Vamp
Merlyn Theatre, CUB Malthouse
September 4 - 22, 2008

Meow Meow enters from the audience. She wears black fishnet tights, and a shimmering silver gown with matching sparkled eye shadow. She wails and smokes as she puts her leg up on an audience member’s chair, thrusting her crotch into the old lady’s face. The actress grabs the head of her dead boyfriend.

This is Vamp. Part cabaret, part concert, and part morbid indulgence.

Meow Meow is an entity. She is award winning, has traveled the world, and well known in Melbourne from her performances at The Famous Spigeltent in 2005 and 2006. She is larger than life. She fills the room with her presence, her personality, her songs, laughter and mischief.

In a smaller room, or a different atmosphere, this would have been enough. But this is a full-scale production, complete with a large staircase up the centre, elaborate couture (set and costumes designed by Anna Tregloan), a five-piece band, and a harness, which allows her to fly. Added to this are many references to previous femme fatales - Eve being tempted by the snake and Oscar Wilde’s version of the Salome story, to name a couple.

As spectacular as this all sounds, it just didn’t seem to fit. Not to say that in their own right every element wasn’t stunningly executed. But it just wasn’t the right venue, or the right mix.

First, the average age of the audience was around 60, probably subscribers and wealthy to take a guess (I did go on a Wednesday evening), and they didn’t seem to want to participate in Meow’s antics. Her frequent pleas for help and her murmurs of “it’s going to be a long night” didn’t make an impact.

Then, the venue itself: The Malthouse’s Merlyn Theatre is a large round room in which the seating is moved around to suit the production. With the decision to make the audience around three sides of the jetted-out stage, came the decision to exclude close to two thirds of the audience from seeing the special effect created by Meow Meow flying through the air in a harness with the backdrop of a large moon (which I imagine would have been amazing had I been sitting head on to see it).

The original music by Meow and Iain Grandage was haunting, if a bit boring at times. I wish the talented band members (Orchestra of Wild Dogs - Sam Anning, Iain Grandage, Martin Kay, Igor Oskolkov, Ben Vanderwal) had a more upfront presence. Being relegated to the back corners didn’t give them the credit they deserved - a more prominent position might also have helped with more interaction between Meow and the musicians.

There were some really striking moments. Her final song (although it wasn’t original - a Radiohead cover, I believe), where she just stood and sang, was eerily touching. And Meow was lit beautifully as she flew higher and higher, with a black lace veil wrapped over her head and shoulders, up from the ground (even from the side - credit to lighting designer Paul Jackson).

The costumes were characters in themselves. At one point Meow Meow made her entrance from a door in the Moon wearing a black tutu with small, amputated doll arms and legs attached to it. In another instance she entered with a neon red fox stole, ending on one side with tiny heads of perhaps those same dolls.

There were also some funny moments - the money shot comes to mind. Her interaction with the audience was precious, although it started to get a bit old after the first few attempts because her choice was pretty much restricted to the first row (which unfortunately included one creepy man who tried to feel Meow up).

Meow’s voice is striking, and its presence grand. But it became overly staged (I’m not sure whether this is due to director Michael Kantor). A more intimate venue where the audience could eat, drink and feel freer to interact would have suited her better. I would happily sacrifice the cool special effects for more connection to what Meow and her version of the tragic Vamp is all about.

Note: I wish I’d read the program notes, especially regarding Oscar Wilde’s version of Salome’s story, before I saw the production. They help explain some of the more obscure references.

Red Sky Morning
Red Stitch Actors Theatre
August 27 - September 27, 2008

A vicious dog, a fart and a pulsating pimple. This is how the day begins.

Three inner monologues tell the raw thoughts of a father, a mother and a daughter. In one day a lot can be considered and not said to those we love - even when we desperately need to reach out.

Red Sky Morning, the new play by Red Stitch playwright-in-residence Tom Holloway, is three interlocking monologues by a man (David Whiteley), his wife (Sarah Sutherland), and his teenage daughter (Erin Dewar). It is one day in the life of this family. To tell anymore would diminish the tender experience of discovering their secrets for yourself.

Developed in conjunction with ensemble cast members and director/dramaturge Sam Strong, and a result of the Red Stitch Writers program, this is new, exciting Australian modern theatre. The words are striking in their honesty. They are real people in crisis - they could be our neighbour, our friend, or our child’s classmate.

