Theatre Review: Question Time in the House of Representatives ~ 27th June 2013

"Back To the Future  III: Return Of The Master"

 

Was it all a bad dream? How did we fall prey to such an illusion? Has this company finally found its feet after three long years in the wilderness? Today's Question Time saw the return of former matinee idol and teen-hero Kevin Rudd in the role that made him famous. And to the surprise of many he took to the stage with nary a hint that three long years have elapsed since he last trod these hallowed boards. 

Even the Sky News commentary team, long soaked in the titanic struggle of the media's sourness over a hung parliament and no familiar script to cling to, were left bemused, befuddled and be-Kevined. 

"It's as if no time at all has passed..." they bumbled. "It's uncanny, he's so lifelike!"

Indeed. With the return of Rudd the old song burst forth anew. Prepared, polished, Dorothy Dixers all in a row, the once and future PM strode out in an expectant hush. And they never laid a glove on 'im.

Gillard was a deal maker, Abbott a fighter. And in the drama and horror of the last three years the company lurched from Greek drama to French farce. Castigated as the Wicked Witch, Dame Julia gave an honest, creditable, if at times misapplied performance as the honest broker, the deal maker who could knit up the raveled sleeve of Australian politics. The reviews were appalling. Miscast, perhaps, in a country where testicles are considered vital to the role of tyrant, her Lady Macbeth strove to avoid a bloody end, ultimately to Noah Vail, a small town in a country not unlike our own.

Rudd, meanwhile, had spent three years in a traveling repertory company polishing his Richard III, humped with a massive chip on his be-suited shoulder, embittered, if quietly, but determined to play a combination of Don Quixote and Biggles Flies Below The Radar. Overseas tours as the Knight in The Seventh Seal appears to have done nothing to diminish his ability, nor his ambition. Today he came home to the House.

If Gillard (Oh, how I shall miss her) is a deal maker, and Abbott the pugilist, Rudd is undoubtedly a cosmically inspired blend of Steele Rudd's Best Mate; Arthur, King of All Australia; and Galahad the Pure. This shining mix, all too forgivable for past excesses, is bouyed up by impressive stagecraft. 

He's harder to hit than Muhammad Ali in his prime, smoother than the bottom of a Harry Jenkin's pants, more resolutely innocent and well-meaning than ever before, Harry Potter Redux, ready to tackle an Opposition Leader who's recent role as the Smiling Eunuch Who'd Never Tax A Fly is completely out of tune with this new production.

The Opposition, delighted with the fall of Desdemona, seemed stunned, uncertain, lack-lustre in what should have been a concerted statement of intent. In recent weeks the Furies, led by J Bishop in her vintage hair-helmet, had done effective work in both inflating the Coalition's claims to feminist credibility (a hell of a trick in anyone's book) and in providing the teeth in the old dog's bite. But not today. Abbott's questions were limp, uninspired, flatulent. 

His cohorts fared no better. Whipped into a tizzy, the Member for Sturt, Carlos the Jackass (C Pyne) wheedled until his outrage became a high-pitched whine, unbearable to the human ear. The Speaker was forced to eject him under rule 97(c)'s 'Get out you annoying little tit' clause. 

Only in the minutes before the curtain fell did any blows appear to land. When a question on the "pink batts dead baby affair" leapt onto the stage, swinging an axe. For a moment our hero looked vulnerable. But no. Side stepping easily, pleading a grief for the dead too noble to bear, Kevin ducked, weaved and saw off the only threat in the hour. Two Coalition members choked in apoplectic rage, and were also ejected as much for their sake as anything else.

Act Two "A Matter Of Public Insignificance."

Question time had not gone well. But in calling on a debate on A.M.O.P.I, - the no-confidence vote you have when you're not having a no-confidence vote, Abbott sought to rise from the arena's bloodied sands and carry the fight to his nemesis.  But again, his blows were limp-wristed and failed to connect. Desperately, Abbott called on the media to take the attack to Rudd, apparently uncertain of the new script, and out of form in his preferred role of eye-gouging knee biter. Antoninus Severus Pugilator may yet return but so far he's still MIA, Missing, Intellectually Absent.

