Max Davine's Blog, page 2
August 5, 2019
Janis
Janis
At the Melba Spiegeltent
Max Davine
Janis Lyn Joplin – for that was her real name – was here for so short a time. Among the first of the giants of rock ‘n’ roll to depart this world at only 27, she is often overshadowed in retrospect by her contemporaries; Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison. But music is music and legacy are not a matter of personal taste. Not one of those three deserves to be remembered any more than Janis. Before Amy Winehouse, her voice was the blast of pure emotion that came direct from her soul, straight through the speakers and into the heart of the listener. She was a giant of her time. The psychedelic rock of the sixties was as famous for the exploits of its innovators as the music they produced, and those exploits were not considered a woman’s domain outside of groupiedom. It seemed as though people wanted to listen to men, then read about them laying waste a thousand and one virginities, hotel rooms and barrels of whiskey and kilos of drugs. They didn’t often stop and think that one of the groupies might be just as good, if not greater.
Janis made them stop and think just that. And for the record, she could screw, drink and snort with the best of them. Unfortunately, there are consequences which do not consider gender in those pursuits. She would release only four albums.
But in Melbourne, one artist is keeping the spirit so strong it transcended its time and place and catapulted its creator to the achingly lonely heights of superstardom. Samantha Hafey, with colours in her billowing hair and rainbow child rags on her lithe body, is bringing her show Janis to the stage. Taking on such a monolithic figure is an intimidating task, but Hafey handles it with the finesse of an old pro. She belts out the classics with a super-tight band and lulls her audiences back to a time when rock music was the spring from which all love and spirituality flowed. Between songs she acts as Janis and gives us glimpses of the devastating loneliness and substance abuse that would be the icon’s ultimate undoing.
Hafey has it all. She does it all. While one wonders whether so much swearing would have been done in a time when blood and guts and nakedness were less taboo, it is hard to sit and wonder such things when someone is bearing their soul through the reflection of Janis Joplin the way Hafey absolutely and brilliantly does.
At the Melba Spiegeltent
Max Davine
Janis Lyn Joplin – for that was her real name – was here for so short a time. Among the first of the giants of rock ‘n’ roll to depart this world at only 27, she is often overshadowed in retrospect by her contemporaries; Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison. But music is music and legacy are not a matter of personal taste. Not one of those three deserves to be remembered any more than Janis. Before Amy Winehouse, her voice was the blast of pure emotion that came direct from her soul, straight through the speakers and into the heart of the listener. She was a giant of her time. The psychedelic rock of the sixties was as famous for the exploits of its innovators as the music they produced, and those exploits were not considered a woman’s domain outside of groupiedom. It seemed as though people wanted to listen to men, then read about them laying waste a thousand and one virginities, hotel rooms and barrels of whiskey and kilos of drugs. They didn’t often stop and think that one of the groupies might be just as good, if not greater.
Janis made them stop and think just that. And for the record, she could screw, drink and snort with the best of them. Unfortunately, there are consequences which do not consider gender in those pursuits. She would release only four albums.
But in Melbourne, one artist is keeping the spirit so strong it transcended its time and place and catapulted its creator to the achingly lonely heights of superstardom. Samantha Hafey, with colours in her billowing hair and rainbow child rags on her lithe body, is bringing her show Janis to the stage. Taking on such a monolithic figure is an intimidating task, but Hafey handles it with the finesse of an old pro. She belts out the classics with a super-tight band and lulls her audiences back to a time when rock music was the spring from which all love and spirituality flowed. Between songs she acts as Janis and gives us glimpses of the devastating loneliness and substance abuse that would be the icon’s ultimate undoing.
Hafey has it all. She does it all. While one wonders whether so much swearing would have been done in a time when blood and guts and nakedness were less taboo, it is hard to sit and wonder such things when someone is bearing their soul through the reflection of Janis Joplin the way Hafey absolutely and brilliantly does.
August 1, 2019
Pvt. Wars
“Pvt. Wars”
At the Alex Theatre
Max Davine
Nobody makes a point of mentioning the hard work that goes into acting like Peter Kalos. Of all his catchy phrases “work your ass off” (in an LA accent) has to be the most oft-quoted, if mostly by him. But that’s what you do at the Lab, whether you’re a student or their teacher; you work. This isn’t acting as a dream or as a hobby, this is acting as a job, and take it from me, you will sweat, cry and bleed to earn it your place amongst them. Nothing stands as testament to the work ethic pushed at the Lab as clearly as Lab Theatre’s shows. Even if someone knows absolutely nothing about what actually goes into a performance, has no idea about the fine points of the craft, the sheer volume of plays that they’ve staged since they first started producing last year should be a clear indication. When you do know just how much these actors are suffering and sacrificing to be up there as intensely authentic as they are, that’s when you really have to be astonished. The rest of the audience; they’ll never know. That’s the pain of being a great actor – nobody notices you’re acting. They say things like its “raw” or its “very convincing” and then move along. The irony is, that means they’ve done their job right.
It’s another (male dominated) classic American play from the breakthrough of the “Method” (1950-1980) playwrights, this time James McClure’s “Pvt. Wars”. Super-fast paced, delirious and relentlessly witty, it is the tale of three US war vets from Vietnam stuck together in a psychiatric care facility, seeming to waver between utter delusion and actually trying to grapple with the reality that they are back in a world that has changed, as men who have been irretrievably damaged.
It is an intensely delicate operation to draw comedy from such a dark, upsetting subject. The writing of the time and place was all about the slow, simmering reveal, regardless of the genre, and in this instance, we are learning scene by scene just how completely broken these men are. But as the play progresses through it’s maze of brutality and hilarity, the intimacy and truth each actor brings to their role shows enough honesty and respect that the audience gives themselves subconscious permission to laugh, without ever stopping to judge the play or themselves. And laugh they do; hysterically, at times. This is an achievement that requires the utmost discipline and devotion from the actors in their work.
John Massarotti and Indigo Parer are exceptional as Silvio and Gately, two men from opposing worlds thrust together by the way and driven to the same strange psychological limbo of completely uprooted unreality. The hours spent venturing these surreal confines of the human psyche couldn’t be counted, but they were there, and as I write this, I don’t imagine they’re coming down easily.
However, it is Joseph Baldwin as rich boy Natwick who really steals the show. His psychosis is wrapped in so many layers of attempted normality that it adds a whole new dimension to the character; one who lives in a fantasy of control and order. He gives us glimpses of his shattered state between the long and bombastic eruptions from his co-stars, but never lets the big boys see it.
Make sure you do.