The characters speak directly to the audience and never once interact with each other. Yet their stories entwine together. The dialogue changes speed and rhythm like a piece of music. Sometimes they speak alone, sometimes all at the same time, and sometimes they answer each other’s pauses.

This can get tricky, and perhaps there was too much sound; at times it was hard to pick out a single voice within the harmony. Their jumbled words during the middle of the production could have used a more central focus - one speech to rise above the others.

As well, Whiteley’s sole male voice was frequently drowned out by the higher pitch of the two females. This was not helped by his position upstage on many occasions and the lower lighting on his face. His most dramatic scenes came seemed a little out of place, lacking the buildup the women were able to produce.

However, this is only a small issue. And perhaps we needed these moments of cacophony.

Each actor was comfortable in his or her character’s skin and confident with the lyrical script (perhaps due to their working alongside Holloway and Strong to develop this play). I believed in them, and in their family. There was humour and intensity when needed.

The functional set, designed by Peter Mumford, was a room with a sole table, two chairs, and one coffee mug. This area was bordered by floor-to-ceiling cream-coloured venetian blinds, which the actors opened and closed, lifted up and brought down, letting us into their heads and lives and bringing us back out again.

Red Sky Morning is a commentary on our society and a candid look into the modern family unit. It is also a beautifully sincere story about three people and the pressure and problems they face dealing with existence.

This world premiere production was raw, real and human. It left me wondering: how many of us spend our lives in our own inner thoughts and never really say what we want or need to those we love - even in times of crisis? And if we don’t speak out, will our lives continue the same daily cycles or will our problems eventually explode regardless?

Altar Boyz
Athenaeum Theatre
August 13 - September 13

When I was 15, I went to my friend’s youth group at the local church. There was lots of singing and dancing, laughing and preaching. The music was pretty, their enthusiasm was commendable, but I just wasn’t buying what they were selling.

This is what I felt sitting in the half-empty, less-than-rowdy audience of the Altar Boyz at the Athenaeum Theatre last Friday night. The actors were talented, the music was nice, but I just had to stop listening to the lyrics.

Played out as if a real tour of a striving Christian boy-band, the five performers sang, danced and told their story - well, at least what little story there was to tell.

Each character was a stereotype - the closet gay who is in love with another member of the band; the token ethnic searching for his family and heritage; the rapper who had to take some time off to go to rehab; the goody-goody leader; and the Jew (alright, so maybe the last one doesn’t quite fit).

Supported by a live band onstage, they sang lines such as “Jesus called me on my cell phone” and “Girl you make me want to wait”. And don’t tell me there is not a more serious ‘lesson’ in this supposed satire with lines like: “People don’t go to church no more. They’re scared of acting like fools… Kneel and say a prayer to Jesus. Kneel and wash your sins away.”

The cast (Dion Bilios, Tim Maddren, Jeremy Brennan, Andrew Koblar, and Keane Fletcher - understudy playing the role of Juan) was the saving grace in the production. They were an endearing ensemble, supporting each other in situations such as improvising responses to audience confessions (which, on the night I was there, involved some of the funniest moments as Juan discussed his love for donkeys in reply to a confession about touching another person’s arse). By the end of the performance I felt sorry that the actors had to make a living attempting to engage an audience with nothing besides a few callouts and the “Soul Sensor DX-12″ machine apparently saving our souls throughout the 90-minute production.

Altar Boyz opened off-Broadway in 2005 and has won numerous awards since then. It is marketed as “the longest running, critically acclaimed off-Broadway musical in years.” I can understand how this production would work a lot better in America than in Australia. The fanatical side of Christianity is less than apparent in Melbourne’s alternative scene.

To be fair, my colleague went to see the production the following night and loved it. She said that it must have offended my agnostic sensibilities. Maybe it did. Or maybe the surface dialogue, cheesy storyline and cringe-worthy lyrics offended my theatrical sensibilities.

Luke Steele
The Toff in Town
August 5, 2008

The Sleepy Jackson are among the most revered alt-pop talents in Australia, so naturally when I heard that Luke Steele - the creative force behind the band - was coming to Melbourne as part of his first ever solo tour, I bought tickets with great anticipation.