His attacks appear to cause severe confusion in his own mind, particularly as he's spent so many months playing Cuddly Tony, 'like a big warm hug for the whole electorate'. Stumbling forward like a blind Cyclops he also fell into a trap laid earlier by King Kevin: a challenge, a gauntlet hurled down with force, to debate policy (yes, policy!) at the National Press Club. This bodes, and probably ill.

Meanwhile, King Kevin rolled on without missing a beat, a step, an opportunity to score points in every round. Can he be human? Can he be stopped? Can I stay awake any longer in this Back To The Future III re-run? 

.

Dear Julia, Thanks for your leadership, and example.

 

"If there is something I hope I have done for the image of women in public life is that we can go into an adversarial environment like parliament and we can dominate it and conquer it."

Dear Julia,

Polls, parties and politics aside, thank you for your inspirational and epoch making leadership as Prime Minister. Six years ago when you first became Deputy Leader I wrote to you confidently predicting you would be the first female Prime Minister of Australia. Who could have predicted how that would come about, and how incredibly difficult a period this would become?

Throughout it all I have been a strong supporter of yours, and remain so today. You have been the most inspirational, ground-breaking, and personally principled leader in the ALP for many years. Not since Paul Keating have I been so impressed, not by policies or vision, but by character, courage and personal integrity.

I well remember sitting in the gallery with my three daughters watching you in the Senate chamber when Workchoices was voted down. Your joy in this achievement was a solid example of the value of politics in making a positive difference in peoples lives. I was delighted that they got to see you and Penny Wong congratulating each other.

Your achievements in the Gonski Education reforms, and in resurrecting the Government's direction and purpose when you became leader neatly bookend an all too short period in power, but one with a record of policy achievement that will in time be recognised as outstanding. That Gonski was finally legislated today, before the spill, is a tribute to your determination and drive to improve this nation and iconic of your focus on achievement no matter how hard the road may be personally.  An enduring legacy will be the results of the Royal Commission on Child Abuse. This will address a wound in the nation's psyche that no Australian leader has had the courage to address.

Your consummate political skill in 'the art of the possible' when establishing a minority government while Tony Abbott spluttered and fumed in his anger at the electorate for not handing him a clear victory was not only a deeply satisfying moment for me in seeing the Tories outdone, but also a lesson I could pass on to my daughters on the importance of being decisive, purposeful and focussed on your goals when opportunities come along. That you were in this position because of spiteful, petulant behaviour by ALP people who leaked information to damage you personally is shameful, but also a lesson on how far there is for the party to go in dealing with women in power.

Beyond personal style, personal animosities or factional positions I firmly believe that the extraordinary character of the endless smearing, shaming (attempted), and vile personal attacks on you are rooted in a deep fear of female power and a knee-jerk Australian misogyny that is so embedded in the culture it will take many years to uproot. You, however, have done far more than any one person could be reasonably expected to do in fighting this form of social malaise. 

When you made your famous 15 minute 'I will not be lectured on misogyny' speech I was in America, and so out of the reach of Australian media reaction, which was clearly shameful and testosterone driven. What was even more gratifying was the way in which that speech was so inspiring to women and girls around the world. That YouTube video had more watchers than any other political speech of any length anywhere in the world. The reaction of people in America and Canada who I met was not only strongly supportive, but also deeply impressed at your anger, passion, clarity of thought and self-control. It made me very proud that your sterling qualities, your world-class capabilities were recognised by people outside the Australian context.

I think you would do well to consider traveling outside Australia to lecture on feminism, pragmatism and politics. I am certain you would be well-received. It's also important to keep in mind that this country is very small, and very narrow minded. You may well have outgrown it. Certainly you have the talent, the record of achievement and the time to consider other ways to make a difference in the world.

It will be interesting to see whether the current determined mass media campaign against the government will continue in its current vein, given the change in leadership. I suspect that those who own and run the media will continue to fight the facts and focus on installing a Tory government no matter what.

Whatever the case, you have my thanks and my admiration. I haven't always agreed with your policy choices, but your personal qualities have always impressed me. You will always be a role model for my daughters. Your example to them both in grace under pressure, and in strength of character under the most appalling personal vilification will be a powerful memory for them and a solid reminder that there is much left to do in this country and around the world in putting women's rights, talents and opportunities in the forefront of social change and advancement.

You will always have my respect, admiration and support.

