atomised water above the heads of characters as they progress through the storm. Miranda, I believe, is returned to the throne and Prospero's canny manipulation of power results in an extended period of peace returning to the kingdom.
Sometimes bewildering and funny, at other times charming and insightful, the plot of The Tempest and its associated thematic concerns of political intrigue, as opposed to the significance of love and its function within the institution of family, are successfully navigated and revealed. But the real challenge for an audience experiencing this production will be in developing an appreciation of the recuperative power of the theatre. Judged by this standard, The Tempest appears to have been an unqualified success for all involved.

An adaptation of The Tempest by William Shakespeare

Director: John Bolton, Participant Drama Coordinator: Sharon Kirschner, Designer: Brian Lipson, Music Direction: Bagryana Popov, Producer: Joseph Sherman, Music Composition & Performance: Chris Bolton, Photography: Paul Dunn, Lighting Design: Shane Grant, Documentary Director & Producer: Sue Thomson, Documentary Co-Producer: Marnie Foulis, Performers: Matt King, Chris Raw, Jenine Park, Pat Nyberg, Chris Bolton, Marlene Foster, Brian Lipson, Sharon Kirschner, Joseph Sherman, Abdul-Hay Abdul-Hay, Mary-Grace Levakis, Bagryana Popov, Stewart Weir, Mark Cazaly, John Bolton, Brian Pigot, Theatreworks, May 3 - 8, Melb.

AFRICA: BIG GAME SAFARI

2011-05-03T14:20:00.001+10:00

The cobblestoned forecourt of The Meat Market is abandoned and the audience for this performance of Africa shuffles through a patchwork portal into the theatre. A similar sheet of decorated material momentarily conceals the stage from view, before it falls away and the set-design is revealed. Toys occupy a sequence of ascending levels that are eventually capped by a doorway and two half-windows. Among others, a blue, plastic scooter, two yellow dump trucks and a multicoloured spinning top assert into this average suburban household the sensibility of a fairy-tale. Three scruffy puppets emerge from amongst this scattered mess as if they have been selectively animated: a boy in basketball uniform, a girl in blue dress and a yellow haired baby who can barely manage a mumble. Meanwhile, as each child surreptitiously listens to a recognisable human presence in the hallway, their emotions are manipulated by a snappily dressed couple in preparation for a night on the town. The torsos of this surrogate father and birth mother are partially concealed by opaque partitions that imply neglect for the children, who will remain at home. This image of pre-occupied parents who unintentionally damage the lives of their kids is the defining metaphor of Africa. As a nevertheless precise and powerful statement of family breakdown, there is also a second, somewhat murky metaphorical presence in Africa; that of a journey to the ‘deep and dark continent’ functioning as an expression of the ruthless human heart. The racial implication of this representational debate has circulated in literary circles for years. In particular, Joseph Conrad’s novella Heart of Darkness, although empathetic to humanitarian values, is often criticised for its dated and inappropriate use of white-black contrast as a poetic indicator of the presence of good and evil in the primitive human heart. Unfortunately, no-one appears to have mentioned this to My Darling Patricia. Furthermore, the potential for unintentional racial discrimination as outlined above is an immediate distraction from what is clearly an inventive performance, and will have to be navigated very carefully as Africa proceeds.

The kids watch a television documentary about Africa and this is accompanied by a narrated monologue that indicates their fantasy to escape from what is a troubled home. The usual images of lion and wildebeest roaming the savannah are then usurped by the children and their actual preparation to attend an airport and fly to Africa. Packed and ready to go, their flight plan is permanently delayed by a disbelieving mother. Once again returning to the sibling rivalry associated with kids and their toys, the children absorb the sullen domestic situation that surrounds them.

Mum is not only overwhelmed by the task of caring for three kids. She is also forced to submit to the puerile demands of a degenerate surrogate-father who encapsulates the stereotypical characteristics of the standard abusive male. Domestic violence, rape, pedophilia and an inability to sustain genuine intimacy are the traits of this emotional basket-case. Mum throws this knuclehead out several times but like the smell of rotting fish his disturbing odour has insinuated itself into her desperate need for comparative male company. Meanwhile, the kids quietly become increasingly obsessed with Africa. In particular, the adolescent boy imagines he sees a stealthy leopard laying wait in long grass that emerges on-stage, then silently disappears. Africa, it would appear, is the primal destination for the emotional disturbance accumulating in the boy. The dubious metaphorical value implied by this journey is, for a completely different reason, equally disturbing; it is difficult not to anticipate the boy’s arrival at the awkward if not discriminatory destination of the implied ‘dark heart’. But as the performance progresses it increasingly becomes clear that My Darling Patricia and their erroneous choice of metaphor has been made with the best of intentions. Its use remains a naive counterfeit but this performance and its emphasis upon the unintentional neglect thrust upon vulnerable children is an obvious indication that the performance Africa has its origins in a warm, humanitarian heart.

The machinations of domestic abuse as these are performed in Africa do not equate with its abrupt ending. For an undisclosed reason, one that appears to be related to either financial duress or a desire to evade child welfare authoritarianism, the family home is forcibly abandoned. Mum, her daughter and baby, leave in a car presumably driven by the aforementioned knucklehead. Perhaps in spite of his mother and her token attempt at convincing him to join the family elsewhere, the adolescent boy refuses to leave. The family is driven away and darkness envelopes the boy. Dressed in his basketball uniform, he is a child on the cusp of adulthood who will have no choice but to develop a ferocious exterior if he is to survive in an arbitrary world. The long grass of the African savannah once again rises up around him. This time, the stalking leopard and its growl is also the accumulative persona of the boy and his decision to protect himself by the most brutal means available. Hungry for love, attack will be his best method of defence. Here, Africa and its pessimistic conclusion is entirely appropriate when considered alongside other deluded attempts at denying the grim actuality of an urban childhood. But it would also have been worthwhile for an audience to have experienced a further final scene that elaborated upon the boy and his admittedly stunted ability to integrate his damaged persona into an external world. Here, Africa would be less a well-intentioned dramatisation of the dubious poetics that can shape the lives of many children and instead, an investigation into their durability and an admirable capacity to substantiate their self-worth in a world which kids sometimes feel is completely alien to their needs.

Africa: Conceived, Designed and Created by My Darling Patricia: Concept: Sam Routledge, Writer-Director: Halcyon Macleod, Design: Clare Britton & Bridget Dolan, Composer-Sound Designer: Declan Kelly, Puppets: Bryony Anderson, Lighting Designer: Lucy Birkinshaw, Dramaturgy: Chris Ryan, Props & Set: Tim McGaw, Sound Operator: Marco Cher-Gibard, Production Manager: Bindi Green, Performers-Puppeteers: Michelle Robin Anderson, Anthony Ahern, Clare Britton, Sam Routledge & Jodie Le Vesconte, Presented by Artshouse & Mobile States, April 27 - 30, Meat Market, Melbourne.

REGGIE WATTS: FREE ASSOCIATION

2011-04-20T12:44:00.001+10:00

Once seated inside Melbourne’s Spiegeltent it is comedian Reggie Watt’s Afro hairstyle that commands attention. Like a wayward projectile it sways in tandem with Watts’ erratic contortions as he obsessively positions a microphone stand. The mic itself then becomes the recipient of an unintelligible monologue that has one discernible characteristic. The colloquialism ‘geezer’ is heard and its connotative meaning is accentuated by Watts’ use of a generic English brogue. For approximately five minutes he leavens the spoken word in such a manner that there arises a genuine suspicion that his mouth might be full of dough. But the audience is laughing and that’s a good sign; even if it is impossible to understand anything this New York based comedian is saying. But the first lesson learnt by any member of an audience unfamiliar with the comedy of Reggie Watts is: no matter the context Watts is always taking the piss. Acknowledging this performance strategy is essential if a person is to appreciate the discombobulating impact of a comedian who eschews the usual conventions of stand-up comedy. However, once this risky approach is accepted by an audience Watts’ indirect escapades become typical of those performers who strive for inspiration within the improvised moment. Add to this a mischievous desire to gently mock the portent of the African-American pop song and an evening with Reggie Watts is a most unusual comedic experience.

Watts is accompanied on-stage by a music sampling device and an electronic piano. For a person who quietly appears to be an accomplished musician he is also a sly purveyor of the poorly played tune. Sometimes thumping the keys of his piano with hands reminiscent of those belonging to an infant having a tantrum, at other times sampling simplistic vocal intonations and regurgitating the rhythms back into his performance, it is when investing these ironic tunes with improvised lyrics that Watts’ mockery emerges. His overt and ejaculatory embellishment of soul music elicits from, then repudiates and ridicules, what has become a self-imposed African-American stereotype. That is, as superhuman crooner invested with the sexual prowess to last ‘all night long’, Watts’ ideal African-American male is instead a marketing illusion that utilises sex to sell compact discs. (Not to mention challenging the deeply embedded fear that the well-hung Negro stud, once released from his chains, will plough through the plantation in an indiscriminate and primal act of sexual revenge). Sex has always been used as a marketing strategy. But its utilisation within the music industry is as prone to racial prejudice as it is in other areas of society. However, Watts’ skill in demonstrating this is less didactic and more the actions of a class-clown. But just as 80’s supergroup Earth, Wind & Fire do not escape his satire, neither does the literary academy. Utilising the same pretentious audacity local shock-jock John Laws once used to introduce his poetry, Watts’ investigation of the archaic English language, as exemplified by Donne and Shakespeare, deteriorates into a very funny rumination upon its irrelevance in a 21st century, media dominated world. Even so, the usual tag of ‘Comedian’ does not necessarily apply to Reggie Watts. For better or worse, his horizontal improvisations and oblique mockery will divide an audience. Those expecting a tedious sequence of sit-down one liners are hereby advised to first take a crash-course in Dadaist history.

Reggie Watts: Why Sh*t so Crazy ?

April 19 - 24, The Famous Spiegeltent

Melbourne International Comedy Festival

GABRIEL IGLESIAS: ACAPULCO GOLD

2011-04-15T14:02:00.001+10:00

Melbourne’s Athenaeum theatre may contain elements of 1880’s ‘boom style’ architecture but Gabriel Iglesias’ presence is substantial enough so that it easily accommodates this theatre and its extravagant decor. Iglesias waddles on-stage dressed in a relaxed Hawaiian shirt, knee-high denim shorts and homie sneakers. He quite possibly tips the scales at well over twenty kilograms. Consequently, his reputation for cute fat jokes precedes him. Less obvious during his tactically wise decision to immediately impress this Australian audience with local content, is his exceptional comedic presence. Concealed beneath a jocular image of the sweet, fun loving fat guy, is a quick thinking and polished performer who is entirely at ease with himself and the audience he seeks to entertain. Even so, and given the limitations of stand-up comedy and its repetitive structure of the smart-arse one liner, it is hard to imagine a more competent, composed and skilled comedian than Gabriel Iglesias. His virtuoso performance borders on astonishing and an audience swollen with die-hard fans is uproarious. Curiously though, a young, wavy-haired man sitting two seats away is not laughing.

Iglesias’ comedic method is comprised of four structural devices: short jokes with sharp punchlines, accent and mimicry, amplified sound effect and improvised audience interactivity. For eight-tenths of this ‘Fluffy Shop Tour’ show he hysterically mesmerises the audience with the first three of these four structural devices. For example, Iglesias informs us that during a recent tour of Saudi Arabia he was confronted by an audience either consisting of women concealed by veil, or their oppressive male Arab counterparts. Utilising a fluent ability to switch between the tender, frightened voice of an oppressed female and the gruff, Arabic tone of her masculine oppressor, Iglesias elicits a momentous sequence of one-liners from what is a stereotypical and very American view of Saudi identity. Petrified of revealing flesh for fear of masculine retribution, Iglesias’ veiled female battles the tyranny imposed upon her by an audience comprised of the ubiquitous Arab male desperate to maintain his irrational superiority. Iglesias, a Mexican-American, is the on-stage conduit for this battle. Having little empathy with either, and instead extracting humour from a vision of the ‘Crazy Arab’, Iglesias has also been careful to ask if there are any people of Middle Eastern origin in the audience. The fact that their are seems to make the others laugh louder. This perfectly timed sequence of apparently good-natured wisecracks, mimicked femininity, Middle Eastern accent and Saudi Arabian sound effect, seems to have had an impact. The aforementioned wavy-haired man sitting two seats away now has a wry smirk spread across his face.

For approximately fifty five minutes Iglesias enthralls his audience with a show that is almost a comic tour de force. Whether its the cross-border plight of the Mexican wetback, the obtuse Aussie ocker, the hypocritical African-American or Iglesias’ own amorous girlfriend, his humour is borne of cultural/ racial stereotypes that upon deeper analysis are historically consistent with a conventional and mainstream American comedy that laughs at the misfortune of others. But what is really on show here is Gabriel Iglesias’ exceptional skill as a comic performer. That is, until he strays from the smart arse one-liner and riffs with the audience. A woman requests Iglesias perform his joke about the Aussie crocodile hunter. Here, Iglesias overblows into an improvised and highly imaginative anecdote that hybridises Steve Irwin with a member of Al Queda. However, it would appear that the majority of his audience finds this elaborate and extensive story related with wonderful timing and empathetic skill slightly less humorous than his previous set of one-liners. Not so for the aforementioned wavy haired man sitting two seats away. By the end of the show, and with an honest smile momentarily stamped upon his face, the same man then cracks-up with convulsive laughter.

Gabriel Iglesias: The Fluffy Shop Tour

Athenaeum theatre, April 14 - 17

Melbourne International Comedy Festival

HUGO RACE: SIDEWINDER

2011-04-08T14:04:00.001+10:00

Travelling in straight lines through an urban environment while moving laterally at night across cool desert sands is characteristic of a journey to the Northcote social club to experience Fatalists, the latest release by musician Hugo Race. The drive along Punt Rd. and up High St. complete, Race, Michelangelo Russo and Hellhound 'Patch' Brown greet their audience on-stage. This permutation is guitar driven. But Russo's distorted harmonica and subsequent sampled reverberation of the band and its sound transpositions genre. The contagious Slow Fry surreptitiously lurches between Race's corrugated vocals, his funereal Gibson and an apparently innocuous tube amp loitering against a rear wall. As close to traditional blues as Race is prepared to get, he nevertheless elicits from this specific form a contemporary elaboration that revels in its homelessness. Situated somewhere on a cusp between the amorphous desert and the blue neon of a bad city, Slow Fry sails in on an evening wind only to leave lyrical grit in the eye of the punter. It is a dirty, deceptively simple song that demands mainstream attention but, of course, will never receive it.

The Fatalists album was recorded in Italy where Race spends much time touring. Unsurprising then that the melodic structure of songs such as In the Pines and Still Running imply the sound of Angelo Badalamenti and his collaborations with film director David Lynch. These integrated excursions into musical influences not normally associated with the three minute rock song add a textural layer to Race's balladry. While he is careful not to tamper with the overall convention, the pathos of his lyrics reverberates with similar cinematic reference. Consequently, Morricone, Leone and the film Once Upon a Time in the West become subtle references to the spectre of death that permeates Fatalists. Hearing the concisely positioned musical reference prompts a momentary recall of the chosen film and its thematic concerns. The result is that what initially resemble ballads of cross-border desolation become pithy if not personal reflections upon the tomb. Sometimes humorous and ironic, such as the misinterpretation by an Italian audience of the song title Dopefiends as 'Dolphins'. At others, explicitly fabulist during the infected pummel of Serpent Egg. Meanwhile, Russo's aching harmonica, circulating as a raucous lick in the humid air, threatens to disassemble this contrivance. His overblow is sampled and regurgitated in a superfluous effort to accentuate the climax of a song. But this appears to be more the result of an excess of enthusiasm. Otherwise, his musical presence provides the perfect contrast to Race's desire for economy and control. Race's lyricism and inventive melody allude to the presence of death while Russo's harp hurtles toward its inevitable conclusion. Alongside, Hellhound Brown is careful not to be distracted by either. His disciplined strumming calms the beast in his two compatriots while simultaneously making it appear as if he is just along for the ride.

Race is a defiant and deferential figure on-stage. His lithe form inhabits the area surrounding the microphone in a manner simultaneously pragmatic and proto-cool. At times, (and if he were no longer restrained by the horizontal presence of his sombre Gibson), he appears to osmose with the microphone stand. The effect of this perpendicular stage presence is in contrast to the textural sweep that characterises the band and its music. Race’s desire for cinematic allusion is exemplified by Russo’s regurgitation of specific musical quotations. Reconfigured by reverb or distorted and fed back into the the subsequent progression, the resulting desolate atmospherics are captured and propelled forward by the economy of Race’s lyrics. The tension between these two opposing elements is particularly noticeable on the crisp Nightvision. Race malingers above his mic like the reluctant recipient of a power to see in the dark. As the vocal conduit for the maelstrom of musical notation that swirls around him he snaps at each element and channels the resulting composition directly into the audience. Nightvision is the musical equivalent of a circular saw. Those patrons imbibing or playing pool in the bar would have heard it splintering plaster before it cut directly through the wall.

There are eight tracks on the Fatalists album and for this live set Race includes five tunes from his encyclopaedic discography. I believe one was written by his daughter; while others such as Sun City Casino and 53rd State are incantations advanced from previous albums. Never one for giving too much away, Race is, however, a fan of the brief anecdote when introducing songs. This tendency toward publicly reflecting upon the origins of his music not only tempers his reputation for rattlesnake rock. It quietly undermines the popular myth so often attached to rock journeymen. It is common knowledge that Fatalists was in part prompted by a debilitating bout of pneumonia. Consequently, this show at the Northcote Social Club is often accentuated by moments of ironic jocularity, pathos, and a diversified awareness of the disagreeable predicament many Australian musicians find themselves immersed within. Above all, Fatalists is an album laced with vulnerability. When travelling in straight lines through an urban environment while moving laterally at night across cool, desert sands, death is the inevitable destination of the Sidewinder.

Hugo Race: Fatalists album launch
Northcote Social Club, March 9, Melb.

SALOM'S LOT: BALLBEARING

2011-04-07T15:32:00.001+10:00

The accusation “Were you born in a tent” ? is an Australian colloquialism that is critical of another for having left the door to a room ajar. It is entirely appropriate then that Joel Salom’s contribution to the 2011 Melbourne International Comedy Festival should also take place in a tent. The Deluxe, Riverside Terrace, is a nomadic venue situated behind the ostentatious hustle of Federation Square. Salom appears on stage dressed in a neat pinstriped suit. His appearance is reminiscent of a rejected member of The Wiggles who has since developed an inferiority complex. His spiel begins with some gentle one-liners that encapsulate his experience of growing up on an isolated farm. Dad was silent but deadly. Mum was a frustrated tyrant. His older brother treated him like a dog... Conventional stand-up that elicits the odd awkward giggle from some while others are immediately considering whether to make a break for the door. But this desire to escape the unmitigated pain associated with experiencing a comic die in the arse is symptomatic of Salom’s approach to comedy. Unlike so many other so-called comedians Salom leaves the door open. Consequently, once he inserts a duo of ping pong balls into the space between his gums and cheeks, Salom’s Lot becomes a disturbingly funny expression of multiples.

Resembling Don Vito Corleone from The Godfather while impersonating a dickhead in attendance at an Appalachian backcountry ball, Salom teeters on stage in Frankenstinian pose. Actually, he is impersonating his mother. But the inspiration for his loitering is less Boris Karloff and more Harpo Marx. Having captured the attention of his audience Salom then skillfully channels the rhythm of his show back into anecdote. But not before he gargles the same ping pong balls by blowing one after the other out of his mouth and into the air. Once aware that Salom’s hokey anecdotes are also simple prompts for the physical manifestation of an outrageous imagination, his audience relaxes. This transformation of the audience-performer relationship is critical to the eventual success of all live performance. Mysterious, unpredictable and intangible, in layperson’s terms Salom has initiated a situation where the audience might soon be eating out of the palm of his hand.

His strategy of using mildly humorous anecdotes to inspire interplanetary actions is fully realised by the appearance on stage of Erik the Dog. (Salom himself has disappeared behind a curtain. But Erik’s perverse wit is also that belonging to its concealed master). Erik is a robot; one not unlike that seen at a contemporary Japanese trade fair emphasising innovation in the area of artificial intelligence. He inhabits the entire stage and protects his territory just like an actual dog. The difference being that what is normally a raucous and unintelligible bark is instead translated into the cynical slobbering of one demented puppy. His ‘bite you on the arse while you’re not looking’ commentary canvases a diversity of situations. The audience get a spray, while Erik is also quite prepared to cock his leg and accurately deliver a caustic stream of criticism aimed directly at his creator. But it is when Erik turns to leave that Salom cleverly re-inserts his central motif’ back into this performance. Here, Salom’s ‘balls’ are instead positioned between Erik the dog’s legs and right beneath his arsehole. The arrogant testicles of a robotic dog should not dangle as if they belong to an amorous, all conquering Beagle. It is one of the more lewd and ludicrous exits off-stage experienced in quite some time.