Not much had been said about the direction The Sleepy Jackson would take after the band’s 2006 release Personality: One Was a Spider. One Was a Bird. But it was announced earlier this year that Steele would be pushing the band aside for some album collaborations with PNAU and Daniel Johns. These are exciting prospects, but Tuesday night’s performance was more of a retrospective than a groundbreaking insight into what the future holds.

What was most enticing about the gig was the promise of hearing Steele’s music boiled down to just an acoustic guitar and vocals. It was an exercise in making the complex simple; an intimate, unembellished affair.

You Are So Cold, Miles Away and Acid in My Heart worked perfectly in the minimalist performance. But it was the previously production-heavy tracks such as Good Dancers and Rain Falls For Wind that transferred across with the most style. Adjusting these songs as required, Steele managed to intertwine them with the melodies of the more acoustically suited tracks to create some impressive, seamless medleys.

Hearing tracks that are distinct in their recorded state become almost one and same gives you an insight to what Steele and The Sleepy Jackson do in the studio. Behind the group’s swirling vocal harmonies and string accompaniments sit some wonderfully simple songs.

On stage, these accoustic versions played out beautifully and propelled Steele’s vocals to the fore. From bass through to soprano, he pulled it off.

As expected, there was an eccentric side lurking beneath surface of Steel’s performance. Looping together some improv drum beats and guitar snippets, the music ventured from time to time towards the avant-garde, complemented by tales about marriage and children.

Then, after a relaxed hour of songs, with a few newbies thrown in, the audience was set adrift with a whimsical encore of What a Wonderful World.

Acolytes
Melbourne International Film Festival (full coverage here)
August 1 and August 2, 2008

There’s no great history of traditional, mainstream genre films in Australia. For the brave few who do try, there will always be comparisons to the Hollywood movies that came before. John Hewitt’s thriller Acolytes will probably suffer the same fate, but, comparisons aside, the film does exactly what you would hope a thriller would do - it frightens.

Partly inspired by the crimes of Western Australian serial killers David and Catherine Birnie, the film follows the lives of James, Mark and Chasley, three teenagers living in the outer fringe of Brisbane suburbia. It’s a fearful setting that juxtaposes the apparent safety of a well-manicured neighborhood with the haunting remoteness of a local pine plantation.

Afflicted by years of suffering at the hands of local bully Gary Parker, Mark and James happen upon an unlikely opportunity for vengeance. Discovering the body of a Canadian backpacker and eventually the identity of the killer, the pair begin to flirt with the idea that the killer’s fate is now in their hands. James convinces Mark and Chasley that the power they now hold can be used to blackmail the killer into ‘dealing’ with their bully.

But the tides quickly turn, seeing James, Mark and Chasley lured into the violent world of serial killer, Ian Wright.

Acolytes is a film that rigorously follows the formula of its genre; it’s fast paced, low on dialogue and has enough suspense to run your adrenal glands dry. The element of fear is unrelenting throughout the film, achieved through the scattering of sudden, blurry flashbacks, and a chilling soundtrack that leaves you skeptical of even the most visually tranquil scenes.

But the scare tactics also run deeper. Joel Edgeton is truly frightening as Wright - his calm and confident approach to his circumstances in the film helps build a character whose morose activity is clearly an obsession feeding off a desire for perfection.

Michael Dorman, Sebastian Gregory and Hannah Mangan-Lawrence also deliver strong debut performances as the three teens, in a film where believable emotion is vital to the story’s suspense and ultimate success.

There is a plot strong enough to keep you interested during the mellow moments of the film - not that there are many - but in the end Acolytes is a teen-thriller. It’s there to scare, without making you think too much.

For that reason Acolytes will never receive the acclaim of something hard-hitting like The Jammed, nor will it have the hype of Wolf Creek. But it does stand on its own as a piece that cements some credibility in Australian genre-films.

Click here for Laneway’s full coverage of the Melbourne International Film Festival.

Rock n Roll Nerd
Melbourne International Film Festival (full coverage here)
July 27, July 30 and August 8, 2008

His face is made-up. His voice primed. Eyes lined. Hair: wild and flailing. The shirt, unbuttoned. But unbuttoned perfectly.

He is Tim Minchin, hero of Rhian Skirving’s feature documentary Rock n Roll Nerd.