Best regards, Lee Kear

Theatre Reviews: "Phèdre" and "The Maids" Sydney.

"Phèdre" ~ Bell Shakespeare Company
Sydney Opera House.

The tag line on the poster advertising the Bell Shakespeare Company's production of Racine's Phèdre is "I have confessed an appetite that is unspeakable". Replace the word appetite with performance and you have the unspeakable truth. Last night's performance was one of the most entertaining experiences I've ever had in a theatre, for all the wrong reasons. This was so bad it transcended itself. It was hilarious, ridiculous, unbelievable. I absolutely loved it.

I won't name the actors. That would be pointlessly cruel. But I will say that they all began with the same affliction. They appeared to be spouting the Ted Hughes' translation while attempting to shit marble to ensure their classical integrity. Once this nervous start was over they settled into a series of disconnected monologues, competing with each other to sound as disconnected from the surging (presumably) emotions so well concealed in their heaving bosoms. And that was just the men.

Hippolytus fairly vibrated with suppressed something or other. Either that or he suffered from a mild attack of Parkinson's disease, interspersed with catatonic periods when he appeared to be channeling a primary schooler attempting to dislodge a thesaurus from his sinus cavity. Yes, I know that classical acting involved wearing a mask and declaiming with little actual movement. But there were no masks, beyond the binary code of alternating distemper and mild bilious attack.

Phèdre looks at Hippolytus like a mantis contemplating sex, or lunch.

Theramene, his mate, was more naturalistic, resembling a laconic Aussie auto-mechanic charged with delivering the fateful news about what the Gods have done to your gearbox. But he was a Tonto without a Lone Ranger. His ordinariness well-crafted, but wasted.

The ladies, ah, the ladies. Phèdre herself also suffered the binary affliction. She was either declaiming in a monotonous, and almost impenetrable gabble or SHOUTING, which would be all the passionate bits. In brief these were: Incest (technically), infidelity, remorse, guilt, shame, wretched abasement at the feet of  the object of her inflamed passion (Ooh, that looks nasty luv, I should get that seen to), despair, spiteful recrimination, self-pity, self-regard, self-disgust, self-regard (again).

She conquered them all with one technique: Veering between breathless decanting of her entire vocabulary and SHOUTING, SHOUTING REALLY LOUD and OCCASIONALLY HURLING HERSELF ONTO THE FURNITURE. Which showed stamina, but not discrimination. No nuance beyond volume, no light and shade beyond belting it out at full blast and then, not.

That was it really. 

The urge to yell, "Oh, for fucks sake, you're supposed to have the hots for this kid .. at least look at him and stop writhing on the floor like a limbo dancer with vertigo!" was hard to contain. But, in the finest tragedic tradition, I didn't give in.

The other ladies. Well, best left unsaid really. The blonde ingenue was well cast, and her hair was nice. Her mate was a 70s girl I once knew called Julie, who was enthusiastic but a bit dim. She nailed the accent, and the shoes. Beyond that, she has the kudos of working with Australia's premier classical theatre company, for what that's worth.

Phèdre's co-conspirator, Oenone, the nurse, almost destroyed the entire production, no doubt by accident. Her conspiratorial confidences were delivered with the suppressed excitement and breathless tones that would have been entirely appropriate in a pantomime. I stifled a snort in the first act, I didn't want to be the first to burst out laughing (cowardice on my part). Later, and the audience had thinned out considerably after the break, there was actual laughter scattered throughout the audience in the moments of high tragedy. The urge to yell out, "Oh no he didn't!" when she accused brave Hippolytus of rape was almost unbearable. Once that thought had crossed my mind it quickly ran back to centre stage and set up camp:

Mighty Theseus has returned!

"Look behind you! He's behind you!"

Hippolytus loves Aricia... 

"Oh no he doesn't!"

"Oh yes he does!" and so on...

The return of mighty Theseus provoked a slim hope that an actor we hadn't seen yet might prove immune to the endlessdeclamationofreallybigwords and the asking-a-question-and-not-waiting-for-an-answer-before-ploughing-on-with-the-monologue. But no. Striding manfully on in a cheap suit that was clearly too small he became mighty Theseus by SHOUTING LOUDER THAN ANYONE HAD SHOUTED BEFORE .. A LOT.. REALLY A LOT.. then appearing to nod off while listening to the harrowing account of his son's death. 

