Gloria!

Gloria!

Gloria! Rating

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4

The mere mention of Antonio Vivaldi, Johann Sebastian Bach, and George Frideric Handel is enough to quicken the pulse of any classical music lover. Hearing their works performed together feels rather like being presented with an exquisite three-course meal: a rich entrée, a deeply satisfying main, and an indulgent dessert. It was therefore a fitting and inspired program to launch the 2026 season of the Sydney Philharmonia Choirs, performed against the harbour backdrop of Walsh Bay Arts Precinct.

The evening opened with a theatrical gesture that immediately captured the imagination. Rather than appearing en masse on stage, the singers began dispersed among the audience, their voices rising gently from different corners of the hall. The sound emerged almost like a whisper—soft, tentative, and intimate. As the choristers slowly began walking toward the stage, their collective sound grew in strength and cohesion, gradually filling the space with an enveloping resonance. What began as a delicate murmur evolved into a powerful wave of harmony. The effect was both startling and deeply moving, a reminder that great choral music is as much about atmosphere and storytelling as it is about notes on a page.

At the heart of the program was ‘Gloria in D major’ by Antonio Vivaldi, a work whose brilliance has long secured its place among the most beloved pieces of sacred music. From its jubilant opening to its contemplative inner movements, the music seems almost to lift the listener from their seat. There is a buoyancy in the writing that carries the voices upward, while the orchestra provides a radiant foundation beneath. Even for those unfamiliar with the Latin text, the emotional clarity of the music is unmistakable. It feels like a universal prayer—an appeal for peace, beauty, and hope—resonating with particular poignancy in our unsettled modern world.

 

 

The program then turned inward with ‘Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen’ by Johann Sebastian Bach. In contrast to Vivaldi’s luminous exuberance, Bach’s cantata unfolds with profound introspection. The music seems to explore the fragile landscape of human emotion—grief, anxiety, and quiet endurance—yet always with the suggestion of solace just beyond the shadows. Bach’s gift lies in his ability to transform personal anguish into something transcendent, and here the choir and orchestra captured that delicate balance beautifully.

The concert concluded with the dramatic sweep of ‘Dixit Dominus’ by George Frideric Handel, a work written when the composer was still in his twenties but already brimming with confidence and invention. At times, echoes of Vivaldi’s rhythmic vitality could be heard, particularly in the vibrant interplay between the five soloists and the full chorus. Yet Handel’s unmistakable theatrical flair also emerged, with sudden contrasts of mood, tempo, and texture creating moments of thrilling unpredictability. The piece crackled with energy, bringing the evening to an electrifying close.

It is astonishing to reflect that each of these monumental works was originally written for the church, conceived not for the concert hall but for sacred spaces and liturgical devotion.

At the centre of it all stood conductor Brett Weymark, whose presence was nothing short of essential. With a seemingly effortless command, he shaped the music with the finesse of a magician, drawing orchestra and choir together into a single shimmering tapestry of sound.

Among the soloists, sopranos Lauren Lodge‑Campbell and Angela Brun delivered performances of remarkable clarity and poise. Yet it was mezzo-soprano Hannah Forester whose voice truly stole the breath from the room, its richness and expressive depth leaving a lasting impression.

By the evening’s end, there was a palpable sense that the audience had experienced something together—something beyond mere performance. Through music, they had collectively travelled through joy, sorrow, hope, and wonder. It was a powerful reminder of why live music remains one of the most profound shared experiences we can have.

To book tickets to Gloria!, please visit https://www.sydneyphilharmonia.com.au/events/gloria/.

Photographer: Keith Saunders

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Exit Laughing

Exit Laughing

Exit Laughing Rating

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3

There are plays that make you laugh, plays that make you cry, and then there are plays that quietly sneak up on you and remind you that life is happening right now. Watching ‘Exit Laughing’ feels a little like attending the obituary of a woman who refused to leave the table before the last hand was played. Not a solemn obituary, of course—but one written in laughter, cake crumbs, and the shuffle of bridge cards.

