Ubu Roi, Review

Ubu Roi

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

A raw version of Ubu Roi was written in the late 1800s by three teenage schoolboys with Alfred Jarry considered the author of the final version. It was originally written as a parody of one the boys' schoolteachers and was performed as a puppet show in an attic for the boys' own amusement.

However, Jarry persisted with the central character of Ubu and the play opened on stage in Paris in 1896, with a riot breaking out in the theatre upon the opening words from the lead character. The audience was eventually calmed, only for chaos to erupt again shortly after, so shocking and vulgar was the content to the sophisticated French audience. The play polarised critics, and theatre of the absurd was born.

Naturally, more than a hundred years later contemporary audiences are made of more robust stuff. The play now presents itself as more of a curiosity than something to be shocked about and is presented by various theatre groups in a variety of settings. Which is not to say that this theatre goer and his plus one, The Dreaded One, didn't approach this performance with some trepidation. Just how absurd is absurd? Would it make any sense at all? And in this case, there is mud... lots of mud.

Chatting briefly with director Jason Cavanagh before the show, we joked that given that we frequent multi-day dance festivals in the bush, we are not afraid of a bit of mud. “Yes,” he replied, “it reminds me of Confest.” Precisely. He also asked casually if we'd be sitting in the front row. Erm... no.

Not that there was anything to worry about, mud-wise; protective sheets were supplied to the front row and clear shower curtains were drawn whenever a battle scene erupted, flashing swords replaced with mud balls. As the actors became more covered in mud, it actually looked like an awful lot of fun.

The story feels very Shakespearean and indeed is given something of the Shakespearean treatment by this cast of very fine, if muddied, actors. The script doesn't quite have the finesse and the poetry of Shakespeare, but you do recognise a bit of MacBeth in the motivations and actions of the characters. Largely at the urging of his wife, Mama Ubu, Papa Ubu hatches a plot to kill the king of Poland and install himself of that country's ruler. Why Poland? It would appear that Poland wasn't on the map in 1896, so Ubu was effectively taking over and ruling a non-existent place. Absurd, no?

Co-conspirator Captain Bordure's men are killed after being offered food which looks a lot like shit on a toilet brush. The mission is successful, Ubu acquires great wealth by simply killing all the noblemen and taking their money, and much double-crossing, treachery, plotting and fighting ensues. The language is as infantile as the motivations of Ubu, a huge, lumbering man-child driven largely by his animal needs.

In creating Ubu, Jarry was having a go not just at the ruling elite (though he was definitely doing this) but also the common man. Ubu started out being a parody of a loathed teacher, but in reworking and reworking the character over the years of his short life (he died at 34 after complications from his various addictions, not the least of which was absinthe), he was also attacking modern man and society generally. Given the antics of Australia's current gaggle of politicians – Rudd comes to mind with his earwax-eating and his juvenile look-at-me-I'm-just-a-regular-schmuck tweets – Ubu Roi still feels relevant. Especially given the apparent lack of ideology in politics today; our political leaders seem more driven by their desire for fame than anything.

If I went into this production from 5pound Theatre with trepidation, The Dreaded One did more so. Given it's absurdist reputation, she wasn't sure if she was going to enjoy it at all. I was relieved to hear her laughing throughout and tell me afterwards that she thoroughly enjoyed it. I think she was a little relieved at just how much she liked it.

Nicholas Dubberley was superb as the grotesque Ubu, as was Amy Jones as Ubu's ruthless wife and Andi Snelling as Captain Bordure. In fact the whole cast, playing multiple roles, was pretty damn good. Although occasionally played for laughs, overall the text appeared to be taken quite seriously, which is often the best delivery for humour. Lighting and set-design enhanced the whole experience to make it something quite unique; strangely thrilling, weirdly compelling.

5pound Theatre continues to do interesting things at The Owl & Pussycat. It really is worth checking out this little mud-fest, the piece of theatrical history that is Ubu Roi.

At The Owl & Pussycat, Richmond, Melbourne until July 27

Man In Black - The Johnny Cash Story, Review

Man In Black – The Johnny Cash Story

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

Appallingly, although I've been a bit of a fan of Tex Perkins since the first Cruel Sea release, I've never seen him or any of his bands perform live. So naturally when I heard he was doing Man In Black again, I jumped at the chance to finally catch him on stage.

Man In Black tells the Johnny Cash story from start to finish in a laidback blend of spoken word and song. Tex and Rachael Tidd tell Cash's story in their own voices sometimes in conversation with each other, and occasionally slip into character throughout. We hear about Cash's early years doing it tough in Arkansas; the death of his 14 year old brother from which he never truly recovers; his early singing career, the meeting of Vivian Liberto, his first wife, and the thousands of pages of love letters they wrote while he was on military duty in Germany; his prolific song-writing and performing; the legendary performances in Folsom and San Quentin prisons; his prolonged love affair with co-performer June Carter; how drugs and alcohol kept taking over his life; and we follow him into old age and his eventual death just three months after Carter's.

The story runs the gamut of emotions, obviously. But the overall feel of the show is one of joy. This is a celebration of a flawed artist who in the end made a massive impact on music history and brought a lot of happiness to a lot of people. As moving as certain parts of the story are, the smiles and happiness are never far away. This show is loads of fun.

The rapport between Perkins and Tidd is charming and casual. There appeared to be quite a few mistimed gags in the banter, but far from detracting from the dynamics it actually served to capture what the vibe was probably like on stage between Cash and Carter; it probably wasn't a highly polished performance in real life.

