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North Melbourne Arts House: New productions challenge categorisation of Australian theatre By Alison Croggon Updated November 28, 2015 12:23:48 Since Aristotle, human beings have been categorising things because it makes it easier to think about them. But useful as they can be, categories can also obscure detail or diversity: it is easier to adhere to lazy generalisations. This often bedevils discussion about Australian theatre. In the 1990s, the given categories in theatre were "naturalistic" and "non-naturalistic", which also mapped pretty precisely over "mainstream" and "fringe" and even "Australian" and "international". "Naturalistic" theatre in Australia looked a little like the politically committed naturalism that Zola and Ibsen employed to revolutionise European art in the late 1800s. Practised by popular playwrights such as David Williamson, it was a series of conventions that bore a closer resemblance to television than theatre. Naturalism has the virtue, often a powerful one, of being immediately recognisable. But its dominance of main stages led increasingly to some lace front wigs very jejune writing, in which clunky theatrical machinery churned out banal social comment that merely confirmed what it purported to criticise, or psychological verities that — surprise, surprise — had very little to do with psychology. "Non-naturalism" or "fringe" (or "international") theatre, was everything else. From medieval mystery plays to Brecht, from Noh theatre to Artaud, from African storytelling to British playwright Caryl Churchill, from avant garde devised theatre to Chinese opera, the entire dizzying multiverse of theatrical performance was spoken about as if it were a single thing, and only gained meaning when set in opposition to an increasingly rigid convention. 'Playwrights are the distinguishing factor' The energies that emerged in Australian theatre from 2005 more or less blew up this comfortable arrangement, but nevertheless these binary distinctions remain, and once again seem to be gaining traction. These days the categories are more likely to fall into "text-based theatre" (or "plays"), which is set in opposition to everything else. Devised theatre, circus, performance art, cabaret, experimental adaptations of Shakespeare, are shovelled into the category of "other". When is a playwright not a playwright? When is a play not a play? Alison Croggan In this case, playwrights are the distinguishing factor. There is an unwritten law that only playwrights write plays, and that a play not written by a straight-up playwright — for example, director Simon Stone's free adaptation of The Wild Duck — is considered somehow illegitimate, not "proper" writing. This division does not reflect the multiple ways in which contemporary playwrights actually work in the theatre: as sole composers of text, in the traditional sense; as collaborators and co-devisors; or even as performers. More seriously, it marginalises some of the finer writing being made in Australian theatre. I sometimes can't help wondering if, in the unlikely event that Samuel Beckett turned up in Melbourne today as an unknown writer, he would even be considered a playwright. These thoughts were prompted by a mini-season at the North Melbourne Arts House, which featured some of the most brilliant, and certainly some of the most poetic, writing I've seen this year. They were all performances of texts that I'd like to read at leisure: thoughtful, literate, and formally adventurous theatrical writing. Were they plays? Of course they were, if plays are texts for performance. But they were written by people primarily known as performers or theatre devisers. Are these artists really playwrights? Some of them would flinch at the thought. When is a playwright not a playwright? When is a play not a play? Piece for Person and Ghetto Blaster Nicola Gunn's solo work Piece for Person and Ghetto Blaster is an uneasy investigation of moral responsibility, circling around a banal incident (while running in Ghent, she sees a man, an immigrant, throwing stones at a duck, and fails to intervene). Gunn has always inhabited an artistic space between theatre and performance art, and here she brings both forms into exquisite tension. As she speaks, lightly bringing in a wealth perruques cheveux of allusions from Poirot to Auden to Maeterlinck to Levinas, she is also performing a series of disconnected movements, choreographed by Jo Lloyd. The effect is alienating, comic and cumulatively powerful, an expression of a consciousness at odds with herself. At the centre of Gunn's investigation is the capacity for human indifference, as expressed in Auden's poem Musee de Beaux Arts. But is it really indifference? Or is it, perhaps, a kind of innocence? Fear in the face of perruques cheveux naturels our own impotence? Fear of our own capacity to do harm? Is the gap between speech and action merely hypocrisy? It ends in a flourish of apocalyptic poetry. Kelly Ryall and Niklas Pajanti's hitherto minimalist sound and lighting shift to create an opera of blue laser lights and music. Arrayed in an extravagant multicoloured costume, Gunn becomes the duck, who is maintaining her inner temperature as she looks out over a blasted landscape. Gunn's