Strictly Ballroom the Musical

Lyric Theatre, Sydney, April 12

YOU know that climactic moment in Strictly Ballroom – the one where National Australian Federation of Dance president Barry Fife has the plug pulled at the Pan Pacifics on Scott and Fran’s music and their illegal steps, and then there’s the sound of one person clapping to get the rhythm going? And then everyone starts clapping, and Scott and Fran soar?

Of course you do. As does the audience for Strictly Ballroom the Musical.

Thomas Lacey and Phoebe Panaretos in Strictly Ballroom the Musical. Photo Jeff Busby

Thomas Lacey and Phoebe Panaretos in Strictly Ballroom the Musical. Photo Jeff Busby

According to the script of both film and musical, downtrodden Doug Hastings, Scott’s father and a closet dancesport renegade, finally asserts himself and supports his son’s rebellion against the petty tyranny of the competitive ballroom dancing hierarchy. At Friday night’s final preview the audience joined in after only two handclaps from Drew Forsythe’s Doug; at Saturday’s opening of Baz Luhrmann’s crowd-pleasing but deeply uneven extravaganza they didn’t even wait for that.

Uncued, except by their familiarity with the film, 2000 people put their hands together. Thunderously. Audience and show had became one.

In this respect Luhrmann’s translation of his justly loved 1992 film to the stage is a success. (More precisely this is a return to the stage, as the piece was born in 1984 as a theatrical work.) Luhrmann gives people what they expect and want, which is essentially the film’s structure, imagery, dialogue and songs with added musical numbers. There is, however, a considerable downside to this trip down memory lane. The bracing grotesquerie of the film too frequently hardens here into shrill cartooning and the new music, from a variety of hands, is mostly inconsequential at best, banal at worst and inconsistently applied. Why does Shirley Hastings sing while she’s putting a Band-Aid on Fran’s knee? Search me.

The balance is out of whack, giving Strictly Ballroom the Musical a loose feel when it should be as taut as the buns of steel so liberally on display. Let’s put it this way. By the time we’ve reached interval the show is already as long as the film is in its entirety. Along the way the show’s original impulses are trampled on. The themes of being true to oneself, resisting heavy-handed authority and seeing beyond the superficial to what is truly valuable struggle to compete with the noise.

Exhibit A is the scene at Fran’s modest suburban home in which Scott learns what the paso doble really is. It starts so well as the absolutely splendid Natalie Gamsu and Fernando Mira as Fran’s grandmother and father embody an earthy vigour that shows up the empty glitz of the ballroom world. And then one realises with mounting horror that the Habanera from Bizet’s Carmen has been co-opted for an instant dash of Spain, given a soupy arrangement and, when one could hear a phrase or two escape from the murk, lyrics that are puerile and redundant.

Presumably this seemed a fabulous idea at the time but it sure doesn’t feel like it now. This is surprising because, like it or not, Luhrmann’s is an art of sensation and instinct rather than intellect. Catherine Martin’s designs are absolutely crucial in this, and here she revels in sets that advance, retreat and circle and delivers costumes in eye-poppingly artificial liquorice allsorts colours. The lithe, leggy ladies of the indefatigable ensemble are dressed either in clouds of tulle or in scarcely enough sequins to cover a pincushion; gents are encased in iridescent onesies with the snug fit of condoms. Divine. In a nod to Luhrmann’s description of this style of theatre, there are red curtains within red curtains.

One of Catherine Martin's sets for StrictlyBallroom the Musical. Photo: Jeff Busby

One of Catherine Martin’s sets for StrictlyBallroom the Musical. Photo: Jeff Busby

It takes experience to prevail over such sense-saturation. Wonderful Heather Mitchell heroically finds some nuance in Scott’s termagant mum Shirley and Robert Grubb’s tyrant Barry Fife is highly enjoyable. Andrew Cook as Scott’s friend Wayne is a standout in the younger set.

The honey-voiced Phoebe Panaretos is just lovely as Fran and will be lovelier if she drops the early daggy-girl schtick. Thomas Lacey has the show’s most difficult assignment in playing Scott and is at present a little under-equipped. He fields a light voice, a sweet personality and slightly reticent dance demeanour but may well blossom when more battle-hardened. His Act I dance number (choreography by John O’Connell) doesn’t thrill as it should and nor does the finale for Scott and Fran.