Except for the music. Tex Perkins does a superb Johnny Cash. It's quite uncanny just how perfectly he nails it. He opens with I Walk The Line, then every few minutes throughout breaks out into all the Cash favourites as well as – to this punter – some lesser known ones and he is just so good. Clearly Perkins enjoys this role and the audience lapped it up. There is much laughter throughout as we learn of Cash's obsession with train-related songs and novelty songs like A Boy Named Sue. But musically, even if there is a gleam in the eye, it's all taken quite seriously so that even the most sincere of Johnny Cash fans won't be disappointed. The crowd really got into the music, and the band – The Tennessee Four – were very impressive in recreating The Tennessee Three sound.

If you are not overly familiar with the Johnny Cash story, you'll no doubt learn a few things. I was intrigued by the fact that Johnny and Vivian wrote 10,000 pages of love letters in three years... you have to wonder about the true nature of their relationship compared to how it was portrayed in the 2005 bio flick Walk The Line. Interesting follow up reading there.

But the main reason for seeing this show is for its entertainment value. This is a stage full of engaging performers telling a fascinating story. The medley at the end will leave your hands saw from clapping and your face in a permanent smile. Johnny cash is unlikely to be touring any time soon, but if you want to see what he might have been like in his charismatic prime, check out the next best thing.

At the Athenaeum Theatre Melbourne until Sunday 21st July. Click here for details and future performances.

Dark Thirst

I can't believe it. I appear to have lost another passport. I wasn't even looking for it, I was actually looking for my food handler's certificate, which I haven't needed in the 18 months or so since I got it. Suddely I'm going to a hospitality agency tomorrow and they need to see it and I cannot find it anywhere. And along the way I realised that my passport was not in the passport place. I found the one that I thought was missing three years ago when The Dreaded One and I went on the big trip (TDO had removed it from my passport place and put with her stuff because she thought it was safer there... and not knowing this, three days before we left I had to get an emergency passport replacement. I found that the original had been in with her stuff a year after we got back from that trip).

But now... I have no idea where the food handler's certificate is or the passport. It's not in The Dreaded One's stuff... it's doing my head in.

But I did find this advertisement. That's me at the end of the table, lots more hair than I have now and much more cheeks. I was a bit chunky back then.

And if you know me, you'll appreciate how funny it is that I am some kind of poster boy for alcohol restraint. It is deeply funny. I have been uber booze monster at times.

I have a story brewing called Dark Thirst. Companion story to the one about the time I overdosed on drugs. Booze, when it gets its claws in, it ain't funny. Hangovers? I laugh at them. Hangovers are nothing compared to proper addiction. Hangovers are a walk through a field of daisies. Booze addiction... it's a monster in a cage. It rattles that cage and jangles your nerves and fucking owns you, and the struggle to get through that is a kind of hell. You don't sleep it off. It's just not that easy. It really is fucking awful.

But if you are lucky, you get through it. You find a kind of peace. You appreciate being in control. You say goodbye to the anxiety attacks and the fear and the constant nausea and feel happy that you can just pick up a fucking glass of water without shaking so much you spill it everywhere.

Mostly, people haven't suspected a thing. I am nothing if not a trouper. Some days, some weeks, when I think about them, I really don't know how I made it through.

So yeah, the poster above, it's funny because when booze is fun it's the best. But the poster is also uber ironic given what I have been through.

Life. Funny old thing.

I'm hopng to write Dark Thirst soon. It won't be light-hearted (though there might be funniness in there), but I feel the need to write about it. There's no point going through this shit if you can't use it.

Two Days

two days

lee bemrose

two days of sanctuary

two days of isolation

of protection

from the alienation

from the frustration

and the non stop electric jangle

the constant grind

the futility

the stupidity

the chaotic screech

the cash register crash

the lust for cash

the vocal noise

of vacuous pseudo-thoughts

the negativity

the futility

the stupidity

the one day at a time

mindless crawl towards death

with no appreciation

no comprehension

no deviation

from the chatter and the chase

of the meaningless

the pointless

and the gratuitous

two days sanctuary

two days away at home

make it last forever

the peace

the silence

the music

the kind words

the love

the laughter

I want these two days

to last forever.

Tied Up by Jessamae St James, Review

Tied Up | Jessamae St James

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

Cabaret is cabaret – life experiences told through song and spoken word – but each show has its own schtick. Tied Up's schtick, as you've probably guessed, is sexual fetish.

Clad in heels, stockings, corset and ropes, Jessamae St James makes her entrance with a Tori Amos song (Leather) unless I am mistaken. She doesn't care about the weather, she just wants her leather. It's a smouldering entrance and the audience is immediately struck by our star's commanding presence and that powerful, pitch perfect voice. And she looks stunning, like a slightly darker version of Cabaret's Liza Minelli.

It was hard to tell, at this stage, which way the show would go. Was it going to use fetish as titillation? (Judging by the very mixed crowd I'm sure some audience members hoped so). Or were we in for something a little darker?

At the conclusion of the intro song, Mistress Jessamae decided her seat had not been prepared and dragged an obliging male onto the stage, commanded him to get on all fours, she sat on him and, and it seemed it was going to be a show of titillation and giggles.

Not so, as it transpired. A quick audience quiz about what we think about when we hear the word 'fetish', and bondage was the general consensus. BDSM, and indeed these are common fetishes, or commonly recognised ones. St James walked us through some stories of BDSM, but what followed were some lesser known but well-documented forms of sexual fetish.

St James tells us stories of suffocation; the fetish of dolls; of being aroused at the idea of one's partner being with someone else; the need for a partner to cry to be aroused... the list goes on.

St James inhabits these stories convincingly so that you don't doubt these are all very real fetishes and she has done her homework. So engaging is she as a story teller that I think she could have thrown a few made-up fetishes in there and you'd believe every word she said. Who knows? Maybe she did just that. I doubt it though, having just done some of my own homework about fetishes. It's a big, wide, weird world behind closed doors.