At the Alex Theatre
Max Davine
Nobody makes a point of mentioning the hard work that goes into acting like Peter Kalos. Of all his catchy phrases “work your ass off” (in an LA accent) has to be the most oft-quoted, if mostly by him. But that’s what you do at the Lab, whether you’re a student or their teacher; you work. This isn’t acting as a dream or as a hobby, this is acting as a job, and take it from me, you will sweat, cry and bleed to earn it your place amongst them. Nothing stands as testament to the work ethic pushed at the Lab as clearly as Lab Theatre’s shows. Even if someone knows absolutely nothing about what actually goes into a performance, has no idea about the fine points of the craft, the sheer volume of plays that they’ve staged since they first started producing last year should be a clear indication. When you do know just how much these actors are suffering and sacrificing to be up there as intensely authentic as they are, that’s when you really have to be astonished. The rest of the audience; they’ll never know. That’s the pain of being a great actor – nobody notices you’re acting. They say things like its “raw” or its “very convincing” and then move along. The irony is, that means they’ve done their job right.
It’s another (male dominated) classic American play from the breakthrough of the “Method” (1950-1980) playwrights, this time James McClure’s “Pvt. Wars”. Super-fast paced, delirious and relentlessly witty, it is the tale of three US war vets from Vietnam stuck together in a psychiatric care facility, seeming to waver between utter delusion and actually trying to grapple with the reality that they are back in a world that has changed, as men who have been irretrievably damaged.
It is an intensely delicate operation to draw comedy from such a dark, upsetting subject. The writing of the time and place was all about the slow, simmering reveal, regardless of the genre, and in this instance, we are learning scene by scene just how completely broken these men are. But as the play progresses through it’s maze of brutality and hilarity, the intimacy and truth each actor brings to their role shows enough honesty and respect that the audience gives themselves subconscious permission to laugh, without ever stopping to judge the play or themselves. And laugh they do; hysterically, at times. This is an achievement that requires the utmost discipline and devotion from the actors in their work.
John Massarotti and Indigo Parer are exceptional as Silvio and Gately, two men from opposing worlds thrust together by the way and driven to the same strange psychological limbo of completely uprooted unreality. The hours spent venturing these surreal confines of the human psyche couldn’t be counted, but they were there, and as I write this, I don’t imagine they’re coming down easily.
However, it is Joseph Baldwin as rich boy Natwick who really steals the show. His psychosis is wrapped in so many layers of attempted normality that it adds a whole new dimension to the character; one who lives in a fantasy of control and order. He gives us glimpses of his shattered state between the long and bombastic eruptions from his co-stars, but never lets the big boys see it.
Make sure you do.
July 30, 2019
La Traviata
La Traviata
BK Opera
Max Davine
Powerful. Courageous. In the round, in your face; this is Opera the way you’ve never seen it. Raw, open, effortlessly beautiful and no longer confined to the dusty old Opera houses where youthful aristocrats were more interested in charming and cajoling their way into young countesses’ boxes…the ‘Tinder’ of the bygone era’s rich and powerful children; but no longer. At last, arriving on Australian shores, is Opera of today, Opera intended to engage, Opera you can reach out and touch. Opera at street level.
That is certainly not to say “dumbed down”, for unfortunately much of Australia’s “cultural elite” still perceive Opera to be enshrouded in that cancer of all things creative; tradition. They happily ignore the fact that it was once merely an elitist’s pastime and a platform to pursue the debauchery that their dandy kind is now known for. The electrifying awe and grueling artisanship required to create what the thrill-seeking patrons were blissfully ignoring on the stage was lost on them. For decades now, in Europe and part of the US, certain independent and even amateur companies have been working to repair Opera’s tainted image, and finally show the contemporary audience what it’s all about. As for Australia, enter BK Opera.
Started last year, with “Carmen”, performed in a local pub, BK Opera is finally opening the doors of hallowed theatrical ground for the general public, not just for audiences who may be curious to seek out their first experience, but to performers who might otherwise have spent years auditioning in front of exclusive groups and companies just to gain that first taste of experience in a principal role. As always, where the floodgates are opened thusly, BK Opera have inadvertently brought a cast of supreme ability to their third production, Guiseppe Verdi’s “La Traviata”.
Arguably one of the most famous Operas, director Kate Millett demolished any reservations there might be had about a so-called “amateur” group performing such a venerated piece by thrusting, like the medium, out of the mahogany hued cabinet of the sooty academe and right into the eager laps of her audience. The story, based upon Alexandre Dumas’ novel Le Dame aux Camélias, is of a beautiful courtesan Violetta Valery and her doomed (of course) love affair with Alfredo Germont, and is injected with energy from the chorus, intimacy from the layout of the stage and dripping with sexuality from the artful choreography. All doubt is shed long before the opening chords of Libiamo ne’lieti Calici.
The format did, however, allow for one small faux pas: the English titles on the rear projection might have been a tremendous, and unnecessary, distraction, but for one magnetic element which was only looked away from under the greatest duress: Rada Tolchana, in the role of Violetta, carried such a powerful presence, effortless poise and heart-stopping beauty that she might have stolen the show, were it not for the excellence of her costars, notably Patrick MacDevitt in the role of alfredo. Di sprezzo degno sè stesso rende chi pur nell'ira la donna offende indeed.
A magnificent experience. Do not miss out on BK Opera, especially not of you think yourself not “an opera person”.
BK Opera
Max Davine
Powerful. Courageous. In the round, in your face; this is Opera the way you’ve never seen it. Raw, open, effortlessly beautiful and no longer confined to the dusty old Opera houses where youthful aristocrats were more interested in charming and cajoling their way into young countesses’ boxes…the ‘Tinder’ of the bygone era’s rich and powerful children; but no longer. At last, arriving on Australian shores, is Opera of today, Opera intended to engage, Opera you can reach out and touch. Opera at street level.
That is certainly not to say “dumbed down”, for unfortunately much of Australia’s “cultural elite” still perceive Opera to be enshrouded in that cancer of all things creative; tradition. They happily ignore the fact that it was once merely an elitist’s pastime and a platform to pursue the debauchery that their dandy kind is now known for. The electrifying awe and grueling artisanship required to create what the thrill-seeking patrons were blissfully ignoring on the stage was lost on them. For decades now, in Europe and part of the US, certain independent and even amateur companies have been working to repair Opera’s tainted image, and finally show the contemporary audience what it’s all about. As for Australia, enter BK Opera.
Started last year, with “Carmen”, performed in a local pub, BK Opera is finally opening the doors of hallowed theatrical ground for the general public, not just for audiences who may be curious to seek out their first experience, but to performers who might otherwise have spent years auditioning in front of exclusive groups and companies just to gain that first taste of experience in a principal role. As always, where the floodgates are opened thusly, BK Opera have inadvertently brought a cast of supreme ability to their third production, Guiseppe Verdi’s “La Traviata”.
Arguably one of the most famous Operas, director Kate Millett demolished any reservations there might be had about a so-called “amateur” group performing such a venerated piece by thrusting, like the medium, out of the mahogany hued cabinet of the sooty academe and right into the eager laps of her audience. The story, based upon Alexandre Dumas’ novel Le Dame aux Camélias, is of a beautiful courtesan Violetta Valery and her doomed (of course) love affair with Alfredo Germont, and is injected with energy from the chorus, intimacy from the layout of the stage and dripping with sexuality from the artful choreography. All doubt is shed long before the opening chords of Libiamo ne’lieti Calici.