What distinguishes Salom’s Lot from conventional stand-up comedy is an open mind and genuine theatrical skill. A member of the audience is persuaded to participate in the eccentricities. He’s a hard working Colombian guy who struggles with the English language. Salom induces from this man a sequence of random platitudes then makes an off the cuff joke about Colombian cocaine. But he also samples the vocal responses of the willing participant. Distorting the man’s voice in different ways he replays the now altered voice back to the audience. This good natured ridicule of the Colombian guy is taken in its stride but Salom’s excursion into technological potential does not end here. Instead, he wraps himself in a type of sensor suit that is haptically activated (by touch...) and positions himself before a laser beam. What ensues can only be described as the integration of expert juggling skills and sampled gangster rap into a weird virtual dance. Watching Salom pat his attached sensors in order to activate his sampled responses, while simultaneously juggling pins and balls in accord with this dance and its overall rhythm, is to also reflect upon him rehearsing this strange bricolage. That is, in any other context apart from the performing arts Salom would be forcibly detained and institutionalised. It is not quite a moment of comic virtuosity, but pretty close. Joel Salom’s Salom’s Lot is a surprising and unpredictable show that transpositions conventional comedic genre and makes you laugh out loud. It is also the type of show that assists in revitalising an ailing Melbourne International Comedy Festival that is too reliant upon the smart-arse one-liner.

Joel Salom - Salom’s Lot

The Deluxe, Riverside Terrace

Melbourne International Comedy Festival

March 31 - April 24

BAAL: PRIMITIVE MAN

2011-04-06T13:19:00.001+10:00

Terence Chin

As poet, swindler, amoralist and debaucher Baal is anathema to the polite sophistication of the Malthouse. Alone on stage he cajoles a sombre ruse from his dilapidated Fender guitar. There is an immediate expectation that this amplification will dishevel the aural sensibility of those audience members hovering in the back row. But the creators of Baal intend for us to interpret the lyrics of this bearded thanatologist. It is not a specific understanding of Baal’s monomania that ensues. Rather, his ballad procures a mental picture of a melancholy muse situated somewhere beyond the dubious aspirations of polite theatre. (Perhaps, situated upon the bow of a ship travelling at night with Baal himself preparing to be catapulted upward and devoured by dark matter). Instead, a tirade of chattering socialites enter stage right. One, a publisher, would like to see Baal’s throttled verse in print. Another, vocation unknown but adept in the distribution of mindless praise, simply wants to fuck. An unfortunate third has made the horrendous mistake of becoming immersed by unrequited love. Her suffering is ensured, as Baal has thoughts for nobody other than his indulgent self. Obsessed by the maleficence of infinite possibility his pathological mania is a celebration of the involuntary body. Blood, sweat, semen and shit, Baal is simultaneously Dionysian rock star, vagrant child, and figure reminiscent of anecdotes of Artaud during that poet’s late paroxysms of schizophrenia. Then, without cause, a man wearing nothing other than a pair of joggers enters stage right. He carries a slab of cheap rye and coke. His name is Ekart and he is Baal’s confidante and lover. During a scene reminiscent of a homoerotic BBQ one of the boys has dropped by for a snag and a drink.

Here, Baal begins to resemble a play about a conventional battle of the sexes. Ekart drags a denatured mattress on stage. There occurs much sexual frolicking and transgression of conventional sexual code. Baal is either splayed naked upon the mattress or politely has his legs crossed so that what is strategically revealed to the audience is his swollen scrotum. As each sexual taboo is broken, emotions are strained and alliances reconfigured. But it is when Baal ‘browneyes‘ a female character and makes a solemn declaration of truth, that this play becomes a genuine provocation. That is, for Baal to wade chest deep through a morass of bodily fluids is to also engage with the fundamental question of what it is to be human; the same idea that is often revealed during discussions of the life and work of the Marquis de Sade. If Nature itself is corrupt and human beings are unavoidably natural, then does this not allow for the legitimate proliferation of sexual deviation and criminal behaviour ? A fine idea if you happen to be the sadist. But as Masoch demonstrated in Venus in Furs (1869) there is also pleasure to be derived by submitting to the dominatrix.

The emerging difficulty for the play Baal is that its female characters are either one dimensional submissive and/ or lecherous sexual predators, or often, directorial props. Baal needs his arse whipped. But the writing of the play does not allow for any female character to brandish the weapon. Consequently, his proclamation that the pursuit of pleasure is by definition a quest for human truth resonates as distinctly male-centric and destructive. Whether this is an historical peculiarity relating to Brecht and his archaic world view or a consequence of this contemporary (translation..?) adaptation of the play is unclear. Excluding the presence of eros in either its male or female incarnation limits the play and its intellectual scope. Furthermore, its cross-dressing aspect as personified by the remaining male character Johannes is simultaneously an affirmation of the above while also being condescending to women. However, the second half of Baal does explore the consequences of extreme hedonism. But once again, it its the trajectory of its male characters that dominate proceedings.

During a clever conceptual representation of thwarted idealism the entire set collapses around the character of Baal and he is thrust into a disconsolate external world. Fire sprinklers spray two distinctive streams of water onto a black stage; one indicates the steady fall of heavy rain while the other spreads an atomised mist above the head of Baal, a man now paralysed by self-doubt. (The use of these two production elements is a startling reminder of the essential plasticity of the theatre; Brecht would have been proud). Baal raves on and it is difficult ascertaining the specific trajectory of the plot of the play. But the striking visual cues allow for an understanding of what has occurred.
The world has changed around an unsuspecting Baal. No longer a figure idolised or even tolerated by his peers Baal is subjected to the cruel elements and his descent into insanity has begun. Each of the other characters except Ekart wear yellow raincoats. Caution, protection and convention now prevails among those that once threw themselves at Baal’s feet. But even Ekart has relinquished his love for Baal and discovered it elsewhere with Sophie. Here, the once infatuated Ekart becomes Baal’s equal. While Johannes, Emile, Sophie and other characters have become conservatives, Ekart maintains his insatiable passion for life. Furthermore, he is prepared to engage the increasingly erratic Baal in what he believes to be an honest affirmation of his love for Sophie. Of course, Baal is impaled by loss and he himself becomes the ironic figure of unrequited love. Combined with his deteriorating mental state and an inability to protect himself against ‘outrageous fortune’ Baal murders Sophie. With blood on his hands he collapses on the now sodden mattress. He hears the voices of several performers positioned in strategic positions throughout the cavernous theatre. Alone and insane, Baal is the artist crucified by an inability to integrate personal idealism with the demands of conventional society. But portraying Baal’s demise as one analogous to the death of Christ trivialises his dilemna. Like Hamlet, this conceptual framework situates Baal’s death within a context of Christianity. As there has been very little if any religious rumination during the preceding scenes of the play Baal’s Christian sacrifice is anticlimactic. Its bathetic aura sits uncomfortably alongside the instinct for death that has driven Baal during his journey from celebrity to mentally ill Isolate.

Baal is a brave, intellectually rigorous and imaginatively conceived production. Male-centrism and superfluous Christianity aside, it is also a production that allows for its audience to disregard its minor faults. Once theatremakers decide to imbue a text with the unqualified emotional intelligence a play such as Baal demands, an audience has no choice but to be satisfied. However, many people may be disconcerted and even enraged by this confrontational production. But beneath its hedonism and obscenity is a shrewd tale of the dilemna that confronts the serious artist. The circumstances of this same dilemna are nowhere more deeply felt than by the performance ensemble that has brought this production of Baal to the stage.

Baal

Performers: Brigid Gallacher, Geraldine Hakewill, Luke Hastings Edge, Shelly Lauman, Oscar Redding, Chris Ryan, Lotte St Clair, Katherine Tonkin & Thomas M. Wright, Writer: Bertolt Brecht, Translation: Simon Stone & Tom Wright, Director: Simon Stone, Set & Lighting Design: Nick Schlieper, Costume Design: Mel Page, Composition & Sound Design: Stefan Gregory, Associate Lighting Designer: Tom Willis, Malthouse, April 2 - 23, Melb.

AMPLIFICATION: CRASH BANG THEORY

2011-03-30T18:40:00.001+11:00

Jeff Busby

Inside the Beckett theatre it is the ultra-violet hue of high intensity discharge lighting that establishes the repertoire of Amplification. It prompts an aura of sterility that is consistent with an operating theatre, or a morgue. A man inserts himself into the rampant of this performance. He props behind a trestle sustaining a metonymy of sound equipment. Hovering above his head in what appears to be an embellishment of organ pipes are instead, several perpendicular incandescent bulbs. Before composer Lynton Carr shuffles his turntable, this integration of light for the purpose of accentuating sound is an effective strategy for communicating the catastrophic moment that comprises a car accident. To reside in a world suddenly thwarted by chaos and confusion, then regain consciousness in the alien atmosphere of a hospital ward, is to be ejected from the trite conviviality of daily routine. Time and space have been amplified as the experience of collision indemnifies the body against psychic and physiological trauma. Life will never be the same again. One minute will feel like seven years.

Carr cranks his turntable into life and the sonics of his scratch and rap evoke a peculiar awareness of the present entrapped by the past. His design is a recognisable if not familiar hybrid of live performance and material sampled from a variety of disparate sources. Traffic exacerbates past a bystander on a freeway and advertising jingles are procured from defunct transistors as the moment of collision is evoked and four dancers appear from discrete entrances. Identically dressed in grey uniforms, their choreography ruminates upon the disagreeable meeting between the body and the point of impact. A disciplined and impressive oeuvre of movement ensues. Arms and legs appear as if vertically detached from sockets and the penetration of flesh by metal is an eroticism reflected in Carr’s frenetic mix of sound. Immediately, there occurs a suspicion that Amplification has accelerated too early. This suspicion is further substantiated by a choreography that celebrates formal virtuosity while relegating emotion, narrative and dramatic conflict to the proverbial scrapheap. Above all, this same celebration is entirely consistent with the aforementioned awareness of the present somehow being ensnared by the past. Pre-millenium formalism was a twentieth century preoccupation that accompanied the so-called ‘triumph of capitalism’. In 2011, its awkward and uncomfortable presence is a reminder that the sancity of form over all else has also been relegated to the past.

The frenetic opening of Amplification subsides and is replaced by a subdued, reflective mood. Whether post-accident or post-coital it is also an opportunity for the performers to engage in intimate relations. One performer lies prostrate on the floor. He could be dead or dying but it is more likely that he dreams of an identity stolen by the consequences of a car accident. Black hoods are placed over the heads of two separate and unsuspecting dancers. Their captor drags each off-stage and the performance fades to a sustained blackout. Here, it becomes increasingly difficult to ascertain the exact trajectory of Amplification. Its choreography is so enraptured by self-importance that the rhythmical structure of the overall performance is neglected. Consequently, when the dancers return their movement is again executed with confidence and precision. However, the sequence of scenes that ensue is confused and ineffective. Horizontal lengths of string attached to concealed model cars are pulled across stage by the performers. But this quirky attempt at instilling the performance with a narrative leaves a less than favourable impression. A ritualistic burial occurs, during which two performers are carefully wrapped in white sheets overlaid by orange tarpuallins. Once again, the movement is careful and precise. But so much time is taken up in completing a task that is readily definable from its outset that it becomes difficult not to conclude that Amplification has lost the capacity to convey the complexity of trauma. Instead, what the audience is left to contemplate is unfortunately, mere padding. This fault could be attributed to the fact that Amplification has lost some of its impact since its first incarnation in 1999. But this does not take into account that the performance itself is structurally unsound. Vascillating between a desire for narrative and the obtuse beauty of abstract dance, it achieves neither. Some ground is recovered during a later scene as a male dancer is eased into a box by three female dancers while using only their feet. But once again, this implied gender battle is subsumed by an action that is nothing more than cleverness for its own sake. Thoughtful and imaginative production values aside, Amplification is an unsatisfying night in the theatre.

Amplification: Choreographer: Phillip Adams, Composer/ Turntablist: Lynton Carr, Set & Lighting Design: Bluebottle, Costume Design: Graham Green, Performers: Timothy Harvey, Rennie McDougall, Carlee Mellow, Brooke Stamp & Joanne White, Dance Massive, Malthouse, March 22 – 26, Melb.

berry's gym: photo essay

2011-03-03T19:30:00.002+11:00

THE END: BECKETT IN PROSE

2011-02-26T12:36:00.001+11:00

Jeff Busby

It is not altogether unpredictable that a work of prose by Samuel Beckett should be performed in the Beckett theatre at the Malthouse in Melbourne. The house lights do not dim alongside actor Robert Menzies as he enters from a spartan door situated stage right. But his presence is substantial enough to subdue the anticipatory chatter of a collective of drama teachers who comprise a portion of the audience. Experiencing the antipathy of a Samuel Beckett play, even one that has been adapted from the prosaic form, is an event during which the house lighting should implicate its audience. But the question remains: how does a person confess existential angst once it is expressed for him and consequently, disassociated from the self ? Perhaps all we can hope for from The End is the transient discomfiture of knowing that there are others out there like us, and that we are not alone.

Menzies' Beckettian persona is also subdued. Dressed in crinkled shirt and stove pipe trousers he more resembles the contemporary homeless man than the theatricalised clowns who so often populate Beckett's writing. He informs us that he has been ejected from an asylum and is now struggling to find acceptable lodgings. Money is not the problem, for he has more than enough to sustain himself. What potential landlords do find reprehensible is the sullen demeanour of the man. Acerbic in thought and conversation, and ever-ready to unleash upon himself and others a sizzling tirade of paranoia, disappointment and at times hallucinatory despair, this 'everyman' is to housing applications what Ivan Milat is to backpacking. Like many of Beckett's prose characters, (Belacqua from More Pricks than Kicks, Murphy from the eponymous novel), he wanders the streets in search of salvation but only finds himself further immersed within a Dantean inferno. During one such sojourn he encounters his son. Unable to approach his offspring due to an incandescent hatred, Beckett's nameless character can only offer sardonic rumination upon his own incapacity to assimilate. He soon finds himself by the seaside where he occupies an upturned boat, sleeps for a while, then pushes the boat out to sea before committing suicide.

Of course, all this is revealed by monologue and never enacted. Consequently, it remains safe to assume that the nameless man himself has constructed a fantasy. Purposefully standing upon an actor's mark and having never left his theatrical box, his tale could be one that has been repeated many times, while also being a final elaboration upon the life of a condemned man. Throughout this performance the house lights oscillate between a tight spot on Menzies the performer and a general wash upon the audience. As a directorial strategy for implicating the audience in the absurd yearning of an anonymous man, it is, like the performance itself, ineffective, if not incidental. Beckett's plays are innately theatrical: a character who cannot sit and another who cannot stand in Endgame; humanity reduced to a pair of lips in Mouth, a woman incrementally buried in sand in Happy Days, and of course, two tramps crawling out of a ditch compelled to wait for a mysterious fellow who never arrives in Godot. Why directors choose to generate theatre from Beckett's prose remains a mystery... Menzies, however, gives a disciplined performance. Not only does he appear to have been sculpted from the same literary scalpel that Beckett dissected himself with, his capacity to sustain embittered humour and connect this with an audience is succinct. Overall though, reanimating Samuel Beckett's theatrical oeuvre would be a more rewarding endeavour than stultifying remarkable works of prose that were written with the intention of these remaining on the page.

The End
Writer: Samuel Beckett, Director: Eamon Flack, Performer, Robert Menzies, Lighting design: Teegan Lee, Malthouse, Feb. 17 - March 11, Melb.

WHITE MATERIAL: OLD COLONIALISTS

2011-02-11T11:59:00.001+11:00

There exists a vivid concentration of the colour red that immediately conveys the violence and political upheaval characterising director Claire Denis' film White Material (2009). The film's central protagonist is a red-haired French woman named Maria Vial. She manages a coffee plantation somewhere in an unidentified African country. A simmering guerilla war between government forces and rebel soldiers has erupted. The consequences of this war for the general population are devastating. The local pharmacy is protected by armed guard. Plantation workers abandon their employment in fear of their lives. Pre-pubescent children have organised into a ramshackle army led by a freedom fighter named 'The Boxer'. And the obsessive Maria Vial makes desperate attempts to employ workers for the purpose of harvesting her ripe coffee beans. Beneath the semi-tropical vegetation of equatorial Africa there is spread a viscous, red soil. The suspicion is that a blood-lust will soon devour the inhabitants of this country, along with its French colonialist past.

The film's story is revealed in flashback by a sequence of elliptical and impressionistic vignettes. It begins with Maria Vial fleeing along that same red-soiled road, then hitching a lift upon a micro-bus overloaded with black Africans similarly intent on escape. As director, Denis makes few concessions to her audience. Her camera is a dispassionate voyeur that hovers above and around Maria Vial, thereby channeling the emotional extremity of this situation into her petite face. Denis also refuses to make explicit for the audience the film's embroidered temporal shifts. Instead, when the opening scene digresses to a different locality and Vial is overwhelmed by a peace-keeping helicopter whose occupants sternly advise her to depart, Denis assumes that the shift in action and emotional intensity will substantiate the narrative and its gradual re-telling of events that have already occurred. This is a risky strategy. But it is also an assumption upon the director's part that her audience is intelligent enough to be engaged by her film-making. Given Denis' directorial style, as this was evidenced by the impressionistic beauty of Beau Travail (1999), Denis' assumption is both fair and precise. For those members of the audience unprepared for White Material and its slippery descent into an incongruous past, well, (Denis suggests), better luck next time...

Arranged with minimal and deft austerity, the prismatic relationships that comprise this film are selectively revealed. Some are acutely personal, such as the relationship between Maria Vial and her indolent son Manuel, who aspires to nothing other than remaining in his bedroom for each entire day. Resentful of his mother's pampering and perhaps, her decision to raise him in a country that is at best ambivalent to France, he is only mobilised after two child soldiers unsuccessfully attempt his assassination. In response, Manuel shaves his head in mohawk style, steals his father's pump action shotgun, and seeks revenge. In doing so, he also joins the same group of rebels that contain the same two child soldiers who attempted to murder him. Psychotic, if not completely insane, Manuel's revenge is here inverted upon his mother. Elsewhere, other relationships are metaphorical, and indicate the presence of an exasperated France attempting to cope with the consequences of its destructive colonialist intent. Maria Vial's father-in-law, (the original and remaining owner of the coffee plantation), still resides on the estate. Beset by a medical condition that requires constant medication and regular resuscitation, his relationship to the deluded Vial is a grim reminder of the post-colonialist condition. Wizened, weary and disabled, France is not alone among other colonial powers that have been unable to recognise and accept the inevitable demise of their once proud traditions.

But Denis does not labour this point and neither does she seek to make a patronising observation upon Franco-African relations. White Material remains a film about good people trapped by circumstances partly of their own making, that have since spun out of control. Intentionally or otherwise, it specifically resembles the subject matter of both Joseph Conrad's novella Heart of Darkness (1902), and its recontextualisation as the film Apocalypse Now (1979). But rather than concentrating the insanity of such a situation in one symbolic and indomitable character, scriptwriters Denis and Marie NDiaye propose a decentralised vision of madness. Most if not all of the characters of White Material are empathetic. That is, the situation each is embroiled within is a frightening outbreak of insanity completely beyond their control. But Denis is careful to show that the actions of each, when combined, are intrinsic to that same outbreak that now threatens their lives. From the pharmacists who are murdered by rebels for the purpose of consuming pharmaceuticals to a rabble rousing disc-jockey who himself is murdered by government troops for inciting insurrection, each character in this film is infected by insanity. No one character is responsible for the ensuing political upheaval. But each in some way must take responsibility for the murderous actions that shall consume them. Even French colonialism seems innocent in this respect. Defiant, desperate, and deluded, these broad characteristics are concentrated within the persona of Maria Vial. In spite of her ignorance and stupidity, she remains a baffled individual attempting to cope with a situation that is obviously beyond her control.

Eventually, Vial is successful in her attempt at employing labourers for the purpose of harvesting her coffee. Meanwhile, her ex-husband Andre' secretly negotiates the sale of the plantation with the local corrupt mayor. Andre' is sensible enough to realise that the surrounding anarchy will soon engulf all concerned. But he is also 'in debt' to the mayor. The details of this debt are intentionally vague. But the inference is that it is at once financial, personal, and metaphorical. Andre' owes money to the local mayor in the same way that the aura of corruption surrounding their mutually dependent relationship reflects the historical trajectory of France and its colonialist occupation of this African country. It also emerges that in the past, Maria Vial herself has been engaged in an intimate relationship with the mayor. Whether this intimacy occurred prior to the separation between Vial and her husband Andre' remains opaque. But it is clear that her relationship with the local mayor has been one characterised by pleasure for the purpose of appeasement, persuasion and pacification. This grubby triumvirate appears to have been a necessary requirement for maintaining a settled relationship with the local black political structure. But it also indicates France and its latent vulnerability in relation to its colonialist occupation. The sustenance of unqualified power requires a Faustian pact that simultaneously belittles and corrodes the desire to dominate other people, or, another country. In White Material, an authoritarian regime is calcified by the decadent aspiration of what initially appeared to be a mission of virtue.

But the presence of such pathos in the film is somehow diminished by its characterisations and the dynamics of its personal relationships. Here, White Material is less an aesthetic experience and more a document. Denis' camera is often situated behind the character of Maria Vial, following her as she scampers about in desperation. During one potentially deplorable scene child soldiers consume scattered pharmaceuticals like candy. But rather than moral exasperation, the scene induces a sly suspicion relating to the poisonous presence of propaganda and how this is used to manipulate children. Denis' aloof camera can be viewed as a fault within the film, and her unwillingness to engage in emotional favoritism will alienate some audiences. But if the underlying circumstances that create intractable sociopolitical situations are to be illuminated, then this requires an absence of ideology. White Material is a brutal examination of the delusions of grandeur implicit in French colonialism as these are related by a woman who is incapable of acknowledging that her presence in an unspecified African country is despised, and about to end.