As St James struts up the aisle and makes eye contact, sizes you up and down, oozing superiority, you can't help but squirm as you think of the chair-guy at the beginning. Is she going to drag me up on stage and make me do humiliating things? You quickly realise that maybe you've made the rookie mistake of sitting in an aisle seat. So does she drag hapless males onto the stage? Not telling.

The four piece jazz band works perfectly to create varying moods, from the melancholic to menacing to the uplifting with the Weimar sounding section towards the end – although here the band totally drowned out the vocals in parts.

The music never worked better than when St James dragged out her harmonium and played the darkest song of the show. This was perhaps the show's titular song, a song about being tied up and neglected, and it was slow, haunting, disturbingly real, lush and beautiful. It was, for this dark soul, the highlight of the show. The piece Pussy Got Your Tongue? was a close second with its manic anger. Loved it.

Some humour would have been welcome, and after chair-guy it was, I think, expected. But overall there were very few laughs, with St James playing it straight, so to speak. And that was fine; the focus was on her stunning voice and the subject matter.

Jessame St James is the alter-ego of singer Jessie Upton. Jessamae has been around for less than a year, but with her smouldering confidence she has already made a herself right at home in the cabaret and burlesque scenes. I have a feeling we'll be hearing a lot more of her.

July 6th & July 7th at The Butterfly Club, Melbourne

 Edit: I actually had no idea the opening number was by Tori Amos. Thanks to Lola Lopez for the heads up.

Confessions Of A Control Freak by Belinda Raisin, Review

Confessions Of A Control Freak/Belinda Raisin

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

First up, The Butterfly Club at its new(ish) address in the CBD retains every bit of its quirky charm and magical weirdness. Can't wait to go back.

As for the show... it opens with some very pretty piano and our star, Belinda Raisin, unexpectedly going through a ballet routine. Well, perhaps not so unexpected given that she is a trained ballerina. As fluid and graceful as her movements are, she has a bit of a breakdown, and the comedy begins.

Belinda plays Frances, a modern woman obsessed with making lists and making confessions to an audience she manages to keep enthralled from start to finish. She will also keep you laughing, possibly make you shed a tear, and she keeps the booze flowing whilst roller-blading around the intimate theatre. It's okay though – she has an RSA. It's a show of perfectly orchestrated physical chaos and angst and sweaty yoga because we have to fit yoga into our busy life because Frances wants it all and she wants it now. And lists – did I mention lists? It's a show of engaging story telling, music and song.

There is lots of song, not the standard cabaret fodder – although if Raisin went down that road I don't doubt it would be just as wonderful an experience as this was, such is the quality of her voice. She can play it soft and seductive as effortlessly as she belts out the loud ones. The whole show is a completely engaging marriage of graceful, gangly physical humour and moving honesty.

There was teamwork at play between Raisin and pianist Jamie Teh. Perfectly on cue he would hand a prop to the songstress without missing a note on the piano... but why did he look so earnest throughout? Why was he concentrating so much. And where were his music sheets.

Perhaps I'm a bit slow but I had no idea until the end, until the wonderfully talented Belinda Raisin lead her cohort in cabaret comedy to the centre of the stage to take bows, that he is completely blind. When he broke out in that smile of appreciation at the applause, the applause grew even louder. Wonderful stuff. So much talent on such a small stage.

When I asked my plus one, The Dreaded One (because of the coloured dreadlocks) what she thought of the show, she said simply. “I love her.” Uh-huh.

3rd & 4th of July at The Butterfly Club.

Sexual Perversity In Chicago, The Wilde, Review

Sexual Perversity In Chicago

Lee Bemrose

The question has to be asked: can a play written and set in the early 70s that deals with gender conflict possibly be relevant in 2013? It just doesn't seem possible. Surely we are more enlightened now than we were back then. Surely there is no such thing as conflict based on gender any more. Surely we respect each other as equals regardless of gender... don't we?

Alas, this play, given the current state of Australian politics, football sexual predators and our appalling parole system, is depressingly relevant.

Brief and punchy, the play is a conversation between four characters. Bernie (Sam Burns Warr) is a bit of an Alpha male pig (is there any other kind of Alpha male?); Dan (Jordan Fraser- Trumble) is his confused co-worker and drinking buddy; Deb (Steph Lee) is the feisty chick Dan hooks up with; Joan (Carly Jacobs) is Deb's femmo friend who doesn't think very highly of Deb's choice of partner. Deb and Dan get it on and move in together but soon realise that a relationship based on great sex isn't that much of a solid thing. We watch their version of love briefly blossom, then wilt.

It sounds pretty flimsy really, but this production by Mellow Yellow is utterly engaging from beginning to end. The characters, in lesser hands, could be caricatures, and basically they are stereotypes, but the actors here go all out whilst still managing to pull off some subtlety that makes them human. That thing about a story not working because the characters are not likeable? I don't know about that in this case. I didn't particularly care about any of these characters, but I recognised their humanity. I guess that's the genius of Mamet's script, matched perfectly in this case with the talent on this small stage.

And the space is intimate, as I think it needs to be given the personal nature of this play. Staged in the function room at The Wilde on Gertrude Street, patrons were sometimes confused about whether they should sit on the couch in case the couch was part of the set. Everyone wisely decided not to take the couch (though there was discussion), and the cast flowed in with the last of the stragglers, took the couch and the action started. There was noise from downstairs (it's a popular pub with a DJ) but such was the strength of the story and its delivery, it didn't matter.