Scott’s Act I dance is a good example of the way in which Strictly Ballroom the Musical falters in the transition to the musical theatre form. This solo’s function is to convey the depth of the young man’s frustrations and ambitions. Choreographically it is uninteresting, with an over-reliance on barrel turns, but it is also staged in a perfunctory and frankly second-hand manner. Screens are wheeled in that at first obscure Scott, not necessarily the greatest idea. But wait, they are mirrors in which we are surely to see Scott multiplied and exalted. That idea is well known from The Music and the Mirror from A Chorus Line, which is Cassie’s expression of her frustrations and ambitions, but here the mirrors hardly have a chance to register before they are gone. Bewildering.

There are other examples of sketchy or lumpy shaping that would suggest nowhere near enough time has been spent on the show’s construction. The erratic use of the music – and its quality – also suggests that. A reading of the fine print at the back of the program reveals Lurhmann getting credits as composer and lyricist as well as co-writer and director. Who knew he also wrote music? Alarm bells ring at the thought of so many hats on the one head. Who is there to tell Luhrmann that lyrics he co-authored, such as those for When You’re Strictly Ballroom (to Strauss’s Blue Danube) and A Life Lived in Fear (to Bizet), or the music he co-wrote are far from being top drawer?

Not surprisingly I was somewhat reminded of King Kong, also produced by Global Creatures. It too featured a variable mash-up score and an uncertain structure. Despite CEO Carmen Pavlovic stoutly saying the producers were happy with it and there would be few changes, I understand King Kong is being significantly reworked. Certainly the postponement of its announced November Broadway opening would seem to back up what one hears.

If Strictly Ballroom the Musical has Broadway ambitions, which it undoubtedly does, it will also need substantial work, particularly as American audiences are most unlikely to have the passion for Luhrmann’s film that patrons here have. (James L. Nederlander, from the Broadway theatre-owning and producing family, is one of a number of overseas investors in the show.)

But even if people do know the film intimately, it is now more than 20 years old and being presented in a medium that has its own special attributes and needs. Luhrmann hasn’t taken the imaginative leaps one might have expected from him. He has made safe, predictable choices.

A version of this review appeared in The Australian on April 14.

Macbeth and Cock in Brisbane

Macbeth, Queensland Theatre Company, The Playhouse, Brisbane, April 9. Cock, Melbourne Theatre Company and La Boite, The Roundhouse Theatre, Brisbane, April 9.

QUEENSLAND Theatre Company’s Macbeth isn’t set in a boardroom, or in Nazi Germany, or in the fiefdom of the Klingons. The unchanging set (Simone Romaniuk, who also designed the costumes) is a thicket of gnarled trees, Birnham Wood having already come to Dunsinane as Macbeth plays out his doomed tilt at a glory he hubristically hopes will last for generations. The men are dressed in simple battle attire, are always dirty and often bloodied. The witches are wild-haired, mud-caked creatures who slither out of the mire. Composer and sound designer Phil Slade’s opening volley of doom-laden thunder and David Walters’s shots of lightning support the louring stage picture. This is a dark and forbidding place for dark deeds.

Jason Klarwein and Veronica Neave in Macbeth. Photo: Rob Maccoll

Jason Klarwein and Veronica Neave in Macbeth. Photo: Rob Maccoll

QTC engaged Michael Attenborough, former artistic director of London’s Almeida Theatre, to direct the Scottish play and he does so with a very straight bat indeed. His Macbeth is reverent, respectful and ultra clear in the delivery of its language. No one could leave the theatre thinking Shakespeare is hard work. These are not qualities to be derided, to be sure, but they do render this Macbeth too tame and earnest. The whiff of a production suitable for high school students hangs over it.

Attenborough has a long pedigree when it comes to Shakespeare, having, among his many other eminent positions, been principal associate director of the Royal Shakespeare Company from 1990 to 2002. His Brisbane cast doesn’t lack Shakespeare credentials, but perhaps Attenborough felt those credentials were insufficiently deep. Whatever the reason, the excitement engendered by the sound and light show that introduces the play is swiftly damped down as soon as the actors begin to speak. Attenborough has them deliver the text deliberately and carefully, almost as if they were still in the rehearsal phase, teasing out exactly what each phrase means.

