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.
Melt Festival is an annual open-access festival of Queer arts and culture staged across Magandjin/Brisbane, Australia. To celebrate the festival kicking off, Pip theatre in association with Melt hosted a launch event. This event showcased a wonderful exhibition of artworks and photography by Luke Brohman, as well as some live music and showcases of what the festival has to offer. The energy was enthusiastic from the eager participants as we met appearances from York Lit, Daniel Bruschweiler and JD Zamora just to name a few.
Upon entering the space we were greeted with a glass of bubbles and a walk through the studio presenting Heart Full of Omens by Luke Brohman. It is an eye catching exhibition presenting detailed paintings, drawing, photography and projected clips. Set amongst moody lighting, the paintings draw you in with their exquisite intricacies and hidden detail. The pieces seem to leap out with so much texture and the occasional inclusion of three-dimensional elements. The paintings offer many expressive faces worked in amongst the chaos, and seem to be pensive and serene. The artworks inspire joy and contemplation, with contrast between intense energies and calm.
The photographic works take a different approach, combining many tastefully natural figures with repeating shapes and symbols. The photography contains good composition and clarity; emulating a feeling of something ritualistic. With repeating and melding figures it feels at points like a cosmic kaleidoscope. Some further attention to detail could be important for future photography adventures, such as ironing crinkles out of backdrops or editing them in post-production. All in all, Heart Full of Omens is an enjoyable series and was a perfect introduction to this event.
We were then invited to explore the terrace which was very atmospheric with charcuterie on offer. The live Jazz music was an excellent backdrop to precede the announcements to come. We were then greeted with York Lit in a spectacular sequined silver get-up, a well regarded drag performer. Lit is performing as part of the show Kings of Kaos being presented by Melt, which is a cheeky drag variety act including six kings. Daniel Bruschweiler was introduced to give us a taste of Square Peg Bonus Hole, another fantastic act included in Melt.
Brushweiler introduces us to the concept of the show, what it is like to ‘never live up to expectations’. JD Zamora AKA JD Jephson is presenting traumageddon at Pip Theatre as a part of Melt. This show is said to be a real rollercoaster, a musical rendition of JD’s trauma that takes you through the highs and lows. There are countless more performances, acts and events as part of Melt Festival which is very exciting.
Overall, the launch was a fun event with many people at the ready to delve into the festival and all its offerings.
Mmmmmm… conceptual. Such was the tagline of Tommy Misa’s seventy-five minute exploration into grief and culture, Working Class Clown. And yet, what was immediately impressive about the piece, is that it wasn’t. Not really. The show, although tackling conceptual ideas, used Samoan clowning and a deep and grounded connection to the mundanity of life to traverse those ideas with an empathetic intelligence and humour that made sure it never flew too unreachably high into cerebralism. In the towering industrial theatres of Carriageworks, a stage set with what upon first glance looks like nothing more than a pile of leaves and towering poles is nestled. Against the concrete backdrop, they seem almost out of place as natural objects, which, in many ways, becomes the point.
As the piece opened, Misa’s performance strengths became immediately obvious. Misa moved like a dancer, each micro-adjustment fluid and controlled; a charismatic performer with an easy sensuality that spoke to the argument of the piece. Every emotion, confusion, grief, excitement, happiness, sat firmly in his body as the narrator took us through one of the early Samoan myths of creation. As he joined us in the modern day, we were gifted with the stunningly effective costume design of Katie-Louise and Lilian Nicol-Ford, an oversized blue linen shirt and pants that effortlessly elevated Misa’s physical work on stage. This was accentuated once more by Amber Silk’s lighting design, done so well and concentrating each moment so deliciously that I am officially converted against the lights-up lights-down shows I once championed.
As we moved into the modern day, the piece took on its more grounded, honest edge. We joined Misa in line for Centrelink, and felt both their boredom and desperation as the system once again ignored them. Both we, the audience, and Tommy, the performer, coped with this ignoring of our needs through laughter. In front of our eyes, Tommy became the disinterested government worker, the eastern suburb white friend who can never truly understand what poverty feels like, and the teachers who turned their nose up instead of reaching out with understanding.