In this world, the characters do the sex and relationship thing but end up being victims of their gender. It's actually quite confronting and pretty fucking sad (expletives, get used to them, as well as some pretty graphic sex talk) that after all these years we haven't gotten our shit together. Oh sure, maybe some have, but why is there still so much sexism? Why do so many of us judge each other based on gender? Will it never end?

These, I think, are the questions David Mamet's tight little play asks. It's my favourite kind of theatre; it's genuinely funny, but with an after taste of something very real.

Until June 29 at The Wilde, 153 Gertrude Street, Fitzroy. $15.

Writing, life etc etc etc.

For a long time there I could put up with doing shitty jobs with the knowledge that I could say I am also a performance arts writer, theatre reviewer and humour columnist. And while I can still say the former, the mag/website that published the column folded, so I could no longer say the latter. It was just a cool little thing... how many people can say they have their own humour column? And that little thing had been going for almost 10 years and survived five or so editorial changes. Not only did writing the column frequently bring me out of dark moods, it gave my pathetic self confidence a bit of a boost, just by existing.

And then it was gone.

However, I recently sent a couple of samples out - without the usual cover letter telling them about interviews with Bill Bailey, Laurie Anderson, Warren Ellis et al, the usual brag stuff. I basically just said I like to write funny stuff, what do you think of this?

Within days one pretty cool website got back to me telling me how much they liked my stuff and that they wanted to use it. They had my first column up within a week of reading it. Then another website - this one's contributors all, as far as I can tell, being stand up comedians - accepted another piece, with equally enthusiastic feedback.

Then the first website wrote to say they had also posted the second piece I sent to them, a bit of a situation because it was the same piece I had sent to the second website. So I sent another piece to the second website, hoping I hadn't pissed them off by pulling the first piece, and they said they loved this one as well. The editor made a couple of suggestions to improve it but said it was perfectly fine to leave it as is if I felt that way and that she would still run it. The suggestions were spot on. She is an excellent editor and I hope we have a lot of contact to look forward to.

So it's back to looking for some kind of work. A grind because I have no qualifications and no specialist skills. But at least I am a theatre reviewer, performing arts writer AND humour writer.

None of which are particularly lucrative (biggest understatement ever?).

I think when I'm gone, if they write about me they'll read my funny stuff and say, "Hey - he really was pretty good at the funny stuff. Bummer he was stuck doing shitty jobs and died broke."

Oh the life of the unrecognised artist. Oh the pain and tragedy and the woe of it all...

Grumpy With Out Of Office Auto Reply

Only once before have a lifted a Facebook conversation and directly used it as Grumpy material. Strangely enough it was a conversation between a certain BVV, a conversation about her mum's undies that amused me a lot.

Below is another such Facebook dialogue. This is how my Grumpy material starts out so often, either me doing something I consider out of character, or some random idiotic musing. This was one of the latter. Part of the way through, BVV ran with the ball.

If I write a reply to an out of office auto reply message, do you think they would find it funny, or do you think they would think I was a bit slow?

Especially if it grew into a lengthy conversation...

"Yes, I understand that you won't be back in the office until Monday the 13th. I really understand this and there is no need to keep telling me that you won't be back until then and I'm more than happy to wait until then to further our conversation."

"Please stop telling me you will be out of the office until the 13th. It's starting to get really annoying. What are you - bragging about all the leisure time you manage to have while the rest of us slave away at our meaningless jobs?"

"Oh I get it. You're so fast with these replies that you're gloating about actually having an actual job to return to, knowing full well that as of today, I don't have a job. Ooh - aren't you so so cool with your office and your job and your officey paraphernalia like a desk and a... a computer and probably some pens in a jar and a photo of the tropical paradise you've been away at until the 12th... ooh ooh ooh look at you..."

"Okay - stop! Just stop with this out of the office until the 13th thing. I'm sick of it. I really am. And I've changed my mind about you. For a while there I thought we might get along nicely. I really did want to work for you and thought it could all work out well. But you've changed. Or maybe I've just seen the real you... a condescending, gloating, smug person who thinks potential employees are fair game for your... erm... condescending, gloating smugness. Let's just end this now. I don't want your job (as perfect as it sounds) and I certainly don't want to hear from you again. Ever. Period... whatever that means. So please, please, please don't write back to me to inform me that you are out of the office until Monday. Thank you and goodbye."

"All RIGHT already. I've GOT IT - YOU'RE ON HOLIDAY! If you say it one more time you can consider our business relationship terminated."

“Christ on a BIKE. You really did it. You sent it again. I'm really starting to doubt your sanity now. Five times was enough.

"AAARGH! You just did it again? What did I say would happen if you did it again? What does it take to get through to you?"

“RIGHT. That's it. You think you've won, but I'm simply going to ignore you. Don't bother emailing back.”

"I said don't bother... oh never mind. You just don't get it, do you."

"It's been seven exhausting days now... why do you persist? I feel drained, beaten, worn down like Tom Hanks in Castaway... why are you doing this to me? I'm sorry but I just don't understand. Can we stop this now please? Please?"

“Oh God...I'll just contact you again after the 13th when you're back and we can take it from there. Sorry if I got reactive, I'm just really passionate when I'm enthusiastic about something.”

Meanwhile, Back In Barcelona...

The Dreaded One and I are going through a bit of a rough patch right now. Just normal, shitty stuff to do with work, uncertainty etc. No worse than anyone else but we have been having sleep issues due to stress etc. We're trying to stay positive but it gets hard sometimes. We haven't felt the urge to go out at all and we have been a little less social than usual. You tend to get like that when things aren't going well and your esteem is taking a bit of a belting. I'm kind of used to the low self esteem thing but it's shaken me a little to see The Dreaded One go through it. Very unsettling. But things will work out.