This makes for the utmost legibility, but at the expense of dramatic tension, individual character and intensity of feeling. What is really driving each character, how they feel, what is at stake emotionally and politically, is apprehended intellectually rather than viscerally. The savagery of this society, riven by civil war and prey to the influence of spirits and auguries, is made really quite polite. This is so even in the case of the semi-clad witches, who hiss and writhe theatrically but are over-choreographed (by Nerida Matthaei). They mostly look contrived, although it’s a nice touch to have them as hooded attendants at Macbeth’s feast where they accompany Banquo’s ghost.

In such an environment Jason Klarwein’s Macbeth has many separate moments of value but they don’t add up to a tightly woven portrait of raging, flailing ambition fatally undermined by a susceptibility to portents. Veronica Neave’s Lady Macbeth is perhaps more of a piece but is too coolly efficient – a terrifically organised headmistress type who isn’t about to reveal much about herself. Thus there is little sexual spark in the Macbeth ménage and her breakdown has a guarded quality. One was a little surprised that she would kill herself.

The highly experienced Eugene Gilfedder seemed the most at ease at the matinee performance I saw. Playing a trio of small roles – Duncan, Old Man, the Doctor – he effortlessly differentiated between them and his delivery of the text was the most naturally achieved.

Macbeth was a venture between QTC and Brisbane company Grin and Tonic Theatre Troupe, which enabled it to put a larger than usual cast on stage, and the state government’s Super Star Fund supported Attenborough’s involvement. The result is a strong, clean, handsome production that has attracted big audiences and given them a very nice night’s entertainment.

NO one comes out of Cock particularly well. John (Tom Conroy) is a character described as giving the impression of being drawn with a pencil and is as wishy-washy as that suggests. M (Eamon Flack in the Brisbane season of this MTC/La Boite co-production; Angus Grant played the role in Melbourne) is the teensiest bit over-bearing and controlling. W (Sophie Ross) is the same, only more manipulative. M’s father, F (Tony Rickards), a late entrant into the action, rounds out an unlikely dinner party and uses the occasion to deliver a homily on sexual preference.

Those who come out of it least well, however, are director Leticia Caceres and designer Marg Horwell. Horwell’s soft-furnishings set made entirely of white cushions gives a clue: Cock is ultimately flaccid, or at least it is in this production.

Mike Bartlett’s compact play, written in 2009, is composed of a series of scenes in which John is deciding whether he wants to be with M, with whom he has lived for seven years, or W, who inducts him into heterosexual pleasures after John makes his first go at breaking away from M.

M treats John as a child, but W adores him and offers the prospect of children. What to do? John is a great vacillator and liar, but no matter. What he thinks – well, he doesn’t know what he thinks. Others are more than happy to do the thinking and acting for him. In this scenario F may be seen as a kind of referee, albeit one who loads the dice in favour of M. But he’s there to outline the rules as he sees them pertaining in this day and age.

M and F are acting out a battle of the sexes with a twist and John is the weapon that keeps changing hands. The exercise of power is M and F’s sport, and they are prepared to play very dirty. John’s situation is more fluid. He is in one sense putty in the hands of both M and F, twisting and turning between them. But he’s also the prize, and in that respect is the combatants’ Achilles heel.

The man with the pencil-drawn outline – no heavier than 2B one would suggest – is only a fragment of a character, as are the others. We hear of M’s career as a broker, W’s as a childcare assistant and F’s loneliness following the death of his wife, but these are little more than are labels enabling a couple of good quips or, in the case of F, a detail that obliquely bolsters his line of argument. We can’t see the information as part of the fabric of a complex character. Caceres seems to want more, however. You can feel the pull towards humanising the players – F’s slightly sad old-guy tracksuit, all the tumbling around on pillows, M’s air of domesticity – but it only dilutes the impact of the play.

