Festival junkies

We're freaking out. The Melbourne Festival has only been going for six days and already we are suffering cultural overload - at least one show a night, sometimes two or maybe three in a day. And, unlike some previous years over which a discreet veil should be drawn, most it is highly pleasing if not actually enjoyable. Such as the  incredible Back to Back Theatre's rivetting Food Court - so dark, so compelling and so well presented in every way with the improvised accompaniment from The Necks driving everything relentlessly forward.
Then, of course, there was the night the Queen of Grunge, Patti Smith, rocked Hamer Hall to the rafters - and beyond. Wow, grannies rock!
Patti was at it again, although in more subdued mode, when she teamed up with minimalist extraordinaire Philip Glass for a tribute to beat generation bard Allan Ginsberg. Pity about the illiterate transition of his poems to the backdrop (and Patti also mangled many a line) but it was a fine revival of that era which, if you remember being there, you couldn't have been there. Ginsberg's rants seemed stale and misplaced in a Melbourne theatre. They were probably best listened to - as they originally were - in a haze of LSD and pot. Only then could they have made sense. But a great show, nonetheless.
Which is not what could be said about Liza Lim's opera (?) The Navigator - an obtuse and bizarre creation (thanks for nothing Barrie Kosky) in which there was, thankfully, some incredibly beautiful singing. The story line, if there was one, was unintelligible and banal; and the music stridently modern with little to enjoy.  And as for the strap-on genitalia - come on, Barrie, that is so passe and unshocking.
Speaking of which, it was hard to fathom why the dancers from the Batsheva Dance Company felt it necessary to flash their privates during the performance of Three - a  triple bill of so-called ballet that was more akin to advanced aerobics or a drill session for the Israeli (or any other) army.  The balletomaines packed into the State Theatre went bananas at this mish-mash of meaningless prancing - but then, they would, wouldn't they? If it moves, darling, it's wonderful.
Far more engrossing was An Oak Tree, an intriguing and insightful exercise in theatrics overseen by Tim Crouch.  On each of the four nights of this performance a different actor played opposite Crouch in his two-hander, The Hypnotist - a play within a play. We saw the delightful Julie Zamiro acting the role of a 45-year-old farmer who was behind the wheel of a vehicle that killed his daughter. The actors have not seen the script and have only met Crouch briefly an hour before they step on to the stage from a seat in the audience. By earpiece, whispered instructions and occasional reading from text, the guests are taken through a probing, twisting, dramatic story of loss and mind-play.  Geofrrey Rush, Kim Gyngell and Jane Turner were the other actors who took up the challenge. A gripping night of theatre.
Less gripping was the MSO's appearance under the baton of composer Nigel Westlake for an evening of Westlake compositions featuring the superb guitar playing of Slava Grigoryan, his brother Leonard and Doug DeVries plus the piano of maestro Michael Keiran-Harvey. The first half was fairly one-level stuff - magnificent guitar work but little to stir the soul. The second half brought the MSO on stage to take us through the rumbustious Shadow Dances and the very evocative mind pictures created by the Antarctica suite. A pleasant evening without too much excitement.
And there's more to come.  For more information click here
 
 

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