But how is this to restore your feeling of worth -  this photo? A dear, dear friend in Spain took a three day trip to my favourite city, Barcelona. We travelled with these guys on the last trip... in fact both last trips to Europe. But the last one saw us travel for about a month through Spain and Portugal. Interesting times. There were arguments, or rather one big argument. It was a doozy. But we pulled through and overall I look back on that road trip in a good way. We are still friends and I would do it again, knowing what we were in for and maybe with some precautions/agreed rules or whatever. Maybe the argument (in reality, a massive dummy spit on my part) served to clear the air. Maybe we know each other a little better. Certainly the rest of the road trip after that was smoother. Maybe you need these flare ups to strengthen the relationship.

Anyway, our friend Annye made a little cut out Ann & Lee to take with them on their trip to Barcelona. She took pictures of them all through the city - on the beach, by a platter of paella, next to a plate of jamon, me diving into my favourite iced coffee concoction, hovering above the city with Sagrada Familia in the background, all captioned in a very amusing way. Apparently she laughed a lot as she staged the photos, and onlookers also laughed.

It is an hilarious collection of photos. We sat in our home in Melbourne and laughed and giggled over the album. And just behind the laughter, we were both quite moved. This was a lovely, lovely gesture. It was a reminder that although our recent work situations were/are not ideal, when left with the friends we love so much, we seem to do something right. If you can't reach across the world and hug someone when they're feeling down, little cut-out versions of you taken on a road trip have the same effect. Very amusing. Very lovely.

I wish my very close friends were not so far away. But I'm glad I have them in my life at all.

Grumpy With Mark Gambino

Grumpy With Mark Gambino

By Lee Bemrose 

Say hello to Mark Gambino. A random contributor to a magazine I once worked for when I felt like a fraud with no qualifications... primarily because I was a fraud with no qualifications. But I did seem to have a knack for spotting good writers. Lord knows whe had some terrible contributors, but one of the joys of that job was sorting through the  endless hopefuls and finding those few that really stood out.

What I liked most in potential contributors were the people that weren't afraid to do something different. That outside the square thing? That slightly not-what-I-was-expecting thing? If they did that, retained integrity to the topic and managed to make me smile, they were in.

In keeping with that ethos, here is an interview that didn't take place. Mark sent me a hastily written bio which answered all my questions before I asked them, therefore making the entire task of actually asking questions somewhat redundant. So what you have here is a series of imagined questions to real answers to unasked questions.

Read on. It's a rollercoaster of a ride.

 

Would you say the way you have been living your life has been very fulfilling?

Like many smart people, I’ve been able to comfortably get by in life by not doing very much. I realised recently that this is not a very fulfilling way to live. Since then I’ve focussed on following my passions and working my arse off, to very inspiring results. But where did it all begin?

That's a really great question, Mark. I was just about to ask you that very same thing. So tell us – where did your creative life begin?

My creative life began around 2001, after picking up a free street mag called Drink. It was about Melbourne bar culture. I thought I could write for it, so I pitched the editor. 

But wait on just a minute... did you have any real idea of how this writing business worked? Had you studied journalism?

At this point, having studied performing arts at university, I didn’t know how this writing business worked. But I could ACT like a writer.

I like your style. So you pitched to the editor of a booze mag. What happened?

She gave me a shot, and I began writing bar reviews. For free.

And then what happened?

I then picked up a Sydney dance music mag called 3D World.

Ah. 3D World. I think I've heard of it. What happened there? I hear they worked their staff and their freelancers like Trojans.

I pitched the managing ed, who passed me onto the editor - a guy called Grumpy - whereupon we started a nice conversation about Withnail and I. A friendship was born. I honed my craft working on this mag, writing everything from social commentary to a short-lived section of Melbourne bar reviews. I was given more credit than I deserved, but I worked like a Trojan for it.

Then what happened?

Then shit got real.

Oh no. I once saw that on a bumper sticker on the back of a ute... “Then Shit Got Real.” But you are a creative type. Can't imagine you driving a ute around.

I pitched a local fashion magazine (in Melbourne) and picked up some freelance work. It was then that I bought my first digital camera, and started taking photos to go with the articles I wrote. The publisher loved that they got two jobs for the price of one from me, and brought me on board to write, edit, shoot and distribute (I drove a fucking ute around and hand delivered the first issue)of a new sports magazine, Cinq. The irony is, I knew nothing about sport. In fact, I hated it. With a passion. You could say, when the subject of sport came up, I was passionate. It was certainly the best of times.

What else were you doing around this time?

During this time I also worked on General Pants’ Our People magazine. A thinly veiled marketing tool designed to pump what little money kids had out of their pockets and into the coffers or a corporate entity masquerading as a ‘youth brand.’ They weren’t the first. They certainly won’t be the last. See also: Monster Children.

How long did this gig last?

This lasted until the team employed to sell advertising in Cinq couldn’t, and I was turfed into the world of freelancing.

Do you have any stories about rollercoasters? I like stories about rollercoasters?

Years passed and I rode the rollercoaster of freelance writing.

I also like stories of scandalous love, pimps and prostitutes. Got any of those to share with us?

I worked part-time, then fulltime, at Borders. Fell in love with a married woman. Moved into a suburb where prostitutes would regularly fight with their pimps outside my window (“Why did you have to shoot him?!”).

How good would you say life was at that time?

Life was good.

And then?

Then came the call again: a fulltime job managing a team of people to produce web content on a ridiculous budget, to be sold to big companies for a ridiculous price. Out of fear of being litigated by one very large organisation that bought from us, I shall omit the finer details. Suffice it to say, I witnessed the worst in some people while in this job. It made me question my craft. I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion…

But I digress. 