Cock is, or can be, an act of provocation – cold, hard-edged, laugh-aloud funny and irritating. John is the empty vessel into which are poured ideas about sex, love, ownership, power and desire; M, W and F pour away. The irritant factor is important, and an unusual one in the theatre. The depiction of the feminine in the shape of W is intensely vexing. The out-of-left-field sermonising of F is awkward and frankly unbelievable in any realistic context. M is something of a cliche – the well-off guy who likes everything just so – and John is Mr Cellophane. But as the punches keep on coming and the ducking and weaving goes on, the ground shifts and the raygun of one’s irritation is continually redirected.

I freely admit to having been influenced in this view by seeing, in New York, James Macdonald’s sparer than spare, gladiatorial production. It was cold as ice and a bracingly savage dissection of sexual power play.

Macbeth ends April 13; Cock ends April 12.

Bernadette Peters in Concert

Theatre Royal, Sydney, April 2

“ISN’T it bliss? Don’t you approve?” These lyrics from Stephen Sondheim’s Send in the Clowns, from A Little Night Music, could not be more apposite when it comes to the Bernadette Peters effect: her concert is indeed bliss and yes, the audience approves to the point of adoration.

Bernadette Peters during her Sydney concert. Photo: Kurt Sneddon

Bernadette Peters during her Sydney concert. Photo: Kurt Sneddon

As for those question marks, there are none of any consequence. Let’s just say they are a lovely indication that despite her standing as Broadway royalty – and she looks it, with that form-fitting sparkly gown and riot of bronze curls – Peters exudes no sense of entitlement. She is warm, low-key and friendly, keeping the chat light and easy and letting the songs speak for themselves.

Most importantly, she knows exactly how to use that distinctive, sexily husky voice to best advantage. While still having a youthful cast it now sounds quite a delicate instrument, even fragile at times, but the payoff is a deeply intimate connection with the music. Peters makes choices that give fresh impetus to songs heard hundreds of times – and sung by her hundreds of times, when we’re talking about music from her Broadway shows.

Songs others might bring to a full-throated conclusion are crowned with a finely wrought thread of sound, tempos are sometimes contemplatively slow and she brings to the concert stage her skills as an actress, shaping phrases with scrupulous, insightful attention to meaning as well as form. And she never, ever over-sings. Peters’s taste is exemplary.

Sondheim’s work dominates the 90-minute concert, as it does so many concerts. But Peters sings this material by right, having had a long and close association with the composer and lyricist. In her most recent Broadway appearance (2011) Peters played Sally in Follies, from which she sings In Buddy’s Eyes and the sublime Losing My Mind. Into the Woods (Children Will Listen, No One is Alone), and songs from Anyone Can Whistle and Company are also on the set list.

Less expected are lovely interpretations of songs usually sung by men: Johanna from Sweeney Todd, Some Enchanted Evening from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s South Pacific, and Peter Allen’s If You Were Wondering, the last with adapted lyrics. Even more enchanting is Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Mister Snow from Carousel, a lilting, sweetly optimistic song from one of the greatest of all musicals.

Peters is accompanied by a mostly local 11-member band directed by a frequent colleague, the vastly experienced conductor and composer Marvin Laird. The Australian Stage Orchestra, as it is dubbed, got off to a very ordinary start on Wednesday, which may be why Peters’s opening number, Let Me Entertain You from Gypsy, was her weakest. There was also some unacceptable flubbing. The ensemble is an excellent one in theory and once things settled down it provided skilful backing. It appeared, however, to need more practice than it got before Peter’s first performance.

Gold Coast, tonight (April 5); Melbourne, Monday and Tuesday.

This review first appeared in The Australian on April 4.

Five plays

The Pride, Side Pony Productions, Bondi Pavilion Theatre, March 25; Fight Night, The Border Project/Ontroerend Goed, Wharf 2, Sydney Theatre Company, March 26 (matinee); The Night Larry Kramer Kissed Me, Lambert House Enterprises, Gingers at the Oxford Hotel, March 26; Clybourne Park, Ensemble Theatre, March 27 (matinee); Stitching, Little Spoon Theatre, TAP Gallery, March 27.

WHEN I was in fulltime employment I rarely went to a matinee and I saw shows almost exclusively at their opening performance. First nights are usually great fun, of course. The foyer is crowded with friends and acquaintances of the cast and crew and many in the audience know one another well. The best seats in the house are given over to critics, politicians and maybe a celebrity or two; there will be industry figures and perhaps a few representatives of sponsors; and many – sometimes all – in the house will not have paid for their tickets. I don’t want to call this an artificial situation because it is an accepted, regular part of the process of putting on a play, an opera, a ballet or whatever. But it is not representative of the rest of the season.

