The Courage To Become: A Saltwater Girl’s Journey Home

Saltwater Girls

Saltwater Girls Rating

★★★★★

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Deep within the depths of the Motley Wherehaus I enter Vault 2 – a tiny rectangular 25-seat theatre encased in wall-to-walk black draping, already creating a dramatic, moody, and immersive chasm of theatrical bravery for me to embody.

Against a black minimalist stage dimmed against green and crimson lighting, and flanked by white candles on either side of the stage, a black scenic cube remains static, along with a black lonesome notebook.

Overhead? Ominous sound waves are heard, of violin and guitar music rippling through the room. And at last, the shadow of a lonesome figure is cast behind the stage curtain, singing a traditional Catholic hymn. As the lights brighten, we meet Sydney-raised Lana Filies, writer and creator of ‘Saltwater Girls’, a confessional show about a woman’s journey of self-discovery – back to her own true identity.

As we meet our heroine, prayers are sung, and knees are on the floor, and Filies begins her sinful tale at aged 12, by strapping us in and encasing us in a patriarchal nightmare – in a no-holds-barred cell of an all-girls Catholic school. Or a ‘Catholic Utopia’, as Filies would have liked to have believed.

But as with most teenagers, curiosity often kills rigid order. Social norms fall by the wayside. Leading us by the tail – into the scene of a sin-worthy crime – a church broken-into by Filies, and her Catholic school cohort: her three other girlfriends and her male cousin. Where they come face-to-face with a bottle of wine and proceed to get drunk – a wicked start to some primal adventures. A first kiss with a girlfriend ensues, unleashing a sexual urge so strong, that a lesbian yearning is awakened.

This accelerates to a lingering bathroom kiss at a school party. Full of Catholic guilt, her Sappho secret is kept under wraps. Trying to cure what she believes to be a slight malady, she tries to ogle Zac Efron or Harry Styles, only to dream of Gillian Anderson instead. And as the drips of perspiration blare out of the theatre’s speakers, threatening to overpower her desires, they somehow remain stuck and suppressed: within an establishment built on shame.

 

By year 11? A revolutionary occurrence develops, when a crush on a lesbian teacher uncovers a host of virtues revered: self-respect, self-worth, and validation. For defying one’s social norms. For sticking to one’s values and principles and fighting society’s rules. When she discovers this teacher has a partner – she is sad but ever more curious. The pièce de résistance? The overwhelming discovery of a book of ancient Sappho poetry, written around 600 BCE, featuring verses of intimate human emotions, romantic longing and unapologetic female-led desire. As she looks up the teacher’s photo with her female partner? Something clicks. It is her own true identity beginning to bud, towards an exciting future: to finally be free to be herself.

But all is not rosy on the outside. This teacher gets stood down for discrimination. Liberation turns to rage. In Filies’ mind, it’s time to act out, as she is disciplined within a cluster of defiant boys as punishment. Where instead of fighting, she meditates and shrinks. A whole identity further squashed, sending her into a depressive state, unable to break free once more.

But in a timely fashion, a relationship breakdown (with a male) leads her to finally live a life she can only dream of, as she moves to Kings Cross. Eventually, she talks of finally accepting who she truly is, and how she grows to finally feel free- to fall in love with a woman of her choosing.

That to heal from one’s past? One must fight for one’s identity. That to move forward? One must give themselves the permission to become unstoppable – as a true Saltwater Girl. In purifying one spirit. In rising in one’s identity: all within the cleansing of the sea’s salty currents.

This is a beautiful coming-of-age story by Lana Filies combining storytelling, poetry, and song. It is masterfully directed by Amelia Gilday, and lovingly produced by Moon Bureau. It is a lovely piece of theatre promoting the magic mystery of self-discovery.

To book tickets to Saltwater Girls, please visit https://www.melbournefringe.com.au/whats-on/events/saltwater-girls.

Photographer: Amelia Gilday

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Australia’s Worst Journalist

Australia's Worst Journalist

Australia’s Worst Journalist Rating

★★★★★

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For years, journalist Sweeney Preston issued dating advice for a major news conglomerate while his own love life was the stuff of noncommittal nightmares. Now, at this year’s Melbourne International Comedy Festival, Sweeney’s comedy-turned-conference-turned-confessional ‘Australia’s Worst Journalist’ broadcasts his story in full, excruciating detail (slideshow presentation included).

I questioned what exactly I’d signed up for as a guy in chinos ushered showgoers inside a glorified pantry beneath the Motley WhereHaus known simply as ‘The Vault’, but my worries were (mostly) put to rest as said chino-wearing guy made his way onstage. It was Sweeney Preston, armed with but a microphone and a clicker. With little preamble, he dove into a gritty self-exposé delivered via PowerPoint: harrowing retellings of Tinder dates, romantic getaways for one, radio-broadcasted roasts and roasting sage when all else failed. ‘Australia’s Worst Journalist’ put Sweeney in the proverbial stockyard, exposing his own articles and the ironic stories behind them to an entire pen of onlookers. As a writer, I felt a sick sense of survivor’s guilt, but as a writer whose work wasn’t up on that screen? Couldn’t be more entertained.

 

 

Sweeney was hilarious. Highly in tune with the room, he bantered off the cuff and even finessed the audience into the material itself, but this didn’t surprise me in the least. He’s a journalist—they’ll do anything for clicks (IYGIYGI). Even when veering off on baffling tangents, his stage presence and command of the narrative brought with it complete faith that there was always a line to be punched at the end. A tightly written, cheeky hour of non-stop self-deprecation served by a natural storyteller.

‘Australia’s Worst Journalist’ toes the line between public humiliation and raw honesty to create an incredibly relatable confessional piece, not just for fellow journalists and writers but anyone ever guilty of trying. Curating the persona of ‘you’ takes trial, error and a fair amount of bullshitting first. It also means you have to keep throwing that self at the wall to see what about it sticks and what sticks isn’t always what you’re most proud (or even capable) of. For all it’s a comedy show, ‘Australia’s Worst Journalist’ gets that and that’s why it works so well.

Sweeney Preston took control of his own narrative to deliver a show that was effortlessly funny, silly as hell, and with just a dash of heart (but not too much). Brilliant work and a pleasure to watch—I expect to see many more shows in his future. Be sure to tune in to ‘Australia’s Worst Journalist’ at the Motley WhereHaus until the 19th of April.

To book tickets to Australia’s Worst Journalist, please visit https://www.comedyfestival.com.au/browse-shows/australia-s-worst-journalist/.

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