That did sound like a bit of a digression of Haueresque proportions. Anyway. So what did you do? And do you have any more rollercoaster stories?

I quit. I dove into freelance life, and once again the rollercoaster began.

Oh no. Were things different this time?

This time, I was armed with a camera. And a shitload of experience shooting some of the world’s top music acts; interviewing some of the world’s most inspiring musicians and actors; and armed to the teeth with industry contacts.

And how is the rollercoaster of freelance work treating you these days?

My freelance ‘business’ has grown since that day - albeit with many growing pains - and now allows me to work anywhere in the world. As long as I have an internet connection, I’m always working.

 And rather than finish off with a final question, I'm going to predict that you are about to conclude with a statement I can relate to and which makes me doff my cap to you.

I've felt like a bit of a fraud most of my writing life. I may not have studied writing or journalism (I'm now a member of the Australian Journalist's Association - ZOMG!), but I have now made a career of it.
I've spoken on creative panels, giving advice to people way more educated than myself. I've quit jobs most people would step over my cold corpse to do. Most of the time I find all this hard to reconcile.

Cap doffed.Go here for more of Mark's work.

No Child, Nilaja Sun Interview, Melbourne 2013 Theatreworks

 

Nilaja Sun questions by Lee Bemrose 

I missed this performance last year. I knew nothing about Nilaja Sun at the time. I researched. I found that another play about British convicts  transported to Australia (Our Country's Good) played a big role in her highly successful solo performance that began as a modest off-Broadway show.

It's a first hand account of a teacher's experiences with the education system in modern America, Nilaja plays an array of characters with minimal set and costume which is made up for in talent. Audinces are flocking to it and critics the world over are raving about it. By all accounts, a wonderfully dramatic and comical performance, I don't intend to miss it again.

Your use of the play Our Country's Good in No Child is intriguing. Was that play somehow inspirational for your work or did you decide to draw on it while creating No Child?

I used the play Our Country’s Good as a great example of people who feel imprisoned while also creating theatre and art. It may not be a play that I would teach at this young early age of 14-16 but it highlighted the struggles of my students and how they’re similar to the struggles of the convicts of Australia in 1788.

Our Country's Good dealt with breaking down oppressive discipline and instilling convicts with dignity and a sense of self worth... how similar or dissimilar are the themes in No Child?

Very similar. The theme of infusing the children with dignity, self worth and empathy is something that’s always been very close to my heart as a teacher and in reading Our Country’s Good I was inspired by the hope it brought thematically.

You must be pretty happy with how well No Child has been received by both critics and audiences. Did you have any idea it was going to be quite so successful?

No, no idea. I wrote the play to be performed on off Broadway for a four week run and then to be on my way in someone else’s play. But alas, fate would have it, here I am 700 shows later in beautiful Australia.

Have you talked to school-aged audiences after they have seen the show? If so,what have reactions generally been like?

Yes. I try to make sure to set up a post show discussion with every high school group that sees the show so that all of the kids have a well rounded theatre experience especially if it’s their first show. It is an extremely lively experience to witness high-schoolers witnessing No Child.

You drew on your years of experience in the public school sector to create this work, yet there is a lot of humour in it. Was there much laughter in the schools in real life?

Even more laughter. Our kids are extremely funny particularly when they trust you enough to open up.

In fact, the more you read about what bad shape the public school system is in America, humour seems at face value out of place when dealing with such a topic. Your thoughts?

Not from where I see it. I’m working with the kids as individuals not as a national crisis that many politicians might see them as. They are all beautiful, filled with life and fully human and so it is up to me to mirror their humanity in its most rounded shape.

Works like this are a great way of drawing attention to a situation. Do you think they can actually affect things and make a difference?

Yes I do. Perhaps it’s not a global difference or national difference or even a state wide difference but I genuinely feel that when teachers see themselves portrayed on stage in that hour they get a moment to breathe and laugh and cry and thus refresh themselves for the next day or even year of school – and that seems pretty revolutionary to me.

Have things gotten better or worse since you were moved to create No Child?

I would say, in many ways it has stayed the same however this new administration sees the value not only in students improved performance but also values great teachers. Ask me again in 10 years.

How difficult is it to address what is a very serious issue while creating a work of entertainment?

This piece of theatre reflects a great part of my life that I enjoy and I honour and so it was not a great challenge and plus I’m an entertainer at heart.

The title alludes to a Bush policy on education... how political is your play?

Oddly No Child speaks of this policy in one sentence of the play, the piece is more emotionally political.

Who do you find responds best to No Child?

The New York Times wrote “Teachers will love no child” and I’ve always found that anyone who is an educator and who loves and appreciates educators will love no child as it applauds the greatness in the teacher.

Which are your favourite characters to play and why?

As an actor when I am performing I am completely “being” each character so therefore I love whoever I am at the moment and have no favourites.

Do you have a favourite line from the play that sums up the essence of the play?

As a playwright I see the importance in every single word said and every word unsaid.

Read my review on Australian Stage here.


 Theatre works, 14 Acland Street, St Kilda
 Date: 07 May 2013 - 26 May 2013
Time: Tues-Sat at 8:00pm Wed & Thurs at 1:00pm Sun at 5:00pm
Price: $45 full / $35 conc & under 30 / $40 Groups 10+ [plus booking fee]

No Child...
Written and Performed by Nilaja Sun
Directed by Hal Brooks

Grumpy With The Human Resources Obstacle

The Dreaded One has been out of work for a couple o f weeks now. Not good times. She worked (her arse off) for a totally petty bitch of a human. She went from being a casual chef to taking on the role of head chef, doing six days a week with sandwich hands instead of a single assistant chef. The owner of this particular catering company has absolutely no redeeming features. She cannot cook. She meddles unnecessarily. She fucks up constantly. Her office staff routinely add time onto their daily shifts yet the owner distrusts the chefs because... I don't know. Probably because she's an idiot.