That standing ovation given to a musical may indeed turn out to have been for one night only, fuelled by the show’s producers and invited celebrities leaping immediately to their feet. The house that didn’t have a spare seat at the premiere may be far easier to access once word of mouth does its influential work. On the other hand, it’s sometimes possible to find much greater enthusiasm for a piece when it’s played for a general public audience than for a tough opening night crowd – the opera is a good example.

Whatever the result, I always find it rewarding to see a show during the run, to observe the make up of the audience, to listen to their comments and to gauge their reactions.

The cast of The Ensemble's Clybourne Park. Photo: Clare Hawley

The cast of The Ensemble’s Clybourne Park. Photo: Clare Hawley

This past week I saw five pieces of theatre, only one of which – Stitching – was having its opening night. It was therefore a good week in which to see paying customers in action. In Fight Night, the audience is literally seen in action because its attitudes help shape the show. It is a deliberately manipulative piece in which the audience is asked to vote for actors representing politicians in an election. Additionally, the audience is asked to give some information about age, income, and attitudes. I was at a matinee, so wasn’t entirely surprised to see that more than 85 per cent of my audience was aged 60 or older.

At Fight Night everyone is given an electronic pad that can register choices, although as is the case with most situations where one appears to have alternatives, there are strong limits to the number and nature of those offered. The actors make their pitches, we vote, they throw in a couple of not entirely democratic twists and turns, and we’re left with one person who is supposed to be the one most of us want. The result is actually deeply unsurprising.

The best bit at the performance I attended was near the end, when one of the actor/politicians persuades some audience members to opt out of this obviously skewed process by handing in their electronic pads and leaving the theatre. One man in this dissident group stomped out, throwing the word fascists at us as he departed. The actor representing the last politician in the race commented that this man hadn’t understood the play, but I thought that unfair. Fight Night only works if the audience pretty much agrees to be manipulated, so I thought it a bit thick to knock someone for having been taken in to the degree that he actually felt something important was really at stake.

If you want to see important things at stake, The Ensemble’s Clybourne Park is the go – if you can get a ticket. The season at The Ensemble’s Kirribilli home was sold out very early but there are two extra performances at The Concourse in Chatswood. It is highly recommended.

In acts set 50 years apart, there is a beautifully wrought discussion about race and history seen through the prism of a family home, although with intimations of the wider world. In the first half a white couple is about to move, their house having been sold to a black family – unseen – who will be the first coloured people in the neighbourhood. In the second half the house, now dilapidated, is about to be demolished. Both situations spark fractious argument undimmed by a half-century of change.

Tanya Goldberg directs an unimprovable cast of seven – Paula Arundell, Thomas Campbell, Briallen Clarke, Nathan Lovejoy, Wendy Strehlow, Richard Sydenham, Cleave Williams – in a production that is exceptionally funny, sometimes quite shocking, and always very, very sharp.

I also very much enjoyed The Night Larry Kramer Kissed Me, David Drake’s autobiographical 1993 piece (originally a solo show) about growing up gay. I wasn’t entirely convinced by the additional scene Drake has written to take same-sex marriage into account, but Ben Hudson and James Wright’s performances lit up the tiny Gingers space. There’s nowhere to hide for actors and audience members alike when both are scarcely an arm’s length apart and there was lots of lovely eye contact.

Hudson and Wright gave their all in front of a very small audience. It was undeservedly small, but part of the truth of theatre is that the house won’t necessarily be packed at all times – something the inveterate first-nighter doesn’t get to see. The cast of The Pride had the same experience this week as they acted out what was, for me, a fairly ho-hum fable about domination and the loss of it. The Pride has had success elsewhere but I was underwhelmed. As I was about Anthony Neilson’s two-hander Stitching, which has also received praise in other productions. Stitching presents a relationship in big, big trouble. To spice things up it jumps around in time and introduces hot and heavy role-playing.

