Danny And The Deep Blue Sea in one word is a hurricane. It is a force of nature to be reckoned with. Set in the 1980s in the Bronx, it follows the two characters of Danny and Roberta fiercely played by JK Kazzi and Jacqui Purvis. I mean this is a masterclass on acting. You truly believed every word they were saying. Honestly two of the best performances I have seen in recent memory. Their raw unfiltered emotion, and explosive dialogue masterfully written by John Patrick Shanley. This is no holds barred dialogue at its grittiest.
We follow the Characters of Danny and Roberta from a chance meeting at a bar and the encounters that follow are a whirlwind of violence and tenderness. I do issue a warning that this play has mature themes including violence from both parties, and does mention sexual abuse and there is also use of coarse language.
The direction of this play by Nigel Turner-Carroll is very clever, using every inch of the stage as an interactive landscape absolutely delights. There is a very well thought out scene change that doesn’t break the tension of the play which is very hard to do.
At the heart of this play is two very dysfunctional people that come across very unlikable at the beginning but then throughout the course of the play you will begin to think and ponder that absolutely everyone is deserving of love and kindness, no matter their flaws.
The audience gave this play a standing ovation, and rightly so. Everything worked, from the accents, to the acting, the lighting and great use of the stage.
The Old Fitz is an intimate venue perfect for this type of play.
Theatre at it’s absolute best should leave the audience changed in some way. This play left a mark on me and gave me an insight into a world that is foreign to me. I left the theatre actually having more empathy for people that live a different life to myself, and I think that is a true testament to everyone involved in this production.
This play is a thought provoking hurricane that takes you on a roller coaster of emotion, that will ultimately leave you changed after witnessing it.
A very big congratulations to all involved and I don’t think you can ask much more of a theatre experience.
Walking into Belvoir St Theatre felt like reconnecting with an old friend, one whom I have had multiple warm experiences with over the years, and Dear Son only deepened that relationship. Those who know me are aware of my self‑preservation from “spoilers”, so I walk into these situations with just the bare bones of what delight is about to unfold. I was unaware what other “old friends” would be part of this powerful experience.
When director and co‑adapter Isaac Drandic stepped onstage before the show to tell us that Luke Carroll was ill and could not perform, I was briefly disappointed, having known Luke in my youth and followed his career since. Brief is the key word, because it was announced he was being replaced by Aaron Pedersen, an actor who once showed me immense kindness when I was a wide‑eyed Melbourne wanderer in another life, and whose work I also hold in very high esteem. In other words, I already knew I was in for quite a treat before a single word was spoken.
Dear Son, based on the book by Thomas Mayo and adapted for the stage by Drandic and co‑adapter John Harvey, gathers five Indigenous men in what feels like a coastal “men’s shed” to ask, again and again, “What is it to be a man?” through letters, yarns, song and embodied storytelling. The set design by Kevin O’Brien creates warmth and place with deceptively simple means: sandy ground, a rustic wooden covering, two park tables and a glowing sunrise upstage, an inviting representation of a communal gathering space that is both specific and symbolic. It immediately feels connective, it feels personal.
Our five Indigenous actors – Jimi Bani, Waangenga Blanco, Kirk Page, Aaron Pedersen and Tibian Wyles – begin by waving reverently to the audience as words are projected behind them. Video designer Craig Wilkinson’s projections fill the upstage screen with terms like “Father”, “Son”, “Artist”, “Protector”, held by these strong, proud figures as they claim space and create warmth, before those words are undercut and complicated by others that have been used as weapons against Indigenous people for generations, ushering us into Act 1: Letters of Struggle.
The group moves between letters to fathers and sons, shared conversation, humour that is deliciously specific, and moments of song supported by composer and sound designer Wil Hughes’ evocative soundscape. They unpack the impacts of colonisation and the generational trauma wrought by acts of violence, malevolence and cruelty, while also honouring resistance, love and the everyday work of breaking cycles. Lighting designer David Walters gently shifts us through time and tone, from campfire intimacy to something closer to ceremony, with haze and shadow allowing the stories to sit in a liminal, memory‑like space.