This colourful film follows his rags-to-riches journey - from struggling in cabaret clubs in front of a handful of guests to his transformation into softly spoken, strangely dressed musical-comedy revelation.

Rock n Roll Nerd opens with said metamorphosis - the payoff immediate and profound. Minchin loses the curls in favour of chemically straightened hair, an idea that rests on a shaky ethos that “people pay more attention to weirdos”.

Of course, the experiment works. Accompanied by a new wardrobe and his wife’s loving support, Minchin polishes the act, and embarks on what becomes his last, best hope at making it big. In this case, he starts small - a vacant stage on the outskirts of Melbourne’s Internal Comedy Festival.

He’s noticed by an experienced producer-manager, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Meanwhile, this propulsion is documented by his close friend Rhian Skirving. She is restrained and sensitive, and Minchin is evidently comfortable with her presence; there are moments when it feels as though we’re chatting with an old friend. This level of access is what makes the documentary a success: we laugh as Minchin purports that his naiveté is a method of extracting information, we cry as we learn his wife has miscarried, and we’re on the edge of our seats as he confronts a 300-seat Edinburgh stage for the first time.

The film is interspersed with clips of Minchin’s act, providing much needed context; we realise that even as events shift his life in new directions, there’s a crowd at a sold-out show completely oblivious.

Fundamentally, Rock n Roll Nerd is an interesting portrait of a man - idiosyncratic, naturally smart, occasionally self-centred - who is forced to deal with his own success.

His ruminations surrounding the subject are humourous, often insightful, and sometimes heartbreaking. This is the voice of a man whose ambition is largely fulfilled, yet he yearns for balance between the purity of his art and that of his increasingly commercial nature.

All the while are the reviews and reviewers - faceless writers who control Minchin’s destiny. The good ones are treated with restrained elation; the bad ones precede borderline depression.

These implosions are absorbed by his loving wife, Sarah - whip-smart, self-effacing and completely devoted. Although she supports Minchin throughout his humble cabaret days, her true value is in her ability to halt his self-destruction and to ground his self-absorption. Theirs is a relationship in documentary against which there are few equals - and is so refreshingly frank in its portrayal that without it, the film may have fallen short.

Ultimately, comedy prevails, as Minchin tackles larger spectacles and more risqué content. His is a unique voice; insular, self-deprecative and disarmingly intelligent. Yet he learns how far he can go within his act, forging boundaries that perhaps never existed within the realm of musical-comedy. It is these experiences that help us gain insight into a comedian’s thought process - and prove to be some of the film’s most interesting moments.

Rock n Roll Nerd suffers from third act issues, however, relying on the usually effective baby-to-be-born climax. Oddly, this rightfully momentous event feels a little hollow; perhaps an overly sentimental finale for a man known for his brutal, eloquent truths.

These qualms are minor, though, as Rock n Roll Nerd remains an hilarious, moving and insightful tribute to the performer and the pursuance of a dream. And from Minchin’s humble beginnings to his ultimate personal success, his story is one that makes us ponder our own lives and marvel at the courage of a man whose success is self-made, gratifying, and ultimately, inspiring.

Click here for Laneway’s full coverage of the Melbourne International Film Festival.

Lightspeed Champion
Northcote Social Club
July 30, 2008

He wears a massive, furry grey hat - one of those hats you wear in the arctic because it covers virtually everything but your face. He is a bit shy at first - a bit of a slow start. Then he notices the audience digs him and his music. Some people are singing along. They cheer when he tells them which song he will play next.

“This is one of my favourite shows,” frontman Devonte ‘Dev’ Hynes says near the end of Lightspeed Champion’s hour long set at the Northcote Social Club on Wednesday night. “No really,” trying to convince a crowd that doesn’t need convincing. He tells us of touring European festivals and the shit shows where he suspects the only reason there was anyone watching them at all was because they were in a tent and it was raining outside.

And perhaps this dialogue says more than I can about UK’s Lightspeed Champion and ex-Test Icicles member, Dev Hynes. Dev is a bit unsure of himself. Read his blog on the band’s official site, and you’ll see what’s going on in his head: his preoccupation with girls; his own self-esteem; his tales of being on the road. His lyrics are quirky and self-reflective, vulnerable and personal. And he’s not afraid to swear - a lot.

