This year, the most brave and challenging theatre I’ve been
witness to has been on the stages of the Melbourne Theatre Company – as part
of the Neon Festival of Independent Theatre. Five of Melbourne’s best known
independent theatre companies have been invited into the Lawler Theatre and
given carte blanche to create new works. The results, so far, have been
incredible.
Last night, I was witness to the Hayloft Project’s By Their Own
Hands, co-written, co-directed and co-starring Anne-Louise Sarks and Benedict
Hardie. Ever since I saw Hayloft’s production of Thyestes, I have always felt
less an audience member and more of a witness to their work – later reporting
on their brutal (Thyestes), thought-provoking (The Nest), darkly humorous (Delectable
Shelter) and enigmatic (The Seizure) creations.
By Their Own Hands continues the evolution of a company that
has made their mark on Melbourne theatre and will survive because each of their
shows both compliments what has come before and extends the reach of their
vision. Notably, I think, Hayloft always chooses the perfect spaces for their
works. Thyestes developed for the Tower. The Nest, a perfect fit for the Northcote
Town Hall. Delectable Shelter, a light in the dark of the cavernous
Theatreworks.
Given the invitation to MTC’s Lawler Theatre, Sarks and
Hardie have again used the space in an interesting way – by leaving all the
lights on and inviting the audience to join them on the stage for Act One. In a
Q&A after the show, Hardie explained that one of the thoughts behind the
show was to create something that audiences wouldn’t expect to see on an MTC
stage.
And this is true of the Neon Festival in general. What
audiences have been privileged to see over the past few weeks and three shows
is brave, exciting and fresh new work from three companies whose command of
theatrical language is second-to-none. I have heard criticisms of the shows –
and none have been particularly well embraced by critics at The Age or the
Herald-Sun. But what excites me about all of these shows – and the Festival
overall – is that these creatives have been allowed to try something new.
Sure, all of them seem to be adaptations of some kind –
though Menagerie is clearly inspired by Tennessee William’s life, not-so-much
The Glass Menagerie; On the Bodily Education of Girls is only inspired by a
novella – Adena Jacobs and Fraught Outfit developed something that seemed as
much in conversation with the original story or in reaction to it, rather than
trying to theatricalise it.
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| Benedict Hardie and Anne-Louise Sarks, By Their Own Hands |
By Their Own Hands is a retelling of the Oedipus myth. One
of the absolute highlights of Melbourne theatre last year was the Malthouse
production, On the Misconception of Oedipus. But there is a reason why theatre
returns the myth and the play by Sophocles; it’s internal and primal and can be
told in lengthy, languid ways or it short, sharp bursts of energy.
Act One, as I mentioned, has the audience invited onto the
stage. Benedict and Anne-Louise tell the story of Oedipus – casting different
audience members as the key characters in the tragedy. They improvise a little,
reacting to the audience reactions – describing the characters as looking a
little like the audience members they pick for each role. We gather around. We
can wander. We can take in this tale from different perspectives. But in the
end, we are drawn in because we are there. Even if we are not in the main cast,
we are the tableau of townspeople – even if at some point we die.
Act Two is a purely visual feast that is both inviting,
delicate and brutal. We already know the story because Act One has outlined it
so well. Recreating the visceral moments of the text; Oedipus’ birth, his
copulating with Jocasta and her hanging, is a punch to the gut. Even though the
entire show is particularly Brechtian; we watch the actors change costume, set
up props and set. We can see the wires very deliberately, but Jocasta’s death
is still very, very shocking.
Act Three is improvised. The action is modern day. These
characters are us. We recognise their conversations. But where in the story are
we. Who are we watching flirt with each other? Is it Jocasta and Oedipus’
father? No, it’s Jocasta and Oedipus himself. And the tragedy is in the
mundane. And the ending is flawless and affecting.
All three shows have engendered much discussion post-show
and, in the case of the first two, the weeks after. None of them were easy for
me to digest, which is what has made them so exciting. I’m still thinking about
Daniel Schlusser’s ode to one of the great writers of the twentieth century. I’m
still stuck watching those young girls dancing in my mind, as part of Adena
Jacobs’ ode to the education of young girls.
And, as I expect from Benedict Hardie, Anne-Louise Sarks and
Hayloft, I will be thinking about By Their Own Hands for a long time to come. Enthralling.
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