The format did, however, allow for one small faux pas: the English titles on the rear projection might have been a tremendous, and unnecessary, distraction, but for one magnetic element which was only looked away from under the greatest duress: Rada Tolchana, in the role of Violetta, carried such a powerful presence, effortless poise and heart-stopping beauty that she might have stolen the show, were it not for the excellence of her costars, notably Patrick MacDevitt in the role of alfredo. Di sprezzo degno sè stesso rende chi pur nell'ira la donna offende indeed.
A magnificent experience. Do not miss out on BK Opera, especially not of you think yourself not “an opera person”.
Barefoot in the Park
“Barefoot in the Park”
At the Woodbin Theatre
Max Davine
Neil Simon is arguably one of the most popular playwrights of all time. His resume boasts some of the most beloved and frequently staged plays ever to grace the off-Broadway stage; “The Odd Couple”, “Lost in Yonkers”, “Sweet Charity”, Rumors”, “Little Me”, “The Good Doctor”, “The Goodbye Girl”, the list goes on and on. In fact, the only list longer are the names of acting legends who cut their teeth performing his plays, and often returned for the film adaptations. In the case of the immortal, hilarious and effortlessly relatable “Barefoot in the Park”, there are luminaries like Robert Redford, Elizabeth Ashley, Myrna Loy, Amanda Peet, Maureen Lipman, Patrick Wilson and, in the 1967 film, the formidable Jane Fonda. Needless to say, the cast picked by Kelly Clifford for the play’s run at the Woodbin Theatre in Geelong had some mighty shoes to fill. Just how difficult a play we have here is evident at any of the shows put on in Melbourne – as a Lab actor, I’ve seen scenes performed hundreds of times (and done them myself), as well as going to shows – all of which have been drastically inferior to Simon’s writing. I was nervous for Clifford. I did not expect a little community theatre in Geelong to outdo any venue or cast I’ve thus far seen in Melbourne. But I was wrong.
The treat we were in for was evident from the moment we entered the theatre; set design was wonderful. Enter Corie and Paul Bratter.
Chemistry that comes alive and electrifies the audience at every cheeky glimmer and cutting line. Even their fights are so charged by passion that the audience couldn’t help but be taken up by it. Kelly Clifford clearly understands actors, and the script – to kindle such an explosive formula in such an obviously restrictive rehearsal period is impossible. It’s all in her casting choices, and that shows a keen and perceptive instinct far surpassing many.
As Corrie, Georgia Chara is able to get away with anything with her cheeky glint and idiosyncratic mannerisms. Lucky enough to call her a friend, I can testify that this is as close to the experience of actually knowing Chara that I’ve ever seen on stage; it is her most intimate and personal performance by far.
Ian Nash-Gilchrist, in the role of Paul, lets himself be as exasperated, baffled and utterly charmed as he must be, being thrust on a tiny stage in such an intimate role with such a live-wire. Paul Bratter is a set of eyes through which the audience may perceive of Corie, and Nash-Gilchrist is expertly subtle and intimate enough for us to connect to.
But the casting expertise exceeds Corie and Paul here – Robyn Burrell, in the role of Corrie’s Mother Ethel Banks, shares a relationship with Chara that rings subtly and irritatingly true, while David MacKay’s Victor Velasco compliments her perfectly, although he could have spent a little more time amongst the likes of Bela Lugosi and Peter Lorre to get that accent down.
Clifford and co have pulled off a fun, breezy rendition of a Simon classic, as refreshing as walking barefoot in the park.
At the Woodbin Theatre
Max Davine
Neil Simon is arguably one of the most popular playwrights of all time. His resume boasts some of the most beloved and frequently staged plays ever to grace the off-Broadway stage; “The Odd Couple”, “Lost in Yonkers”, “Sweet Charity”, Rumors”, “Little Me”, “The Good Doctor”, “The Goodbye Girl”, the list goes on and on. In fact, the only list longer are the names of acting legends who cut their teeth performing his plays, and often returned for the film adaptations. In the case of the immortal, hilarious and effortlessly relatable “Barefoot in the Park”, there are luminaries like Robert Redford, Elizabeth Ashley, Myrna Loy, Amanda Peet, Maureen Lipman, Patrick Wilson and, in the 1967 film, the formidable Jane Fonda. Needless to say, the cast picked by Kelly Clifford for the play’s run at the Woodbin Theatre in Geelong had some mighty shoes to fill. Just how difficult a play we have here is evident at any of the shows put on in Melbourne – as a Lab actor, I’ve seen scenes performed hundreds of times (and done them myself), as well as going to shows – all of which have been drastically inferior to Simon’s writing. I was nervous for Clifford. I did not expect a little community theatre in Geelong to outdo any venue or cast I’ve thus far seen in Melbourne. But I was wrong.
The treat we were in for was evident from the moment we entered the theatre; set design was wonderful. Enter Corie and Paul Bratter.
Chemistry that comes alive and electrifies the audience at every cheeky glimmer and cutting line. Even their fights are so charged by passion that the audience couldn’t help but be taken up by it. Kelly Clifford clearly understands actors, and the script – to kindle such an explosive formula in such an obviously restrictive rehearsal period is impossible. It’s all in her casting choices, and that shows a keen and perceptive instinct far surpassing many.
As Corrie, Georgia Chara is able to get away with anything with her cheeky glint and idiosyncratic mannerisms. Lucky enough to call her a friend, I can testify that this is as close to the experience of actually knowing Chara that I’ve ever seen on stage; it is her most intimate and personal performance by far.
Ian Nash-Gilchrist, in the role of Paul, lets himself be as exasperated, baffled and utterly charmed as he must be, being thrust on a tiny stage in such an intimate role with such a live-wire. Paul Bratter is a set of eyes through which the audience may perceive of Corie, and Nash-Gilchrist is expertly subtle and intimate enough for us to connect to.
But the casting expertise exceeds Corie and Paul here – Robyn Burrell, in the role of Corrie’s Mother Ethel Banks, shares a relationship with Chara that rings subtly and irritatingly true, while David MacKay’s Victor Velasco compliments her perfectly, although he could have spent a little more time amongst the likes of Bela Lugosi and Peter Lorre to get that accent down.
Clifford and co have pulled off a fun, breezy rendition of a Simon classic, as refreshing as walking barefoot in the park.
July 29, 2019
The Memory of Water
The Memory of Water
At Chapel off Chapel
Max Davine
Shelagh Stephenson’s play about three sisters torn apart, then brought together again by the death of their elderly mother, is not a comedy tackled lightly. Having produced 2012’s “Angels in America: Millennium Approaches”, also at Chapel off Chapel, producer Darren Mort obviously grew acutely aware of what can go wrong when heavy subject matter, however opaquely addressed, is undertaken in anything but the fashion of highly disciplined and well-budgeted unit. It shows: “The Memory of Water” is fine-tuned, well-oiled and exceptionally executed piece of theatre. Having cellist Grace Gilkerson perform the mood-setting music live on stage was a special stroke of magic.
