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.

Angels in America, The Maids, Phedre, Othello

Angels in America, Belvoir, June 5 and 6; The Maids, Sydney Theatre Company, June 8; Phedre, Bell Shakespeare, June 12; Othello, Sport for Jove, June 14.

Catherine McClements and Edmund Lembke-Hogan in Phedre. Photo: Rush

Catherine McClements and Edmund Lembke-Hogan in Phedre. Photo: Rush

THEATRE, from companies big and small, has been particularly rich in the first half of the year in Sydney. There were exceptional new works, old ones given a jolt and imports done proud; the diversity was such that you pitied those people who remain faithful to just one company. So far this has been a year to be promiscuous in one’s theatre-going and the rest of the year promises to be as tantalising.

In this first half a partial list of favourites would include Belvoir’s rough magic Peter Pan and, at Belvoir Downstairs, Nakkilah Lui’s devastating new play of suburban Aboriginal aspiration and despair, This Heaven; Sydney Theatre Company’s majestic Secret River, adapted from the Kate Grenville novel, and STC’s small and sweet Dance Better at Parties, which grew out of a work by Chunky Move dance company. At the Ensemble, Joanna Murray-Smith’s strong series of female portraits, Bombshells, and Nick Dear’s adaptation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein were graced by exceptional performances; Van Badham’s The Bull, the Moon and the Coronet of Stars at Griffin irrepressibly mixed ancient myth and modern sex comedy; and the American drama The MotherF**ker with the Hat, seen in the tiny TAP Gallery space, was given a staggeringly good production by independent outfit Workhorse Theatre Company.

The range of theatrical possibility was extended further if you add the visitors: there was a Sydney season for the madly uplifting School Dance, which came from Adelaide’s Windmill Theatre; Bojana Novakovic’s enchanting, and improvised, The Blind Date Project had small seasons in Melbourne and Brisbane before fetching up as a petite gem in this year’s Sydney Festival program; and the Sisters Grimm’s Little Mercy – provenance Melbourne – was outrageously, implacably, divinely irresistible. (I relegate to parentheses the National Theatre’s One Man, Two Guvnors and the achingly beautiful gift of seeing Angela Lansbury and James Earl Jones in Driving Miss Daisy only because they are fully imported.)

A lot of the best theatre was small-scale and fighting well above its weight. Then came June, and with it the possibility of seeing – within the space of 10 days – a cluster of classics that would fascinate if you’d seen them in the span of an entire year. Or two.

Cate Blanchett and Isabelle Huppert in The Maids. Photo: Lisa Tomasetti

Cate Blanchett and Isabelle Huppert in The Maids. Photo: Lisa Tomasetti

I think I can get away with saying I believe the two-part Angels in America to be the greatest play written in English during my lifetime. (Waiting for Godot, which premiered a week or so after I was born, was written in French and first staged in that language. So.)

Sydney Theatre Company staged Angels in 1993, less than two years after its San Francisco premiere and a couple of months before its Broadway debut – a great act of percipience on the part of then artistic director Wayne Harrison. Michael Gow directed a piercingly spare production that did everything it needed to: it let this profoundly moving and intellectually searching piece speak for itself. The breadth, depth and reach of Angels is dazzling and Belvoir’s current production, directed by Eamon Flack, understands, as did Gow’s, the central necessities of Tony Kushner’s piece – cast it well, honour its multiplicity of emotions, tease out the many strands of its narrative and tone, clarify the complexity of its language and imagery, and stand back. In other words, don’t have a production that over-decorates a work that is already magnificently ornate.

Angels in America is concerned with but also transcends the questions of AIDS in the 1980s, the Cold War, Reaganite philosophy, climate change, gay politics, right-wing politics, ethics, religion, personal responsibility and much more. In that transcendence lies its connection with audiences today and anywhere. The ease with which Kushner interweaves realism and fantasy is breath-taking. I was reminded when seeing Angels, entirely engrossed, of something New Yorker writer Joseph Mitchell wrote in a preface to one of his celebrated profiles of New York characters: “I wanted these stories to be truthful rather than factual.” And elsewhere he wrote: “You’ve got to get to the true facts.”

Belvoir’s cast is exemplary, led by Luke Mullins as the AIDS-inflicted Prior Walter, who has visions both profane and ecstatic. Marcus Graham has the part of his career as lawyer – and helper of Senator Joseph McCarthy – Roy Cohn (fun fact; his middle name was Marcus). Graham’s Cohn burns like a wildfire that is fuelled by his ambition and certitude, along with the disease he refuses to acknowledge by name. Amber McMahon’s lost-soul Harper, who is charged with one of the play’s most achingly potent images as she escapes the pull of New York, is exceptional. Mitchell Butel’s unwaveringly steady compass as an actor – he is always one of the clearest interpreters of any text in his enjoyably wide repertoire – makes the flexible conscience of Prior’s lover Louis explicable and even worthy of sympathy. And what a joy to see DeObia Oparei as Belize, a part he performed with such distinction for STC all those years ago. Only connect.

The true facts. Again this idea comes into play in Jean Genet’s The Maids, in which Cate Blanchett and Isabelle Huppert play sisters. Claire and Solange act out “ceremonies” in their Mistress’s over-blown boudoir, escaping into cruel fantasies to blot out their sordid reality. They turn on themselves and each other, the interchangeable torturer and tortured holed up in the same prison. In a naturalistic play this blood relationship would test credulity. And yet on deeper levels – those of understanding, of equality of standing, of temperament, of spirit, of intelligence – they are quite clearly soul sisters.

Benedict Andrews and Andrew Upton’s translation of Genet’s 1947 play is robust, mordantly funny and chilly, as is Andrews’s direction of his stars.