White Material
Director: Claire Denis, Writers: Claire Denis & Marie NDiaye, Performers: Isabelle Huppert, Christopher Lambert, Nicolas Duvauchelle, Isaach de Bankole', Adele Ado, Michel Subor, William Nadylam & David Gozlan, Music: Stuart Staples, Cinematography: Yves Cape, Editing: Yann Dedet, Long Play series, extended run, Australian Centre for the Moving Image, Jan. 14 - Feb. 2, Melb.

hugo race: album launch

2011-01-25T14:41:00.000+11:00

THE NECKS: A DISAPPEARANCE

2011-01-22T09:30:00.001+11:00

Tim Williams

Melbourne's Corner Hotel is a landmark for live music. But for a person unfamiliar with its compressed location beneath a railway bridge in Richmond, The Corner is best described by using a popular Australian colloquialism: blink, and you may miss it.

Inside, The Necks' double bassist Lloyd Swanton materialises on stage. He is unceremoniously joined by drummer Tony Buck and pianist Chris Abrahams. The unremarkable presence of this ensemble is curtailed by a descent toward silence from a reverential audience, and a rear video projection. A poetic winter landscape filmed at night and punctuated by the mesmeric flurry of monotonous snow flakes is the visual counterpoint to Swanton's first portentous pluck of one string of his attractive double bass. Situated centre stage, Swanton's fusion with the thump and hum of his instrument becomes the dominant motif of this improvisation. But it is the feline misdemeanor of Buck's wash upon a drum that elevates this composition above suburban back fences and onto rusty rooftops. All scratch and tickle, rip and sickle like accentuation of some crime that has been committed, Buck's stalking left hand is a prelude to the presence of piano-man Chris Abrahams. Initially, it is Abrahams' tinkling of the ivories as usual. Positioned stage right and facing a wall animated by the winter dread of the aforementioned video projection, his precocious piano threatens to fall off stage into a non-refundable void. As an inconsolable lover of the sound produced, Abraham's playing dismantles the unity of the ensemble and scales the extremities of its improvised potential. But this ain't no egotistical trip into one man's heart of darkness. Rather, there occurs a shift in tempo during which The Necks achieve a heightened equilibrium. Abrahams' piano, previously characterised as fragmented sputtering of disengaged self-destruction, transpositions toward a melodious nostalgia for music-hall melodrama. The epiphany it produces is an integrated confession by the band that the crime committed here is a corruption of memory, or a longing for past melodies that can never be retrieved and a consequent betrayal of a musical tradition that once entertained a generation of grandparents. (That is, before The Necks resolved to extend their collective protuberance and enter the realm of the unnameable). Implied, but never explicit, this hypothermic melody wanders lost in a mesh of reverberation. The Necks, and their desire for that which can never again be, is a brutal recognition of the dilemma confronting 21st century music. Post-colonial, post-industrial, and arguably, post-human, a pianist, a double bassist, and a drummer can still get a gig at the humble Corner Hotel and strive to represent musically the prodigious dexterity and insoluble confusion of our time. That is, before the set ends and the band briefly disappears.

Two pots later Swanton, Buck, and Abrahams simply appear once again, and so the music begins. This elliptical presence not only reflects the structure of much of The Necks' music. (Reoccurring notation that transmutes over time). It is elaborated upon by a pictorial contrast between distinctive visual cues that inhabit the rear video projection. The mesmeric snow flurry of an inconsolable winter landscape is replaced by the depth and resonance of an audacious ocean swell. Accidental chimes attached to Buck's drumstick initiate an illiteracy in the music that is reinforced by Swanton's tapping at the neck of his double bass, and this is obsessed upon by Abraham's and his attention to detail. The speed and minutiae of his piano playing is that of manic thoughts unable to comprehend the tedium of some vast expanse. Perspiring, thirsty and parched, the combined affect of this improvisation is that of the outward civility of human beings lacerated by nightmares of the unconscious. Significantly, Swanton's double bass is less the pulse of this performance. Instead, the melody tumbles around in a tepid breeze, is contorted and individualised; a distorted rarefaction of each musician's personality. In apparent accompaniment, Swanton thumps upon the teak body of the double bass. Buck also has reverted to extrapolations upon the physique of his instrument. He taps at the metal rim of one drum while snaring time on another. The standard elliptical structure that substantiated the earlier set is abandoned in favour of a structural adventure that is a daring recognition by the band that there are limitations to the organisation of their music. Startling, if not entirely satisfying for the fair-weather fan, this attempt to extract life from that which is limp is consistent with the stasis that characterised the beginning of the set. Above it all hovers an image of the ocean. As the saying goes, and this can be applied to music, 'Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink'. Until, of course, the ocean swell transmutes toward an irradiated tumescence. The Necks, oscillating between ellipsis and a complete absence of form, find a fissure in their adventure and it is Abrahams who investigates.

At times, Abrahams' hands move so fast that it appears as if his fists have formed into clubs and he is pummeling the keys of his piano. The aforementioned oscillation between form and formlessness is transcended. Swinton's strange carpentry is reminiscent of a mythical tradesman drawing a bow of sand across Atlas' statuesque calf. Buck breaks away, the catatonia of his drumming opens windows into the infinite night. And Abrahams... This man cannot claim to appreciate the piano as any such affectation would horrify the exquisite pretense of the so-called music lover. The affect of this found composition is of strangled nature - desert, sea, sky, and trees - throttled into life. Simultaneously industrial, while finding inspiration in the cacophony of daybreak, the subsequent noise adheres in a sonic hum that is electrifying without being overwhelming. Here, there is no found ending drawn out over an improvised month. Instead, the noise stops as it started. All that remains is a disturbed rumination upon a collision between parallel domains of darkness. An ignorant statement yes, but perhaps, also a question that demands to be asked. Is it possible that The Necks have articulated a musical category that not only resists definition but also, defies description ? You tell me... But to enter the realm of the unnamable is to erase the musical future and eradicate the romance of its past. All takes place in the present and this can only be achieved by improvisation. In layperson's terms, this was one of those performances where you truly had to be there... But if you had have blinked you may have missed it...

The Necks, Corner Hotel, Jan. 10 - 12, Melb.

melbourne performance: mad, bad or simply disobedient

2010-11-15T10:15:00.001+11:00

The psychiatric view is that all human beings are neurotic, who sometimes become psychotic. That is, a clinical distinction exists between mild mental illness such as anxiety, and the severe mental impairment prompted by delusion and hallucination. For those who have experienced both, three recent performances examined this cusp between the everyday insane, and total insanity. Unsurprising then, was that lurking beneath each performance was an incapacity for coping with the perplexities of love.

mag & bag

Playwright Barry Dickins personifies La Mama theatre's historical trajectory. He has been belting out scripts in Carlton since Betty Burstall's tenure. Two middleaged women confront one another over a hot teapot. They sit at a table in a kitchen reminiscent of an archaeological dig into Australia's recent past. In residence there is chookwire and linoleum, Bovril and Milo, two VB stubbies in a fridge and walls decorated with articles from the defunct Herald newspaper. Mag, the more sensitive of the two and apparent servant in this relationship, is dominated by Bag who, when her authority is threatened, retorts with acute expressions of the C word that are intended to inflict severe mental distress. Isolated and alone, each woman only has the other for company. But their relationship is defined by a violent bickering that Dickins satirises with characteristic mischief. During an apparent truce, Mag reveals a birthday cake she has baked for Bag. Momentarily, an opportunity for an expression of intimacy arises between the two women. But Mag cannot resist pushing Bag's face into the soft sponge and their tumult resumes, this time with renewed ferocity. A yearning for an Australia long forgotten that permeates Dickins' writing has been criticised over the years. But watching Mag sitting on a child's swing while whistling, is to appreciate the reverie embedded within Dickins' play. Performers Carmelina Di Guglielmo and Maria Portesi require special mention. Playing clowns of European type, the counterpoint between Dickins' Australiana and its Dadaist impulse is a rare dovetail between Viscount cigarettes and commedia dell' arte. Emphasising the violent frailty that characterises this sadomasochistic relationship would elicit from Mag & Bag a surprising vulnerability, and accentuate its comedy

something blew

A particular demographic exists south of the Yarra river, one that finds artistic expression at Theatreworks. Minus the hip bohemianism of the inner city, this demographic nevertheless extends as far as the Bellarine peninsula. The title Something Blew has about it the benevolent aspect of a pleasant, off-shore breeze. But a rising swell prevails in the reconfigured Theatreworks space as a stunned bride stands petrified before an opening night full house. Absolutely perfect, consorting behind this bride is an eager line of performers partially concealed by a curtain. Something Blew begins with one female performer gracefully wrapping the foregrounded bride in cling-wrap. Meanwhile, her fellow performers congeal throughout a space lit with consideration and care, and begin to explore the metrosexual relationship as it manifests in 2010. There is male upon female, female upon male, female upon female, and male upon male embrace and sexual innuendo. While in-between each copulating couple there staggers a hairy man cross-dressed in a second bride's gown. Overall, the dance is pretty, slick, and evenly choreographed. Allowing the stage picture and an interpolation into the language of theatre to communicate meaning, each dancer is free to tantalise the audience with modern dance and its assumption that it must be abstract, and beautiful. But when Something Blew systematically explores the turning points within a permanent relationship, it resembles an eisteddfod. Simply expressing romantic love, marriage, childbirth, disenchantment, and seperation is a worthy strategy, but it must be developed beyond an exercise designed to express the complexity of intimate human relationships. For example, why do some women express love for a partner who is systematically abusive ? Alternatively, what compels a father to murder his children as an act of revenge against their mother ? Insane love is the common term describing such inexplicable acts. When Something Blew delves into this area, the underworld it explores is precisely expressed by the shrinking physical stature of each dancer, combined with a cavernous line of low lying ultra-violet light. Sent insane by not knowing how to love, the confusion that characterises metrosexuality is accurately represented. An enthusiastic company with more self-belief than life experience, 2nd Toe Dance Collective and their production of Something Blew leaves quite an impression on its audience, and this augurs well for their future.

schism

Returning to La Mama, the geographical division between Melbourne's northern and southern suburbs is reflected in Melanie Bainbridge's short monologue, Schism. As part of La Mama's Explorations season, Bainbridge's script is directed and performed by her sister, Pippa. She sits behind a moody lectern and is accompanied by obsolete computer monitors. Some are blank, while others contain grainy images of laboratory rats, viral magnifications, and other troubling imagery. Bainbridge relates a tale about the potential for science to be a positive force when confronted by an ecological crisis. She then adopts a German accent and implies personal involvement in acts of ecological terrorism. The resulting ambiguity created by this 'schism' is integral to the developing narrative, as it remains unclear whether the audience is witnessing two separate characters, or an evolving psychosis upon the part of one seriously disturbed female scientist. The recorded voice of a policeman intervenes, and it becomes clear that the German accented character has committed a terrorist act, and suicide. The tale ends with the identity of the narrator unresolved, and the mystery is enhanced. Love, or a lack of such, is a critical aspect of any relationship between two people. The same applies to a relationship between two parts of one person's psyche. Loneliness, isolation, and the stress upon those involved in positions of scientific responsibility, can have serious consequences. In a world beset by an actual ecological crisis, Schism is a relevant examination of personal vulnerability, and an entertaining performance. Developed further, it has the potential to make a powerful statement about mental illness, and its consequence for a society made vulnerable by over-indulgence, inaction, and ignorance.

Mag & Bag: Performers, Carmelina Di Guglielmo & Maria Portesi. Set design, II Collective. Set construction, Italiano bros. Stage management and lighting operation, Frank Italiano. Production manager, Carmelina De Guglielmo. Lighting design, Bec Etchell. La Mama, Oct. 27 - Nov. 7, Melb.

Something Blew: Performers, James Andrews, Ben Hancock, Tyler Hawkins, Rebecca Jensen, Madeleine Krenek, Emily Ranford, Frankie Snowdon, Adam Wheeler. Lighting design. Rose Connors Dance. Costume Design, Chloe Greeves. Sound Design, Alisdair Macindoe. Dramaturge, Luke George. Project Management, Moriarty's project. Direction & choreography, Adam Wheeler & dancers. Theatreworks, Oct. 27- Nov. 6, Melb.

Schism: Performer, Pippa Bainbridge. Recorded voice, Liz McColl, Jo Anne Armstrong & Tim Ferris. Music, Tether. Film, Dean Blackwell. Costume & signboard, Clare Davidson. Stage management, Gemma Arnold. Writer, Melanie Bainbridge. Director, Pippa Bainbridge. La Mama Explorations, Oct. 28 -30, Melb.

melbourne festival 2010: the raft; composition in crisis

2010-11-08T09:27:00.004+11:00

The Australian Centre for the Moving Image is situated upon the same site that was once occupied by the Princess Bridge railway station. While descending a stairwell that leads into the A.C.M.I. gallery, the memory of train trips that began here pre-1997 are replaced by the anticipation of a metaphorical journey on a raft. Bill Viola's video art-work portrays a studio interior populated by twenty people standing together in a group. African-Americans and Hispanics, Anglo-Saxons and Indians, Asians, Africans, the rich and the poor, but notably, no children. This diverse group of individuals might be waiting for a train to arrive at a platform that no longer exists. Alternatively, Viola may request we consider our tenuous position within a global demographic. A composition in crisis, we, the 6.8 billion people who populate the world, are simultaneously the perpetrators of this crisis, and, its victims.

The mildly disturbing sound of urban wildlife is heard off-screen. Disgruntled dogs bark at nothing in particular, while startled birds screech in response to the threat of city life as it hums beneath their wings. A woman of Hindi appearance intervenes. Unlike others in the group, there is purpose in her presence as she dissects a path between each by-stander. Prompting a recomposition of the image, she is a forthright yet irritating figure intent upon addressing an Asian woman at centre of the group. The sounds of urban wildlife heard earlier transmute toward a tumult that gathers momentum. The two women greet and subsequently embrace. As they do, others around them raise their arms in feeble gestures of defence. Bodies constrict, and the composition finds new form as it contracts in order to protect itself from that which remains unseen. Violent jets of water perpetrated from left and right engulf this global gathering. A woman of African appearance has a book blown from her hand. She contorts toward the floor while others attempt to resist the tempestuous onslaught. Individuals collide as a business woman is dispossessed of her handbag. While a vagrant collapses at the woman's feet and is prostrate upon the floor. High definition video curtailed to a miniscule speed replaces the painter's brush as the texture of this composition refracts, and coagulates toward multifaceted meaning. Viola's work has been criticised as pretentious. But on-screen, as the deluge of water recedes, it is clear that The Raft succeeds where others believe Viola's previous work may have failed. Battered and bruised, traumatised yet overjoyed, 'the flood' has risen. Humanity may have been reconfigured, but it has prevailed.

In one simple image, this work conceptualises the crisis confronting human beings in the 21st century. Earthquake and tsunami obliterate communities and kill thousands of people. Tension between the U.S. and Asia is manifest as a shift in superpower status toward China and India. Famine relative to global population is an ulcerous entity upon the conscience of first world over-abundance, while organised religion is for many people, bereft of meaning. Lacerated by prejudice, sexual deviancy, and fanaticism, the palpable threat of arbitrary annihilation is an existential possibility. But Viola's concerns are not just sociopolitical, environmental, religious and ontological. The aesthetic mood of The Raft is at once bleak and magnificent, indifferent and uplifting. An unsuspecting group of people is subjected to the catastrophic power of an elemental force. Each writhes and twists in a particular manner. The texture of the group is transformed. Colour and shape are rendered incomprehensible by a sustained saturation of water. This deluge is replaced by a trickle, and then the forecast renewal of affirmative drops of water. Individuals grasp for one another in an effort to reconcile themselves with the aftermath of a catastrophic event. The inherent benevolence of human beings predominates. What prevents each individual from oblivion is an innate concern for another person. Estranged from ourselves, oblivious to each others pain, cynical, selfish and demoralised, Viola suggests that as a species sharing this planet with many other species, we are at our most palatable when we recompose our feelings toward one another, and share this composition in crisis.

The Raft

Performers: Sheryl Arenson, Robin Bonaccorsi,

Rocky Capella, Cathy Chang, Liisa Cohen,

Tad Coughenour, Tom Ficke, James Ford,

Michael Irby, Simon Karimian, John Kim,

Tanya Little, Mike Martinez, Petro Martirosian,

Jeff Mosley, Gladys Peters, Maria Victoria,

Kaye Wade, Kim Weild & Ellis Williams

Executive producer: Kira Perov

Creator & director: Bill Viola

Photography: Kira Perov

melbourne festival 2010: adapting for distortion & haptic; that was cool

2010-10-20T15:40:00.003+11:00

Springtime in Melbourne can be an unpredictable affair. In the Malthouse foyer woolen scarves and red wine console ubiquitous festival punters against a snap return to weather reminiscent of a Melbourne winter. Seated inside the Beckett theatre, the house lights are exhausted by the measured twisting of a dial. On-stage, there appears dancer Hiroaki Umeda. The man's stout appearance is immediately overthrown by a computer generated projection of a blistering, white grid. This geometric classification of the human form consumes the stage area and is accompanied by a familiar sound design. Accentuated by rich production values and trembling portent, this audio-visual landscape overwhelms some in the audience. Several minor gasps and self-assuring vocal affirmations appear to confirm that this might be the show that will satisfy all festival expectations. But dance is a kinetic language capable of communicating a depth of resonance that is not dependent upon a six figure budget. Adapting for Distortion alludes toward the processing effect technology can have upon human beings. It is now expected that Umeda and his collaborators will examine this proposition. The interface between body and machine is a residual occurrence for most; just ask any IT worker, or, any domestic cleaner. How then will Hiroaki Umeda and his S20 company reinterpret in a fresh and exciting manner the overblown and now jaundiced relationship between viscera, vascularity, and the data-stream ?

Restrained by an overhead projector, Umeda's dance isolates specific parts of the body for the purpose of creating an illusion of movement. His feet move at a frenetic pace, while his outstretched arms ripple in accordance with variations in the audio-visual design. The rhythms are abrupt and disjunctive, and appear to reflect the title of the show. Most peculiar, is that apart from a vague reference to the dehumanising effect of technology, it quickly becomes clear that Adapting for Distortion has nothing further to express. The performance ends as it began. Umeda's body gyrates in relation to an impressive audio-visual landscape, then he exits. Never before have I encountered a performance that leaves such a minor impression. During interval, I consult with other members of the audience. In a lackluster tone, a man states he believes in the show "...110 %". Although unconvinced, it is possible that Adapting for Distortion has been an aberration. Perhaps, S20's second show Haptic might counter this paucity of meaning..?

All expectations are extinguished soon after the show begins. The one variation between the two performances is that Haptic, rather than being comprised of a computerised projection, is constructed from light. Melancholy blues, irradiated and angry reds. Azure backdrops suggesting a forlorn seaside, succinct strips of pinstriped side-light resembling that discharged from a barcode scanner. Common to both performances is Umeda's chosen form of physical expression: that same variation on rap-dancing that isolates specific parts of the body for the purpose of creating an illusion of movement. Otherwise, Umeda rarely moves in either a vertical or horizontal direction. Physically impressive, 'Popping' has nothing to say beyond its own gestural range. Also, it bears no relation to the three other mediums S20 use to construct each performance. Apart from Umeda's intimation that he is a robot, the seductive audio-visual landscape comprised of light, sound, and computerised projection, fails to reflect, or even counterpoint, Umeda's gestures. The word 'Haptic' is a specialised term used to explain tactility, and the manipulation of objects within a virtual environment. Using the term as the title for a show that in no way relates to its meaning, leaves Haptic vulnerable to an accusation of pretension. Never before have I encountered a show that looked so great, but meant so little. Perplexed, I enquire of an enthusiastic woman sitting alongside what she thought the performance might mean. Her response is that Adapting for Distortion and Haptic do not have linear narratives. I refrain from explaining that meaning is not dependent on narrative; linear, non-linear, emblematic or kinetic. Instead, I simply agree with the woman when she rattles her head, smiles and says 'That was cool".