Director Richard Sarell’s acting sensitivities are clearly on display; actors move about within the set, listen and interact with each other, and aren’t afraid to show their backs, and the realism he achieves is at funny and heart-wrenching, sometimes both at the same time, as in real life.
However, no director is complete without his cast, and it’s here that 3 Big Men’s production earns its highest praise: Ana Mitsiakis and Carissa McAllen, as the two elder sisters, take center stage as the weight of organizing a funeral bears down on their already trouble lives, and both performers are subtle, connected, and more truthful with a whisper than many an actor is with a holler. As the youngest sister Karla Hillam renders a truthfully written character with such selfless honesty, her performance can barely be judged. It simply must be believed.
In this most beautiful of Melbourne’s venues, Mort and Co. have done what far too many theatre-makers around Melbourne don’t even seem to attempt; read a gorgeously written script, and delved into it, rather than dragging it out and displaying it. The difference is, the audience is given something candid to witness, rather than some collection of showman’s techniques on obvious display. This is theatre the way it should be. Truthful to the point that we forget we’re seeing a play.
This is real actors, with a real director, doing real work. Come and see for yourself.
At Chapel off Chapel
Max Davine
Shelagh Stephenson’s play about three sisters torn apart, then brought together again by the death of their elderly mother, is not a comedy tackled lightly. Having produced 2012’s “Angels in America: Millennium Approaches”, also at Chapel off Chapel, producer Darren Mort obviously grew acutely aware of what can go wrong when heavy subject matter, however opaquely addressed, is undertaken in anything but the fashion of highly disciplined and well-budgeted unit. It shows: “The Memory of Water” is fine-tuned, well-oiled and exceptionally executed piece of theatre. Having cellist Grace Gilkerson perform the mood-setting music live on stage was a special stroke of magic.
Director Richard Sarell’s acting sensitivities are clearly on display; actors move about within the set, listen and interact with each other, and aren’t afraid to show their backs, and the realism he achieves is at funny and heart-wrenching, sometimes both at the same time, as in real life.
However, no director is complete without his cast, and it’s here that 3 Big Men’s production earns its highest praise: Ana Mitsiakis and Carissa McAllen, as the two elder sisters, take center stage as the weight of organizing a funeral bears down on their already trouble lives, and both performers are subtle, connected, and more truthful with a whisper than many an actor is with a holler. As the youngest sister Karla Hillam renders a truthfully written character with such selfless honesty, her performance can barely be judged. It simply must be believed.
In this most beautiful of Melbourne’s venues, Mort and Co. have done what far too many theatre-makers around Melbourne don’t even seem to attempt; read a gorgeously written script, and delved into it, rather than dragging it out and displaying it. The difference is, the audience is given something candid to witness, rather than some collection of showman’s techniques on obvious display. This is theatre the way it should be. Truthful to the point that we forget we’re seeing a play.
This is real actors, with a real director, doing real work. Come and see for yourself.
Hand to God
“Hand to God”
At the Alex Theatre
Max Davine
There is one time and one time only that glamor plays any part at all in the entertainment industry, and that’s a premiere. I mean, so what if the limos just picked everyone up from the coffee shop around the corner? As long as the cameras see opulence, fine fashion, beautiful people and fully reformed alumnus of the Betty Ford Clinic, we’re all good to go, right? Fortunately, the Alex Theatre holds its own regal presence, so that all the above pompous airs and graces needn’t be applied. What our hosts instead managed to pull off was an evening of fun and entertainment, and not just from the string band welcoming us. Swallowing our champagne for that final boost of liquid courage, we took stock of our surroundings, admired fellow audience members, amongst whom were Cassandra Macgrath, Jennifer Hansen, and the show’s producer, the prolific, multi-award-winning Kate Whitbread, and made our way into the theatre for the first Australian showing of “Hand to God”.
Having made its debut on Broadway, “Hand to God” is one of those obscure stories of a script’s runaway success. It rocked New York City’s audiences, and Whitbread, along with Aleksander Vass, had to bring to us. What we saw was indeed a powerful script, though not necessarily in the dramatic sense. Let’s face it Christianity, and southern-style Christianity at that, is no stranger to parody. From Ned Flanders to the 2015 film “Brimstone”, the apocalyptic evangelism and repressed nature go hand in hand with the accents of the Bible Belt all the way from comedy to full-blown horror. While “Hand to God” is nothing new in that sense, the ingenious writing makes it all feel fresh and new, and therefore risqué, all over again. It’s a new take on the style, a new version of the subversion, a new generation of philosophical cynicism to hold a new world of extremism to scrutiny. The underlying themes of mental illness being exacerbated, rather than tempered, by association with the church, and the explosive volatility repression lends so easily to frustration and sexuality, are thinly veiled beneath a genuinely funny series of highly unusual events, which in short sees a repressed young man’s hand puppet becoming possessed by what might be his own psychosis, but may be the devil as well.
Gyton Grantley does a fantastic job for someone who has never dabbled in puppetry before. Tyrone takes on an interesting life of his own, however, it must be said that a lack of due rehearsal time was evident in his human character Jason’s relationship with Alison Whyte’s Margery…but the experienced cast did a fine job with what they had, under the ambitious direction of Gary Abrahams. Of particular note is Grant Piro’s Pastor Greg, well developed and intimately delivered character. However, everyone is well out of anyone’s standard comfort zone here, and all must be applauded for their courage and commitment to the bizarre but brilliant scenarios demanded of them by this magnificent piece of writing. Morgana O’Reilly was particularly brave, and it takes some moxie to get up there and play a part so regarded by the rest of the cast, without giving too much away.
Jacob Battista’s set designs were fantastic, and a multi-stage play managed to run from beginning to end without one scene change, due to inspired direction and planning.
“Hand to God” is a risky piece to stage, especially in today’s social environment, and risk is exactly the foundation of what’s missing from Australia’s stages and screens. If it can be married to disciplined, intimate performances and rehearsal schedules accommodating to the work required to achieve them, then we have a bright future indeed.
At the Alex Theatre
Max Davine
There is one time and one time only that glamor plays any part at all in the entertainment industry, and that’s a premiere. I mean, so what if the limos just picked everyone up from the coffee shop around the corner? As long as the cameras see opulence, fine fashion, beautiful people and fully reformed alumnus of the Betty Ford Clinic, we’re all good to go, right? Fortunately, the Alex Theatre holds its own regal presence, so that all the above pompous airs and graces needn’t be applied. What our hosts instead managed to pull off was an evening of fun and entertainment, and not just from the string band welcoming us. Swallowing our champagne for that final boost of liquid courage, we took stock of our surroundings, admired fellow audience members, amongst whom were Cassandra Macgrath, Jennifer Hansen, and the show’s producer, the prolific, multi-award-winning Kate Whitbread, and made our way into the theatre for the first Australian showing of “Hand to God”.