I haven't had this much fun in a theatre for years. 

On the positive side..? Hmm.

Well the set was nice, very Belle Époque, fin-de-sale at an Italian furniture importer. But if you're going to bring the set to somewhere within a bull's roar of Racine's period why update the costume to seedy Sydney nightlife circa 1993? Why dress an anorexic Phèdre in hooker heels? Why have the Chorus wear a blouse made from a David Jones' bag, and have a black bra underneath it's semi-opaque, 'suburban haus-frau on Valium hanging about a bit' look? She stood there for two hours looking like the lady from the perfume counter, lost without her samples.

The music crashed about to indicate the beginning and end of acts and scenes. God knows this was the only indication. The director (who had an assistant director who did God knows what) should be dragged behind a chariot until mighty Neptune, angered and aroused by mighty Theseus's outrage doest smite him with a mighty smiting, and anything else he can lay his mighty hands on.

Go see this play. Really. It's absolutely hilarious.

This afternoon it's Cate Blanchett and Isabelle Huppert in "The Maids". I can hardly wait.

Later... (suspense filled pause ...)

"The Maids" ~ Sydney Theatre Company.

What a difference a day makes, and a play that's attacked with gusto, and by talented actors in full command of their craft. Jean Genet's "The Maids" was totally different. Brilliant, brisk, powerful and demanding, and awash with talent, luxury, perversion, eroticism etc.. Opening in a plush rectangular apartment, a goldfish tank with real glass walls, there was no slowing down for the weak or hard of understanding. Blanchett and Huppert opened with Cate playing narcissism for all it was worth at a dressing table mirror and Isabelle, in her maid's outfit, lying on a bed and lazily swinging her legs in the air. Yoga, Pilates, open-legged eroticism and playful insouciance all before she's even stood up. Maybe it's being French and knowing what insouciance actually is. Maybe it's just good acting.

About ten minutes in and said  Isabelle Huppert takes Cate Blanchett by the hair, sticks her face in a toilet and flushes her powder and rouge away. The said Miss B rises pale and naked from the throat up splashed in nude horror onto a video screen hanging above the set. Outstanding. Honest, splashy and a wake up call for the audience. Things grew more progressively more perverse, kinky, slutty, bitter, angry, stupid, petty and mean-spirited from there on. Superb!

Madame ~ Elizabeth Debicki

When after half an hour the third character (Madame, the employer of our two ugly sisters) arrives you realize for the first time that whoever she is she's going to have to take up a dominating role as The Mistress against Blanchett and Huppert. You hold your breath.. Can she do it? Answer: Yes, with aplomb and style, self-satisfied, loud and utterly self-absorbed in that way the rich have. She prowls in in sunglasses and furs, direct from doing just that at Cannes. You breathe again.. 

 

Huppert is great, a small and intense Piaf figure mixing comedic touches seamlessly into a character without remorse, balance or contact with reality. By contrast Blanchett is loud, terrified of their mutual pact of twisted eroticism, and wracked with Catholic guilt. Lovely work, not overplayed, and yet still vulnerable when you least expect it.

 

"I don't know what normal is" … Isabelle Huppert. (She lies!)

 

The final scene reprises the Sado-masochism of  the first but takes it from a comedie of eros to deadly seriousness in a way that is both touching and filled with nihilism and despair, that spiritless yet animated state which is so hard to portray. Blanchett does it effortlessly, true to despair's own inertia and fatalism. Lovely work. I actually cared about what happened to her.

Huppert's accent is a struggle, but in a French play that's fine. It's our job to make the effort. She is by turns drab, bullying, and strangely alluring in her anti-heroic ordinariness. A harpy with human teeth, a charmless killer. She evokes the Monica Lewinsky response: how could someone so unimportant destroy lives and careers with her sick, inept and ultimately boring  but sexually charged irrelevance. You may not want to fuck her, but you're intensely curious as to why someone else might (the two maids fight over who gets the unseen gardener as a shag-object).

 

All told a tour de force in a little over two hours. Your money's worth and no mistake. See it if you can. These three actors will have long, large screen careers. Two already have. To see them work this hard, this well and manage to combine live theatre AND  film acting in one performance is a rare offering. You'll be glad you were there.