Adapting for Distortion & Haptic

Choreographer-dancer: Hiroaki Umeda

Sound: S20

Images: Bernard Baudry (Distortion)

Light: S20 & Herve' Villechenoux (Haptic)

October 14-17, Malthouse Theatre,

Melbourne International Arts Festival

melbourne fringe 2010: twin tongue of the bowerbird

2010-10-20T15:30:00.001+11:00

There may be a million stories in the big city, but there are a zillion shows in the Melbourne fringe festival. When confronted by this aesthetic onslaught, my recommendation is that the punter excise from their festival guide one thousand or more blurbs, toss the multicoloured residue into a bowler hat, then do as the Dadaists did and make four emphatic choices. Call it Reck's theory of random selection, but embarking upon four chance theatrical encounters in four separate suburbs of Melbourne, is an eminent method for eliciting from the Melbourne theatre scene a glittering insight.

testimony

Upstairs in the Rehearsal Room at the North Melbourne town hall, (away from the fringe hub and its penchant for cheap laughs), a straitjacketed figure with back turned, one further restrained by a corridor of harsh light, turns and confronts the audience. Florid abrasions of infected make-up pollute his hollowed cheeks. His ramshackle hair is a spindle-set of crazed activity, and two embryonic horns protrude from his radiating forehead. His tale begins nowhere, and everywhere, for he is either a prophetic beast borne from an ancient Greek myth, or a simple man gone mad believing he is so. It is a tale constructed from soaring, incandescent metaphor, and the guttural linguistics of malevolent despair. Accepting or otherwise, the audience is branded by his derisive accusation that it is we who must pass judgement upon his collapsed anatomy, while simultaneously having no right to do so. His self-imposed trial extends across a period of seven days, adequately defined by the redundant technology of a lurid, overhead projector. A sequence of slides embellished with the numerical title of each day demarcates the relentless passing of time, while labyrinthine patterns knifed from the same material indicate the forlorn figure's mental state, and his inability to reconcile the wilderness without, with the wilderness within. Lost inside the mountain, his poetically charged testimony provides him with transient relief, while accentuating a gradual awareness that he will forever remain condemned by the society from which he demands redemption. Testimony is ferocious writing that is performed in a restrained and articulate manner, and is pragmatically directed. It will be dismissed by many, but its impact will not be diminished.

total football

La Mama theatre, Carlton, is quite a distance from The Barbican in London, but Total Football acknowledges a commission from both theaters in its list of credits. Two retentive British males do their best to conceal themselves behind their prescribed 'scripts', as each is overwhelmed by the arbitrary phosporesence of a society in exponential transformation. Both appear to be engaged in bureaucratic roles in relation to the forthcoming London Olympics. But both men's personae, and their cultural identities, consistently evade definition, as expressed by a clever script that shifts in character, time and place, while examining the siege mentality of the average Anglo-Saxon Brit. Infiltrated by those emigrating from the 'sub-continent', or terrorised by the global presence of al-queda, the one haven left for the traditional British male is English football. That is, the collapse of imperial Britain may be complete, but boy, Wayne Rooney can still head a ball into the back of the net. Unlike the previous play Testimony, Total Football is serious theatre at its most ridiculous. A satire upon contemporary Britain and its inability to accept cultural change, it is formally adventurous in its attempt to hybridise theatre with stand-up comedy. However, it would benefit from further refinement and subsequent articulation. A free-form script and shifts in time, place and character, place extra demands on an audience. Accompanying this awareness, the performers must pace their delivery, thereby allowing the audience to experience each transition as it occurs. In Total Football, the recorded sound of a rewinding tape will fail to communicate a return to time passed, if it is not accentuated by the subtle shifts in place and character embedded within the complexity of its script. Further refined and articulated, I anticipate Total Football and its future iteration.

the she sessions

In St. Kilda, Angela Pamic and Theatreworks do a fine job of promoting contemporary dance, both mainstream and 'off-the-wall'. The She Sessions is comprised of three short performances that are consistent in there attempt to amplify the language of dance via interdisciplinary strategies. Undone is engaging performer Trudy Radburn as the ageing Hollywood diva mentally decentralised by too much dope and an absence of idolatry. During stylised efforts to rise from a debauched sofa, Radburn articulates the destructive effect of substance abuse and its subsequent melancholia, while alluding to a similar malaise as it applies to the external world. The Pane of a Filthy Window is also characterised by an inability to overcome a prevailing impediment prompted by an oppressive domesticity. Andrew O'Grady's smooth double bass accompanies Tirese Ballard's attempt to rise from a bed that is attached to her back. Once again, the external world looms throughout, via the monstrous rear projection of a sequence of dirty windows. But too much is made of this show's one-liner; that of Ballard and her attempt to disengage herself from her bed. Clinical depression can be contextualised as humorous, but its evidenced complexities also require a thorough expose' of its debilitating pathos. The Dawning-A Retrospective, similarly grapples with a desire to rise above life and its tedious inconsistencies. Less literal and more figurative, Sally Smith sparkles as the loopy dance teacher we all love to hate. Her introductory ballet is an entertaining but scathing attack upon the potentially dangerous desire among some performing arts teachers to 'hear the colours, and see the music'. Later, when Smith is joined by a billowing black sheet, an opportunity is lost. Her face momentarily concealed by the dark material, the archetype implicit within a quest for the transcendental is alluded to, but never explored. The singular emotional dimension evoked by a sustained attention to satire can become a seductive influence easily mistaken for an excess of hubris. But Smith has much to work with here, particularly in relation to her black sheet and what it reveals, once it conceals.

the waiting room

Out of its kennel and off the leash, The Dog Cafe in Footscray is a haven for dishlickers of a similar theatrical bent. Unlike the prescribed dramatic structures of Testimony and Total Football, The Waiting Room is an improvised event. A woman wearing a svelte evening dress tentatively enters from a rear door. She sits on one of approximately twelve chairs, each arranged in horizontal rows that occupy the stage. What follows is the entrance, and passing parade, of a sequence of male and female characters nicely differentiated by costume, and physical gesture. Among others, there is the goofy retro-guy, fearful of stepping on everyone's toes; followed by an orangutan of a woman who may be effected by Down syndrome*. Immediately discernible is the necessarily loose dramatic structure often referred to as a 'performance score', that is the foundation for most, if not all improvised work. As the performance progresses via individual and collaborative routines of tension and catharsis, I am beset by the perplexing sensation that The Waiting Room is not communicating to its full potential. The underlying score is succinct, yet flexible enough to encompass a range of immediate emotional states. The performers themselves, regard one another with benevolence and respect. Even when the show is not firing, it is clear that the cast are confident in their ability to carry the performance through to its eventual conclusion... It is only when performers Penny Baron and Kate Hunter are defined by a serving window, that two reasons for this miscommunication become apparent. Previously smudged by a general wash of fluorescent light, the performance snaps into place once Baron and Hunter are contextualised by architectural space. Second, the performance itself is overly concerned with the skimming of intense emotional states, rather than vertical descent. By definition, improvisation is a risky form. Curtailing this risk also curtails a shows impact. That said, The Waiting Room is an instantaneous night in the theatre. Combined with its three predecessors, the four shows together demonstrate the remarkable diversity that characterises Melbourne theatre.

* Descriptive purpose only: no offence intended to performer, or those effected by D.S.

Testimony: Writer: Graham Henderson, Director: Suzanne Chaundy, Performer: Matt Crosby, Design: Viviana Frediani-Massara, Rehearsal Room, North Melbourne Town Hall, September 22 - October 10, Melbourne.

Total Football: Writer-Performers: David Woods and Jon Haynes (Ridiculusmus), Dramaturge: Rupert Jones, Sound Design: Russell Goldsmith, Set Design: Tomek and Jade, Songs: Helen Chadwick, Choreography: Luke George, Photography: Glenda Roberts and Vivian Cooper Smith, Research Assistant: Graeme Farrow, Producer: Jo Crowley, La Mama, September 22 - October 10, Melbourne.

The She Sessions: Undone: Trudy Radburn, The Pane of a Filthy Window: Tirese Ballard, Musician: Andrew, O'Grady, The Dawning-A Retrospective, Sally Smith, Theatreworks, September 29 - October 10, Melbourne.

The Waiting Room: Born in a Taxi and The Public Floor Project, Director: Penny Baron, Sound: Michael Havir, Performers: Penny Baron, Andrew Gray, Carolyn Hanna, Kate Hunter, Nick Papas and Tamara Saulwick, The Dog Theatre, September 22 - 26, Melbourne.

madeleine: re-animate the image

2010-08-17T10:50:00.006+10:00

In the beginning of Black Sequin Dress' production of Madeleine, the self-titled central character is infected by a rampaging, yet very private experience of madness. She sits off-centre at a broad, sacrificial table, tormented by an omnipotent male voice that booms throughout her cranium in a tone of malevolent sophistication. Later to be manacled by the moniker of 'The Minister', this inner-voice is a slithering expose' of Maddy's twisted desire for sexual relief, within a perceived sense of Christian shame. The inner-voice inquires of Maddy as to the whereabouts of an elusive Royal Family. Immediately upon doing so, there occurs behind Maddy the sinister appearance of 'The King', 'The Queen', and 'The Princess'. This allusion to Lewis Carroll's subterranean phantasmagoria is difficult to miss. Far from being a wonderland, however, Maddy's presence in the family home is more that of an Alice in chains. Proceeding a soft transition of infernal light, this royalty is then reduced to the professional middle class. Maddy's interior world is replaced by that which is actual, and The King, The Queen, and The Princess, become Alex, Madeleine, and Charley. We are in the family home, and dad, mum, and sister cannot contain their awkward delight in preparing to celebrate their schizophrenic sibling's birthday.

Maddy's perceptive, yet pre-occupied sister, Charley, offers birthday cake to other family members by resting non-existent serves upon palms substituting for plates. It's mime, of course; and although an awkward moment in the play, two reasons emerge for this performance strategy. Maddy's schizophrenia is partly a response to her place within a family where unintended neglect has long since become residual. Mother Madeleine is a figure symptomatic of her daughter's mental illness. But she channels her potential for insanity into an aloe vera business, that, if successful, will elevate the family toward a trouble-free lifestyle in New York. Sister Charley, although caring and more lucid than her parents in her attitude to Maddy, is constantly reassuring a needy partner by mobile phone, and under pressure to return to work. But it is Maddy's daddy Alex, who, with the best (conscious) intentions of any father watching a daughter's health deteriorate, has become so absorbed by Maddy's delirium, that he now role-plays the figure of The KIng; a phantom who resides nowhere else but in Maddy's tormented imagination. It is pop-psychology at its most absurd. If a psychotic event can be defined as a loss of personal sovereignty, or, the dissolution of a border within an individual's mind between that which occurs in the actual world, and that which is entirely imaginary, then I am enjoying Jenny Kemp's re-defined approach to theatremaking. Maddy, on the other hand, embraces the clutches of The Minister. Her attempt at producing the unconscious is instead, a self-reflexive tango with the monster that is Thanatos; or, total psychosis.

Later, Maddy is splayed across the same sacrificial table upon which her family have attempted to celebrate her birthday. Her excruciating orgasm upon that table is a reminder of the social dilemma confronting families in contemporary society. For many, institutionalised religion has lost the power of salvation, and children necessarily warped by the perplexities of pubescence are vulnerable to mental illness. But just as Maddy's madness is a consequence of several social problems combined into a distorted perception of the Garden of Eden, so too is Kemp's play an elaboration upon an image elicited from Leonardo Da Vinci's painting, The Last Supper. Maddy enters from the shadows carrying a fake rifle. She wears on her head a white veil, and claims she is Mary Magdalene. When Alex refuses to maintain and further participate in Maddy's delusion, the border in her mind between the actual and the imaginary completely dissolves, and she murders her father. Maddy's tragic attempt at re-animating the spiritual void that surrounds her, in contradistinction, is also Jenny Kemp's continuing renewal of her theatre practice. The paradox of this renewal is that by returning toward a central point on the theatrical continuum, Kemp takes a major risk. Modest, concentrated, and minus the spectacle of her previous work, in an age of multimedia tiredness this renewal is achieved by a disciplined performance; one that successfully re-animates the image.

Madeleine

Writer-director: Jenny Kemp

Dramaturge: Richard Murphet

Performers: Nikki Shiels, Ian Scott,

Margaret Mills & Natasha Herbert

Movement: Helen Herbertson

Voice: Richard Murphet

Set & lighting design: Ben Cobham

Lighting realisation: Jenny Hector

Costume design: Harriet Oxley

Production & operation: Frog Peck

Arts House, North Melbourne Town Hall

August 3 - 8, Melb.

Photography: Jeff Busby

maybe forever: winter sun

2010-07-08T17:22:00.008+10:00

In the artificial light of a theatrical dawn, Meg Stuart's angular form and abstract choreography are in direct contrast to Phiipp Gehmacher's dance of a drunken ape. As the 2 dancers continue their wrestle centre stage, the sun, as artifice of electricity transformed into light, rises alongside the sound of lava, cracks and ticks, and a catastrophic flock of seagulls. We're by the seaside, and the beginning of an intimate relationship between a man and a woman, or, its end, is about to unfold. At rear, and malingering above the pulp of this relationship, is a projection of 2 Everlastings that have submitted to the quiet stampede of the seasons. Seed dispersed by a chill wind, summer love now recedes toward autumnal despair.

Enter Niko Hafkenscheid carrying a Gibson guitar. He parks himself beside an amplifier and extols from his instrument a rusty waltz. Hafkenscheid is alone on stage; just he, and the sound of plectrum drawn across metal... Stuart returns, wearing a faded skirt and cardigan. She carries a microphone stand, which she positions on a pedestal, and in the time it takes for this tableau to unfold, her jaded costume reveals a contempt for the intimate relationship she is embroiled within. In contrast to Stuart's New Orleans' twang, and its peculiar encapsulation of a free-associative text characterised by repetition and ellipsis, the 2 Everlastings projected at rear imperceptibly fill with colour. But the flowers fail to achieve complete revitalisation. Instead, each is suspended in an ambiguous dead zone; a pre-animated state of something that might have been, but never was, and never will be... And when Gehmacher enters once again, staggering limp and impotent, he positions himself alongside Stuart in such a way that it is impossible not to conclude that the dearth of time that consumes this relationship is intrinsic to the decomposition of the seasons. There is no escaping this irreversible 'Time of the mind', while sculpting such via performative technique is only a temporary antidote to the ever-present possibility of damnation. We live, we die, we dream, and then, maybe, there's eternity...

Ontology aside, or, a desire to disassociate the self from a quest for immortality that cannot be quantified, Stuart and Gehmacher, splayed across the now sacrificial pedestal, rise, and hold hands. It's a moment of reciprocal tenderness in the maelstrom that is love. Gone is the sustained collision between Stuart's angular presence, and Gehmacher's hairy indecision. And then, with the passing of time and its concurrent decomposition, this tenderness dissipates, and we're back where we started. Engaged in a choreographed battle between time and sexual desire, between differing points of view and the stubborn need to adopt a position. (In spite of an awareness that during any crisis of confidence between 2 people, the one element, unsuitable and not required, is an intractable belief in Thanatos, or, a self-destructive urge to dismantle all that remains good in the world).

Meanwhile, Hafkenscheid's tortured Gibson elbows its way around, and through, this fractured fairytale. But not before he downs plectrum and address' the audience. It's a greeting of sorts; the usual bullshit patronising a city and its people. Although, in Hafkenscheid's case, the humility with which he expresses his appreciation conceals a cunning theatrical device. For those in the audience who have allowed themselves to be transported to an equestrian place, or, an imaginary state where riders of the mind saddle up on mountaintops while anticipating a terrifying descent into the chasm beneath them, Hafkenscheid's intervention strikes a blow for the actual. We are in the Merlin, at the Malthouse theatre, in Sturt St. South Melbourne. During this performance, one symphonic movement has ended, and another is about to begin. But this next foray into territory once charted as 'Supernatural' concludes the choreographed battle between Stuart and Gehmacher. It is like watching a lightbulb lose its power to illuminate; imperceptible for a time, then gone. But not before Stuart parts a rear curtain, thereby revealing the intestine of this relationship. As we involved in the performing arts know, it is backstage where the true performance takes place. Sidelined by boorish crates, the temptation to exit, and the necessary baggage of too much time spent with another person, Stuart fiddles and fidgets, while Gehmacher looks on, then, she simply disappears. The death of a relationship, be it with another person, the divided self, or, during a transcendental quest, is to submit to the tyranny of time and accept the terminal embrace of nature.

Gehmacher then follows Stuart into the void. When both return, however, I'll be damned if I'll accept the proposition that we deserve another chance at life. A hint of colour has returned to 'Maybe Forever'. This time, though, the performers themselves are recalibrated. A yellow shirt and brown jacket on Gehmacher. An orange dress on Stuart that implies a neon trip into the unknown. (Before return and re-entry at a temperature of 400 degrees). Comparatively, these specks of joy are in complete contrast to the actual environment that characterises the emotional tenor of this performance. Calcified and cold, all dry and dusty mould degenerating into dust. As artifice of electricity transformed into light, a sapphire coloured sun shimmers, then dips beneath the horizon. Maybe forever..? I bloody-well hope so. One time 'round the rosy has been quite enough for me... Dusk settles, and now it's dark. Winter has come to the Malthouse theatre. In the Merlin, a cruel wind executes a path between each empty stall. In Melbourne, the season of sadness begins...

Maybe Forever

Choreography & performance:

Meg Stuart & Philipp Gehmacher

Live Musician: Niko Hafkenscheid

Dramaturge: Myriam Van Imschoot

Light: Jan Maertens

Set & costume: Janina Audick

Sound: Vincent Malstaf

Assistant choreography: Sigal Zouk

Production manager: Tanja Thomsen

Set & costume assistant: Inga Timm

Malthouse theatre, June 23 - 26, Melb.

snowdropping

2010-07-06T21:31:00.004+10:00

“When it rains it pours but when the sun shines on winter snowfields you can see your reflection multiplied in each microscopic crystal.”

So said a senior member of my Special Operations Group.

We were conducting surveillance while playing marbles on the nature strip at the intersection of Hoddle and Johnston St. When that senior member of my team made the comment stated above we were surprised by its sophistication, although playing marbles has never been a simple task. The Hoddle St. bus halted at its stop. There, the woman we had been surveilling for the last month. Black hair, firm breasts, stately hips and an equine face provoking wild speculation among us as to which clothesline in Collingwood her underwear would dripdry from that night.

We followed the woman at a discreet distance, trying not to fall over one another’s feet. When she stopped outside 83 Hotham St. we saw an outline of her body through her transparent cotton dress. Pleased as we were to see her curves and pointy bits we did not detect the presence of a white bustier circumnavigating her midriff. A bad sign; a very bad sign. The woman threw her head back and laughed. We might have been motherless louts in a motherless world but that night we would mount a successful snowdropping operation and steal her white bustier as it dripdried overnight.

We went home to our commission flat on the 13th floor in Wellington St. It was late, approximately 10.30 pm. My father, an unfortunate alcoholic, was not yet home. I cooked tinned spaghetti on toast for my hungry comrades and their excitement over our forthcoming operation soared into the air, until it felt like the delicate bones inside my ear would splinter. Why, I wondered, was I always left to care for myself when my mother should have been pampering me the way a mother should pamper her child ? In a fit of pique’ I threw the pot of spaghetti against the wall then ordered my comrades to make haste and reconnoitre 83 Hotham St. I hit my bunk, dreamed of being embraced in my mother’s arms, only to be woken by my father arriving home drunk at 12.30 am and once again, as he had done so many times before, wishing to impart his thoughts concerning ‘The Reproduction of the Species’.

After two hours of indoctrination the order to move finally arrived.

My father said: “Go and see your mother”.

And I was out of that flat like a light bulb at the last of its one thousand hour life span.

After floating through the streets of Collingwood I arrived at 83 Hotham St. and discovered my comrades peering through nail holes at rear of the premises. Surely, every home had a clothesline and every woman who carried with her an unstated seductive allure owned a white bustier and washed it every Wednesday night. I had seen this in my dreams. We leaped the back fence, only to be confronted by the leaves of several giant tree ferns and an inbuilt rock pool that contained the flashing underbellies of a school of Golden Carp. So we crawled across the manicured lawn then manoeuvred into the sideway. There, extending from one side of the woman’s weatherboard home, a portable clothesline upon which was pegged skirts of several variety, bra, numerous dresses, and a parade of multicoloured panties luminous in the moonlight; but no white bustier. So we stuffed down our fatigues as many pairs of panties as would fit, and departed rear of 83 Hotham St. The woman would never know we had been in her backyard. Would believe her luminous panties had immolated in the moonlight. But like that other famous military strategist, we also would ‘Return’.

And return we did; to our commission flat on the 13th floor in Wellington St. I secured our booty in a locked trunk under my bunk. Upon my waking in the morning the parade of multicoloured panties wafting before an electric fan would brush against my face and chest. Pamper me as a mother should pamper her child. But this would only be a fleeting instant in a long and tiring life. A commando is trained to commit himself to the task at hand. Soon, my father would wake from his imbibed sleep. My comrades and I would once again conduct surveillance by playing marbles upon the nature strip at the intersection of Hoddle and Johnston St. That woman would alight from her bus. We would follow her to her house. My father would arrive home drunk and after a further rendition of ‘The Reproduction of the Species’, my Special Operations Group would once again begin its search for that elusive white bustier while engaged in the stealthy act of snowdropping.

broken english

2010-07-06T17:35:00.017+10:00

In Slovenia... How you say in English..? We no bring cat inside, cat stay outside, not in, outside. Cat has... Territory... Roll on grass, play with mouse... But him, that man in room next to mine... O my Gotfarthin, he no listen to me. I caretaker, but he no listen. He, that man, he bring cat in room. I caretaker, not him, but he no listen to me...

That man, he come next door my room last Wednesday. I tell him... How you say in English..? Ten-an-cy Ag-ree-ment. Yes, no pets. He understand. Cat not allowed in room. This good. I caretaker, not him. Everybody happy, cat happy too... In Slovenia, cat like outside, in Australia, cat like outside too... But he think me silly, that man. I hear him, “Puss, Puss, Puss...”, through wall in room. I caretaker, not pussy... I show that man, I not pussyfoot around with him. No. No more...