Having made its debut on Broadway, “Hand to God” is one of those obscure stories of a script’s runaway success. It rocked New York City’s audiences, and Whitbread, along with Aleksander Vass, had to bring to us. What we saw was indeed a powerful script, though not necessarily in the dramatic sense. Let’s face it Christianity, and southern-style Christianity at that, is no stranger to parody. From Ned Flanders to the 2015 film “Brimstone”, the apocalyptic evangelism and repressed nature go hand in hand with the accents of the Bible Belt all the way from comedy to full-blown horror. While “Hand to God” is nothing new in that sense, the ingenious writing makes it all feel fresh and new, and therefore risqué, all over again. It’s a new take on the style, a new version of the subversion, a new generation of philosophical cynicism to hold a new world of extremism to scrutiny. The underlying themes of mental illness being exacerbated, rather than tempered, by association with the church, and the explosive volatility repression lends so easily to frustration and sexuality, are thinly veiled beneath a genuinely funny series of highly unusual events, which in short sees a repressed young man’s hand puppet becoming possessed by what might be his own psychosis, but may be the devil as well.
Gyton Grantley does a fantastic job for someone who has never dabbled in puppetry before. Tyrone takes on an interesting life of his own, however, it must be said that a lack of due rehearsal time was evident in his human character Jason’s relationship with Alison Whyte’s Margery…but the experienced cast did a fine job with what they had, under the ambitious direction of Gary Abrahams. Of particular note is Grant Piro’s Pastor Greg, well developed and intimately delivered character. However, everyone is well out of anyone’s standard comfort zone here, and all must be applauded for their courage and commitment to the bizarre but brilliant scenarios demanded of them by this magnificent piece of writing. Morgana O’Reilly was particularly brave, and it takes some moxie to get up there and play a part so regarded by the rest of the cast, without giving too much away.
Jacob Battista’s set designs were fantastic, and a multi-stage play managed to run from beginning to end without one scene change, due to inspired direction and planning.
“Hand to God” is a risky piece to stage, especially in today’s social environment, and risk is exactly the foundation of what’s missing from Australia’s stages and screens. If it can be married to disciplined, intimate performances and rehearsal schedules accommodating to the work required to achieve them, then we have a bright future indeed.
Night Mother
“’Night, Mother”
At The Basin Theater
Max Davine
For a play to go for 90-minutes, and be carried entirely by two characters, without boring the audience to death, a whole lot more than the writing being as good as it gets is needed. It takes an experienced director with razor-sharp skills and two actors as deeply connected and guided by instinct as they would be where the story their own lives immediately unfolding. We already know, before the theatre doors even open, the first part is covered – Marsha Norman’s ‘Night, Mother won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1983, an exceedingly rare accomplishment for a female writer, let alone one who wrote a female two-hander dealing with the extraordinary complexities of forced cohabitation between the mother-daughter relationship being stretched beyond breaking point by the pressures of immediate grief, selfishness and the troubling subject of mental illness.
Once the doors do open, director Barry O’Neil’s set design is the first thing to jump out at us – a stage not only intricately detailed, but largely functional, is an assuring sign that Norman’s shatteringly poignant and masterfully rendered work is in good hands. But it is the actors upon whom the delivery of this beautiful work rests.
Di Kelly is clearly moved by the content of the script, but she layers her performance so as to never preempt the result, a common mistake for many an actor. Her performance could be improved by thinking less about blocking and delivery, and instead giving in to the immediate urgency – the need to reach out to her suicidal daughter. It’s a role that demands for the utter desperation of maternal love, albeit one well contained, and Kelly clearly has all the necessary tools to bring it to life truthfully. This became evident as the script progressed, and she “let go” more, so to speak - her focus seemed to shift from performing to saving Jessie, as the threat of losing her became real. It is there, that it is best.
Jen Bush is an extremely promising young actor with a skillset that exceeds her apparent age. She connects to Jessie’s resignation and the complicated set of circumstances that led her there without judgement and seemingly innately. When dealing with such subject matter, the temptation to perform is terrible, but Bush never gives in, and her performance is difficult to judge as a result – exactly what a performance should be. With training and discipline, the sky is the limit for Bush.
Barry O’Neil has undertaken an enormous task in directing Norman’s script. Written in the classic off-Broadway style, it is organic, subtle and complex as the human heartbeat. Slowly it escalates, stripping back layers until base urgency is reached and the final devastating climax can take place. It requires a level of discipline not readily available to many aspiring directors in Australia, and particularly given the precedent set by community theatre. That O’Neil doesn’t become Homer Simpson at the bat with Rodger Clemens at the pitch deserves high commendation – his choices, and those of the actors, add a tantalizing degree of risk to the normally safe-zone confines of small-town Australian theatre.
At The Basin Theater
Max Davine
For a play to go for 90-minutes, and be carried entirely by two characters, without boring the audience to death, a whole lot more than the writing being as good as it gets is needed. It takes an experienced director with razor-sharp skills and two actors as deeply connected and guided by instinct as they would be where the story their own lives immediately unfolding. We already know, before the theatre doors even open, the first part is covered – Marsha Norman’s ‘Night, Mother won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1983, an exceedingly rare accomplishment for a female writer, let alone one who wrote a female two-hander dealing with the extraordinary complexities of forced cohabitation between the mother-daughter relationship being stretched beyond breaking point by the pressures of immediate grief, selfishness and the troubling subject of mental illness.
Once the doors do open, director Barry O’Neil’s set design is the first thing to jump out at us – a stage not only intricately detailed, but largely functional, is an assuring sign that Norman’s shatteringly poignant and masterfully rendered work is in good hands. But it is the actors upon whom the delivery of this beautiful work rests.
Di Kelly is clearly moved by the content of the script, but she layers her performance so as to never preempt the result, a common mistake for many an actor. Her performance could be improved by thinking less about blocking and delivery, and instead giving in to the immediate urgency – the need to reach out to her suicidal daughter. It’s a role that demands for the utter desperation of maternal love, albeit one well contained, and Kelly clearly has all the necessary tools to bring it to life truthfully. This became evident as the script progressed, and she “let go” more, so to speak - her focus seemed to shift from performing to saving Jessie, as the threat of losing her became real. It is there, that it is best.
Jen Bush is an extremely promising young actor with a skillset that exceeds her apparent age. She connects to Jessie’s resignation and the complicated set of circumstances that led her there without judgement and seemingly innately. When dealing with such subject matter, the temptation to perform is terrible, but Bush never gives in, and her performance is difficult to judge as a result – exactly what a performance should be. With training and discipline, the sky is the limit for Bush.
Barry O’Neil has undertaken an enormous task in directing Norman’s script. Written in the classic off-Broadway style, it is organic, subtle and complex as the human heartbeat. Slowly it escalates, stripping back layers until base urgency is reached and the final devastating climax can take place. It requires a level of discipline not readily available to many aspiring directors in Australia, and particularly given the precedent set by community theatre. That O’Neil doesn’t become Homer Simpson at the bat with Rodger Clemens at the pitch deserves high commendation – his choices, and those of the actors, add a tantalizing degree of risk to the normally safe-zone confines of small-town Australian theatre.