Each moment, when scratched just beyond the surface of humour relays a tragic institutional truth about our society, and yet, when faced with the reality of what little those of us who are ignored by the system can do about it, our only choice is to laugh. Laughter, in a sense, was the thesis of the piece. Can we decolonize ourselves through laughter? Can we use it to move through grief? Can we use it to heal?
Another significant throughline of the piece was language. Like many, growing up in primary and high school in Sydney, I was told that most indigenous languages in Australia and the Pacific were either dead, or mostly dead. The hidden underlying message of that wording being, there’s no use bothering to try and save them. Working Class Clown disproved this with a grin and audience participation. As the sole performer on stage, the audience, in many ways, became the secondary character, and our interaction was done almost entirely within the framework of the Samoan language. Through the comedy of the text, and the mass of people learning at the same time, one thought came immediately to my mind: this isn’t that hard. And so I return to comedy as a tool of decolonization.
Perhaps the tragedy of high school and university history classes had told me that imperialism was simply too great a power to ever contend with, but here, in this room of strangers, imperialism showed its delicate white underbelly and revealed to us its weakness of empathy. This also connected us intimately to the culture being explored on stage, and allowed us to almost grieve as a collective, and in turn, provide Misa with the safe space to be as vulnerable as he was.
As a performer, Misa continued to impress. His vocal work was deliberate, and controlled right down to the breath work, which we heard perhaps too much of at the level his mic was set at. Their comedic timing and character work remained a highlight of the show experience, and his subtle shifts into the emotional lowpoints of the script once again proved to me the power of the double-sided coin of comedy and tragedy. Further, the piece sat very culturally inside Sydney, which was a welcome change from the more conceptual shows on the market which are set more inside an “idea” than a place. Towards Misa’s more emotional moments, he did briefly fall into rhythmic traps which leaned more demonstrative than legitimately emotive, however with the content being discussed, I couldn’t truly fault them. It also didn’t stop every emotional moment from giving me full body goosebumps, as we watched legitimate emotions sit just behind the emotional guard of performing.
Lighting also continued to show off, both with moments of individual spotlight, and particularly memorable moments of the lights coming up on us as the audience, forcing us to participate. Another highlight was the voice-message from Gussy, played by Imbi, which was performed beautifully, and gave Misa the break they needed to create the emotional high that would carry them for the rest of the show. However, I must admit my favourite moment, one that brought me fully to tears, was Misa’s retelling of a family in line for housing – which they don’t get – and the gifting of a dandelion from the family’s oldest son to his exhausted mother.
A one-man show is a challenge, it gives you no one to rely on but yourself, and it was here that one of the only two true weaknesses of the show appeared. At a smattering of points throughout the show, Misa began to say something and then rapidly changed direction, which left the sentence not quite making sense. This came to a head as a line drop, which although is not a crime in and of itself, did manifest as a drop in confidence which affected the later half of the show. This, however, I am empathetic about. It is difficult enough to learn a part in an ensemble piece, where there are people on stage that can bail you out. A one-man show is an entirely different beast, and this show was almost half an hour longer than the others I’ve seen this year.
A truly mammoth amount of content for a singular performer. The piece’s second, and truly I believe only other flaw, was that although it made interesting points, the connective tissue between those points was often weak. This problem was much less noticeable in the first half of the piece, but towards the end, as the script tried to fit more and more ideas into itself in dwindling time, the jumps became more and more distinct – which caused confusing pivots between emotional states that didn’t quite make sense. However, each individual idea on its own was well fleshed out and conceptually impressive, even as the larger cohesiveness of the argument began to warp.
Easily the most impressive portion of the show was watching Misa, and then Misa and some brave volunteers from the audience who weren’t wearing wobbly heels like I was, build the world in front of us. This began with Misa building a puppet in real time out of paper, which was used beautifully to represent his child self. However, the second, and more impressive example, was the building of the home. The section began with one of the rawest displays of vulnerability I’ve ever seen on stage, as the lights came up on all of us whilst Misa honestly asked for help to lift the roof onto the poles he’d placed down.
As the home came together, the emotion hidden behind those guardrails of performance crept to the surface, and as the sunset behind the home was created, both Misa and their audience were left in a choked awe (and admittedly misty-eyed). Indeed, it became never-more clear than in that moment that we weren’t just watching a character work through something, but Misa himself process his grief in front of us.