Nice cat, nice white cat, all white is nice cat like snow on Slovenian mountain. Not really cat, kitten. Like baby, he... No, she, cat she, I check... She play in garden. But he, that man in room next to mine, still he no listen. He keep cat in room. I hear him through wall talk to pussy. Why man talk to pussy ? Why..? Why not talk to pussy in garden..? Make not sense. Man must... How you say in English..? Man mentally ill. Yes. That mentally ill man, he think me silly. Me not silly, me caretaker and rule is no pets in room... But cat nice, nice friendly cat... Friday afternoon follow me to supermarket. I say, “Shhhh.... Go home cat. Go home, you get hit by car, become doormat”. I say on Friday afternoon, “Go home silly cat, go see man in room...” But cat, she no listen... I caretaker, but cat no listen...
In Slovenia we no touch cat. But kitten not cat, kitten kitten. Kitten like baby. “Boo-Hoo... Waaaaaaa...” Little white kitten follow me supermarket Friday afternoon. In Slovenia we no touch cat. In Australia... I pick kitten up. Carry pink white kitten back to house. Put kitten in yard Friday afternoon or get hit by car become doormat. But she, not he, I check, cat is she... Little pink white baby kitten, she no listen to me. I caretaker, but she no listen. Follow me again supermarket friday afternoon. Silly kitten. I pick kitten up take home to house. This time, too smart for kitten. This time, lock kitten in room...My room. I get back from supermarket Friday afternoon kitten asleep on end of bed. “Purr, Purr, Purr...” Happy pink white kitten like little baby asleep in my room.

But him, that man, I hear him through wall in room. “Puss, Puss, Puss...” He still not listen. No, he, I hear him, not just, “Puss, Puss, Puss...” No, he, I hear him through wall in room... “Meee-owww, Meee-owww...” Man in mentally ill room not logical... How you say in English..? Not logical is man in mentally ill room. Still talk to cat, no, not cat... Kitten. Little pink white man talk to cat in moon... Then, “Bump, Bump, Bump...” Not day, night... Late night... Late, late, early morning night. I wake, pick pink white kitten up, hear man in room, “Puss, Puss, Puss... Meeee-owwww... Bump, Bump, Bump...” But how man talk to cat when white cat is not cat but little pink white kitten... Why pink white kitten is little baby in kitten man’s room..?

Maybe... Maybe man in room next to mine not man... Maybe man is kitten. Maybe man replace, you see, my English improve... Must be kitten... Maybe man in room replace white cat go missing with new kitten. Man mentally ill is not man, mentally ill man is kitten. Early morning, 3.30 am, man in room go “Purr, Purr, Purr... Meeeee-owwwww... Bump, Bump, Bump...” Then, 3.30 am man in room who not man but kitten, he, that man, that mentally ill man, he cry at moon. True. Man mentally ill who think he kitten, he cry at moon. Like baby, like little baby. That man, that mentally ill man, he sound like baby. Like crying baby child crying at full moon. My little baby, my little pink white kitten cry 3.30 am at the mentally ill full moon. Me caretaker. My room. My full moon.

stevie baker street

2010-06-30T16:42:00.014+10:00

(With apologies to Gerry Rafferty's 'Baker Street')

Windin' your way down on Baker street

Stevie's light in his head and dead on his feet

Well another crazy day

He'll drink the night away

And forget about everything

The tribunal makes him feel so cold

It's got 'Buckets' Stewie Lowe but it's got no soul

And it's taking them so long

To find out they were wrong

Stevie thought they'd cite Cameron Ling

He used to think that taggin' was so easy

Baker used to say to Rooey it was so easy...

But he was lyin'

Stevie's tryin', right now

4 weeks and then he'll be happy

Just give Baker 4 and he'll be happy

But he's cryin'

Stevie's dyin', right now

Down at Moorabin there's a rookie in his place

Number 10 guernsey, a footy for a face

And he asks Baker where he's been

Asks Stevie what he's seen

And they talk about 'Big Carl Ditterich'

Baker dreams about Stevie J's right hand

He gets on the booze, has a one night stand

Then he settles down, (in Lorne - a Tidy Town)

And forgets about everything

But you know he'll always keep taggin'

You know Baker's never gonna stop taggin'

Cos he's Big Carl reincarnated in pint-sized form

Stevie wakes up to a new mornin'

He's got a shiner, but it's a new morning

You're gone Baker

9 weeks cold.

the cadaver, the comatose & the chimera: avatars have no organs (in retrospect)

2009-12-17T08:07:00.009+11:00

The stage-name Stelarc is a hybrid of Stelios Arcadiou, and so too is this show a retrospective of Stelarc's ever transforming, performative self. And yet it is not the usual type of retrospective that is often associated with the visual arts. Rather than an overview of a very successful, internationally renowned career, Cadaver... Comatose... Chimera... is characterised by an anxiety and self-doubt that imbues much human interaction with its residual technocratic landscape.

The show is an examination of a performance practice that I believe began in the 70's; one characterised by a body in crisis and exemplified by the suspension of Stelarc's naked self above a busy New York intersection. (Among other risky and provocative acts). Indirectly alluding to a transient, decomposite flesh, and often underscored by a ritualistic, sadomasochistic impulse, Stelarc's Third Arm was a much more explicit representation of the relationship between human being and machine. With this robotic monstrosity attached to his actual arm, Stelarc called into question the assumed integrity of the natural world. That is, why place an undeniable value upon human life when robotic augmentation of the body can result in a hitherto unprecedented evolution of the species ?

Whichever side of the fence you sit on, Cadaver... Comatose... Chimera... is a reassessment of the relationship between human beings and technology. In doing so, Stelarc has responded to unpredictable developments in the techno-landscape. The so-called technological revolution may just be a composite of fascinating fetishes and armageddon type fusions of man and machine. The actual revolution could very well be a less melodramatic event. Human intelligence distributed on-line in the form of intelligent and interactive images. Hybridised mutations of global grey matter augmented by machines to the point where these intelligent images develop their own unique trajectory. Bodies can no longer be claimed as those belonging to individuals. The self is now an ephemeral and contingent entity, one that has a peculiar and disturbing beauty simply because of its very unreliability. In Cadaver... Comatose... Chimera... Stelarc questions all his previous assumptions about the body. When he asks "Who am I ?", the answer is that we are virtual compositions of multiple streams of global thought that gather and mutate in on-line environments such as Second Life. In effect, we have become intelligent images distributed on-line.

For those of you still prone to pinching the fleshy underside of your forearm and decrying the existence of data-bodies, please consider... Yesterday, or the day before, or even last week, what amount of time did you spend sitting before a computer staring at the algorithmic calculations that now construct simulations of your data-self ? (And the triumph of capitalism has ensured that those who disbelieve or resist the technological advance, are either dragged along by the scruff of the neck, or simply left behind). In Stelarc's world, it is the estranged space between what we believed we were, and who it is we have become, that is perhaps the monumental disjunctive experience of our time. Searching for solace in this contemporary technocracy, I sit down at my apple mac and turn on-line...

The Cadaver, the Comatose & the Chimera:

Avatars have no Organs

By Stelarc

SL site construction: Daniel Mounsey

SL assistance: John Derrick

Sound design: Tim Cole

Lighting: Emily Adinolfi

Video: John Dogget-Williams

Documentation: Nina Sellars

Animated micro-robot: Steve Middleton

Global mind project: Karen Casey & Harry Sokol

EEG headset: Emotive Systems

La Mama Courthouse, Dec. 15 - 16, Melb.

embrace: guilt frame (strange hand)

2009-12-04T10:58:00.013+11:00

When performer Peter Snow's hand appears as if it has become disconnected from his body, embrace: guilt frame performs the transcendental. This quiet yet luminous show is staged within a gilt-edged frame that could very well be a portrait of a couple hanging above a fireplace in the family home. All the usual emotive states are there: laughter, joy, violence and hatred, resentment, jealousy and sometimes even transient moments of monumental affection, if not true love. And yet embrace always strives for something other than the usual rumination upon dysfunctional relationships. Performed in slow-time, it is a Robert Wilson extravaganza reduced to the intimacy of a 2 X 1 metre rectangle; making the portraiture an integral component of this performance. There are actually three performers on stage, but one of these happens to be an gilt-edged frame. Consequently, the mysterious space behind, between and beyond Snow and de Quincy is amplified for an audience prepared to be receptive toward the peculiar, unpredictable and devastating consequences of Nature. You're drawn into this show in the same way a person can be drawn into staring out to sea on a moonless night. The same void that awaits us all once we are done with the petty vanities of our very business-like, postmodern lives.

Snow and De Quincy are transformed; from dysfunctional suburban couple to rodents marking time as each makes an assessment of the primal beast within. They employ photographic techniques to suggest moments of cataclysmic intimacy before the moment is lost and Snow recedes into darkness; while de Quincy arches forward, pushing her head and hand into the illuminated space beyond the shimmering gold frame to confront the audience. It is at once the busting of theatre's fourth wall, a desperate bid for escape, the repositioning of status between two participants in a tempestuous relationship, and two mythical travelers about to discover the absolute terror that characterises deep awareness. Space and time, those often forgotten fundamental elements of the theatre, are utilised in a deceptively simple fashion to record the journey of a lifetime as it occurs in 40 minutes flat. That old spiritual cosmonaut Andre' Tarkovsy comes to mind. Set in a transitional space between the living and the dead, his film Mirror is sometimes more an essay than a performed moment. During embrace however, as a receptive member of the audience you yourself feel compelled to forever depart this mortal coil... And then Peter Snow's strange hand enters stage left...

Purveyor of Beckett's cruel joke, or perhaps an unfathomable cosmic presence ? Representation of tyrannical masculinity, or an arm ripped from its socket by a feminine presence that can no longer tolerate the bonds of affection. Snow's phantom limb is all this and more, giving embrace a narcotic potency. And even though this show's rhythmical structure requires one more epiphany in the transition between its second and third movements, embrace is one of those rare performances that should remind audiences and practitioners alike why they were first attracted to the theatre. Staring out across the sea on a moonless night, you will wonder who or what it will be, (if anything at all), that will embrace you in its arms when your time has come, and it is your turn to go...

embrace: GUILT FRAME

Performers: Tess de Quincey & Peter Snow

Original Concept: Tess de Quincey

Set: Russell Emerson & Steve Howarth

Sound: Michael Toisuta

Light: Travis Hodgson

Project Manager: Sam Hawker

La Mama Courthouse, Melb. Dec. 2 -13

the antechamber: performance video

2009-11-30T15:08:00.004+11:00

swine

2009-11-28T11:43:00.002+11:00

When I first moved into the rooming house the owner looked at me as we passed a grey headed man standing in the stairwell.

“Don’t worry about him". The owner said. "He talks to himself”.

Oh yeah, I thought. Another fruitloop; make no attempt at conversation and keep as far away from him as possible. Let’s make sure the battlelines are clearly drawn right from the beginning. That way, nobody gets confused.

That night, the man whose name I did not want to know but who had been christened The Swine, locked himself in the kitchen beneath my room and had a party with all his friends. Alone, with all his friends. I woke at 3.00 am to the sound of an endless monologue punctuated by several different voices, one male, one female, and the high pitched squeal of a child. Unable to resist, I climbed out of bed and listened. There were accusations and threats of recriminations. There was pleading for help and teasing. There was in that kitchen any one of several different types of people all wrapped up in The Swine who only found expression early in the morning encapsulated by a quart of blackberry wine. The man was clearly in some kind of crisis. But crisis’ are a dime a dozen in rooming houses. More important was a good night’s sleep. I wasn’t game to tell him to be quiet so inserted earplugs into my ears, resolved to speak to the caretaker in the morning, and went back to sleep.

Next morning, the caretaker assured me he would speak to The Swine and there would be no further disruption. That afternoon, I saw The Swine washing his sheets in the washhouse trough. We stared at one another, but not a word was spoken. I swear there were daggers in The Swine’s eyes and went to sleep that night fearful of a surreptitious attack so made sure a chair was wedged between the door and the floor securing the entrance to my room.

Like every person who has ever stayed in a rooming house I only intended to be there for a month. But soon discovered that most of the other tenants had there for a minimum of 5 years. The Kaiser, a German who flew a Messerschmitt during the war, had been there for 25 years. While the old Hungarian who lived upstairs could not remember when he first took up lodgings. Of course, I was the exact opposite of these people. They were down and outs; unable to function in the more important areas of life. Drunken bums and drug addicts, fruitloops and fruitcakes. Say hello in the corridor but only because you have to, then move on and find a better place to live at the first opportunity.

Two years later I was sitting in my room one day, unable to get started on a story I had wanted to write and unhappy with everything else that I had written, when I not only realised I was talking to myself, but that I had been talking to myself for quite sometime. Nothing serious, just the usual mumbling and grumbling. You know, the expressions of frustation that rise up in a person when they don’t have anyone to talk to; the odd obscene exchange between myself and that ‘Other side’ that always wants to argue. I reckon life would have been much easier if we had have been made with one person in mind instead of two. The duality of existence has always confused me.

Later that afternoon, while stepping outside to go to the toilet, I saw The Swine sitting under a tree drinking a can of beer. Without knowing why, the first sentence that came out of my mouth was:

“How are you ?”

The Swine took a slug from his can.

“I’m alright...”, he said. “How are you ?”

“Fine”, I said.

Then continued onto the toilet and returned vowing not to say another word.

But the swine had other ideas.

“I’m trying to give up the booze”

“Yes”, I said. “Been drinking far too much myself lately. Knocked over half a dozen longnecks on Saturday afternoon”.

“Not good for your health... Your mental health”, said The Swine, who then introduced himself as Tony.

“That’s funny”. I said. “My name’s Tony too...”.

Then quickly took no further part in the conversation and headed straight back to the safety of my little room.

I don’t normally remember my dreams, but I did that night. A dream like no other dream I had ever had before. I was flying around in the top storey of a transparent multicoloured building. When I pushed my head through a wall in an attempt to escape, I saw a doll dressed in sepia lace. I looked away, then looked back. The doll’s face had reverted to a skull stripped of flesh. I woke in the middle of the night feeling exhilarated. For the first time in six months I heard The Swine, locked in his kitchen, drunk as a skunk, and the little girl inside of him was screaming out that she had been abused. I did not know what to do and nor did I complain to the Caretaker, but next morning when I sat down to write their flowed out of me a story about a man who'd had a nervous breakdown and in doing so, murdered a child. I don’t know where that story came from but without question it seemed right to call it Nightshift.

Seven years later the owner tried to evict me for no other reason than I had been there too long and was becoming part of the furniture. I fought the case in V.C.A.T. and won easily. You see, it was a matter of principle. But having high principles can result in a short term lease on life. A life without an escape clause in a world where only two things are certain. Death and taxes... Or maybe, just death.

Just the other day I ran into The Swine on a tram in Chapel St. Prahran. He had given up the booze, or so he said. But I could smell it on him. I asked him where he was living. He said a rooming house in Kew.

“But there aren’t any rooming houses in Kew”.

“I know”, said The Swine.

The tram stopped. He got off at his stop and disappeared into the grey afternoon.

psychic prison: plan b theatre

2009-11-28T10:58:00.003+11:00

It’s the end of winter in Melbourne and artistic director of Plan B Theatre Sharon Jacobson has murder on her mind. We are talking about ‘The outlaw’. We want to ascertain what it is about the outlaw that is attractive to the female imagination. (Plan B is a theatre enterprise initiated by Jacobson that utilises the talents of recently released male prisoners; men who have stepped outside the law and are now attempting to re-enter society). Jacobson is caught off-guard; the imagination is an elusive beast at the best of times, let alone when trying to articulate a reason as to why a woman might be attracted to a murderer. But Jacobson is also courageous and unflinching when confronted by probing questions. She speaks of a “Redemption script...”. One in which the female psyche is attracted to the possibility of eliciting “The beauty and the sweetness... " from a man who has committed the ultimate crime. It may sound patronising; the atrophied romanticism of a woman who believes she can change her man. Yet there bastes away in Jacobson a desire for change that is not paternalistic; but rather, a conflict being played out in her own psychic prison. And then she starts talking about murder...

The impetus for Plan B came from Jacobson’s experience of running theatre projects inside Victoria’s maximum security Barwon Prison. Hoddle St. murderer Julian Knight does time there; so do underworld figures Carl Williams and Victor Brincat. Not a place for the faint of heart and Jacobson confesses to an absolute “Fear...” at having been behind Barwon’s walls. But her fascination with a psychic underworld sets her apart from the banal actualities often associated with a person who commits a serious criminal offence. Jacobson understands the “Rage and fury... ” that is part of the average person’s emotional life. (People like you and I, or the nice man who runs the milk bar at the end of the street). She feels she knows what it might be like to be a poor person driven to murder - as is the case with nineteenth century German dramatist George Buchner’s infamous character, Woyzeck. Yet she is also careful to articulate a difference. In Jacobson’s view “Murder is an act of enormous passion, not an act of indifference... ”. But once a person is configured as a murderer he becomes a terminal outsider. Having committed what the law deems the ultimate crime the murderer forfeits his right to remain a member of society. Feodor Dostoevski might have agreed. His nineteenth century novel ‘Crime and Punishment’ is essentially about the dilemma Jacobson expresses. But Raskolnikov’s existential quagmire is also the dilemma of the average, law abiding human being. Ravaged by feelings of abstract guilt how do we free ourselves from our paralysing ‘Natures’ ?

Plan B’s first show ‘til Hell Freezes' used stories gleaned from prisoner experience shaped into a cohesive script then subjected to improvisation by Jacobson and her ex-prisoner performance troupe. A show that explored the tension between the opposing ideas of prison and release. A show well received, not just by its audience, but more importantly, by the ex-prisoners themselves. An “Incredibly committed group... ” according to Jacobson. One invigorated by the task of creating a piece of theatre. Plan B’s “Post-release strategy... ” and “Social action agenda... ” were fully realised in ‘til Hell Freezes. Ex-prisoners began thinking of themselves as theatre practitioners, and it is this shift in mentality that drives Jacobson’s ambitious project.

Historically, prison has been a potent and reoccurring image in the theatre. Buchner’s Woyzeck and British dramatist Edward Bond’s characters, although not incarcerated, are imprisoned by their feelings and/ or their social situations. Genet’s prisoners, rather than having hearts of stone, have red roses in their chests. Locally, ex-prisoner and dramatist Ray Mooney, now a teacher of creative writing, has explored an imprisoned masculinity in his Expressionist plays ‘The Dominator’ and ‘The Cat from Across the Road’. But perhaps it is now time to expand the psychic prison - male and female - beyond the limits of angst ridden mental torture normally associated with the imprisoned self. Is the imagination really a prison ? Or is it, as is proposed in Melbourne dramatist Richard Murphet’s play, a vast and labyrinthine department store consisting of dream states populated by duplicitous projections of the self ? Writer/ Director Jenny Kemp’s expansion of the imprisoned self into a surreal world of fantasy, myth, dream, nightmare and speculative scientific theory, all encapsulated by the image of a Black Sequin Dress, also provides a glimpse of what lies beyond prison walls. Walls that have been imposed upon us and walls which we impose upon ourselves. Whatever the scenario, each individual will respond to exploration of their interior world in a unique fashion. But before the walls can be dismantled there must occur a psychic death of the self. This is why Jacobson’s talk of murder, along with Plan B’s agenda for demolishing the barricade that separates ex-prisoners from mainstream society, can play an important function in shaping lives that may then make a contribution toward creating a just society.

And what of the transformative power of art ? If the theatre has become just another commodity within which practitioners pursue careers like merchant bankers and arts tourism has become the prerogative for many, is the theatre still capable of social change ? Perhaps its transformative power has always been a mirage ? Jacobson disagrees. The theatre is a "Vehicle for bringing people together... ”. An activity where a “Sense of community... ” is established and “Magical things... ” can happen. In Jacobson’s view this transformation is achieved through "Process and product..." . But in an age where obsession with product engages theatre practitioners in a Beckettian endgame, one where economic limitations often see projects emerge halfbaked to be assessed by unsatisfied audiences and so-called critics in the mainstream media, perhaps product, drawn as it is from economic jargon, is a less than favourable term for describing public performance. Even so, Jacobson’s emphasis on process is unusual, and contains several dimensions.

The process ex-prisoners engage in when creating a Plan B show, that of acquiring acting, story telling and production skills and then using these to create a performance, is one part of a broader process ex-prisoners engage with during their transition between prison, release, and the adventure that is the theatre; allowing ex-prisoners the opportunity to once again 'Play'. But what is it about the creation of a play that can rehabilitate a prisoner ? Jacobson scoffs at the term rehabilitate. “The burden of change is always on the prisoner... ”, she says. In her view the Corrections System itself requires some rehabilitation. “It costs approximately $ 70,000 a year to house a prisoner. Can that money be better spent..? You fucking bet it can...”. But the question remains: how does a person who has committed a serious crime like murder transform themselves ?