The North Pool
“The North Pool”
At LAB Theatre
Max Davine
You come to the little side street just behind Sydney Road in Brunswick, probably thinking you’ve taken a wrong turn, there is no theatre here. You park your car, go for a little wander, and then the iconic sign jumps out at you; the black board, the intense face, half cast in shadow, the yellow stripe, and red letter: MELBOURNE ACTOR’S LAB. Almost ten years’ worth of reputation occurs to you. You’ve found the theatre, now feel that slightly nervous tingle. This is where actors work harder and are subject to the most intense training in all of Melbourne, possibly Australia. This is the only place where you can regularly come, and be grunted genuine off-Broadway quality in every aspect of the show. This is a style of theatre not available to everyone, not even in the theatrical world. The theatre by which all others in our fine city can be judged.
“The North Pool”, by Rajiv Joseph, is the first sign of Russian-inspired, New York-style grit, passion and raw honesty. It is structured in the classic style; a slow simmering, multi-layered enigma that must be unwrapped and played out layer by layer by the actors, who are challenged to create the emotion of the end product, then suppress it, hide it within the character and beneath the reams of dialogue which carry them and the audience toward the blazing crescendo. For a two-hander set entirely in a high school vice principal’s office, this is powerhouse writing. But you wouldn’t expect any less. It lives up to the traditions set down in such examples as Albee’s “The Zoo Story” and Mamet’s “American Buffalo”.
What is unexpected, to the newcomer, is the completeness to which actors Dennis Manahan and Sahil Saluja rise to the occasion, in the role of vice-principal and his interrogated new student, a middle-eastern transfer. What begins as a simple questioning peels back in slow phases, until the true nature of each is exposed, and as an audience, one can only sit and completely swept away by the two veteran Lab students. They are incredible. The only difficulty is tearing your eyes off of one to look at the other, and vice versa. Behind questions, behind political discussion, behind every verbal red-herring, the pot is slowly boiling over, and Manahan and Saluja disappear completely into the scene. That’s the thing about a great performance; you can’t judge it. You just have to try and remember that it isn’t real. But then again, it is. It’s as real to them as pain, and it becomes real to the witnesses as well.
Peter Kalos guided them with the finesse of a director who studied for twenty years with the finest living teachers the United States has to offer, they have free reign but never meander. It’s about them, but only so far as the script will permit. Manahan clearly set up his own office, and the background props and pieces are magnificent and well-placed to throw us. Saluja exists in there like its brand new to him, through the rehearsal periods for Lab theatre are long and intense. Both are impeccably cast, Kalos’ instincts are in perfect form, and he communicates them with strength and assurance.
Special mention to Frances Braithwaighte, who provided a beautiful little flute piece, and producers Natalia Nescpeca and Skye Young, who help make Lab theatre possible. Now, if you don’t mind, find some plays with decent parts for women!
Definitely don’t miss.
At LAB Theatre
Max Davine
You come to the little side street just behind Sydney Road in Brunswick, probably thinking you’ve taken a wrong turn, there is no theatre here. You park your car, go for a little wander, and then the iconic sign jumps out at you; the black board, the intense face, half cast in shadow, the yellow stripe, and red letter: MELBOURNE ACTOR’S LAB. Almost ten years’ worth of reputation occurs to you. You’ve found the theatre, now feel that slightly nervous tingle. This is where actors work harder and are subject to the most intense training in all of Melbourne, possibly Australia. This is the only place where you can regularly come, and be grunted genuine off-Broadway quality in every aspect of the show. This is a style of theatre not available to everyone, not even in the theatrical world. The theatre by which all others in our fine city can be judged.
“The North Pool”, by Rajiv Joseph, is the first sign of Russian-inspired, New York-style grit, passion and raw honesty. It is structured in the classic style; a slow simmering, multi-layered enigma that must be unwrapped and played out layer by layer by the actors, who are challenged to create the emotion of the end product, then suppress it, hide it within the character and beneath the reams of dialogue which carry them and the audience toward the blazing crescendo. For a two-hander set entirely in a high school vice principal’s office, this is powerhouse writing. But you wouldn’t expect any less. It lives up to the traditions set down in such examples as Albee’s “The Zoo Story” and Mamet’s “American Buffalo”.
What is unexpected, to the newcomer, is the completeness to which actors Dennis Manahan and Sahil Saluja rise to the occasion, in the role of vice-principal and his interrogated new student, a middle-eastern transfer. What begins as a simple questioning peels back in slow phases, until the true nature of each is exposed, and as an audience, one can only sit and completely swept away by the two veteran Lab students. They are incredible. The only difficulty is tearing your eyes off of one to look at the other, and vice versa. Behind questions, behind political discussion, behind every verbal red-herring, the pot is slowly boiling over, and Manahan and Saluja disappear completely into the scene. That’s the thing about a great performance; you can’t judge it. You just have to try and remember that it isn’t real. But then again, it is. It’s as real to them as pain, and it becomes real to the witnesses as well.
Peter Kalos guided them with the finesse of a director who studied for twenty years with the finest living teachers the United States has to offer, they have free reign but never meander. It’s about them, but only so far as the script will permit. Manahan clearly set up his own office, and the background props and pieces are magnificent and well-placed to throw us. Saluja exists in there like its brand new to him, through the rehearsal periods for Lab theatre are long and intense. Both are impeccably cast, Kalos’ instincts are in perfect form, and he communicates them with strength and assurance.
Special mention to Frances Braithwaighte, who provided a beautiful little flute piece, and producers Natalia Nescpeca and Skye Young, who help make Lab theatre possible. Now, if you don’t mind, find some plays with decent parts for women!
Definitely don’t miss.
March 13, 2019
We Are All Leaving Neverland
After the so-called "revelations" of Michael Jackson's sexual abuse of young boys in the documentary Leaving Neverland, many fans are reeling at the prospect of their beloved entertainer being such a deeply flawed individual. Some stoically defend him, while others turn away from the deceased performers' work. Amidst it all, producers of the long-running animated sitcom The Simpsons have announced that they would discontinue syndication of the first episode of their third season, entitled Stark Raving Dad, due to it having featured Jackson's voice. It is an understandable but no less interesting move on the producers' part, given the first series of sexual abuse allegations came public in 1993, only two years after the episode aired.
This taken into account, the episode itself forms an interesting perspective through which to view the intense hero-worship and borderline deification of an individual. The very cult that formed around him that would see countless people defend his innocence throughout the course of the ongoing accusations against him, the appeal that saw parents offering their children as friends to him and the wool that was pulled over so many of our eyes' in the years that would follow. Even the story of the show's production is now left with an eerie ambiance, given how it was originally conceived.