Working Class Clown functions spectacularly as an exploration of grief through comedy and culture, and although it trips on minor faults of performance and argument, as a cohesive experience, it was an incredibly impressive piece of theatre. Each element was well considered and equally well executed, and I left with both a true sense of emotional catharsis, and a deeper understanding of a culture that I hadn’t had the chance to learn much about.
Rate of Decay is an anthological Australian Gothic Theatre piece created and directed by Xanthe Jones. It totes itself as an ‘exploration into the shadows of the Australian Psyche’ and delivers eleven separate stories played by a talented cast of seven. Rate of Decay is a goodie bag full of delights, and some darker chocolates that leave a bitter taste in the mouth. Some segments are played for comedy, providing moments of levity whilst some scenes are heavy and tense. As a whole, it provides an entertaining journey across the far reaches of Australia.
Our opening scene explores a very natural feeling relationship between a young couple and some eventuating mysteries in the bush. This story felt like a tall tale told at the pub come alive, with eerie consequences. Tension built nicely across this cameo, however I would have liked to see a little more of the ill fated outcomes of the characters and the involvement of the old man. Triona Calimbayan-Giles captivates the audience with her performance and Peter Hatton plays an irritating yet good natured spouse. There was some issue understanding Hatton in this segment as his articulation could use some refinement to ensure we capture every beat of the dialogue. Next we are introduced to a concept called ‘Memory’ which is a beautifully written thriller. Alisha O’Brien steals the stage with an ernest and expressive performance, and Tom Pocilujko plays an annoyingly supportive brother. The beat shift at the conclusion of this scene was sublime, Xanthe Jones is a master of writing flawed Men.
The play then flows into ‘the interview’ which presents as a crime thriller set in a police station. Siena D’Arienzo does an exceptional job as ‘Marsha’ , a lost little girl, her performance felt perfectly innocent. Josephine Olton plays a straight talking detective while Will Kasper is a loose tempered wild-card. The twist in this segment was fun although the delivery fell flat, it felt over-explained. It also felt odd that Kasper remained after losing his temper, this might have concluded better if Kasper stormed out and Olton was left to hesitantly ask a final one or two questions. The play then introduces us to the absolute highlight ‘Castle Hill Lookout’ which explores three teenage boys mucking up in the bush. The comedic beats land perfectly and the nuanced drama and connections feel completely authentic. Jones writes a compelling and honest feeling dialogue between these young men. She expertly conveys their flaws, yet also their love for each other in navigating difficult subjects in a friendship. Hatton, Kasper and Pocilujko have great chemistry in this cameo, it left me wanting more of this relationship.
We are then taken to ‘Best in show’ set at a Dalby Pageant. This section felt mostly played for laughs with ‘cat fight’ coming to mind. It gives a small reprieve from the heavier themes and doesn’t feel like it serves much other purpose. Next we find ourselves in ‘Gold Fever’ which centres around two gold panners and one travelling woman. This segment lost some pace due to the attempt at heightened language, which occasionally felt like it detracted from the Australian feel. The scene did however contain some fantastic fight choreography, in fact all fight choreography in the play was crisp and well done. ‘The Love Spell’ is a fun albeit dark segment, however it didn’t always feel like the aggression between the schoolgirls was motivated or earnt. ‘Pine Gap’ was an enjoyable moment of levity providing some well placed opportunities for laughter.
‘Orphans’ takes us on a journey amongst three girls living at a Victorian orphanage. The chemistry between O’Brien, D’Arienzo and Olton feels ernest, keeping us drawn in. I would have liked to see this scene develop even more and use a more ‘show don’t tell’ approach but it was effective. ‘Believers’ had us at the dining table of a cult between the first wife and the enigmatic leader. This scene was compelling and worked well, although it did feel like certain shocking things were revealed with much weight at times. ‘Pray for us’ felt like a neat political statement about nuclear energy, leaving us on a slightly harrowing note.
Rate of Decay was an interesting experience that took us on many ups and downs. It had great fight choreography and the segments ‘Memory’ and ‘Castle Hill Lookout’ were masterfully handled. Jones excels at complex relationships and flawed characters. There was room for more exploration in some of these more intriguing scenes, while others seemed only for comedy or came up slightly short. All in all, an intriguing play that was well performed. The cast and crew should be commended on their efforts.