For the tour, he brings along a group of multi-talented musicians. The lady drummer, Anna Prior, also plays the guitar. Mike Siddell plays with passion the violin, the keys, guitar and bass. Dev’s longtime friend Mike, aka The Train Chronicles, plays the guitar and bass. And of course Dev himself plays guitar, keys and drums. They all switch. They all sing.

The set consisted of many of the tracks from their only album, Falling Off The Lavender Bridge, as well as a few new tracks. Opening with the album’s first song Galaxy Of The Lost, slowing down with Salty Water, continuing with the personal Everyone I Know Is Listening To Crunk, adding in a new song the band had “only practiced a handful of times and they were all today”, and finishing with the epic Midnight Surprise, to name a few.

The mix of folk, country and pop was fun and original. Having the show in the intimate bandroom at the Northcote Social Club definitely helped the atmosphere. But ultimately it was the passion the music was played with, the interaction Dev had with the crowd and his obvious appreciation and shock that people like him, and the multitalented group of musicians that made the night so successful.

Lightspeed Champion did come out for an Encore, but not with the song Dev would have chosen to end on. Although finishing with All To Shit, the gig definitely didn’t go that way.

Photos courtesy of Adam Pattison.

The Wicked Witches of Oz
Xchange Hotel
July 26, 2008

The biggest thing in Melbourne musical theatre right now is Wicked. Well, I haven’t seen Wicked, but I reckon I’ve seen something just as imaginative. And it still involves witches, munchkins, dancing and spectacular special effects.

It’s shortly before 1am on Saturday night. My friend pays $12 for each of us and we walk into a dimly lit club. A blend of Kylie and techno music pumps loudly through the speakers. We walk past the first bar and enter a dance floor full of great-dancing, stylish, fit men. Very few women scatter the crowd.

Suddenly the sea of dancers parts and a stage is revealed. Dorothy enters onstage and starts to sing Somewhere Over The Rainbow. Ok, well she is lip-synching. And she definitely isn’t like any Dorothy I’ve ever seen.

Welcome to Xchange Hotel’s The Wicked Witches of Oz. The beautiful (and sometimes not so beautiful) women on stage are not women at all. This is Wicked done drag style and is absolutely fabulous!

Conceptualised and directed by Anthony Stone and costumes by Jessica James, the show is an extravaganza of glitter and glam.

About half an hour long (and apparently it can be bit longer, depending on the crowd of the night), the show condenses the story of The Wizard of Oz, with a bit of Wicked thrown in.

All the familiar characters are there. The Cowardly Lion is well over six feet tall, with an elaborate glittering fur coat, and a pretty ugly grimace. The Munchkins sing “the witch is dead” bopping about on their knees.

There is the Wicked Witch’s deep green skin, the flying monkey’s black wings, the guards’ muffler hats, and Glinda the Good Witch’s pink fairy gown. The big screen backdrop transforms from Dorothy and her friends skipping into the Emerald City, to the giant head of The Great Oz.

The cast features Miss Lucy Loosebox as Dorothy; Miss Candee as the Good Witch, the Lion and Oz; Taylor as the Scarecrow; Sasha as the Tin ‘She-Man’; Sensation as the Wicked Witch; with munchkins Joel and Cory.

There is smoke and glitter, energy and glamour, sorrow and happiness. Everything you want from a musical. And I didn’t have to pay $125 to see it!

The Wicked Witches of Oz is the late show of three every Saturday night of the winter at the Xchange Hotel. Check out the website (here) for a promo clip of the show.

My Winnipeg
Melbourne International Film Festival (full coverage here)
July 27 and August 8, 2008

It’s weird, darkly funny, and intensely personal. Guy Maddin’s My Winnipeg is a curious beast; a twisted cacophony of documentary, narrative and travelogue.

The film follows Maddin’s attempted extrication from his hometown, a place now so embroiled in his psyche that it’s reached a boiling point: either he goes or his mind does.

This separation - so clinically impossible, purportedly - is the film’s impetus for what becomes an enthusiastically unconventional journey throughout Winnipeg’s, and thus Maddin’s, history. He decides, in a dreamy, half-sleep daze, that the only way to truly escape the snow-clad burg is to ‘film his way out of it’.