text is an extraordinary juggling act, a play of complex ideas in constant motion around the moral problem of the assailed duck, and it is ultimately — and mysteriously — deeply moving. From her simple premise opens the entirety of contemporary anxieties, drawing in their wake our moral culpabilities in the face of systemic problems like climate change or cosplay wigs war. Give Me Your Love David Woods and Jon Haynes are Ridiculusmus, and Give Me Your Love is the second in a projected trinity of works about unconventional treatments of mental illness. The first, 2014's magnificently-named The Eradication of Schizophrenia in Western Lapland, examined a radical therapy for treating psychosis. Give Me Your Love, the second in the series, is inspired by a program that uses the party drug ecstasy in the treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) in war veterans. Jacob Williams' set is an indescribably squalid flat, grimed with filth, with rubbish building up in the corners. It opens out to the side on a bedroom that we can partly see through a door, and a chain-locked door faces us. The only character we actually see on stage is a former Welsh guard, Zachary Williams (Woods), but we don't actually see him at all, since he spends the entire time with his head in a large cardboard box. Other characters — his wife Carol and his friend Ieuan — are played off-stage by Haynes. Unable to get into clinical trials for his PTSD, Ieuan scores his friend some street ecstasy, and together they attempt to replicate the therapy. But Ieuan can't undo the pre bonded hair chain on the door, and neither can Zach, because he's trapped in his box. The enactment shows how the therapy is supposed to work, but more painfully, in its placement in amateur hands, reveals the trauma of being trapped in a psychological disorder. The resemblances to Beckett's short works are irresistible: the bleak humour, the painfulness, an abiding sense of duration, a palpable claustrophobia and frustration. But perhaps it's most evident in the rhythms of the performances, which feel exactly rendered. It's deeply unsettling work in a myriad of ways, and yet strangely, curiously hopeful. Edmund: The Beginning Brian Lipson's Edmund: The Beginning is also a beautifully written text. Lipson's previous shows — A Large Attendance in the Antechamber (2000) and Berggasse 19 — The Apartments of Sigmund Freud (2005) — were products of his fascination with historical figures Francis Galton and Sigmund Freud. Lipson's work is always highly reflexive, turning its impertinent gaze back on itself, and Edmund: The Beginning is no exception. It is, in part, an essay on acting. Using only the light (both natural and street light) that falls through the three large windows in the Rehearsal Room at the North Melbourne Town Hall, Lipson presents us with the exposed figure of the actor, the person who represents the lineaments of other people. Lipson enters in a caricature of a costume. He is wearing a crown over half a long, blonde wig; one leg is femininely shaved and in high heels, the other clothed in Elizabethan bloomers; half a schoolboy's jacket. As he performs the various characters these costumes represent, items are discarded and placed carefully on the floor, creating a solar system — what Lipson calls an "orrery" — of allusion. This escape from conventional inhibitions is, of course, how exciting new work gets made. Alison Croggan Lipson is particularly fascinated by the casualties who hide in the shadow of fame: the reclusive son of Harold Pinter, Daniel Brand, and his mother; the actor Vivien Merchant, who died of acute alcoholism after divorcing Pinter; Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes's children, Frieda and Nicholas Hughes; Shakespeare's young brother, Edmund, who died at 27. Through this Lipson traces a narrative of misery appropriated or overshadowed, and an underlying sense of abuse. The show opens with Lipson making three "embarrassing confessions", the first of which is that he is an actor. Embarrassment — the reaction to confusion or shame, or an uncomfortable self-consciousness, or being faced with obstacles or questions — is the emotional key to the show. It's comic, of course, opening the gap between how we are perceived and how we perceive ourselves, but it is also an expression of how the soul rubs against a world hostile to its fragilities. All these meanings trace through this fascinating intellectual biography, carried by Lipson's precisely-judged performance. These three very different shows fall outside the conventional definitions of plays, but they are all profoundly "text-based". It is perhaps not a coincidence that they are more poetic, even more literary, than most Australian plays. They might be sidelined as works of theatrical literature, but this also means that the artists can escape institutional assumptions about remy hair extensions what plays are supposed to be. And this escape from conventional inhibitions is, of course, how exciting new work gets made. Piece For a Person and Ghetto Blaster, Hotel Sans, in Adelaide at VitalStatistix, November 25-29. Topics: theatre, performance-art, melbourne-3000, australia, north-melbourne-3051 First posted November 27, 2015 17:25:47 More stories from Victoria