A Mirror

A Mirror

A Mirror Rating

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4

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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9

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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Bunyip Barons

Bunyip Barons

Bunyip Barons Rating

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19

Bunyip Barons, the first-ever original play from Upstage Productions, is a striking and evocative addition to Australia’s theatrical landscape. Set in Sydney in 1839, the play takes inspiration from the writings and illustrations of Louisa Anne Meredith, reimagining her early days in the colony as both observer and unwitting participant in a web of deceit, privilege, and moral decay. What begins as an artist’s gentle curiosity about life in the colony, quickly unravels into a haunting revelation of the darker truths underpinning colonial society.

The production transports audiences to the fictional Coy family’s grand estate, Evergreen House, in Elizabeth Bay — a glittering symbol of refinement and prosperity. The set design is nothing short of exquisite, conjuring the elegance of a colonial drawing rooms while allowing the ever-present bush to loom at its edges, a constant reminder of the untamed and the unknown. The juxtaposition of civilisation and wilderness is beautifully rendered, culminating in the unsettling presence of the Bunyip — a creature of fable that here becomes a potent metaphor for guilt, fear, and the shadows of the empire.

 

 

Just as the Bunyip of legend lures the unsuspecting into murky waters, the Coy family — the so-called “Bunyip Barons” — draw Louisa into their world of opulence and apparent generosity. Yet beneath their polished manners and glittering soirées lies a secret as chilling as it is cruel. Through an encounter with an escaped convict, Louisa uncovers the truth: the Coy family’s prosperity rests upon the brutal exploitation of their convict servants. These men and women, forced into endless servitude within the mansion’s walls, are kept from freedom through falsified records, extended sentences, and coercion. The revelation transforms the story from polite social observation into a powerful indictment of hypocrisy and greed, with Louisa forced to confront her own complicity in a society built on injustice.

Writer-director Timothy Smith’s script is rich with historical resonance yet never weighed down by it. His deft blend of realism and myth creates a compelling moral fable that probes at the fine line between power and corruption, civility and cruelty.

The performances are uniformly strong. John Brown imbues the Coy family’s butler with quiet dignity and a deep, unspoken sorrow, while Bernadette Hunter’s portrayal of the maid is spirited and heartfelt, her warmth cutting through the play’s darker tones. Their shared scenes offer the play’s emotional core, and the final revelations of their own “crimes” lend the production a moving sense of injustice and endurance.

By its conclusion, Bunyip Barons leaves the audience confronting an uncomfortable truth — that the myths we tell, like the Bunyip’s shadow in the reeds, often conceal the real monsters among us. This is a mature, meticulously realised piece of theatre: visually arresting, intellectually engaging, and emotionally resonant.

To book tickets to Bunyip Barons, please visit https://upstageproductionssydney.my.canva.site/.

Photographer: Clare T Photography

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Cloud

Cloud

Cloud Rating

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3

Premiering out of competition at the 2024 Venice International Film Festival, Cloud is a slow-burning psychological thriller that peels back the digital veneer of modern ambition and exposes the hollow desperation that simmers underneath. Directed with icy precision and a haunting visual stillness, this unsettling Japanese film follows Yoshii, an online reseller whose brush with success begins a descent into paranoia, deception, and vengeance.

Yoshii, scraping by reselling goods on the internet, stumbles upon a too-good-to-be-true deal—a medical machine bought for next to nothing and resold at a massive profit. High on this first big taste of victory, he quits his job, distances himself from his one close friend (also in the reseller game, but far less lucky), and relocates to a quiet lakefront house in the countryside with his girlfriend, setting up shop in near isolation. He hires a seemingly naive local villager as his assistant—but from the outset, nothing in Cloud is what it seems.

With its brooding and sparse score and long, languid shots, the film establishes a pervasive sense of unease. Yoshii is visibly on edge, hiding behind a pseudonym online, self proclaiming to be unsure if what he’s selling is even legitimate. The rural calm quickly gives way to dread: an object hurled through his window in the dead of night, a police investigation into counterfeit sales, and whispers of betrayal ripple through the tension-soaked air.

 

 

As the walls close in, Cloud deftly shifts between psychological suspense and social commentary. The internet, a tool for connection and entrepreneurship, becomes instead a breeding ground for fraud, resentment, and faceless revenge. Reviewers accuse Yoshii of being a crook, and dark forces gather—literally. An online mob forms, headed by none other than his estranged old friend, each member with a personal vendetta.

The film’s third act spirals into violent chaos. Yoshii, blind to the consequences of his opportunism, is eventually kidnapped and nearly executed in a live-streamed act of vengeance—only to be saved by his assistant, revealed to have a shadowy past in organized crime. The girlfriend, the assistant, the friend—each character has been complicit in a shared unraveling, a reckoning born not just of greed, but of modern alienation and rage.

Director, Kiyoshi Kurosawa, doesn’t offer clean moral judgments, nor easy redemption. Instead, Cloud paints a murky portrait of a world where ambition overrides empathy, and where digital anonymity can turn ordinary people into victims—or monsters. What starts as a tale of a hustle ends as a chilling parable about the cost of chasing success in an economy built on illusion.

To book tickets to Cloud, please visit https://japanesefilmfestival.net/film/cloud/.

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