Theatre
Play on
by Natasha Hay, Harry Ricketts, Faith Oxenbridge and Anna Chinn
Auckland
For best production for the year, nothing could beat the Auckland Theatre Company’s Twelfth Night, Michael Hurst’s playful and dazzling take on Shakespeare’s giddy, lovestruck comedy. Setting it in the 1950s on a tropical island inhabited by tipsy colonial misfits and dreamers was a stroke of brilliance, and all aspects of the highly imaginative production, from John Verryt’s exquisite beach design and David Eversfield’s painterly lighting to the terrific cast, were perfect. It was a gorgeous, sensual show where Shakespeare’s text was utterly comprehensible – a rare feat even in professional theatre – and if any actor stood out it was the irrepressible Oliver Driver as Feste the fool, who trod the right side of the line between comic genius and self-indulgent stand-up. A fantastic and unforgettable show.
Next best was Silo’s tour de force, Take Me Out, a recent American play, directed by Shane Bosher. Ostensibly a coming-out drama, the play meandered around several themes but contributed some absolutely visceral theatrical moments – including the shower scenes – especially by Jeff Szusterman waxing lyrical about what baseball meant to him as a fan and Edwin Wright as the damaged white-trash baseball star, who gave outstanding performances in a mighty ensemble of 11 male actors.
John Patrick Shanley’s Doubt was my favourite play. This gripping tale about possible sexual abuse in a Catholic school in 1960s Brooklyn pitted a reactionary Mother Superior against a charismatic priest with a superb design by John Parker and an excellent cast directed by Colin McColl. In particular, Elizabeth Hawthorne as the fearsome nun seemed at the prime of her talents and it felt a privilege to watch her.
She set an early benchmark for the year’s best actress, which was trumped mid-year by Kerry Fox in The Blonde, the Brunette and the Vengeful Redhead. Fox’s solo performance as seven characters was exhilarating, despite the Australian play’s shortcomings. Fox had that X-factor charisma and danger; you had no idea how she would say a line or convey an emotion. That element of surprise was what made her electric to watch live; there’s no doubt she’s a star. Utterly centred with no look-at-me flashiness, hers was an inspired, subtle – wigless – performance that ran the gamut of emotions, ricochetting from broad comedy to tragedy.
Other memorable highlights this year were, from the Silo, Neil LaBute’s This Is How It Goes with the dream trio of Mark Ruka, Sara Wiseman and Roy Snow; and Jacqueline Nairn in David Hare’s Plenty. Also Mr Marmalade was a creepy, macabre but perfectly formed gem (adroitly directed by the ubiquitous Hurst) with Hannah Tolich as a four-year-old brat and Andrew Laing as her imaginary friend, a violent and bipolar businessman.
For local writing, ATC’s The Ocean Star proved that Michael Galvin could give up his day job. In Galvin’s darkly funny, emotionally gripping and humane family drama, Greg Johnson’s heart-tearing performance as the agoraphobic dad was terrific.
Overall, the Auckland theatrical year was strong and diverse; in a word, healthy. Even if Menopause the Musical is still running.
by Natasha Hay
Wellington
The play may be the thing “to catch the conscience of the king”, but theatre this year in Wellington has only intermittently caught the public’s conscience, imagination or anything else. Ray Henwood and Jason Whyte were both terrific in A Number, Caryl Churchill’s chilling two-hander about cloning, but they mostly played to tiny houses. Malcolm Murray, Carol Smith and Heather O’Carroll gave equally arresting performances in Martin Crimp’s anti-pastoral The Country, but again the public stayed away in droves. Even the unashamedly local and hilarious The Underarm struggled to put runs on the board. Some blame it on marketing, others on rugby.
I blame it on the bossa nova. One of the year’s biggest hits was undoubtedly the Downstage production of Alison Quigan’s Mum’s Choir. Why this likeable but thinly plotted singalong should have packed them in, when Ken Duncum’s latest tour de force, Picture Perfect, didn’t, is one of the deeper mysteries. Perhaps Duncum should try his hand at musicals, since another popular success was Paul Jenden’s Troy: The Musical (original composition, Gareth Farr). We seemed to take forever to reach the siege itself, but mercifully Lyndee-Jane Rutherford would totter on from time to time as Cassandra, enunciating in Cohenesque tones: “Die! Die! Die!” Roger Hall’s Aladdin was much more irresistible, with catchy tunes, good genre twists and a wonderful Widow Twankey in Julian Wilson. Best topical joke: “What’s so magic about Feltex?” “Made my job disappear.”
Bats as usual offered some bizarre delights. None more so than Jade Eriksen’s Arcane. The programme encouraged us to approach the production as a kind of riddle. Fortified with mead, we duly climbed up a ladder and were imprisoned for a while inside a narrow passage (womb? honeycomb?), full of buzzing. Later, for half an hour or so, we watched a woman (queen bee?) very, very slowly revolve while other women in a shadowy 1960s kitchen performed dronelike household tasks. This, as a friend pointed out, could have been entitled Zen and the Art of Beehive Maintenance.
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