Maddin assembles a troupe of actors to play his family - an impressively daring experiment that fails, mostly. Forcing them to recap important events in his life, and demanding of himself an intense catharsis, Maddin paints a wonderful black and white picture of his youth, his town, and his problems. It’s assemblage is genuinely startling - a true collage of the filmmakers mind. It’s splintered, fractured, great stuff.

My Winnipeg coalesces fact and fiction in search of reasons for the town’s ‘magnetic pull’; a throughline represented by the tumult of a hurtling train that traverses Maddin’s history. It’s a journey that asks questions of a town that is losing its idiosyncrasies in a misguided attempt to appear modern. What is the cost? What is a town without its history? What is a town without its people?

Maddin asks these questions so wistfully, so subjectively, and so sardonically that he creates his own mythos; a town pared from reality just enough to embody another man’s memories.

It’s an entertaining ride, hyperactively structured and darkly comic, calling to mind more investigative excursions like Bowling for Columbine and Where in the world is Osama Bin Laden? There is, of course, one major disparagement: only half of it’s real.

It’s a unique blend of fantasy and reality: Yes, Winnipeg was once re-named Himmlerstadt for an elaborately staged Nazi invasion, No, Winnipeg doesn’t have ‘ten times the sleep-walking rate of any other city in the world’. These mistruths are played so beautifully that it’s rare not to crack a smile as the absurdity escalates.

All the while, we’re becoming increasingly aware, as Maddin is, to the one thing that defines a town: its memories. As an old store is demolished, it’s ‘murder’. A hockey stadium makes an ironic stand against its pending destruction. Winnipeg doesn’t want to change - it’s being forced to.

Shot like a silent film, My Winnipeg is disjointed, jarring and beautiful. The visuals are inherently expressionist - flickering, grainy shots, camp interstitials, glaring faux-subliminal messages. At times the editing is so brisk it’s almost offensive, as rising rag-time music plays to some the film’s more spectacular sequences.

Ultimately, though, it’s Maddin himself that is most impressive. His droll, rhythmic narration provides for the film a foundation on which his cinema is free to play. It’s like listening to a freshly written play. It’s razor sharp, acerbic and always entertaining.

My Winnipeg, for all its bravado, is not a perfect film. As the film follows several tangents it’s naturally prone to getting a little distracted - and while some of these distractions are entertaining, some aren’t. The fragrant repetition of phrases can get a little irritating, and some sequence are too dizzyingly concocted.

All in all though, My Winnipeg is interesting, exciting filmmaking. Maddin invites you into his white world that brims with a universal curiosity; who are we, where did we come from, and why are we the way we are?

Click here for Laneway’s full coverage of the Melbourne International Film Festival.

British India
Corner Hotel
July 18, 2008

On the eve of the release of their sophomore album Thieves, British India delivered a burly performance in the gloomy and modest confines of Richmond’s Corner Hotel.

In front of a mixed crowd of punters, the four Melbourne boys punctually and quietly took to the stage. It wasn’t a huge audience, but with three Melbourne shows in as many nights it was nothing to be disappointed about.

And so the set began: Kicking off with a couple of strong tracks from their new album, the band indicated their intentions to stick with the musical formula that worked so well for them in 2007. The songs - This Dance Is Loaded and God Is Dead, Meet the Kids - were given a somewhat muted response, expected from a crowd hearing something fresh and undiscovered.

It was the familiar territory of Teenage Mother that set the tone for the rest of the night and when it was promptly followed by the current single I Said I’m Sorry, there was no going back. The gentle sway that curiously followed the music early on gave way to frenzied dancing and some very entertaining crowd surfing.

On a whole it was their older material that rose above the new songs. The new stuff just seemed to get a bit lost between the hits everyone was waiting for. Last year’s breakthrough singles Tie Up My Hands and Run the Red Light were definitely the highlight of the show, providing the impetus for spouts of unruly moshing and hearty sing-a-longs from the crowd.

Dedications to Bob Dylan, Bill Henson and anyone who took less than 15 minutes to get to the gig left me pondering the meaning of a few of the songs, but such was the nature of the music that it didn’t really matter what it’s message was; it’s all about the energy it instills in you.

Although fundamentally the band never really diverged from the album versions of their songs, there was something vastly different about seeing them live. The clean sounds of their studio work made way for the thrashing sounds of distorted guitars interspersed with some screeching lead work. It felt rough around the edges and ended up feeling decidedly more punk than pop. Not a bad set at all.