For thirty years, Mary’s greatest adventure was her weekly bridge night with “the girls.” In the grand ledger of life, perhaps that sounds small. But for Connie, Leona, Millie, and Mary—four Southern ladies from Birmingham—it was ritual, friendship, and the quiet glue that held the years together. So when Mary dies rather inconveniently before the next scheduled game, the surviving trio does what any respectable, bridge-loving friends might do: they “borrow” her ashes from the funeral home and bring her along for one final night of cards.

From that moment on, the play unfolds like a mischievous wake—one where the guest of honor is present in an urn and the night spirals gloriously out of control. What begins in melancholy quickly turns into an evening of surprises. It is ridiculous in the best theatrical sense: a celebration of life disguised as chaos.

Originally staged at the historic Landers Theatre by the Springfield Little Theatre, the production famously broke the theater’s fifty-year record for tickets sold, playing to standing-room-only audiences and becoming the most popular non-musical in the theatre’s century-long history. It is not difficult to see why. The play carries a universal message wrapped in laughter: it is never too late—or too early—to seize the day.

 

 

The recent production at Hunters Hill Theatre, directed by Annette Van Roden, captures this spirit beautifully. Van Roden’s direction keeps the pacing lively while allowing the emotional moments to breathe. She has clearly chosen her cast with care, creating an ensemble that feels authentic, warm, and delightfully human.

Among the cast, Penny Church’s Millie stands out as a particularly charming presence—eccentric, slightly unhinged, but utterly lovable. Her performance captures the play’s essence: that life, even in its later chapters, can still be wild, surprising, and full of joy.

By the end, the audience leaves with what might best be described as a warm aftertaste—a smile lingering long after the curtain falls. In the end, Exit Laughing is less a comedy about death and more an obituary for a life lived too cautiously. Mary’s final hand reminds us all that the game isn’t over yet—and that the best move might simply be to laugh and play on. ♠️♥️♣️♦️

To book tickets to Exit Laughing, please visit https://www.huntershilltheatre.com.au/.

Photographer: Daniel Ferris

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A Mirror

A Mirror

A Mirror Rating

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3

As you enter the theatre for ‘A Mirror’, it feels less like attending a play and more like arriving at a celebration. The foyer hums with anticipation. Ushers hand you a wedding programme, neatly printed with the order of events, inviting you to witness a union. It is a charming touch—until you turn the paper over. There, instead of a sentimental note, is a stark Oath of Allegiance to the Motherland. The shift is immediate and unsettling. You take your seat—slightly more uncomfortable than expected—and as the festivities begin, you sense that you are not merely watching a wedding. You are being watched yourself.

From the outset, Holcroft’s play establishes a world chillingly reminiscent of George Orwell’s ‘1984’. The auditorium becomes part of the dystopia. Eyes seem to linger too long. Applause feels monitored. In this society, a misstep, a wrong look, an insufficiently enthusiastic smile—any of these could betray you. The atmosphere is thick with suspicion.

The wedding that frames the narrative is a masterstroke of theatrical irony. Traditionally a symbol of joy and new beginnings, here it is a hollow performance: a carefully constructed fiction designed to appease the authorities. Beneath rehearsed vows and forced laughter lies desperation. The ceremony becomes a metaphor for the wider social order—an elaborate façade maintained for survival. Love is secondary; compliance is everything.

 

 

As the story unfolds, we are drawn into the lives of writers coerced into producing patriotic fabrications. They are tasked with rewriting history, inventing heroes, and manufacturing narratives that glorify the regime. Their creativity, once a source of meaning, becomes an instrument of oppression. Through intimidation and propaganda, they are compelled to betray not only the truth but also themselves. Holcroft incisively explores how authoritarian systems corrupt the act of storytelling, transforming art into ammunition.