According to producer and series creator Matt Groening on the DVD commentary of Stark Raving Dad, it was Jackson who insisted upon being given a guest spot on the show. He called their office personally, childlike giggles and all, and requested that an episode, written by his own staff, be produced as a vehicle for both himself and the show, which at the time had yet to attain the dazzling success it would itself achieve in the mid to later 90's. To the creators' credit, all of Jackson's submissions were rejected, and the gambit was taken to write and have their own approved by the Jackson camp. They were successful, upon the condition that the accused pedophile would go uncredited, and that he would voice an entirely fictional character, rather than an animated avatar of himself. An intriguing piece of the show's history, given the content of the episode it would create.
After a series of falling outs within the Simpson family see Homer forcefully institutionalized in a psychiatric hospital, the Simpson father soon makes friends with a fellow inmate who, despite his towering stature, overweight physique and clearly Caucasian ethnicity, claims to be Michael Jackson (the voice of Jackson supplied). After hearing of Homer's family woes, he offers his support and advice and eventually sees Homer and the Simpson family reconciled. Out of gratitude, Homer -who spends the episode blissfully unaware of Jackson's celebrity - invites the perfect stranger into his home, after a typically Jacksonesq sequence of self-aggrandizing that could only have been added by the accused pedophile's own writing staff, given the advertising material of his concerts and music videos. It is important to note, however, that at this point, neither Simpson nor the audience know what the reason for Jackson's self-imposed institutionalization actually was, other than his own explanation, which only came after the offer of joining Homer in his home with his family. In spite of the style of comedy featured in other episodes of The Simpsons, this is never once treated as humor. Even as Jackson is left alone with Homer's son Bart all night, that very night, during which time the two write a song for Bat's sister Lisa, nobody once raises this as an issue, be it comedic or otherwise. Not even the matriarchal voice of reason Marge Simpson ever raises any alarm.
The suggestion seems to be that not only is Jackson so present in our lives and in our homes already that we trust him even with our most precious responsibilities entirely, we would actually extend the same trust to someone just because they seem to have his voice and to affect his gentle demeanor. The arrogance, in retrospect, is astonishing. Whether by design or consequent to the naivety of the time, no character questions the situation, but neither did any of the staff on The Simpsons along the way to their delivery of the episode.
Taken this into account, it becomes clearer why the show's producers are so adamant that the episode should be wiped of all its history. However, this but one example of the kind of spell that Jackson had so very many of us under. The other is the most important: Neither did any of this scenario raise any alarm among viewers. The episode holds a 13.9 Nielsen Rating, held 23 per cent of the shared audience and was viewed in some 22 million homes. It is considered by many to be the show's turning point, the moment that sent it from simple sitcom to cultural phenomenon. Nobody objected to the content publicly.
Michael Jackson didn't just groom his victims. His status as a super-celebrity, hopefully one of the last that ever exists, allowed him to build such a devoted cult around himself that he could project what charitable, kind hearted, innocent and childlike demeanor out into his followers and nobody among them would question it. Most of the world swallowed the act hook, like and sinker.
The world cannot afford to forget Stark Raving Dad. We must remember the hyperbole that elevated a man to such an untouchable status that we ignored the cries of his alleged underage victims. Like the priests and scout leaders society is gradually turning away from in the wake of their own sexual abuse accusations, we all must grow from our woshipping nature. We all must leave Neverland.
This taken into account, the episode itself forms an interesting perspective through which to view the intense hero-worship and borderline deification of an individual. The very cult that formed around him that would see countless people defend his innocence throughout the course of the ongoing accusations against him, the appeal that saw parents offering their children as friends to him and the wool that was pulled over so many of our eyes' in the years that would follow. Even the story of the show's production is now left with an eerie ambiance, given how it was originally conceived.
According to producer and series creator Matt Groening on the DVD commentary of Stark Raving Dad, it was Jackson who insisted upon being given a guest spot on the show. He called their office personally, childlike giggles and all, and requested that an episode, written by his own staff, be produced as a vehicle for both himself and the show, which at the time had yet to attain the dazzling success it would itself achieve in the mid to later 90's. To the creators' credit, all of Jackson's submissions were rejected, and the gambit was taken to write and have their own approved by the Jackson camp. They were successful, upon the condition that the accused pedophile would go uncredited, and that he would voice an entirely fictional character, rather than an animated avatar of himself. An intriguing piece of the show's history, given the content of the episode it would create.
After a series of falling outs within the Simpson family see Homer forcefully institutionalized in a psychiatric hospital, the Simpson father soon makes friends with a fellow inmate who, despite his towering stature, overweight physique and clearly Caucasian ethnicity, claims to be Michael Jackson (the voice of Jackson supplied). After hearing of Homer's family woes, he offers his support and advice and eventually sees Homer and the Simpson family reconciled. Out of gratitude, Homer -who spends the episode blissfully unaware of Jackson's celebrity - invites the perfect stranger into his home, after a typically Jacksonesq sequence of self-aggrandizing that could only have been added by the accused pedophile's own writing staff, given the advertising material of his concerts and music videos. It is important to note, however, that at this point, neither Simpson nor the audience know what the reason for Jackson's self-imposed institutionalization actually was, other than his own explanation, which only came after the offer of joining Homer in his home with his family. In spite of the style of comedy featured in other episodes of The Simpsons, this is never once treated as humor. Even as Jackson is left alone with Homer's son Bart all night, that very night, during which time the two write a song for Bat's sister Lisa, nobody once raises this as an issue, be it comedic or otherwise. Not even the matriarchal voice of reason Marge Simpson ever raises any alarm.
The suggestion seems to be that not only is Jackson so present in our lives and in our homes already that we trust him even with our most precious responsibilities entirely, we would actually extend the same trust to someone just because they seem to have his voice and to affect his gentle demeanor. The arrogance, in retrospect, is astonishing. Whether by design or consequent to the naivety of the time, no character questions the situation, but neither did any of the staff on The Simpsons along the way to their delivery of the episode.
Taken this into account, it becomes clearer why the show's producers are so adamant that the episode should be wiped of all its history. However, this but one example of the kind of spell that Jackson had so very many of us under. The other is the most important: Neither did any of this scenario raise any alarm among viewers. The episode holds a 13.9 Nielsen Rating, held 23 per cent of the shared audience and was viewed in some 22 million homes. It is considered by many to be the show's turning point, the moment that sent it from simple sitcom to cultural phenomenon. Nobody objected to the content publicly.
Michael Jackson didn't just groom his victims. His status as a super-celebrity, hopefully one of the last that ever exists, allowed him to build such a devoted cult around himself that he could project what charitable, kind hearted, innocent and childlike demeanor out into his followers and nobody among them would question it. Most of the world swallowed the act hook, like and sinker.
The world cannot afford to forget Stark Raving Dad. We must remember the hyperbole that elevated a man to such an untouchable status that we ignored the cries of his alleged underage victims. Like the priests and scout leaders society is gradually turning away from in the wake of their own sexual abuse accusations, we all must grow from our woshipping nature. We all must leave Neverland.
December 25, 2018
Goodbye 2018, amongst others.
