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Welcome to Cultural Binge
The rating system is simple:
★★★★★ – Terrific, world-standard. Don’t miss.
★★★★ – Great, definitely worth seeing.
★★★ – Good. Perfectly entertaining. Recommended. Individual mileage may vary.
★★ – Fine. Flawed and not really recommended, but you may find something to appreciate in it.
★ – Bad (& possibly offensive).
See more reviews over at The Queer Review.
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Kimberly Akimbo (MTC) ★★★★
Book & lyrics by David Lindsay-Abaire. Music by Jeanine Tesori. Based on the play by David Lindsay-Abaire. Melbourne Theatre Company & State Theatre Company South Australia. Arts Centre Melbourne Playhouse. 26 Jul – 30 Aug, 2025.
Five-time Tony Award-winning musical Kimberly Akimbo is quirky, charming, and completely original. We all need to give director Mitchell Butel the full “Paddington hard stare” until he programmes it at STC.
Kimberly Levaco (Marina Prior) is on the verge of turning 16. Born with a rare genetic disorder that causes her to age four to five times faster than normal, she looks like a middle-aged woman but has the mind and heart of a teenager. Settling into a new school, she meets nerdy boy Seth (Darcy Wain), whose blunt lack of social graces and awkward charm get past her defensive nature. Meanwhile, her less-than-honest Aunt Debra (Casey Donovan) has cooked up a get-rich-quick scheme that hinges on Kimberly’s unique condition.
Nathan O’Keefe, Marina Prior, Casey Donovan & Christie Whelan Browne. Photo: Sam Roberts. The adults in Kimberly’s world are… well, calling them “a mess” is being generous. They’re callous and cruel in their own ways. Narcissistic mum Pattie (Christie Whelan Browne) is pregnant again and recovering from surgery on both hands. Her dad Buddy (Nathan O’Keefe) is a drunk with a grudge against his sister-in-law Debra. Kimberly is not only physically ageing too fast — she’s had to grow up emotionally to take care of the useless adults who should be looking after her. And in the background, always, is the reminder that people with her condition rarely live beyond 16.
Which all sounds depressing as hell, but like the best comedies, there’s desperate humour baked into the chaos that keeps Kimberly Akimbo grounded in real emotion. Debra’s scheme is ridiculous, but the stakes are real for Kimberly, who wants the money so she can have an adventure before her time runs out. David Lindsay-Abaire’s book gives us slightly exaggerated but vividly drawn characters — more than you’d expect from most musicals.
Nathan O’Keefe & Marina Prior. Photo: Sam Roberts. And while the subject matter can be heavy, the show handles it with a remarkable lightness of touch. Tesori fans hoping for the weight of Caroline, Or Change or Fun Home might be surprised by the levity and silliness here — as I was when I first saw the show back in 2021. This is a gentler piece, leaning into the zany, 90s indie-cinema / Sundance crowd-pleaser vibe rather than tortured emotion. It’s not a frivolous show, but it doesn’t cut quite as deep as Tesori’s heavier works.
Marina Prior is instantly winning as the young Kimberly. She captures Kimberly’s quiet heartbreaks and fears with subtlety worth watching closely. Christie Whelan Browne and Nathan O’Keefe turn two highly unlikeable parents into layered, interesting people — not redeemable, but understandable in their desperation. Casey Donovan sings the pants off her numbers, but I’ll be honest — her comedy felt too broad compared to the rest of the cast and occasionally threatened to throw off the balance of a scene.
Marina Prior. Photo: Sam Roberts. The real standout is newcomer Darcy Wain as Seth, Kimberly’s new friend and possible first love. His joyful, blissfully unaware performance radiates innocence and honesty, which lifts Prior’s Kimberly and throws her family’s toxicity into sharper relief. His own pain draws them together, and his openness gives her a new lease on life. Wain’s vocals are bright and his performance layered.
He’s joined by a quartet of fellow students — Marty Alix, Allycia Angeles, Alana Iannace and Jacob Rosario — caught in an unrequited love-quadrangle (love-rectangle? love-polygon?). They don’t just keep the energy up; they nearly steal the show. As choruses go, they’re a dynamic, funny bunch — I’d happily watch a spin-off from their perspective.
Full Ensemble of Kimberly Akimbo. Photo: Sam Roberts. Director Mitchell Butel again proves his deep understanding of musical theatre, delivering both spectacle and heart. Jonathan Oxlade’s set, full of childlike geometric shapes, highlights Kimberly’s innocence and naivety. The stage crew deserve their own standing ovation for wrangling the occasionally unwieldy set pieces. Ailsa Paterson’s costumes evoke the 90s without veering into cliché. And kudos to whoever picked the 90s pop bangers for the pre-show playlist — inspired.
Kimberly Akimbo hits that sweet spot between crowd-pleasing & thoughtful without being bland or patronising. It’s commercial with an art-house edge. The score doesn’t feature big Broadway belters you’ll be humming on the train home, but it’s filled with sharp, ear-catching phrases that stick with you long after the final bow.
So if you’re a musical theatre fan, don’t wait. Get to Melbourne before Kimberly Akimbo disappears — there’s no telling if Sydney will get its chance.