Blanchett impersonates her Mistress with raucous, savage glee but can be undercut in a micro-second, visibly deflating so that a great beauty becomes a plain nonentity in the blink of an eye. Huppert, tiny as a sparrow, does limber calisthenics while lying on her employer’s bed, and as she opens her legs wide a camera captures the view and conveys it to the audience. It’s a familiar Andrews choice, but so apt on several levels. Not only is surveillance a very real possibility in this sleek, contemporary household, but on a practical level it helps connect the audience in this slightly too-large theatre to the action. It’s a kind of voyeurism too, spying not only on two maids but on the women playing them.

Make no mistake. If The Maids were not starring Blanchett and Huppert it could easily have been slotted into STC’s Wharf 2 space. There is layer upon layer here. Not only are stratospherically famous actresses playing the part of role-playing maids, their Mistress, in a piece of casting announced late, is played by the gorgeous and very, very young Elizabeth Debicki. She is too tender in age to have established such complete dominion over her household help, but let’s not be too literal. Debicki has come to attention recently through her appearance in Baz Luhrmann’s film The Great Gatsby and adds another level of drop-dead glamour. Please don’t think this is a criticism. Far from it. There is something absolutely delicious about seeing a production in which there is an explicit invitation to examine one of its most important strands – the assumption of roles as a way of surviving – from a variety of angles. It keeps the viewer constantly on the qui vive, thinking and re-calibrating.

Debicki, by the way, may be just at the start of her career but she holds her own gallantly with Blanchett and Huppert, and looks so dewily beautiful you could cry. The camera comes in leeringly close to her and to Blanchett and Huppert, both of whom are ravishing in a different way. So much visual information to absorb along with the text. And if you can’t understand Huppert all of the time, too bad. She is an electric presence as she darts about, swings from the clothes racks, plays games of abasement, hitches a ride on a long train of a gown like a playful – or abject – child and so much more. Truth not facts …

French drama is given a second gripping outing with Bell Shakespeare’s Phedre having landed in Sydney after its Melbourne season. Racine’s 1677 drama based on Greek legend is given in Ted Hughes’s plain-speaking, supple translation and given a production that enthrals from beginning to end.

Director Peter Evans’s taste for stillness on stage and for clearly marking entrances and exits has never had a better fit than here. He takes the elegant formality that is a hallmark of classical French drama and converts it into an atmosphere of fear – the kind that makes one freeze with terror.

We are told Phedre has a fatal illness, but what’s really gnawing away at her is forbidden love. Phedre has conceived a passion for her stepson Hippolytus, who in turn loves where he is least allowed. The play opens with most of the players placed separately on Anna Cordingly’s wonderful stage upon a stage. The set resembles a disintegrating country house folly with its jagged hole in the ceiling and signs of decay all about. Kelly Ryall’s soundscape of barely discernible beats, fluttering voices, groans and bells adds to the foreboding.

The scene is static for quite some time as the play’s concerns unfold. The stillness, unusual in our theatre, brings its own tension. When the hell is someone going to do something? And then Phedre touches Hippolytus (a fine, unmannered Edmund Lembke-Hogan), and the tragedy is unleashed.

Catherine McClements’s rail-thin Phedre is, like Marcus Graham’s Roy Cohn, doubly burning up inside. The passion that’s devouring her will get her before the unnamed physical ailment can do its work, that much is evident. McClements gives an unsparing, towering performance. And speaking of towering, Phedre wears difficult, vertiginous shoes secured with gladiator-style straps that are their own form of bondage, as well as being a slightly too-young choice for the queen. I found that oddly touching.

Also tremendously good are Bert LaBonte as Theramene – his long description of Hippolytus’s death is mesmerising – and Marco Chiappi as Phedre’s husband Theseus. Abby Earl as Hippolytus’s secret love Aricia is, unfortunately, too inexperienced in this company. She certainly looks lovely enough to secure the prince but lacks texture and conviction in her delivery.

Similarly, in Sport for Jove’s Othello the casting of Isaro Kayitesi as Desdemona puts the young actress, not long out of training, at an unfair disadvantage. That aside – and one must admit it is a big aside – Othello is riveting. In the Seymour Centre’s small Reginald Theatre, Sport for Jove yet again finds a way of presenting Shakespeare without tricks, with no heavy-handed “concept”, but with force, clarity and a satisfying sense of purpose. It’s as if a light has been turned on. (The way the production always has a fresh surprise up its sleeve without distorting the text is definitively demonstrated by Anthony Gooley’s hilarious Rodorigo and the way in which he shows his devotion to Desdemona. Unmissable.)

Damien Ryan’s Iago is meticulously and persuasively thought out. In Ryan’s hands and under Matt Edgerton’s direction, Iago can’t be faulted for his logic: he’s been passed over and demeaned and he’s going to do something about that in his own good time. Ryan presents a man who is proud, intelligent, implacable and as creatively manipulative as any top politician. He could turn day into night with his arguments, and so he does.

Ivan Donato’s attractive Othello is more good-guy soldier than powerful military chief, which tends to minimise the tragedy of his downfall and give even more oxygen to Iago. And of course there’s always the problem of that handkerchief, the bit of fabric on which the denouement so precariously turns. But Sport for Jove makes a reasonable fist of keeping the stakes high here, anticipating how the drama will end with an inventive and relevant opening image.

I saw the production with a group of students and their attention was held, as was mine, for nearly three and a half hours with just one interval. Enough said.

Angels in America plays at Belvoir St Theatre until July 14 and then Sydney’s Theatre Royal from July 18-28. The Maids, Sydney Theatre, until July 20. Phedre, Sydney Opera House, until June 29. Othello, Seymour Centre, until June 29.