Unfortunately actors Lara Lightfoot and Wade Doolan were unable to make me believe in their plight or sympathise with it, but others may feel differently. That’s the beauty of an audience, that singular entity made up of many individuals.

The Pride ends on April 5. The Night Larry Kramer Kissed Me ends April 6. Stitching ends April 12. Fight Night ends April 13. Clybourne Park ends at The Ensemble April 19 (season sold out); extra performances at The Concourse, Chatswood, April 23 and 24.

The Drowsy Chaperone

 Squabbalogic Independent Music Theatre, Hayes Theatre Co, Sydney, March 18.

HE has no name other than Man in Chair, this cardigan-wearing musicals tragic, for he is Everyman, screaming inside at the bombast of the modern sung-through show – and yes, he means you, Andrew Lloyd Webber – while maintaining an exterior of mild exasperation. Well, he is every man or every woman who just wants to take away from the theatre a tune they can hum, having enjoyed some pretty costumes, an amusingly tangled plot, a happy ending and definitely no audience participation. The show will preferably be short.

Jay James-Moody as Man in Chair. Photo: Michael Francis

Jay James-Moody as Man in Chair. Photo: Michael Francis

Nestled within The Drowsy Chaperone is such a musical: The Drowsy Chaperone. (You will search in vain for it in any theatre database, as it is a work of fiction created for The Drowsy Chaperone, although for the purposes of the evening treated as if it were a real show. Obviously The Drowsy Chaperone – the host show, as it were – is also a work of fiction, but operating on a different plane. What fun.)

There’s a phrase people often use about the theatre, and particularly about the musical theatre. It takes you out of yourself, they say, meaning that for a few hours you forget your cares and get caught up in a world more carefree, more glamorous, more vibrant, more everything than the one you’re going home to. That’s what Man in Chair wants, and here the idea is given literal form.

As the lights go down Man in Chair starts confiding to the audience his decidedly unfavourable views on the current theatre. What does he consider a good show? That would be The Drowsy Chaperone, a 1920s piece of fairy floss that, he acknowledges, is perhaps not perfect but does exactly what he needs it to do. Allow him to illustrate.

Within moments of the needle hitting his treasured vinyl cast record of The Drowsy Chaperone, its characters burst into Man in Chair’s room. As he eagerly watches the action unfold he gives an aficionado’s gloss on the plot, the lyrics, the actors playing the roles and, in little snippets, his own life. No longer is Man in Chair in his dreary apartment. He is intensely engaged with the show.

The Drowsy Chaperone company. Photo: Michael Francis

The Drowsy Chaperone company. Photo: Michael Francis

The Drowsy Chaperone takes place on the wedding day of Janet Van de Graff, a 1920s theatre star leaving the stage to be married, much to the chagrin of her producer. Can Janet be persuaded to change her mind? Helping things along are heavies disguised as pastry chefs, a lavishly accented Latin lothario, an aviatrix, a vaudeville act, a big tap number and a resolution that just falls from the sky. Adding some spice are the shenanigans of Janet’s dipsomaniac and therefore chronically sleepy chaperone.

It is as silly and formulaic as it sounds, which is where The Drowsy Chaperone shamelessly has it both ways. Creators Bob Martin and Don McKellar (book) and Lisa Lambert and Greg Morrison (music and lyrics) pay genuine homage to good old-fashioned entertainment while sending it up mercilessly. Man in Chair yearns for the wit and glamour of Cole Porter but there is only the flimsiest facsimile of it in The Drowsy Chaperone. There’s a reason they don’t make ‘em like that any more, but also why there’s nostalgia for earlier, more graceful times.

Squabbalogic’s production captures the dichotomy immaculately, and – as Sweet Charity did before it – makes triumphant use of the tiny Hayes Theatre Co space. On Broadway the show opened out to become the extravaganza Man in Chair sees in his mind’s eye as he listens to the music, and the glittering production values meant Man in Chair’s favourite musical actually came up rather well. At the Hayes there is no escaping the fact that we are in Man in Chair’s generic city apartment. The musical’s flaws – which Man in Chair admits exist – loom larger.

