Tuesday, February 03, 2004
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Melbourne theatre in the 80s and early 90s
This 2-in-1 review reminded me of how Melbourne’s indy theatre scene has descended from being a highlight of my life* about 15 years ago, to today’s occasional chore. A playgoer’s takeaway “goody” bag with a syringe in it? For fuck’s sake! The shame is that I saw one of these plays (Homme Fatale) a few years ago – and it was good, if a bit relentlessly dark.
In 2004, the post-show handing out of syringes, is presumably seen as a (cheap) way of freshening-up a production that can, and should, more than stand-up on its own two feet – res ipsa loquitur. Oh, and the tickets this time around, at $30 ($27 conc) are way too expensive for those of us who are just getting by in syringe-on-footpath raddled inner suburbs. The junkies, meanwhile – judging by their insouciant disposal habits – somehow live in a world of endless plenty.
Even more of a shame is that Barry Lowe, the playwright barely mentioned in Helen Thomson’s review, is a writer of immense talent (judging by another play of his I have seen) who should be well-above such controversy-cranking gimmickry. The Death Of Peter Pan (1989) was deeply subversive, done as an Edwardian set-piece, and above all, very, very funny.
* I mean as spectator, only (although my interest was probably heightened by going to uni with many of the “scene” at the time.
Melbourne theatre in the 80s and early 90s
This 2-in-1 review reminded me of how Melbourne’s indy theatre scene has descended from being a highlight of my life* about 15 years ago, to today’s occasional chore. A playgoer’s takeaway “goody” bag with a syringe in it? For fuck’s sake! The shame is that I saw one of these plays (Homme Fatale) a few years ago – and it was good, if a bit relentlessly dark.
In 2004, the post-show handing out of syringes, is presumably seen as a (cheap) way of freshening-up a production that can, and should, more than stand-up on its own two feet – res ipsa loquitur. Oh, and the tickets this time around, at $30 ($27 conc) are way too expensive for those of us who are just getting by in syringe-on-footpath raddled inner suburbs. The junkies, meanwhile – judging by their insouciant disposal habits – somehow live in a world of endless plenty.
Even more of a shame is that Barry Lowe, the playwright barely mentioned in Helen Thomson’s review, is a writer of immense talent (judging by another play of his I have seen) who should be well-above such controversy-cranking gimmickry. The Death Of Peter Pan (1989) was deeply subversive, done as an Edwardian set-piece, and above all, very, very funny.
* I mean as spectator, only (although my interest was probably heightened by going to uni with many of the “scene” at the time.