Jacobson may have murder on her mind but it is not a literal representation of murder that excites her. In Edward Bond’s play Red Black and Ignorant a character called The Monster has its throat slit after the monster declares it must kill off the one it loves, the egotistical self. If, as Jacobson says, the theatre is a “laboratory”, then it is also a space where the death of the self can be enacted in a bloodless fashion for the purpose of using the theatre not just as a therapeutic tool, but as a space that might extend Antonin Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty. For Jacobson though, any extension beyond Plan B’s current agenda, that of a post release space where ex-prisoners can acquire vocational skills in the theatre, would have to be handled “Gently gently”. Her intention is for ex-prisoners to one day take charge of the project. Dispensing with the prisoner tag and adopting the new identity of theatremaker is also the death of one self and having it replaced by another. Jacobson is into “That old spiritual idea... A spark of light... trapped inside the body”, ensnaring us on a “material plain”. The human spirit imprisoned by the flesh, not searching for an escape but trying to rediscover its original intention. A journey we all undertake - man, woman and child. Creatures trapped behind walls, unable to forget our pasts, lost on a path toward an uncertain future as we try and find our way home.

a mouse in the house

2009-11-26T16:57:00.001+11:00

Late one night you are woken from vague dreams by the sound of a gentle scratching. Is it behind the mirror or somewhere deep within the chest of draws ? Upon your return to sleep you hope the scratching will disappear. But an hour later, when you wake and the scratching has become a gnaw, you realise a Napoleon has set up shop in your little room. You now have a companion like no other you have ever had before.

Rooming houses are a haven for mice. Just place yourself in their position. Food and warmth in every room: the cat, a natural enemy of the mouse, having been denied access by an intolerant landlord: countless nooks and crannies in ancient walls where furred animals sleep all day, then emerge at dusk to raid the larder, keeping you awake for the entire night. What more could a lost rodent ask for ? A rooming house is paradise for the homeless mouse.

Initially, you tolerate your new found friend. At night, he scratches and gnaws somewhere... But when you do see him scurry across the open space between the wardrobe and the door, he reminds you of a furred toy you played with as a child. Those tiny brown eyes, those pink ears and cute claws. The way in which he wiggles his nose in order to get a bead on you. He’s a nice mouse, and he is your friend and no-one else’s. Until, of course, he wants to share your loaf of bread and bag of rice. Until, of course, you wake one morning and find footprints in the frypan and mouse droppings scattered across last night’s dinner plate. But, you say to yourself, as long as he keeps his disturbance to a minimum, everything will be fine. And you remind yourself that he is your friend, that friends must be tolerant of one another's ‘inconsistencies’. That this is what friends are for...

Mice are incorrigible survivors. They will climb three tenuous metres of electrical cord and chew through a plastic bag containing two minute noodles. They will tear-up strips of carpet and create access points beneath gaps under doors. When a mouse arrives in your room rest assured it will invade and occupy the premises, making you feel like the uninvited guest. Do not make unnecessary noise during the daylight hours, you say to yourself, it might wake the mouse. Do not leave the bread out overnight, and make sure each and every dish is washed, dried, and safely stored away. Otherwise, your fast fading little friend will have his way with each utensil, with all and every type of food available. Until one day, three or four months after the mouse first appeared, you are lying in bed when it canters across the open space between the wardrobe and the door, rears up, and stares you straight in the eye. Defeated, you look away. And just accept that Mighty Mouse is in the rooming house and he is now in complete control.

Then, when autumn has waned and the forlorn glow of winter fills your room, the mouse disappears. Perhaps it was the poison the pest controller gave you. An evil black block emblazoned with a skull and crossbones that could disable a rhinoceros. It certainly wasn’t the dozen or so mouse traps that peppered the kitchen floor. (Mighty Mouse had worked these out; he would steal the bait then leap into the air, out of the line of fire). Whatever it was that got him, it no longer matters. For Mighty Mouse has gone to that great grey larder in the sky. Your room belongs to you again. The bread can remain on the kitchen table. The dishes don’t have to be washed and stored away night after night after night... You are free to come and go as you please, no longer intimidated by that four legged eating machine. That marauding little ball of fur who by his very unwelcomed presence embodied that famous statement: ‘This town ain’t big enough for the two of us’.

Come springtime, late at night or early in the morning, you are woken by the sound of much scratching and gnawing, of much ripping up of paper and what sounds like two battalions at war behind the chest of draws. Yes, that’s right. The mouse you thought was a he was in fact a she, and your new found family is happy to have caught you at home.

sweet & piggy: (a cautionary tale)

2009-11-26T12:10:00.009+11:00

Writer's Note: Sweet and Piggy contains several vulgar and possibly offensive words and phrases. I have chosen to include this material, (rather than reduce it by using awkward euphemism), not out of a desire to shock or offend, nor in reference to a particular writing genre'. But because the words and phrases form part of a vocabulary used by certain people from a working or lower middle class background. While regretting any offence this may cause, I trust this note has contextualised the use of such vulgarity, thereby explaining its inclusion.

Sweet Thing usually spends some time in the mirror popping blackheads in his nose, but staring at his reflection this morning is just too much to ask. His face is littered in small sores. Scabs he cannot help but pick. In the pre-dawn light he sits on his mound of dirt overlooking the Yarra river with a paw up around his face. Absently picking at his face. Wondering where the next hit will come from as the buzz from the blast he"s just had hits his brain. Sweet has a pair of Piggy"s panties and one of her black stilettos" beside him. He was wearing them a minute ago until a stranger strolled up and asked for sex. Sweet had experienced something resembling embarrassment then said to the man:

"Fuck off, or I"ll stab you in the chest".

The memory of IT is like a quick left jab to the head. A friend had walked up to Sweet in a bar, and he was crying. The shock of seeing his friend"s bloodied face, combined with a heavy smoke of hash, sent Sweet"s face ash white. Piggy said later that Sweet"s face had turned ash-white. A bouncer had bottled Sweet"s friend. He felt the night club rumble in his throat. People danced and lights flashed. The club was in Sweet"s mind. Every piece of furniture. Every shameless leg hanging over a chair. The entire drunk and drugged out club converged inside his brain.

"Go on...", a voice said.

"Do it now".

Sweet Thing sits on his mound of dirt overlooking the Yarra river at 5.00 am, speed and coke pulsing through his veins. Wanting to get off the gear but also wanting to perform an autoerotic act. Nobody loves him, so how can he love himself ? Even the strange man who had quickly disappeared upon the threat of violence had only wanted to stuff his cock in Sweet"s mouth, offer him a handkerchief, then leave.

In a drug induced haze with the pleasure zone in his head on the point of seizure, Sweet wondered why people treated one another in such miserable ways. He hadn"t finished this thought before his pants were off and Piggy"s burgundy panties were up around his thighs. As the light improved Sweet suspected the strange freak he had pissed-off might return and try and rape him in the grass. But the threat of ultra-violence was usually enough to deter the most persistent queen. Then it was off with his shirt and on with Piggy"s matching bra. A rolled up sock for each breast. (He had selected the socks for the Mickey Mouse insignia sewn into the ankles). Realising he had lost one of Piggy"s stilettos" he decided to slip the other pump on anyway. And there he sat, with his red raw cock throbbing in his hand, pulling it back and forth without the slightest chance of achieving an erection.

Among the dirty pictures and feelings of despair, one thought remained. Sweet felt naked without Piggy"s lost stiletto. Each time the coke and speed pushed him onto the next big thrill, the thought of wearing one pump instead of two, threw Sweet. So he put his pornographic magazine to one side, opened the blue velvet bag he carried his tools in, and set up a hit right there in the grass. As the sun came over the hill he got up off his arse and trundled across an open plain toward a football field. No good trying to walk in one stiletto, so he slipped the pump from his foot and cradled it in his arms. Had to find the other pump, he thought, in order to have a proper wank. But after searching the grounds for half an hour the two sizes too small crotch of Piggy"s panties had cut into his scrotum. And anyway, the coke and speed from the previous hit was wearing off as Sweet became suspicious of a seagull staring at him for a second longer than it should have been. Even the local bird life was out to get him.

As the gear wore off the pleasure zone projected its grasp through the exterior of Sweet"s skull, pleading for one more blast before promising to give the gear away. Sweet returned to his mound of dirt overlooking the Yarra river and sat down on the wet grass. With the return of the cravings came the memory of standing at the bar in that nightclub, his face ash white. Piggy had said later that Sweet"s face had turned ash white. He had watched and listened as the hashish in his brain forced that nightclub into his ear and out his nose. Sweet had snorted that club out of his nose as he raced from the shadows, picked up a glass, and threw a roundhouse right. The glass broke in the forehead of another man, and Sweet could not escape the memory of this foul deed. (Except when injecting himself with half a gram of coke and speed). But the buzz received was as brief as the time taken to commit the act. Sweet realised he had glassed the wrong man, instead of the bouncer who had bottled his friend, and two fingers of Sweet"s right hand were cut to the bone and hanging from bits of skin.

O yes, Sweet wants it bad alright. He sits on his mound of dirt with bandaged fingers encircling his forever flaccid dick. His other hand claws at the hard bits on his face. He wants to be loved but there is nobody left in the world to love a person who cannot love himself. Love breeds love, Sweet thinks, for his mind is not completely perforated. Love breeds love and hate breeds hate. In a general way a person can divide the population of the world into two categories. Of course, Sweet thinks, there are numerous subtle differences, but when all is said and done and the gear is on its way to the pleasure zone in the brain, life is simple. There are those that love and those that hate and poor old Sweet"s mind has become mashed potata on a plate. Sweet hates everybody. Including the junkie he has become. More an act of survival than a narcissistic desire. And it is this self loathing that might just keep him alive. If he is lucky.

Sweet gathers up his clothes and gets changed then off he goes in search of diamond studded Copenhagen the Doctor of the Drains. Yet Copenhagen has been hard to find for the last few days and all his customers are howling in a corner of their rooms.

Sweet picks Piggy up and down to Abbotsford they drive. Outside Copenhagen"s palace with its peep hole in the door Piggy taps and waits then taps again and waits some more. The door opens and Piggy"s hair comes out in clumps as The Man invites them in. Then its down to business on the kitchen table. Copenhagen drops three one ounce bags infront of them and before you can say Jack Rabbit, Piggy has a fit in her arm. Copenhagen orders Piggy into the toilet. A pillar of the community, he doesn"t want any of that shit going on in his house.

"Fuckin' junkies", he says.

"Ya can"t trust 'em".

Sweet agrees.

"You' re right alright, they' re cunts those fuckin' junkies".

Copenhagen admires Sweet"s admission before slipping under his eyelids and reflecting upon the porno he will watch later that night.

Piggy is back inside the kitchen in a minute waving her hand before her mouth as the taste rushes through her throat, then hits a lobe. Sweet is dying for a blast but feeling a little shy in front of Copenhagen. They"ve just had a conversation about transfusing Sweet"s blood into milk cartons and replacing it with Copenhagen"s. At a price of course. Especially since Copenhagen had read about the process in a three dollar copy of Life magazine.

"Ya can"t trust those fuckin' Commie bastards", says Copenhagen, for no apparent reason.

Sweet agrees. Too readily this time.

"Yeah", he says, aching for a blast.

"Better red than dead".

And Piggy"s cheeks flare as she looses her bowels in the kitchen and a fart tears out her arse.

"Right", says Copenhagen.

"Three grand on the dot next week or you' re both fuckin' dead".

Sweet thinks Copenhagen is joking, but Piggy is counting out the days in the foreground of her mind. The risk sends her head into a spin as Copenhagen"s face disappears behind the front door of his palace. Sweet and Piggy get into their car and off they go. Sweet is desperate to get home and whack the needle in his vein.

And Sweet wants to hold Piggy, he really does. But he cannot bring himself to do so until he"s got the gear in his head. As they swerve through the streets of Collingwood in Piggy"s yellow Mazda Capella Sweet remembers wanting to hold his mother. He sees his mother many years before within the recess of his drug fucked brain. The blue dress his mother wore stood out like colour on a pavement wet with rain. It was the month of May and Sweet watched his mother getting dressed inside her bedroom. He saw her in his mind as she fastened a suspender to her stocking. Sweet ran into the room and threw his arms around her thighs. His mother"s blue doughnut shaped hat fell from her head. She jumped halfway onto the bed then fell back on her knees and scratched a hole in the stocking on her leg. Sweet"s mother hit the roof and slapped him hard. Harder than she had ever slapped her son before. Sweet ran from the room and hid the pain in a pillow. And this child promised he would never love again. He would hate he would despise he would not compromise and he would steal his mother"s blue doughnut shaped hat and hide it in the shed.

Piggy"s yellow Mazda Capella pulls up outside their rented house in Keele St. They do not lock the doors for nobody is going to steal the car when Piggy is dealing with Copenhagen, the czar of inner-suburbia. Then it"s into the living room and powder on the silver spoon. Sweet hits first, but he has problems hitting the old artery, Sweet does. So he asks Piggy to give him a blast and she does and he GOES and soon the two of them are in bed. The sheets are woken from the dead and they fuck as if their lives depend on it. Sweet wants it bad but Piggy wants it worse. They are so desperate for love all they can do is abuse one another. In their drug induced states they commit every sin their calcified brains allow for. Suffice it to say Piggy"s dressed in leather lingerie and crotchless panties lying horizontal on the bed. Three fingers embedded in her glory box. Submitting to Sweet Thing"s ridiculous commands as he kneels between her legs and stares into her guadalcanal. O yes, Sweet wants it bad as he yanks his flaccid prick from left to right. While his brain is involved in some strange theory concerning his mother"s lost love. The love he never received from his mother is lost inside Piggy"s belly. Sweet demands she find that love and drag it out.

And these are the ways of the drug dreams when the speed and coke backs up in your toke. You don"t know who you are. You could be riding in a car along a beach while a rat like Copenhagen holds a gun against your head. And fluff, your life is gone in a fluff. Copenhagen"s henchmen do not dump your body in a drain. They leave your corpse beside a road for everybody to see. But Sweet and Piggy aren"t dead yet. In out of the bedroom after four hours of gynaecology. Out into the livingroom and have another blast. Then back into the bedroom for another bout before the two of them fall asleep in a scree stinking pile of tumescent flesh and body gush. Then it"s sleep per chance per dream until the morning passes, the afternoon arrives and still our two heroes have not returned from dream a dream land. Once they do, the animals creep back and devour them.

Then it"s into the toilet for Sweet where he usually spends some time in the mirror popping blackheads in his nose. But his mother is hard to find this morning and his father does not want to know... The only solution is: have another blast with Piggy, return to studies of crazy gynaecology, then sleep wake hit fuck and do it all over again until eighteen months has passed and Sweet is falling through a ceiling inside a dream. His father waits, ready to catch him as he falls, but drops his arms and Sweet crashes to the ground. The soft ground containing Copenhagen"s death box and its O so many entrances with one death chute at the rear. If only Sweet could find his mother. If only Piggy could find her father. But neither can, so they continue searching for love in one another. Pressing their fingers into the disfigurement. Sucking strands of love from each other"s brain.

Right in the middle of crazy gynaecology there"s a knock at the door. Sweet opens up to find Copenhagen with a 38 in his hand. He wants his three grand, but Sweet and Piggy have whacked the gear up.

"One death chute at the rear...", says Copenhagen, the barrel of his 38 sticking in Piggy"s mouth.

"One week for the money or one death chute at the rear".

As Copenhagen leaves he turns and says to his bull headed mate:

"Hey, I' ve given them something to look forward too".

Sweet and Piggy get Copenhagen"s money, but they have to rip off Skavinski Skava, who is well known for his machinegun. A week later they're back at Copenhagen"s palace. More gear on credit, and on it goes... While still later Sweet sits on his mound of dirt overlooking the Yarra river, a paw up around his face. Absently picking at his face... Wondering if his mother loves him...

"It"s a strange thing..."

Sweet says to himself as he goes in search of diamond studded Copenhagen the Doctor of the Drains. But better squeeze the blackheads in his nose first. Better perform the old gynaecological act with Piggy...

"Better do something..."

Sweet mutters, as the bad hit in his brain sends him spinning in search of love. But no love is forthcoming. Sweet should kill off the love he has for Piggy. Love gone bad is a death fuck inside his brain and he will not die with his boots on.

unpublished

2009-11-26T10:56:00.003+11:00

Once again here I am sitting at my desk attempting to write a story that does not have a clear beginning.

I have been writing for sometime and still have not achieved publication. Nobody loves me, I know it... I am an honest writer. I write about my fears, my secret desires and the strange experiences that have befallen me during the writing life. I ‘tell all’ so to speak. But the more I tell the more I am rejected by my fans. (Make no mistake; you reject my work, you reject me...) So I am now engaged in the formation of a plan. I will become impervious to rejection. My porous personality, the microscopic holes in my skin, will no longer tolerate, can no longer cope, with forever remaining unpublished. Consequently, I have discovered a way of becoming immortal; a method for remaining in print forever.

My publisher, a tall man with the physical properties of an eel, was responsible for my discovering this method. I had written a book. It had taken me fifteen years to write this book. It was a book about a man wandering in a house of mirrors. Each variation within each mirror offered the man in my book a different version of who the man might, or might not have been. I thought this was a fine proposition for a book. But when I had finished the five hundred and fifty nine page manuscript and submitted it to my publisher by registered mail, my publisher disagreed. He loved the idea that one man could view himself in multiple forms, but taking five hundred and fifty nine pages to explain this idea did not constitute a book. I wrote my publisher a letter explaining to him where I thought he had missed the point. But, as is often the case with publishers, I never heard from him again.

By once again being rejected by my publisher, (the thirty fourth of the the thirty three rejections my book had previously received), it occurred to me while sitting at my desk that I had also been rejected in other areas of my life. I had tried to be a normal student but after getting into trouble one time too many my principal expelled me. I had tried to find a normal job but each normal job I found resulted in my employer sacking me. I had tried to have a normal relationship but the girl with whom I had so much wanted to have a normal relationship, well, she ‘Dear Johned’ me. (A girl named Heidi who I often see in my mind’s eye when standing before a dressing table mirror). With this idea in mind I began writing a story about a writer who had written a book that was rejected by his publisher, and who, after standing before a dressing table mirror while thinking of a girl named Heidi, realised he was not just an unpublished writer, but also, an unpublished human being.

Heidi dreamed of the day her mother’s skeletal system was obliterated by osteoporosis; thereby disposing of her mother in an excruciating manner while remaining discreet enough an occurrence within the nursing home ‘Esemerelda’ for its staff to continue caring for Heidi’s mother without the need to smother her with a pillow. This gave Heidi access to her mother’s fortnightly pension and a collection of one hundred dollar bills she discovered taped to the underside of her mother’s wardrobe. One disadvantage of being a cashed up woman in a city with an illuminated skyline is that each wish becomes an inducement to pleasure that cannot be resisted. Heidi, in her first fit of pique’ post having her mother inserted behind the sterile walls of ‘Esemerelda’, attended a lingerie boutique in South Yarra. Upon her appearance framed within a doorway the proprietress fitted Heidi out in black corset, lace panties, silk stockings, translucent robe, and to complete this elegant dance with death, a black choker connected around Heidi’s pale neck by a silver ring.

Not wishing to offend the proprietress’ box faced daughter, while hoping to deflate the lips of the proprietress herself, Heidi offered first to pay by credit card then chose to pay by cash. Six one hundred dollar bills smelling only of the polymer the currency had been printed upon; causing the proprietress to blush and place one stilletoed foot across another while counting out fifty five cents in change. Heidi then hailed the Hoddle St. bus with the intention of returning to her home in Hotham St, where waiting in her boudoir was the blonde haired Adonis and closet white supremacist Otto Richter. (A highflying executive within the Trading and Catering branch of the recently privatised V/Line railway system who had a delicate penchant for nipple clamps and an object which his father Vern had decreed to Otto in his last will and testament - a leather cock ring).

At peak hour, Hoddle St. Collingwood becomes an indiscriminate charge of steel, concrete, bitumen and the entire Eastern Suburbs intent upon weaving their way home to Nunawading, Healesville and Coldstream. Presuming that carbon monoxide fumes contain a carcinogen and which once residue has lodged in the lung tissue of a jaded man standing upon the corner of Hoddle and Johnston St., that same man might dislodge from his bronchial tube a wad of green phlegm then propel this substance onto the ground beside his feet immediately prior to the Hoddle St. bus halting at its stop for the purpose of allowing a pale woman with black hair, firm breasts, and an unstated seductive allure to disembark, causing the most hardened carrier of any carcinogenic particle to wilt because of his filthy indiscretion and wish he had never opened his mouth to the hazy Melbourne sun.

I am that man.

I have been watching Heidi for several months. Yes, she appeared aware of my presence the day I caught her alighting from the Hoddle St. bus. If ever a man was about to receive a karate kick to his delicate parts it was that day... But later, when the last phase of the moon had disappeared all that remained of any consequence was myself, Heidi’s camisole dripdrying on her clothesline and the night.

I embarked upon a stroll down Gold St., turned a corner into Keele St. then entered a laneway behind Heidi’s home and stared through a nail hole into her backyard. Entranced by the sight of Heidi’s camisole hanging upon her clothesline I also became aware of a dim light - a candlelight - that glowed from behind a colonial framed window. The sensation that always preceded my excursions into the snowdropping night invaded my body but I suppressed a desire to leap into the backyard and embrace Heidi’s camisole. Instead, I slipped my right hand through a hole in the rear gate - one designed for easy access by any miscreant of dubious intent. A stem had been inserted into the hole that usually kept the bolt in place but it was not until I felt a cluster of petals that I realised what it was that sealed the rear gate of Heidi’s home. A white rose; the petals of which illuminated the palm of my hand; its electricity scintillating throughout my body allowing me one thought: Heidi’s white camisole soft against my flushed cheek.