Yet the weight of the subject matter, combined with the absence of an intermission, makes the production feel deliberately relentless. There is no pause for reflection, no moment to breathe. While this structural choice reinforces the suffocating atmosphere of the regime, it also renders the experience slow at times, even long. The unbroken intensity mirrors the characters’ entrapment, asking the audience to endure the same sustained pressure.

When the lights dim, the impact lingers. The play offers no easy catharsis, no triumphant overthrow. Instead, it leaves the audience with a question that echoes long after departure: would you speak the truth if the price were injury, imprisonment, even death?

In its bitterness, the play achieves a powerful moral clarity. It compels compassion, provokes self‑examination, and reminds us that while regimes built on lies may feel immovable, they persist only as long as individuals choose silence over courage. The truth may not always triumph—but as long as there are people willing to tell it, even at great cost, it can.

To book tickets to A Mirror, please visit https://belvoir.com.au/productions/a-mirror/.

Photographer: Brett Boardman

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The Social Ladder

The Social Ladder

The Social Ladder Rating

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8

At its world premiere, The Social Ladder found an impeccably apt home at the Ensemble Theatre—the country’s longest continuously running professional theatre company—perched in rarified Kirribilli, with Sydney Harbour shimmering outside like an accessory quietly signaling old money. One could hardly imagine a more socially literate setting for a play so exquisitely preoccupied with rank, aspiration, and the fragile choreography of belonging.

Penned by David Williamson AO—Australia’s grand maître of social satire, whose canon includes such drawing-room dissections as Emerald City and Don’s Party—this latest work turns its incisive gaze toward status itself: how it is curated, performed, and so desperately desired. Williamson’s dialogue is once again sharp as cut crystal, producing laughter that curdles almost immediately into recognition.

In an age of relentless social visibility, where curated online selves often eclipse private truths, The Social Ladder feels not merely timely but almost uncomfortably current. The premise is elegantly contained: three couples, six agendas, one dinner party designed as a social audition. At its centre is Katie (Mandy Bishop), a woman of unmistakable ambition and unmistakably non-elite origins. Hailing from resolutely middle-class Engadine, her accent alone threatens to betray her aspirations, yet she is convinced—fervently—that her talents merit elevation.

 

 

Her chosen ladder rung arrives in the form of Sydney power couple Charles (Andrew McFarlane) and Catherine Mallory (Sarah Chadwick), art-collecting, influence-wielding exemplars of cultural capital. A few fleeting schoolyard encounters with Catherine ignite Katie’s belief that proximity might equal access. Thus, the dinner is conceived: not a gathering, but a campaign.

No expense is spared. Catering is outsourced, furniture rented, and even an “artistic masterpiece” hired to telegraph taste. Appearances, after all, are everything. To soften the social calculus, Katie also invites her neighbours—old friends, Ben (Matt Minto), a once-promising film industry figure now professionally becalmed, and Laura (Jo Downing), a dance teacher whose achievements lack the requisite sheen. Their invitation is both olive branch and afterthought.

Naturally, the evening implodes. The food never arrives, the wine order is forgotten, and the borrowed artwork is revealed—mortifyingly—to belong to the very guests meant to be impressed. As façades fracture, civility gives way to desperation, deceit, and the ignominy of cheap wine and takeaway pizza.

The staging is slyly symbolic: three chandeliers ascending in grandeur, empty picture frames lining the walls, furniture beautiful but uncomfortable—an elegant visual shorthand for hollow status and performative taste. Performances across the board are finely tuned, creating the uncanny sensation of eavesdropping on a private catastrophe.

By the final unraveling—replete with secrets, betrayals, humiliations, and small redemptions—the audience is left laughing, wincing, and quietly auditing their own social manoeuvres. One exits the theatre not just entertained, but unsettled, pondering the price paid for a seat at the high-end table—and whether it was ever worth it.

To book tickets to The Social Ladder, please visit https://www.ensemble.com.au/shows/the-social-ladder/.

Photographer: Phil Erbacher

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