Interestingly, this turns out not to be any kind of problem, due mainly to a pivotal piece of casting. Director Jay James-Moody has assembled a very fine team but his most successful choice was the assignment of himself to the part of Man in Chair. It was a great call; James-Moody is tremendous. He is very young for the role but that also fails to be a problem. James-Moody is too fresh to be the quintessential bitter and bitchy show queen. Instead there is unexpected poignancy in seeing the importance Man in Chair places on this extremely minor piece. The casting probably wouldn’t work in a huge theatre, but then that’s exactly where we are not.

There are little windows in Man in Chair’s apartment (splendid design by Lauren Peters) that give glimpses of the world he has shut out. With his eager face, intelligent high forehead, wry self-awareness and irony-tinged delivery, James-Moody really makes you hope Man in Chair isn’t setting himself up for the fate of an actor whose demise he describes. It involves a solitary death and a poodle.

In every department – direction, performance, design, choreography, music (a terrific six-piece band) – there is complete understanding of the show’s style and wit. It seems a little unfair to single individuals out from the terrific ensemble, but here goes. Extra bouquets to Monique Salle, who is not only a zesty Trix the Aviatrix but choreographed imaginatively within very tight limits; Hilary Cole, whose charmingly self-regarding Janet could not be further removed from her tormented Carrie of last year (also for Squabbalogic); Michele Lansdown’s seedily glamorous Chaperone; and Tom Sharah’s lustily sung Adolpho, whose intelligence is located well south of his head.

The Drowsy Chaperone ends on April 6.

Interplay, Sydney Dance Company

Sydney Theatre, March 17

WHAT a rich, diverse evening this is. Sydney Dance Company’s Interplay offers three works, any two of which would have given a stimulating experience, but who’s complaining? Each makes a strong appeal to a different human need and shows the SDC dancers in shape-shifting, magisterial form.

Rafael Bonachela takes on Bach’s Violin Partita No. 2 in D Minor for an intellectually challenging engagement between movement and music; the second new piece, Gideon Obarzanek’s L’Chaim!, has heart and joy; and the revival of Jacopo Godani’s Raw Models – well, that gives the libido a workout.

2 in D Minor. Photo: Wendell Teodoro

Rafael Bonachela’s 2 in D Minor. Photo: Wendell Teodoro

Violinist Veronique Serret plays for Bonachela’s piece, called 2 in D Minor, planting her feet firmly on the stage and engaging fiercely with the dancers. Also on the program is new music from Stefan Gregory (invigorating, rhythmic tunes for L’Chaim!) and Nick Wales (intriguing electronic miniatures that act as contemporary interludes for in 2 in D Minor, based on Serret’s playing). This is a big, big show.

Bonachela’s piece doesn’t always rise to the complexities and nuances of Bach but has many luscious moments, particularly in sections involving Charmene Yap, David Mack and Cass Mortimer Eipper. On Monday night Yap embodied the music with alert, sinuous grace, frequently making eye contact with Serret, and Mack and Mortimer Eipper’s closely intertwined duo in the first movement also gave the sense of bodies merging with the music and emerging from it.

There was a fine contrast in the second movement, Corrente, when Fiona Jopp’s lively solo was more external: a performance bubbling on top of the music.

As the piece progressed some of the dance material and structures lost their juice when familiarity set in. The solo interludes between movements were the surprise element, with white-clad figures offering present-day, somewhat anguished homage to Bach. These interpolated pieces were danced on a square of light on the stage, mirroring the skylight-like light that hovered above the Bach movements. (Benjamin Cisterne created the set and lighting.) I couldn’t help but think these little dances referred to the noble struggle involved in living up to the genius of Bach.

When Raw Models premiered in 2011 I was struck by the various meanings of the word model it evoked: fashion, mechanical device, computer modelling. This time the piece felt a little different. Overall there isn’t quite the level of chic and haughty sheen the original cast brought to it but it is still very sexy. The ripples, poses and elongations of seven dancers dressed in skin-tight black bring to mind the enacting of a creation story or perhaps, given the gloom and frequent blackouts, rebirth from a catastrophe.

Jacopo Godani's Raw Modela. Photo: Wendell Teodoro

Jacopo Godani’s Raw Modela. Photo: Wendell Teodoro

Whatever it is, it’s happening in a galaxy far, far away. These superb physical specimens may look human but could well be aliens from the planet Glamour Major. The opening night crowd went wild, particularly (and rightly) for Yap’s knockout duo with Andrew Crawford, a man with the wingspan and presence of a golden eagle, both of which he puts to excellent use in Raw Models.