When I pushed the rear gate forward its corrugated edge grated upon brick paving and perspiration swamped my armpits and forehead. I held my breath, convinced the sound of breathing would reveal my presence to Heidi, but the moment passed and I was once again free to move as I pleased. Impulsively, I placed the stem of the white rose between my teeth hoping a thorn would puncture the tip of my tongue and release into my mouth the blood that gave me life. After easing the rear gate open I stepped into the backyard and ducked behind a tree fern. Heidi and whoever else was in that house would never discover my presence for a tree fern provides the cover essential for a successful snowdropping operation. And there, on the clothesline, wafting in a midwinter breeze, Heidi’s camisole, myself a short distance away, white rose in mouth, and the early morning air terrifying on my bare thighs beneath my herringbone coat.

I hesitated between wanting to preserve the exhilarating fear I had just experienced and the anticipated transcendentalism of holding Heidi’s camisole in my hot hand. My choice of a herringbone coat as the appropriate costume for my adventure into the aether revealed more about my intentions than I had previously been aware. The herringbone pattern had turned my body inside out. But I was not a sardine and nor was time of the essence; it was suspended within a dream. Somewhere in my past the soul I had created was now being dismantled... No longer in the mood for rumination I tumbled out from behind that tree fern and somersaulted across brick paving to land on my feet alongside the steel shaft of Heidi’s clothesline positioned in the centre of her backyard.

Momentarily, I admired Heidi’s camisole; toyed with it between thumb and forefinger, then unpegged it from the clothesline and stuffed it into the breastpocket of my coat. Why, I wondered, was I forced to be so cruel toward Heidi’s undergarment ? Why could I not be allowed the pleasure of treating it with the solemn respect it deserved ? What was wrong with a world that left a snowdropper no alternative but to tarnish the purity of Heidi’s camisole by forcing him to roll it into a bundle and shove it into a breast pocket alongside his long suffering heart ? If I were a prominent public servant, or a civic leader, or even Prime Minister, snowdropping would be enshrined in an act of parliament... But enough exaggeration; once I had ensnared Heidi’s camisole I once again became aware of that dim candlelight emanating from behind that old colonial window. The white rose was still in my mouth; knowingly or otherwise a thorn had pierced the underside of my tongue and blood now collected in a pool behind my bottom teeth.

I then performed an act which surprised even myself. I sidled up alongside the clothesline and grabbed its cylindrical crank. As I rotated the mechanism and its shaft began to rise toward the midnight sky I placed my cheek against the shaft and allowed the blood from my mouth to be absorbed into the cold steel of the clothesline. By dribbling my life into metal I delivered my pathetic self up for sacrifice to an object I knew would not reject me, but instead, would embrace me within its all consuming universe until I disintegrated into the night air and my atomic structure fused with the particles of that clothesline photosynthesising in the night.

But enough was enough.

No longer would I engage in petty scientific speculation suitable only for primary school students. Needless to say, my atoms were my atoms... I brushed a branch of the tree fern to one side and was about to disappear but beside the rear gate through which I intended to exit there stood Otto Richter. He did not speak and nor did I; instead, he motioned toward an Alsatian crouched beside his left knee. Otto’s intentions were clear. If I chose to make a break for Keele St. he would command his Alsatian to attack. So I removed Heidi’s camisole from the breast pocket of my herringbone coat and placed the garment in Otto’s outstretched hand. When his blue eyes blazed I realised there were other men in this peculiar world who also found snowdropping to be an exhilarating experience.

Otto had me by the corleones. A Divisional Van would soon arrive and out would step Senior Constable Ron Iddles. (He had previously pinched me for Break and Enter upon a Brotherhood of St. Lawrence clothes bin). Once again, I would be forced to stand before the Collingwood Magistrates Court and explain to a packed public gallery that I was not really a bad person; just kinky. I considered leaping into the backyard of the house next door but Otto had released the lead of his trembling Alsatian and the dog was now smelling my feet. The tan crest of fur on its back bristled while Otto returned Heidi’s camisole to its position pegged upon the clothesline. Then Heidi herself appeared from behind a door that receded into her home toward that mysterious candlelit glow. Whether she realised I was the same individual who had been following her for the last month was unclear but she recognised my precious herringbone coat. After tracing her index finger over the coat sleeve, Heidi, her once black hair now streaked with peroxide, whispered:

“Take it off”.

I was not about to do any such thing; like a solemn friend over many years my herringbone coat had accompanied me upon numerous trips into the aether.

Heidi responded:

“Otto...”

Otto returned from within the laundry carrying a cane basket. He struggled with the weight of the basket before placing it upon a single bluestone inserted within an area of manicured lawn beneath the clothesline. I expected Otto to rip my famed herringbone coat from my body or command his obedient Alsatian to condensate upon my groin. Instead, he politely asked me to unbutton the coat. Unable to resist his cool Germanic tone I slipped it from my shoulders and presented the coat to Heidi.

My nipples have always been inverted but along with another upstanding length of my anatomy, they found their voice on that night. I almost laughed; what would Senior Constable Ron Iddles think of this scene ? Instead of being the offender I might be considered the victim once Iddles compared my actions to those of Otto and Heidi, while Otto’s Alsatian would almost certainly be charged with canine indecency and receive a long stretch in the pound. I then realised that Senior Constable Ron Iddles and his infamous Collingwood Divisional Van would not be attending this crime.

Heidi removed a black veil that concealed her face and her azimuth eyes struck my green orbs like an asteroid entering another planet’s atmosphere. I saw what up until that point I had missed. Heidi had peeled away an octangular section of the outer layer of her black corset, revealing an image highlighted by the late night moon as it appeared from behind a cumulonimbus cloud. Shimmering within the moonlight was an image of a man wearing a herringbone coat, situated at various locations throughout the suburb of Collingwood, and this same man was always accompanied by my shadow.

While sitting at my desk and recording this strange experience I believe that a thorough analysis of the images Heidi presented to me may have resulted in my becoming a published human being. But on that night in the backyard of Heidi’s home my attention was diverted from the previously mentioned images toward the sound of digging in the area frequented by Otto’s Alsatian.

I turned my attention away from the screen situated between Heidi’s 34 D cups and saw the front paws of that faithful Alsatian working in the dark. Its tail was an example of unrestrained glee at having been given the opportunity to express its deepest desire in the shape of a hole in the ground. The musty scent of freshly turned soil led me to believe that Otto’s Alsatian, far from being a threat to my testicular geometry, was digging this hole for me.

Then something snapped in Heidi’s high flying flame, Otto Richter, and he pranced around the yard as if he had lost his marbles. Heidi quickly resealed the section of black lace containing the images between her cleavage then calmed Otto with a reassuring pat upon his blonde head. When the time came for Otto to dispose of a lifetime’s half forgotten memories the cleansing process would be painful. But the result would see Otto revealed as less a man who might have been and more a man who, in the right circumstance, could also become an image within the picturebook located between Heidi’s breasts. Otto appeared to accept Heidi’s proposition; albeit tentatively. He shuffled away toward the cane basket he had placed beneath the clothesline while muttering something about his “turn”.

With my herringbone coat draped over her shoulder Heidi ushered Otto’s Alsatian away from the trench. The dog sat patiently to one side, eyes alive with the smell of the wilderness. Heidi kneeled beside the trench, placed my herringbone coat into the hole, then proceeded to shift soil over the coat while intoning in Latin. I had no way of interpreting this language but it reminded me of a requiem a priest had uttered at the burial of a friend’s five year old child.

I then caught sight of the task Heidi had set for Otto. It involved pegging to the clothesline a parade of freshly washed cotton nappies that I presumed belonged to a new born baby. But Otto’s allotted task did not end there. Once he had pegged the last of the nappies to the clothesline he then began rotating its crank. I expected the nappies to rise into the sky and catch the warm air present in the atmosphere but was unprepared for the grand unfurling of the clothesline’s contents above the humble suburb of Collingwood. The white nappies were telescoped into the night sky until the clothesline resembled a fully rigged sailing ship - a scene from The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner I mused - or an enormous white rose that had suddenly blossomed in the cobalt blue sky.

Since that night spent in Heidi’s backyard I have fallen in love with an invisible woman. Each time I glimpse the love of my life she trails off this page and dissipates before my eyes. I try and recapture her face; the smooth contours of her shapely breasts. But the more I recover of that which has disappeared the further my new found love drifts away from me. I am no longer tormented by the knowledge that I am an unpublished human being. This has nothing to do with my writing recently having appeared in a slick anthology. More important is my quest for the invisible. Since the night Heidi buried my herringbone coat her presence has remained inscribed upon my spine. Her size and shape may transform, but I will spend the rest of my days in pursuit of her image while knowing that a complete representation of Heidi’s many selves remains a tantalising impossibility.

To presume so could be a terrible mistake but I suspect this piece of fiction may one day be published. Publishers of anthologies have strict guidelines concerning word counts; of which I have exceeded by inclination to uncover the farthest trajectory of my limited experience. Forgive me when I write of my disappointment at not uncovering that which inhabited the receding candlelight within the disappearing recess of Heidi’s Hotham St. home. I resolved not to explore it beyond its vanishing point for to do so would have placed this piece of fiction in an editor’s unpublished tray. Not, as I have previously explained, that this knowledge causes me much concern, for it has only now occurred to me that the word ‘Unpublished’ would make an appropriate title for this story.

roulette: collision course

2009-11-23T15:39:00.002+11:00

It's the music that sets the tone for Verve studio's production of Raimondo Cortese's play(s) Roulette. Quiet and reflective, tinged with hurt and melancholy, the Theatreworks stage is demarcated by four easily recognisable types of furniture. Behind table and chairs, park bench, airline seats and plush hotel lounge suite, there is stretched a taut piece of scrim. Behind this, and lit by a lonely half-light, characters linger and malinger as each traverses a windswept space in preparation for a confrontation with their nemesis. Cortese's dialogue is remarkable for what it doesn't say. That is, as each character bobs and weaves during their subsequent verbal stoush it becomes apparent to an attentive audience that the more shit these people talk, the more they will reveal themselves; thereby prompting an unravelling of their lives. Combined with some brave and concentrated performances from the Verve studio graduates, Roulette is an unsettling night in the theatre.

Cortese does not appear to have written his twelve plays with the intention of having each interwoven into one performance. And even though director Darren Natale has chosen to work with only five of the twelve, at times, a generality of tone creeps into this production. Inconsolable is a chat session in a cafe between a man and woman who have never before met, but who are obviously attracted to one another. Both are reproachable figures. Tom sips coffee while pretending to read Joyce's Ulysses. Kat is a worry-wart cum bull in a china shop who challenges Tom's addiction to nicotine, and his deluded sense of self. Meanwhile, on a park bench a short distance to the right, Break-In is a study in a self-destructive, sadomasochistic relationship. Cam and Julie, humping one another, yet not far from being homeless, discuss the pros and cons of the new girl in Cam's life. Desperate for a simple human relationship, one unattainable in an arbitrary world, Julie denigrates Cam to the point where his pretensions disintegrate. Promising love and friendship, Cam is exposed as only being there for the sex. Characteristically though, it is only when he reveals this primal intention that Julie admires him most.

As this interwoven performance progresses through the plays Hotel, Borneo, and Night, the generality of tone mentioned earlier permeates each exchange. This is partly a consequence of some of the performers not nailing the existential angst that always lurks within Cortese's creations. And even though each set of characters is distinctive in type and social status, the writer, as always, creeps into the action. In Hotel, a hard-nut, matronly cleaner from the old school, one whose current beau is explained away as "...a root between two roots...", lays down the law to her younger, up and coming protege'. Driven fractionally mad by the utter tedium of her existence, Tara eventually throttles Jane on the presumption that she threatens the security of Tara's employment. In Borneo, the sophisticated psychotherapist Angelica eventually finds communion with the carefree air-head Sal. Or so the audience is led to believe. (In fact, Sal is a smack courier intent on ridding herself of any chance she will be caught importing dope). What emerges during the ensuing conversation between the two women is the predatory characteristic of human relationships, even when such is a consequence of an apparently innocuous generational gap.

As a vehicle for a graduate production director Natale makes a wise choice in selecting Roulette to showcase Verve studio's acting talent. Production requirements are minimal, allowing for the graduate actors to express their craft in relation to Cortese's demanding linguistics. And even though each performer is more than adequate in their own role, there are several noteworthy performance. Gabrielle Brennan and Hannah Smith work very well together, and might consider amplifying their performance relationship beyond drama school. But it is during a moment of drunken decline in Night, a play about flippant sexual teasing and the drastic consequences this can have for the repressed homosexual, that Hayley Birch delivers a sustained period of compelling authenticity as the tragic, involuted lesbian Rachel, deathly uncomfortable with being on the prowl. Too much booze, not enough love, sexual frustration and social prejudice cohere into a transformational moment during which Birch, as her character Rachel, appears to be somewhere else other than on stage. It is the pathetic monster lurking behind the Pamela Anderson inspired 'Valley girl'. It is a moment Birch should document and remember, particularly in relation to how she felt and what she imagined during the conjuring of her creation. Even so, Cortese's writing for the most part is an indirect phantasmagoria of the human capacity for patheticism. Given this, Birch may very well have found her inspiration residing amongst the chance encounters between characters unbalanced during this entertaining production of Roulette.

Roulette

Writer: Raimondo Cortese

Director: Darren Natale

Tech: Canada White

Performers: Louise Mercer,

Robert Fragnito, Kelly Hynes,

Nigel Jordan, Gabrielle Brennan,

Hannah Smith, Jane Pitt,

Victoria Morgan, Elisha Saporito &

Hayley Birch

Theatreworks, Nov 18 - 21, Melb.

participatory culture & the networked self

2009-11-02T09:52:00.004+11:00

By definition, the networked self is an entity that demands participation within cyberspace. Its defining characteristics are: the calculation of algorithms and their transformation into data: the modulation of data and its reshaping into media, and the reproduction of media into templates which are then distributed within an on-line environment. (Manovich, 36-44, 2001) Of course, algorithms alone are not the absolute essence of the networked self. As precursors to the formulation of data, these contingent mathematical equations can also be dissected to reveal their component parts. But this analysis occurs within the realm of computer-science, while this essay is concerned with the presence of the networked self in a cyberspace prejudiced by neo-liberal ideology. Apart from some notable exceptions such as the social software movement, media art, net activism and others, what should be a multiplicitous manifestation of the human-computer interface is generally uninspired. It is the purpose of this essay to show how a fully realised networked self can transcend its current unimaginative status and participate in a free cyberspace.

If an algorithm is a contingent mathematical equation, one that requires calculation before it can become data capable of being read by computer hardware, then it is also a text upon which the networked self is written. Here, the term ‘Text’ is considered within its broadest possible definition: from e-books comprised of words and letters consisting of data constructed from HTML code, through to a ‘Written’ mode of behaviour and its genetic imprint upon a brain. (Tofts, 15-31, 1997) It is here in this textual space that neo-liberal interpretations of the networked self occur.

Any information stream is a result of previously contingent algorithmic calculations, and data underscores software comprising modulations of media. So for example, if the e-book is to shed its mimetic status and become an integrated, self-reflexive environment, (one that includes real time updates of information and is programmed to reflect the values of its users and their communities), then before the data is formulated the algorithmic calculations themselves must be rewritten so as to create a libertarian text; one in direct opposition to the current neo-liberal ideology that permeates the e-book and other simulations of the networked self. (www.philobiblon.com/drucker/) At this fundamental level neo-liberalism and its concurrent structures of unreasonable copyright control and corporate domination must be hacked and re-imagined. Anything less remains a pleasant and best intentioned diversion.

Reconfiguring algorithmic calculations within a libertarian framework allows for the creation of data then capable of modulation into imaginative forms of media. The underlying values of neo-liberalism, such as those that find expression in Disney’s demand for long term copyright, are replaced by a cooperative approach to ownership. Rather than a claim to copyright that spans generations which, in Disney's case, was a claim on material such as fairytales that never belonged to Disney in the first place, the networked self is liberated from the trite constraints of rigid ownership by the principle of 'Fair use'. (www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJn_jC4FNDo) Neo-liberal values emphasising the accumulation of capital and the use of such capital to undertake monumental court challenges in order to protect the apparent integrity of media such as the Barbie Doll, are replaced by a networked self broadly characterised by free expression. (freeculture.org/blog) This libertarian framework in turn finds expression in modulations of media that are horizontal in trajectory, participatory in spirit, and contingent upon a user’s desire to approach the use of such media in explorative and multiplicitous ways. A critical characteristic of this re-imagined networked self is contingency; or in the case of Gordon Bell’s egocentric desire to electronically archive his entire life experience, defining the networked self allows for the possibility of mistakes. As a self in the process of being shaped, as opposed to one beset by rigid categories of myth, mathematics, history etc.,(Benedikt, 1-25, 1993) Bell’s charming desire for perfect memory gathered sophistication when he discovered the software he was using was configured in such a way that it prevented him from remembering where information had been stored. In response, his fellow Microsoft researchers developed Facetbook. As software comprised of conceptual blobs that were hypertextually linked, not by specific memories, but by significant events such as a federal election, Facetbook emphasised the Proustean pleasure involved in remembering, not remembering by rote. (www.collisiondetection.net) As a contingent interface in constant evolution, Facetbook is a modulation of media that is a pertinent example of the libertarian networked self.

With data shaped into modulations of media that are underscored by values of liberty rather than neo-liberalism, cyberspace becomes the arena within which these libertarian templates are distributed. Facetbook is an unusual example of a media template that challenged neo-liberal ideology because it was the product of a global corporation. Even so, Microsoft would be unlikely to indulge in the software’s distribution as a free download. Consequently, libertarian media modules such as Facetbook are ‘Pipped at the post’. That is, as reconfigured algorithms comprising data shaped into a template that augments electronic memory, it is nevertheless a consumer item that must be bought and sold. Touted as libertarian software, Facetbook remains explicitly controlled by an exchange of capital. This commodification of the networked self, or what begins life as a libertarian media module but is then reduced to an item for consumption, is a cogent expression of the paradox of user control. The user is liberated by imaginative software, but as an aid to electronic memory, Facetbook is reproduced within a framework of commodification. As a form of soft domination, this simulation of the uncanny faculty of human memory is then reduced to the status of an item to be consumed from a supermarket shelf. (hypertext.rmit.edu.au/dac/papers.Palmer.pdf)

The corporate domination of cyberspace means that users who desire a libertarian networked self must accept that this desire is subject to the whim of market forces. The algorithms that comprise data may be reconfigured at their fundamental level, the data that shapes modulations of media into software that liberates the user is currently available, but the arena within which this liberated networked self resides is controlled by personalities and principles that regard free association between consenting individuals as a subversive act that must be severely punished. Greed and cynicism find legitimate expression within a corporate-legal system that is propped up by its litigants. The music industry, its vendetta against P2P file sharing and subsequent prosecution of individual users, could not have occurred without the support of a legal system within which the wealth wielded by amoral corporate conglomerates was in direct relation to the successful outcome of litigation. The Open Source Movement and its successful defense of the Barbie in a Blender case is one example of a triumph of common sense over corporate dominance. On balance though, this success does not amount to much when compared to the fact that individuals can still be sued for millions of dollars for downloading music via a P2P file sharing service. Further to this, Communications theory itself forms part of a universal system of thought founded on Modernist ideology which, as we know, is an underlying tenet of Capitalism. Marxist critique in particular is an integral component of the same system it seeks to undermine and therefore, a way of thinking about Communications that, the more successful Marxist critique is, the more it contributes to its own demise. (conjourney.learnerblogs.org/) For those who desire a networked self able to participate in a free cyberspace, the principle of 'Contingency’ requires further elaboration.

Uncertainty, or a world in exponential flux due to rapid technological change and its effect on cultural, social, political and economic institutions, means that the pre-determined ideology underpinning a universal system of thought is an obsolete framework for thinking about network culture. As Bradbury illustrates in his story ‘The Veldt’ the evolution of new methodologies for considering cyberspace is also the end of outdated points of view. (Wark, 154-165, 2003) Consequently, the ideological framework for considering distribution of the networked self in a cyberspace characterised by corporate control, must shift as well.

Central to a reconsideration of the corporate domination of cyberspace is the customisation of media. By selling to consumers an excessive number of templates capable of distributing the networked self, the Corporate Commandants of cyberspace have perfected a dangerous confidence trick. Youtube, myspace and facebook, (not Facetbook... ), are templates of the networked self designed to personalise media for the purpose of increasing profits. As templates that stroke the ego rather than spark the intellect, these and other forms of reproducible media deceive users into believing that cyberspace is an arena for narcissistic expression. Central to this confidence trick is the illusion that each user must express him or herself on line and by doing so, remain connected with an infinite parade of friends and lovers, acquaintances and business associates, predators and porn kings; a desire that results in user idolisation of an on-line environment. History shows us that an excess of choice can also be a precursor to the dissolution of democratic institutions. The rise of false idols who themselves are often narcissistic reflections of the population each purports to represent, has also been a determining feature of progression toward a fascist state.