Anyway, things came to a head. Part of the reason The DreadedOne wanted to get another chef in was because she knew she would not be around forever and the owner had no back up. The Dreaded One said she would be leaving in the not so distant future and the owner spat the dummy and said she had to give at least two weeks' notice. The Dreaded One said she was not giving notice yet, but yes of course she would give two weeks notice when the time came.

Then on Good Friday, the owner tells The Dreaded One that she has another chef and there was no more work for her. No notice at all. What a fucking cow.

So The Dreaded One is out of work. No biggie, really, because she always lands on her feet. She sends her resume out and FIVE MINUTES later a catering company calls to say what freaky timing - we're just about to advertise for a sous chef. They chat. They line up an interview.

I'll add here that other things have happened that have not been so good, so this is a real bright spot. Weboth know that The Dreaded One will bag it.

Then the HR person from the catering company calls to say that The Dreaded One has to bring her papers in to prove she is a qualified chef.

The Dreaded One is not a qualified chef. She has been chefing for maybe 20 years. She has been sous chef under Matt Moran's head chef at The Sydney Opera House. She has run her own catering company.

But she does not have papers verifying that she can in fact chef.

This was explained to the HR person but there was no budging. I know that if The Dreaded One was just given a trial shift she would be in. She knows the deal inside out. She is passionate and skilled, reliable and hard working. She has it all over some of the qualified chefs we've encountered... ass clowns, some of them.

It's this kind of thing that stopped me from applying for writing jobs so long ago. Invariably you get some HR jerk you have to go through first, and if you are not a qualified journalist or don't have appropriate tertiary qualifications, you're dead in the water.

It doesn't matter that I've been a magazine editor, or that I've been published in Quadrant and Southerly as well as countless other mags. It doesn't matter that I've been shortlised in competition and have even taken out a first prize in a national comp, have had a humour column for years... all this paper is meaningless because I don't have an official piece of paper confirming tha fact that I can write.

What a blinkered, myopic, hinderance of a concept Human Resources is. Get the fuck out of the way and let real people get in touch with the people who will recognise real skills and real talent.

It hasn't been fun seeing The Dreaded One treated so poorly. But she is soldiering on. There is one sure fire way to ensure you don't work for dickheads or have anything to do with Human Resources drones.

Grumpy With Small Talk

Grumpy With Small Talk

I've been noticing once again that I'm really not very good at small talk. For some people the stuff just pours out of their mouth. The person I work with at the moment is and absolute master of small talk. She rarely stops talking. Sometimes it's just garden variety small talk (weather/ what did you do on the weekend/how is your day going/gee that's a nice tie). Other times, it's more random. It's like there's no brain-to-mouth filter so that what comes out are the sometimes startling whimsical musings of a truly nomadic mind.

I had wanted to believe that I'm no good at small talk because I just don't care and small talk doesn't matter. I vaguely recall a quote in an interview about film maker Rolf De Heer in which one of his colleagues said, “Rolf doesn't do small talk.” Don't quote me on this because I can't find the interview in which it took place anywhere so it is quite possible that it was said about someone else... or it was the result of this nomadic mind thinking it would be cool if someone was interviewed about me and they said it about me. Because it struck me as being a pretty cool thing to say. Especially if it was said about me.

The thing is, small talk is a complex thing. There is the absolute utter rubbish small talk... that pseudo-scripted shit that goes something like this:

Person 1: “So how are you today?”

Person 2: “Oh all right. Can't complain.” (Dramatic pause). “Well I could but there's no point; no one would listen.”

People – every time this conversation takes place, a puppy dies... in a random instance of spontaneous combustion. In a little boy's arms. On his birthday. And the little boy, overcome with grief, wanders crying onto the street and under the wheels of a passing bus. The bus driver goes through counselling but never quite gets over the unbelievable coincidence of running over his own son on his 10^th birthday right outside the family home. He turns to alcohol and eventually takes his own life. Which would have devastated his wife if she hadn't already taken her own life all those years earlier after witnessing the tragic death of her only son. Obviously the only remaining offspring, the once innocent daughter, is totally fucked up by the demise of her family and turns to drugs as a means of escape, then prostitution as a means to fuelling her ever-soaring drug habit. She falls in with a party crowd who ply her with drugs and abuse her body in the most debauched ways imaginable. She (again) overdoses at one of the wild parties but unbelievably is rescued by a visiting Hollywood A-lister who shall remain nameless due to legal reasons (we'll call him, I dunno, Matthew Newton? Because how hilarious would that be? Matty Newton – Hollywood A-lister. Get it? Hahahaha...).

Back in Hollywood, the daughter dries herself out in rehab but still attends the kinds of parties mere mortals like you and I can only dream of. At one such party attended by the impossibly rich and vacuous, she meets a short, fat, pretty idiotic, deranged leader of a renegade Asian nation with a newly improved mixed bag of nuclear arms which he is pretty keen to show off. The daughter, occasionally suffering flashbacks to that day when the new puppy spontaneously combusted and set off this haunting train of events, doesn't really believe that a short, fat, pretty idiotic leader of a renegade Asian nation would really fire nuclear missiles around the world and risk world destruction just to impress an ex-crack whore like little ol' her. But this is just the kind of opportunity Kim Lil Nong Nong has been waiting for. Bombs away! Missiles ahoy! Destruction! Retaliation! World annihilation!

All because you said I could complain but no one would listen. Think about it, next time you consider engaging in this bit of dialogue.