The individual performances are powerful, moving and deeply poignant, and the ensemble work is quietly transcendent. It is hard to believe that Pedersen has entered the fold so recently; he integrates with a calm, centred presence that never pulls focus from the collective but deepens it. Wyles often anchors the musical moments with guitar and voice, Bani brings an easy charisma and storyteller’s ease, and Page moves deftly between gravitas and wry humour. Blanco, who also serves as choreographer and movement director, gives the production its physical language.
These stories unite the men in shared trauma, and a far more powerful desire to transcend it by breaking the walls of toxic masculinity down. It’s an important dialogue and unpacking for men, but they are also very clear on the importance of women in their stories and how respect for women should be centred.
There are familiar public figures and stories represented amongst the letters and the production was beautiful, emotional and powerful, but the real tear‑jerker was when each artist shared their own personal lived experience and a meaningful piece of themselves in reverence to the vulnerability they have been celebrating and advocating for throughout.
Dear Son is an important and deeply moving work of First Nations theatre that should not be missed.
Is comedy tragedy reversed? Do we know it’s a comedy because it ends happily?
Sport for Jove’s “The Comedy of Errors” starts with an extra Shakespeare speech – the “stranger’s case” from a play called “Sir Thomas More”, making an appeal for displaced persons. A fitting prologue to the opening where the merchant, Aegeon (Nicholas Papademetriou), is sentenced to death for washing ashore in the wrong country.
Aegeon’s story told to Duke Solinus (Lani Tupu) is a beautifully demonstrated piece of theatre magic by the ensemble.
It is after this that the play becomes farcical with double the fun: two sets of twins causing confusion and mayhem throughout Ephesus.
Be prepared for some pretty violent text supported slapstick between the Dromios and the Antipholuses, or was that Antipholii?
A famous line from Hamlet: “let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them” is unheeded and ‘Errors’ is all the better for it. These additions add energy and atmosphere, giving those in the audience unused to the verse a hook back into the action.
One such standout was Luciana’s (Tamara Lee Bailey) online Shakespeare workout for her followers: “please like and subscribe” integrating the modern world of selfies and influencers into the narrative.
Naomi Belet dazzles in two original songs as the directors wisely lean into the multitalented casts’ varied strengths.
The two Dromios (Gabriel Fancourt and Diego Retamales) might be in danger of stealing any other show but are surrounded by brilliant performances from the dashing Antipholus of Syracuse (Kaya Byrne) and the faithless Antipholus of Ephesus (John Panayiotis Tsakiris) to the fiery Adriana (Imogen Sage) and her Muay Thai and kickboxing sister Luciana (Tamara Lee Bailey).
Dr Pinch’s (Lani Tupu) subliminal presence throughout the play pays off in the exorcism scene. The lost lovers Aegeon (Nicholas Papademetriou) and Aemelia (Inga Romantsova) bring emotional depth amid the madcap antics.
Direction (Damien Ryan and George Banders) is well crafted.
The text is justified, a difficult task considering some Elizabethan comic references are truly dated, however imaginative settings grounds these to the present.
A visual treat is the dance at “The Mermaid”, with choreography (Shannon Burns), the costumes (Bernadette Ryan) luminous under lighting by Lisa Benham.
“The Comedy of Errors” is an enjoyable lark full of vibrant energy.
Unlike real life we know it is a theatrical comedy as Aegeon is forgiven his trespass by the Duke and no one dies in the end. Would that life were so forgiving.
Grief is no new topic for the world of theatre. One of the most fundamental human experiences, it is endlessly relatable, never faltering in its supply of new material. Of course, because grief has been explored before, it requires some level of reinvention to allow it to be interesting — A Chinese Christmas in this regard, went above and beyond. In a 70-minute, yet deceptively thorough dissection of what it truly means not to mourn someone, but miss them, Director Monica Sayers and Writer/Lead Trent Foo hold our hands through a gentle exploration of how to reconnect with something larger than ourselves in our moments of destruction.