It has been a year of changes. I’ve noticed it with friends and colleagues everywhere, and it’s interesting how major shifts in our lives seem to synchronize. For me, it’s been a year of relief in the form of goodbyes. Some were friends I still wish the very best of, some were dead weight I’m glad to be rid of, but it was all for the best. In every case, it was a matter of having held on because of the notion of friendship as a moral obligation. It seems to me that in the same way people cling to marriages that are no longer serving them, or have even become dangerous for them, we hang on to friendships because we feel obligation by tradition.
Don’t get me wrong here. Nothing is more important that friendship. But what actually constitutes friendship?
For example, one friend I got rid of recently I’d known since we were nine years old. We had a number of mutual friends, and I guess because we’d invested so long in knowing each other, we thought of one another as just part of life. But he was an opinionated, bigoted racist. He voted no on our same sex plebiscite. He called me a “faggot” out of anger. He argued that black people bring the unfair reputation the American judicial system has labelled them with on themselves. He’d trash every form of feminism, and he has a daughter. He was not my kind of guy. But what was he doing around me? Why was I hearing these abhorrent views and being subject to a barrage of hateful insults whenever I challenged them? Well, we were mates. I’d known him since I was nine. By golly, I’m glad I don’t know him anymore.
Another example was some I was very close to. I had entered with romantic intent, but she’d taken a year to make up her mind and then when she did, she first decided we could be a couple, then withdrew via text message. It hurt, but I felt ashamed to say no to a friendship. I like being around her and I valued what she added to my life. But as well as this, she often told me how valuable her time was. How special it was that I got to partake of her precious time. Then, as months rolled by, I only heard from her when it was a favour she needed. She played the helpless one – there was me and another friend, we were the only ones she could depend upon. So I gave up my time, which was evidently not valuable, to look after her son and to drive her from one end of town to another for a publicity thing she was attempting, only to find out that all this time, she had a boyfriend. Of sorts. Not only this, but he knew all her other friends and her parents. So, he could have been looking after her son. He could have been driving her to this and that thing at all hours of the night. “But it’s just a casual thing” she’d say – then why keep him secret? She didn’t think I’d help her if I knew? Why not mention him, and say that he’s too shit to help her? That’s called lying. It’s manipulative and wrong. When I said as much, she called me “toxic” and said she didn’t want me in her life – via text again, of course. She’s since told friends that it was because I was still trying to couple with her. Actually, I can do better than a lying fraud.
You’d think I’d be hurt but in truth, the relief I felt was unimaginable. I’m smiling as I type this to think that she’s gone. It’s been four months since I heard about how lucky I was and how valuable her time was.
Lastly, there was another man I’d known since childhood. One who’d slipped into such a state of alcohol and drug dependence that he thought nothing of bringing meth to the house I was living in and sharing it with recovering addicts, undoing the work they’d put into their own lives for however long. Regardless of what was at stake for them. He urinated all over my bathroom floor and tried to use my towel to clean it up. He trashed my house repeatedly. His selfishness knew no bounds, but that’s addiction. This was a hard one, because you need friends when you’re so much in the grips of destructive addiction. But friends also need to know when their presence isn’t helping. My forgiveness was giving him leave to go and do it all again. For both our sakes, I had to back away.
In all three instances I’ve broken the sacred rules of friendship. You forgive your mates, you be friends when the lady rejects you and you stand by them no matter what. But I was damaging myself and, in one case, damaging someone else as well. I know how much I value friends, and amongst my current circle are people views I disagree with, women who’ve rejected me romantically and people with emotional problems. But these three, amongst others, took my kindness and abused it. They stretched friendship to its extreme, and it broke.
There comes a time when we have to walk away. A cruel friendship can be just as damaging as a bad relationship. As society revaluates what a relationship truly is, maybe it’s time to think about what a friendship really is as well.
Don’t get me wrong here. Nothing is more important that friendship. But what actually constitutes friendship?
For example, one friend I got rid of recently I’d known since we were nine years old. We had a number of mutual friends, and I guess because we’d invested so long in knowing each other, we thought of one another as just part of life. But he was an opinionated, bigoted racist. He voted no on our same sex plebiscite. He called me a “faggot” out of anger. He argued that black people bring the unfair reputation the American judicial system has labelled them with on themselves. He’d trash every form of feminism, and he has a daughter. He was not my kind of guy. But what was he doing around me? Why was I hearing these abhorrent views and being subject to a barrage of hateful insults whenever I challenged them? Well, we were mates. I’d known him since I was nine. By golly, I’m glad I don’t know him anymore.
Another example was some I was very close to. I had entered with romantic intent, but she’d taken a year to make up her mind and then when she did, she first decided we could be a couple, then withdrew via text message. It hurt, but I felt ashamed to say no to a friendship. I like being around her and I valued what she added to my life. But as well as this, she often told me how valuable her time was. How special it was that I got to partake of her precious time. Then, as months rolled by, I only heard from her when it was a favour she needed. She played the helpless one – there was me and another friend, we were the only ones she could depend upon. So I gave up my time, which was evidently not valuable, to look after her son and to drive her from one end of town to another for a publicity thing she was attempting, only to find out that all this time, she had a boyfriend. Of sorts. Not only this, but he knew all her other friends and her parents. So, he could have been looking after her son. He could have been driving her to this and that thing at all hours of the night. “But it’s just a casual thing” she’d say – then why keep him secret? She didn’t think I’d help her if I knew? Why not mention him, and say that he’s too shit to help her? That’s called lying. It’s manipulative and wrong. When I said as much, she called me “toxic” and said she didn’t want me in her life – via text again, of course. She’s since told friends that it was because I was still trying to couple with her. Actually, I can do better than a lying fraud.
You’d think I’d be hurt but in truth, the relief I felt was unimaginable. I’m smiling as I type this to think that she’s gone. It’s been four months since I heard about how lucky I was and how valuable her time was.
Lastly, there was another man I’d known since childhood. One who’d slipped into such a state of alcohol and drug dependence that he thought nothing of bringing meth to the house I was living in and sharing it with recovering addicts, undoing the work they’d put into their own lives for however long. Regardless of what was at stake for them. He urinated all over my bathroom floor and tried to use my towel to clean it up. He trashed my house repeatedly. His selfishness knew no bounds, but that’s addiction. This was a hard one, because you need friends when you’re so much in the grips of destructive addiction. But friends also need to know when their presence isn’t helping. My forgiveness was giving him leave to go and do it all again. For both our sakes, I had to back away.
In all three instances I’ve broken the sacred rules of friendship. You forgive your mates, you be friends when the lady rejects you and you stand by them no matter what. But I was damaging myself and, in one case, damaging someone else as well. I know how much I value friends, and amongst my current circle are people views I disagree with, women who’ve rejected me romantically and people with emotional problems. But these three, amongst others, took my kindness and abused it. They stretched friendship to its extreme, and it broke.
There comes a time when we have to walk away. A cruel friendship can be just as damaging as a bad relationship. As society revaluates what a relationship truly is, maybe it’s time to think about what a friendship really is as well.