As a recent misleading advertisement for Telstra mobile technology would have us believe, being a middle aged woman on a lonely train approached by an anonymous youth wanting to use your phone, is an opportunity for sharing the benefits of technology; rather than the more likely scenario of heightening our sense of social isolation. This tendency toward deceiving users for the purpose of increasing cash flow is not limited to television. An on-line media template that allows for the proliferation of corporate advertising is just one of many media modules that produces an illusion of liveness. It is then surprising to note that on balance, cyberspace contains less live content than the average televised environment. What’s more, it is the sensation that accompanies moving through an on-line environment - not live content - that enhances a user's experience. Surfing, or the illusion of mobility that characterises user participation remains little more than titillation if the content each user apparently moves through is a stale proliferation of corporate propaganda. (McPherson, 199-208, 2006) Even so, it is worth remembering that the corporate domination of cyberspace, or the distribution on-line of media templates that amount to a predetermined and prejudiced, if not deceptive and dishonest simulation of the networked self, are themselves templates which are active within a contingent on-line environment. Unlike other media such as television, cyberspace remains an arena that is yet to be completely tyrannised by market forces.

As contingent mathematical equations that are precursors to the formulation of data, the networked self can be re-written so as to produce media with two important characteristics. 1. The media should consciously undermine neo-liberal ideology and allow for libertarian forms of user participation within cyberspace. 2. The media should shape cyberspace so that it corrects the current imbalance caused by corporate domination. P2P file sharing is an important example of this 'Cooperative media'. As media that eliminates the principle of buy and sell by replacing this with the free exchange of content, it allows for the expression of a libertarian networked self. Incorrectly categorised as ‘Piracy’, it is worth remembering that the values implicit within cooperative media are life affirming, and in direct opposition to greed, stealth, authoritarianism and other forms of extreme individualism that in practice, always pre-suppose a neo-liberal point of view. Cooperation, consensus, collaboration, and most importantly, the creation of like minded communities comprised of individuals who are fed up with the constant intrusion of the corporation into every aspect of their lives... These are the values that the libertarian networked self aspires toward; values implicit in a cyberspace yet to be shaped within a culture that is one of participation, rather than the current, exclusive cult(ure) of the corporate individual.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Manovich, L., The Language of New Media: MIT Press, 2001, pp 36-44.

Tofts, D., ‘The Technology Within’, from Tofts, D & Mckeich, M., Memory Trade: A Prehistory of Cyberculture: 21C Books, Interface, 1997, pp 15-31.

Drucker, J., ‘The Virtual Codex from Page to E-space’, In Siemens, R. & Schreibman, S (eds), A Companion to Digital Literary Studies, Oxford, Blackwell, 2007. www.philobiblon.com/drucker/

Faden, E., A Fair(y) Use Tale (Video), Media Education Foundation, 2006, www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJn_jC4FNDo

Pavlosky, N., ‘Barbie in a Blender - A celebration of free speech and fair use’. freeculture.org/blog/2004/07/12/barbie-in-a-blender-a-celebration-of-free-speech-and-fair-use/

Benedikt, M., ‘Introduction’ from Cyberspace: First Steps, ed. Michael Benedikt, Cambridge, MA., MIT Press, 1993, pp. 1-25

Thompson, C., ‘The Man with Perfect Memory’, from Fast Company, www.collisiondetection.net/mt/archives/2006/12/a_head_for_deta.html

Palmer, D., ‘The Paradox of User Control’ - Paper presented at MelbourneDAC, 5th International Digital Arts & Culture Conference, May 19 - 23, 2003. hypertext.rmit.edu.au/dac/papers.Palmer.pdf

Reck, T., Dreaming Global New Media: conjourney.learnerblogs.org/ (2007)

Wark, M., ‘Too Real’, from Prefiguring Cyberculture: An Intellectual History, Darren Tofts, Annemarie Johnson & Alessio Cavallaro (eds.), Power Publications & MIT Press, Syd./ MA., 2003.

McPherson, T., ‘Reload: Liveness, Mobility and the Web’, from New Media, Old Media: A History and Theory Reader, Chun, W & Kennan, T., Routledge, New York. 2006, pp. 199-208.

constellation western arthur

2009-11-02T09:47:00.015+11:00

click photo for enlargement

Facade firm

We emerged from the scrub at 6.00 pm and stepped onto the edge of Arthur Plains. The persistent daylight accentuated the sheer northeastern face of the Western Arthur Range. Dave and I glanced at one another, but not a word was spoken. One week earlier while still in Victoria, my initial suggestion of attempting this dangerous bushwalk had been a source of inspiration. But from our first night’s campsite at Junction Creek, the actual task of walking this intimidating mountain range instilled butterflies in our stomachs. Unlike the Victorian mainland, the Western Arthur Range consists of genuine mountain peaks, precipitous cirque walls and glacial lakes sculpted by 25,000 years of prehistoric ice. So what had been consistently referred to by others as an ‘Airy’ bushwalk, now resembled a mountain-climb. Confronted by the insurmountable facade of the colossal Western Arthurs, it seemed as if Dave and I were about to enter the heart of some impenetrable darkness.

But quoting 19th century literary works by Joseph Conrad can result in an uncharacteristic gloomy outlook. So next morning, after Dave and I had arrived at the foot of Alpha Moraine, we joked and laughed with two Dutchmen who themselves were about to undertake the long climb toward the summit of Mt Hesperus.

Twenty five years younger and jumping out of their skin, the Dutchmen were a reminder that fresh legs are a distinct advantage when attempting such a steep climb. While Dave and I refreshed ourselves with much needed water from the head of Junction Creek, we watched as the two Dutchmen first disappeared, then reappeared above the tree tops as they darted up the northwestern crest of Alpha Moraine.

What we would have given to once again be twenty years of age. But those days had passed us by in the same way as we were now falling behind the Dutchmen, as they quickly became specks of carkee fast approaching the summit of Hesperus. So we hoisted our packs onto our shoulders and began what we anticipated would be a middle-aged plod up Alpha Moraine.

Half way up we came across the Dutchmen sitting on an outcrop of rock. They had lost a water bottle, and were about to head back down Alpha Moraine in an attempt at finding it. We quickly ascertained whether all was well and offered water and other forms of assistance, which were politely declined. Then feeling young and sprightly ourselves we completed the ascent toward Hesperus with consummate ease. (One consequence of treading similar paths in the Victorian High Country during the past twenty five years).

Our bodies were weary by the time we reached the summit, but we were also full of beans. Unexpectedly, the northeasterly facade of the Western Arthur Range now unfolded southwest across a broad plateau. As the first of thirty two glacial lakes peered above the shoulder of the ridge preceding Capella Crags, Lake Fortuna provided a seductive glimpse of what would soon become a constellation of new experience amidst unprecedented mountain stars.

Mountains in the sky

We lunched in a broad saddle southeast of the summit of Hesperus. While trying to ascertain the identity of a large body of water some distance to the south, the Dutchmen materialised, enquiring whether Dave and I were equipped with a length of rope.

They had conversed with a sombre yet relieved looking party who were travelling in the opposite direction, and nearing the end of their traverse. The party had informed the Dutchmen of the difficulties to come, and the once confident demeanor of the lads from Amsterdam was replaced by an obvious anxiety. Without a rope, and thereby unable to pack-haul at Mt. Pegasus and beyond, their traverse would become less an ‘Airy’ bushwalk and more a sequence of potentially dangerous scrambles over steep faces of rock.

Dave and I were only too willing to share our pack-hauling rope. But as for forming an alliance with a party unprepared, well, we had our own pre-conceived plan that would require adherence if we ourselves were to complete a traverse of the Western Arthurs. While the Dutchmen wandered around the saddle trying to locate a spot for lunch, we packed up, bid them farewell, and began our ascent toward Mt Hayes and Procyon peak.

Rock, rock, and more rock: Hayes and Procyon were two mountains negotiated within a profusion of frightening cirque walls, jagged peaks, and lakes Neptune and Cygnus appearing momentarily, before disappearing behind intersecting spines of stone descending into the valley of the Cairncross River.

Navigation was difficult; not because of a lack of skill in unspecified terrain, but because I often found my concentration wavering from a given navigational task. Instead of studying the map, I was looking up, around, and beyond myself in a vain attempt at comprehending the majesty of the monumental landscape opening up before us. After several blunders - mistakes I soon corrected for fear Dave might decide on mutiny - we arrived at our pre-determined campsite. Square Lake, a 300 metre diameter body of black water hidden beneath Procyon Peak, along with its 200 metre high cirque wall staring us directly in the face. All overseen by the setting sun’s luminous glow upon a monolith gouged smooth by glacial ice, we were rendered speechless.

While preparing our evening meal, and forever becoming distracted, the setting sun quietly disappeared. All that Dave and I could do was ponder this inhospitable canvas of inanimate quartzite: a cirque wall sculpted by nature across an incomprehensible expanse of time comprising hundreds of millions of years.

These unprecedented stars

Day three dawned beneath mist and low cloud, but as we rejoined the ridge southwest of Square Lake the rising sun revealed the track toward Mt Pegasus. We felt like we'd been transported into a parallel universe. Cirque walls separating Lakes Oberon and Uranus, Lakes Titania and Ariel, were reminiscent of the fins of ancient sailfish slicing through the cloud beyond Mt Capricorn toward our intended campsite at High Moor.

The profusion of high mountain peaks, their ridges descending into hollow bowls of rock containing brooding, tea coloured water, was mesmeric; particularly so when pack-hauling over Pegasus, or descending an improbable and vertically inclined gully while struggling to secure our feet within footholes kicked into the southwestern flank of Mt Capricorn. Yes, these stars belonging to this constellation were unprecedented in our experience. Dave and I had to work hard to sustain our concentration as the technical demands of securing hands and feet, pack-hauling, and generally keeping an eye on one another were eventually dealt with. We then climbed past Lake Ariel to greet a vicious southwesterly wind terrorising the stunted vegetation beneath the summit of Mt Columba, directly above High Moor.

Staring east over the edge of the plateau one hundred metres down to its lower, sheltered companion, we saw that the platform camps erected by Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife were full of tents. So we pitched our tent behind a rocky outcrop and successfully escaped that nasty southwesterly wind.

As the evening progressed and the sun began its descent toward a murky horizon, the wind died and their came into view on the horizon a distant band of grey. Uniform, and appearing to fuse with the sky, it was proceeded by the appearance of what might have been islands punctuated by inward thrusts of water. Dave and I eventually realised this could only be one geographical feature. Without realising it, the mysterious body of water we had been staring at since climbing Mt Hesperus two days earlier, was Bathurst Harbour. As the red sun inched beneath the skyline, islands became defined as those hovering off the southwest coast of Tasmania. The Southern Ocean, now sharp and outlined, hovered beneath a sunset that to our surprise, lingered like no other previously experienced.

Pondering the close proximity of Antarctica, I checked my watch. At ten minutes before 10.00 pm Dave and I were in a cavalier mood as daylight defied darkness. It was the farthest point south either of us had ever experienced. Dave, who had ridden his bicycle to the tip of Cape York, vowed to one day trace the southwest track to Port Davey and connect in his imagination the northern and southern tips of the continent.

I sat with my back against a rock, marvelling at the mountains of the southwest as they cascaded toward the sea. Where the Southern Ocean met the horizon, rose through daylight into a cobalt blue sky and became entwined with a single evening star, my reflections upon the natural world became transcendental.

Over the past three days southwest Tasmania’s notorious reputation for foul weather had thankfully remained unfulfilled. But even though The Roaring Forties had not materialised, there had always been an expectation of rain. With the complex traverse through the Beggary Bumps waiting for us at the southern edge of High Moor, day four descended upon our tent in a blanket of sleet and claustrophobic cloud.

I was up and eager to tackle the Beggary Bumps, but Dave thought better and suggested a rest day. The now persistent ache in both my knees concurred and we quickly packed up then scrambled down to the lower moor and the relative shelter of a less exposed tent platform.

Unlike ourselves, each party camped there the night before had continued their traverse of the Western Arthurs and disappeared into the mist. With High Moor campsite completely abandoned, Dave grappled with the difficulties associated with pitching a tent upon a wooden platform. Once the tent was up and we’d had a cup of tea, I immediately crawled into my sleeping bag. Several hours later, when I woke at 3.00 pm to the sound of unfamiliar and agitated voices, I elected to remain in my tent and eavesdrop upon the latest arrival at High Moor.

Like Dave and I, Phil and Rob were brothers, and from Victoria. After introducing ourselves, the cloud lifted revealing a pleasant afternoon, and all four of us relaxed among the white quartzite accumulating in a bluff above the northern edge of High Moor. In doing so, Dave and I gazed backwards toward the sequence of cirque walls separating Square Lake, Lakes Oberon and Uranus. It seemed entirely appropriate that Rob and Phil, who were travelling in the opposite direction, were similarly looking forward toward the same amalgamation of rock that we had just traversed.

They could only anticipate the adventure to come in the same way as we could only guess what waited for us beyond the Beggary Bumps. It was one of the more unusual experiences I’d had during 25 years of bushwalking. Two sets of brothers, each travelling in opposite directions, intersecting one another upon a mountain range named after planets and constellations within the earth’s solar system.

I do appreciate that the existence or otherwise of a so-called parallel universe is a speculative concept often overlooked by the bushwalking fraternity. (Discussions usually concentrate upon navigation difficulties, gear selection, the weather and other earth-bound topics). But if ever one set of brothers was to meet its double, each set seeing their own relationship reflected in the other, it was perhaps fateful that this meeting occurred during a bushwalk among unprecedented mountain stars comprising constellation Western Arthur.

Next morning, Day five, Rob and Phil dematerialised early, transported along the track to Oberon on the final leg of their journey. Immediately, we were in the labyrinth; winding our way along the twisting path circumnavigating the Beggary Bumps.

Misplaced for thirty minutes, we rightly decided not to leap three metres of a small bluff to the track below, for fear of breaking an ankle. Even so, the Beggary Bumps did not prove as difficult to negotiate as their reputation had suggested. Once complete, this difficult section of the Western Arthur Range would be over and we could look forward to easier walking. (Or so we’d been informed...). So after scaling the fins of The Dragon via the northeast, then being raided by a horde of march flies responding to a drop in altitude and a temperature increase, we soon arrived at the southern end of Haven Lake to be greeted by thousands of plump, black tadpoles congregating for safety right on the shoreline. I cooled my feet in the painfully cold water and the tadpoles skipped forward toward the centre of the lake. Our arrival at Haven Lake was a release from five days of the most thrilling bushwalking I had ever experienced.

Little lucifer

At many points during our traverse of the Western Arthur Range, we had placed our complete trust in overhanging tree roots and other foot and handholds. After a pleasant morning tea beside tiny Lake Sirona, then a quick ascent of Mt Scorpio, we left the Kappa moraine track and traversed west along the flank of Scorpio toward Lake Vesta. Finally, one of those many trusted tree roots snapped, and gave way.

Descending a steep gully, Dave was right behind me. His exclamation of shock was a natural response to watching someone plummet four metres with a heavy pack attached to their back. Fortuitously though, I had bounced down the gully on the bottom of my pack, coming to rest beside some Ti-tree.

Of course, I could have broken a leg... But didn’t, and after a hot, irritating walk around the northeast edge of Promontory Lake, we arrived at our campsite. The rise in temperature that accompanied our presence on the northeastern side of the range brought with it swarms of march flies. But it also warmed the waters of the lake. After a seductive swim we spent the afternoon first cleaning, then repairing our boots with Araldite; as the rubber was now separating from the mid-sole due to the stress imposed upon our boots over the last six days.

Day seven, and we embarked upon the final section of our traverse. Quite chuffed with our progress, we had been led to believe that this last section of the walk - from Promontory Lake to Lake Roseanne via West Portal Junction and Lucifer Ridge - was not as rugged and therefore easier than the previous stretch. But as we struggled through scrub toward the summit of The Phoenix, (immediately above Promontory Lake), we realised there was no such thing as an ‘Easy day’ when walking the Western Arthur Range.

I was stuffed by the time we reached the West Portal junction. Climbing The Phoenix and scaling Centaurus Ridge had saturated my clothes with perspiration, and I was hoping for an easy trip over the Crags of Andromeda and a skip down Lucifer Ridge. Still hoping I’m afraid... Learning the hard way, we soon discovered that Tasmania’s ridges and crags are at very least the equivalent of Victoria’s highest mountain peaks. Dave seemed to be coping with the physical duress better than myself, but when we lost the track just prior to the head of Lucifer Ridge and careered into impenetrable scrub, both of us switched to autopilot underpinned by an instinct for survival cultivated scaling cliff faces during our idiot teenage years.

Crashing through scrub along the sharp edge of Lucifer Ridge, Dave was twenty metres ahead when I felt a vague thump against my left calf. Desperate to rid myself of the corrosive mess we had descended into, I barely gave the thump a second thought. A minute later, when my calf muscle began to ache, I dropped my pack, rolled up my trouser leg and checked the muscle for its mysterious source of pain. When Dave asked if the two puncture marks just below the knee had swollen like a mosquito bite, I reluctantly agreed.

High up on the scrub choked rocky spine of Lucifer Ridge, daylight was fading fast. Of course, we should have sighted Lake Roseanne some thirty minutes earlier, but its presence continued to evade us. Furthermore, what was increasingly presenting itself as a case of snake bite, placed us in a precarious position.

We should have bandaged the leg immediately; the sensible course of action. Instead, frustrated, exhausted, and hoping against a rising sense of fear, as two middle-aged men enacting their idiot teenage years we just sat there for fifteen minutes.

After a prolonged silence Dave asked me whether I felt okay. I did, and in our own foolhardy way we both experienced much relief when, upon scaling one last rocky peak, the gentle complexion of Lake Roseanne appeared beneath a ridge line, along with the welcome sight of a track carved into the landscape and ending at the lake's sandy shore.

I became dizzy during our descent to the lake. Whether this was due to exhaustion or poison remained unclear. But after stumbling into the campsite at Lake Roseanne, resting for fifteen minutes and having a cup of soup, my heart rate still clocked one hundred and twenty beats per minute. Shutting the gate after the horse had well and truly bolted, I bandaged the leg, inclined face up on a sleeping mat, and waited for nightfall.

Next morning, a moody contusion surrounded the two puncture marks in my calf, but that was all. Perhaps the snake had chosen not to inject its venom. (Dave pointed out the frequency with which snakes deliver warning bites). Either way, with medical assistance several days if not a week away, I had been very lucky to escape the sting quietly hidden in one last flick of Lucifer’s tail

Returning to earth

Day eight began with Dave and I in a jubilant mood. Too quickly though, the Western Arthur Range became a jutting outline of monolithic rock disappearing behind us. The boardwalk across the southeastern perimeter of Arthur Plains had a specific purpose; preventing the spread of phytophthora or root rot, a degenerative plant disease. But the boardwalk also enabled us to pick up our walking pace. Swiftly, we arrived at Cracroft River, a short distance west of the Huon Track. Equally as fast, we were attacked by a marauding band of southwest Tasmanian march flies. A relentless and ferocious feeding frenzy, the all-consuming flies compelled us to seek relief in the quiet waters of the Cracroft.

Dave went for a walk, and when he returned reported back that he’d been confronted by a naked man kneeling beside the river attempting to tickle the bellies of trout. Whether real or imagined, the appearance of 'Naked man' became a running joke as we attempted to laugh-off the presence of those unbearable march flies. Civilisation was gradually encroaching upon what had been a monumental wilderness experience. With our traverse of the Western Arthurs almost complete, all that remained was a twenty five km slog northwest across Arthur Plains, a return to our bicycles stashed at Scotts Peak Dam, a three day ride to Hobart, a soft bed, real coffee, a nice meal, and time and space to reflect upon, and begin to articulate, our primeval experience of ten days amongst the prehistoric lakes and peaks of southwest Tasmania’s Western Arthur Range. But first, we had to escape those damned march flies.

Ground control

Next morning, day nine, our second last day on the track, saw us back walking on the boardwalk before veering west across The Razorback and once again, onto Arthur Plains. Mt Hesperus loomed to the northwest, and continued to loom, and loomed further still... Hesperus loomed for so long it began to take on the presence of a mirage. The more ground we gained, the further Hesperus regressed into the southwest Tasmanian wilderness. Sometime after 5.00 pm., hot and tired, we arrived at Junction Creek, back where we had started the walk nine days earlier, to be greeted by a violent electrical storm. (Days later, we would discover that the same electrical storm had started a sequence of successive bushfires and that other walkers would have to be rescued by helicopter).

Once the storm had passed, a spotted quoll with a wet, pink nose sniffed its way into our camp, before disappearing back into the scrub. The appearance of the quoll and the gentle note it struck seemed to be the perfect end to our traverse, but Dave and I were unsatisfied. So once again returning to the edge of Arthur Plains and standing in the same spot as we had done so nine days earlier, we hovered silently above the buttongrass while staring upward at the grand facade of the Western Arthur Range.

Nine days earlier, we had been apprehensive over the demands of a task we were yet to undertake. Nine days later, our traverse had been successfully completed. Yet we were not enraptured by a sense of conquest. Quite the contrary, for it was as if we had become entwined with a new lover.

In coming to know the Western Arthurs, we now understood a fraction more about the mystery of ourselves. We believed we could see beyond its impenetrable facade, and along its profusion of peaks and ridges leading south toward Bathurst Harbour and emptying into the Southern Ocean. In doing so, we also saw beyond our insignificant selves into the mysteries of the natural world residing within a spectacular mountain wilderness. Middle-aged, and sometimes regretful of our idiot teenage years, the experience derived from walking the Western Arthur Range is one of the great rewards of bushwalking. As photographer Peter Dombrovskis, who died of a heart attack near Mt Hayes in March 1996 once said: “When you go there you don’t get away from it all, you get back to it all. You come home to what’s important. You come home to yourself”.