Set on the traverse stage of KXT Broadway, the audience enters into the slightly desolate warmth of an apartment. Cardboard boxes are scattered through the space, along with clutter that could or could not be entirely meaningless. Long lines of fibrous twine cut diagonal lines through the air, and natural fabrics are draped over chairs and lamps, cultivating a grounded and stylistic flair within the room. The hourglass was a particularly interesting touch, subtly elevating the stakes in a very grounded and practical way. The space is both carefully put together, in hanging lamps and the dangle of a microphone, and crucially dilapidated with the peeling wallpaper— setting the mood for our lead’s mental state. Much praise must go to Amy Lane here for her impeccable and considerate use of space. Further, her costume design for Lady Dai was also incredibly impressive, giving Jolin Jiang an almost inhuman energy with the shimmering gold over her eyes.
Production design continued to impress through lighting and sound; Jiang playing five or six instruments live through the show, which drew our attention back to the events on stage without ever becoming jarring. The use of colour and spotlighting from Cat Mai both elevated the moments of drama, and softened the piece into an almost dreamlike state when necessary. Cameron Smith’s sound design, along with Jiang as the composer seemed to almost communicate with both the moment, the emotion, and sometimes the characters themselves. Jiang’s work as a musician and composer, and also her physical work on stage, was so strong, in fact, I was almost left wishing the character she portrayed — Lady Dai — was an unspeaking role, as she created an untouchable mysticality around herself that was at times undercut by her less confident vocal work. However, I understood why the choice was made through the end reveal (which I won’t spoil). As a whole, the piece was incredibly beautiful, and production deserves many of the flowers in both matching and creating the emotional journey of the show. Between set, costume, lighting, and sound, the show moved aesthetically beyond the theatrical, settling into the cinematic.
Foo, in turn, gives us a spunky, naive, and energized portrayal of Heepa — a young man trying to bring his entire extended family together for Christmas. His physical work was very strong, clean movements and confidence through stunts created great moments of comedy and underlined his intentions well. His study of stage combat is very clear in this regard. In many ways, A Chinese Christmas functioned for the most part as a one-man show, and Foo effectively utilized this style to engage with his audience. Watching impassively, we were the ancestors coming to visit — always judging, never quite as helpful as he wanted us to be. His voice was clear and strong, and carried us through the show through his excitement. However, I would’ve liked to see him relax on stage, even only about 10-20% — as his energy manifested as a tendency to struggle with connecting with the words or the emotions, performing through them instead. This, although working for moments of comedy, left moments of grief falling slightly short. His performance was the most beautiful at its moments of stillness, slowness, and simplicity, especially in times of reflection. One of my favourite moments of the night in this regard was when the lights on the makeshift Christmas tree weren’t quite turning on, and we watched a very human awkwardness and frustration come out through humour.
Tiang Lim supports the show through her portrayal as PawPaw, the matriarch of this tiny family. Lim gave us a beautifully subtle study of the way that many of our older generations simultaneously ignore their emotions, whilst being swept up and ever affected by them. Although her vocal work leaned slightly into patterns, her work was so incredibly vulnerable that those flaws were easily ignored. Her scene with Foo in the car was particularly effective, both in her wisdom and sympathy, and the recorded monologue of her letter left the crowd very much misty-eyed. PawPaw, although not being quite human herself, was easily the most complexly human character of the show.
With such a common topic, it would be easy for A Chinese Christmas to lose the attention of its audience — but this show succeeds in leaps and bounds both in its cultural accessibility, and how it uses that cultural accessibility to draw in its audience. Although some of the emotional work did lean slightly demonstrative, and some of the connective tissue between moments was a little weak, Foo and Sayers have given us a deeply earnest exploration into loss that excites without excluding. It reminds us beautifully of the ways that we are loved, even if we cannot understand how that love is communicated. All the while, it simultaneously allows for those on stage, and us in the audience, to, as a collective, reach that final stage of grief: acceptance.