And then there's that other stuff that starts out sounding like pointless noise but ends up going somewhere. Nice necklace. Thank you, I got it in an exotic holiday destination. Oh really – I've been to that exotic holiday destination – we have something in common.

And then these people with something in common decide to go out for a coffee and talk about some other exotic holiday destinations they'd like to go to to buy nice things. On the way to the coffee shop, there is an unexpectedly loud explosion that sounds very much... like... a puppy dog spontaneously combusting...

Anyway, in thinking about where I was going to go with I'm-not-good-at-small-talk-because-I-don't-want-to-be I decided to ask the internet what it thought about small talk.

Big mistake. Here I was thinking that small talk is nothing more than a really annoying way to ruin a perfectly good chunk of silence that hovers between two people engaged in some sort of mutual activity between strangers, the occurrence of which, in itself, doesn't demand the blossoming of a lifelong friendship or even a fleeting friendship. Why does friendship have to come into it at all? You're the barrista. I need my coffee. Why do you have to interrupt my musings about the weird nature of small talk by asking me about what I did on the weekend? What is it to you what I did on the weekend? I just did stuff. But I can't say, “I just did stuff.” I have to stand there watching you make my coffee and think about the stuff I did. I have to go through it all in the time it takes to froth a jug of milk and pick out the highlights. Then I have to select the highlights that are socially acceptable (because maybe I got up to some really interesting stuff that's NSFW) and that are easy to explain in the time we have left that it takes to make a cup of coffee. I scramble. I say that I had a quiet one, what about you? Yeah same, nice and relaxing, it was good.

However, It's a big mistake to be so dismissive of small talk, according to the internet, because loads of brainy types have spent a lot of time studying the concept of small talk and have deemed it A Very Important Social Skill.

Which means I'm fucked. Like Rolf (real or imagined), I just don't do small talk. It's not my thing. I mean I do try. Working with my nomadic-minded small talk master, I have listened and observed and have seen the rewards... the rewards being a fair exchange of small talk. I have tried.

Them: Hello.
Me: Hello.
(Long easy silence which stretches and bends into a slightly awkward silence, because they are expecting actual small talk while I am trying to amuse myself with the comic potential of this ridiculous small talk thing people are so obsessed with).
Them: How are you?
Me: I'm good. Want to hear a good story about exploding dogs and the end of the world?
Them: Erm...
Me: Sorry. No. Erm...
Them: Erm...
Me: Erm...
Them: Are you okay? You like you're in pain.
Me: No it's okay. I'm just trying to think...
Them: Trying to think? What are you trying to think of?
Me: Something...
Them: Something?
Me: Something to say. Something to say that might, you know, be an appropriate thing to say in a moment like this.
Them: Ah. I see.
Me: Yes. Erm...
Them: Erm...

So don't take it personally when I don't small talk with you. I just totally suck at it.

Plums - Claire Hooper Review

I really enjoyed Claire Hooper's new show Plums. My Australian Stage review is here. Do go see it. You will enjoy, if you enjoy very funny story telling by a very funny, lovely human.

The Melbourne International Comedy Festival So Far

Melbourne International Comedy Festival... woohoo.

Been quite busy so far. In no particular order, here are a few things I've done for Australian Stage. An interview with The Pajama Men. These guys were a highlight for me at last year's festival. Wonderfully, wonderfully funny.

There's also an interview with Michael Workman, who didn't seem to want to do an interview. One with  Geraldine Quinn for her show Stranger, which I'm now hoping to see.

And a couple of days in I've caught two shows for review, Paul Foot's Kenny Larch Is Dead, which I wasn't a huge fan of, and Josh Thomas' Douchebag, which had me smiling for most of the show and frequently laughing at. Review to this one is not yet up.

Oh and here is another Q&A with one Imogen Kelly, sexy burlesque Queen Of The Wolrd. She is amazing.

More coming up. It's a big festival. Almost a month long and the more I see the more I want to see.

I'm looking forward to reviewing more shows, even though I really don't feel I'm very good. Give me a night of theatre and I'm fine. Something about the structure of story makes it easier for me to deal with. I never take notes at the theatre. At comedy I have to take notes, and that often gives way to more confusion... scribbled notes in the dark followed by attempted deciphering the next day... ergh.

In Astonishing News Just To Hand...

And in news just to hand, Grumpy has been caught on film... has been caught on the mysterious magic that happens inside a camera - holding what can only be described as an adorable little tiny human being. He appears to be committing an actual smile.

Witnesses at the scene have been quoted as saying "I've never seen anything like this before in my entire life", "WTF?" and "Holy shit!"

The image has been examined by experts who have announced that charges of photoshopping are unfounded, as popular as they are.

Suspended Coffees - A Facebook Trend

This suspended coffee thing is starting to bother me. From a cafe owner's point of view, how many tables are you expected to give up to homeless people drinking free coffee? Is the general population going to go into a place filled with homeless people? Given the unfortunately widespread practice of cafe owners pocketing staff tips, how much suspended coffee money is going to be used for its intended purpose? How do the homeless prove they are in fact homeless and not just someone out for a free coffee? Why coffee and not soup? Or a suspended beer on a hot day would go down a treat. How many people who think this is such a great idea are really going to pay double for their coffee?

How about instead of jumping on this trendy facebook bandwagon we just donate a to a trusted charity? Or simply give a street person a sandwich and cup of soup personally? Or invite them into your home any time and feed them?

 It simply isn't a practical way of helping the homeless. And I am deeply cynical about why this Facebook page is so keen to get their 'likes' numbers up. That's all they keep pushing, rather than promote practical ways of making this thing work. Because it is a flawed scheme that needs discussion and solutions to practical problems with it.

 But hey, like us. Let's get a million likes. Because that's what it's all about, right?