Where Raw Models demonstrates the vast gulf between elite performers and their audience, L’Chaim! seeks connection. Folk dancing is the choreographic impulse and the illustration of community. A disembodied voice (that of actress Zoe Coombs Marr, text is by David Woods) asked company members questions – some banal, some impertinent, some useful – about themselves and what they felt about dancing. The idea is an extension of a long-running interest Obarzanek has in why people dance and what dance means, and there is a work of greater depth there for the taking. Nevertheless L’Chaim! is already an endearing addition to the inquiry.

Gideon Obarzanek's L'Chaim! Photo: Wendell Teodoro

Gideon Obarzanek’s L’Chaim! Photo: Wendell Teodoro

Wearing a motley array of ordinary clothes in a nondescript space (costume Harriet Oxley, set and lighting Cisterne) the full SDC company beautifully illustrated how highly trained bodies can move in ways denied the rest of us. Then, as they almost imperceptibly let go of their technique, they movingly showed how a civilian may be absorbed into the dance.

Interplay runs in Sydney until April 5. Then Canberra, April 10-12, and Melbourne, April 30-May 10. 

Lucinda Dunn – a tribute

IT is not a great surprise that Lucinda Dunn has chosen to retire from The Australian Ballet next month, but it is a great loss. While she has had some recent injuries and has been selecting her repertoire carefully, these are not unusual circumstances when a dancer has had as lengthy a career as Dunn’s. And when she has been on stage she has been peerless. Her brilliant technique makes her a strong artist, but never a cold one. She flows like liquid gold: there is sensual warmth and radiance in her dancing, along with stage-filling grandeur that serves whatever she is dancing and makes it important. It is never self-serving.

Lucinda Dunn and Robert Curran in The Nutcracker. Photo: Jim McFarlane

Lucinda Dunn and Robert Curran in The Nutcracker. Photo: Jim McFarlane

Lucinda Dunn as Kitri in Don Quixote. Photo: Lynette Wills

Lucinda Dunn as Kitri in Don Quixote. Photo: Lynette Wills

But after 23 years with the AB as its longest reigning ballerina, Dunn, 40, has decided it is time to go – the fact that her older daughter, Claudia, is five is surely relevant, and Dunn and her husband Danilo Radojevic also have a two-year-old daughter, Ava.

Dunn opens in Kenneth MacMillan’s Manon in Melbourne tonight and will farewell the stage at the end of the Sydney season of this ballet. She made her debut in the role only last month, in Brisbane, taking on new challenges to the end. (When The Australian Ballet last staged Manon, in 2008, Dunn was on maternity leave.)

Lucinda Dunn and Adam Bull in Manon

Lucinda Dunn and Adam Bull in Manon

Releasing the news of Dunn’s retirement yesterday AB artistic director David McAllister said Dunn had been “a shining beacon of The Australian Ballet – a true ballerina”. She was awarded the Medal of the Order of Australia at the beginning of this year for service to the performing arts through ballet.

She will continue this service next year when, on January 1, she becomes artistic director of the highly regarded Tanya Pearson Classical Coaching Academy and Sydney City Youth Ballet. Dunn studied with Mrs Pearson from the age of 13. Mrs Pearson will be known as Founder and continue her presence at the academy.

Dunn said in a statement yesterday she hoped to “enrich and challenge” the academy’s students, which she surely will.

I have watched Dunn for her entire career, seeing her progress from being an exceptionally promising young dancer with killer technical gifts in her earliest days to the great artist she is today. At the risk of sounding like Woody Allan’s Zelig (although I hope not quite as colourless), I have been present at many of her most important performances and milestones, including the lunch in 2001 at which she was promoted to principal, and the glorious Aurora she gave to huge acclaim in Tokyo in 2007 in Stanton Welch’s production of Sleeping Beauty, partnered by Robert Curran.

Curran – how we miss him! – was promoted to principal the same day, and I will never forget Dunn’s happiness at his elevation as well as her own.

How quickly it goes.

Dunn gives her final performance with the AB on April 23 at the Sydney Opera House.