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Once on This Island (Hayes) ★★★★½
Book & lyrics by Lynn Ahrens. Music by Stephen Flaherty. Adapted from ‘My Love, My Love’ by Rosa Guy. Curveball Creative. Hayes Theatre Company. 2-31 Aug, 2025.
It’s an old song. It’s an old tale from way back when. It’s a sad tale. It’s a tale of a love from long ago. It’s a tale of gods and men, and lovers thrown together and torn apart by the fates. No, Hadestown isn’t back, but if you’re craving a romantic musical with a bittersweet edge, then come way down to Hayes-town for Once on This Island.
In the French Antilles in the Caribbean, young local girl Ti Moune (Thalia Osegueda Santos) witnesses a car crash and rescues the young, rich Daniel (Alexander Tye). He is one of the grand hommes, the wealthy French descendants living on the other side of the island. She nurses him back to health, but not before his family whisks him back behind the high gates of the Hotel Beauxhomme. Ti Moune, convinced the gods have brought them together, walks across the island to be with him. But will the gods help her cross the cultural divide and find true love?
Once on This Island Ensemble. Photo: David Hooley. You could be forgiven for thinking Once on This Island is a Disney musical. There’s something cheerful, warm, and slightly formulaic about this 90s show. Catchy, pop-infused tunes with a regional inflection— in this case, a Caribbean beat— and a power-ballad love song. Perhaps it’s because there is common DNA tracing back to Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid. But it’s hard to be cynical about the show when this production is filled with so much joy.
This rich ensemble’s vocals will wrap you up in a big embrace from the first note, aided by the beautiful harmonies of the score (it’s a great arrangement). While not every featured role is as strong as the others, the combined power of them all lifts the roof. But the star is clearly Thalia Osegueda Santos, who combines innocent charm with a dynamic, clear belt— my first thought was, “Has she been a Six queen yet?” Of the ensemble, I had a great time the quartet of gods, Rebecca Verrier’s nasty Papa Ge, Cypriana Singh’s elegant Erzulie, Paula Parore’s Asaka and Googoorewon Knox’s Agwe, who all brought great humour, heart and menace to the roles (some great costumes by Rita Naidu). Also noteworthy were Bash Nelson’s facial expressions in his many smaller roles.
Rebecca Verrier & Alexander Tye. Photo: David Hooley. Brittanie Shipway has quickly shot to the top of the “directors to watch” list; her handling of every aspect of Once on This Island is assured and clear. This production is the perfect blend of big voices and smartly scaled staging to fit the Hayes space. It’s clear that smart decisions have been made, with a directorial vision that has produced a very strong show. Véronique Benett’s lighting is highly evocative. And another round of applause, please, for Nick Fry’s layered, inventive stage design work— this is one of the best-looking shows I’ve seen at the Hayes, and that’s a very high bar.
Paula Parore, Cypriana Singh, Rebecca Verrier & Googoorewon Knox. Photo: David Hooley. The Hayes has had a very fun year of programming so far in 2025, from the quirky (Ghost Quartet), the zany (Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown), the safe and crowd-pleasing classics (The Producers, Being Alive), and the originals. Once on This Island sits firmly in the safe and crowd-pleasing camp— this is core Hayes stuff, a Broadway musical reinvented for intimacy. It’s a little scrappy, a little sappy, and very, very heartwarming.
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werkaholics (Belvoir 25a) ★★
Written by Vivian Nguyen. Purple Tape Productions. Belvoir 25a. 29 Jul – 17 Aug, 2025.
Some shows deliberately defy simple, clear interpretation and artfully invite the audience to discover meaning on their own terms (Martin Crimp’s Fewer Emergencies is an excellent recent example). Some, like werkaholics, do none of those things.
Jillian (Shirong Wu) is a struggling actor who can’t catch a break. She mostly works as a photographer/videographer for her best friend Lilian (Georgia Yenna Oom), a beauty/lifestyle influencer who has taken social media by storm. But Lilian’s followers don’t know her real life is nowhere near as glamorous as she pretends. When Jillian starts dating a new girl, Sage (Ruby Duncan), she’s unaware that Sage secretly runs the influencer-busting Instagram account Unmoi, which is determined to take Lilian down.
Shirong Wu & Georgia Yenna Oom. Photo: Lucy Parakhina. Werkaholics sets out to critique #manifestation culture and the influencers who peddle half-truths while racking in cash from their followers. At least, that’s what it says it’s trying to do, the story quickly goes off the rails with confusing dialogue and bizarre plot developments.
For a moment, during a climactic argument in which the word “armidillo” was repeatedly used, I wondered if I had misjudged the tone of the play and this was in fact a piece of absurdist theatre. Maybe the incoherence was the whole point? Perhaps it was, in fact, some kind of meta-commentary on internet culture, or I was caught in the middle of an AI hallucination masquerading as a play? No — ChatGPT would at least produce a scene with some banal logic.
The programme notes try to hand-wave the chaos by calling it a “hyperpop aesthetic” — but this has neither the fun vibes nor the layered sensory experience of hyperpop. Werkaholics is simply a jumble of convoluted speeches, nonsensical plotting and painfully thin characterisations.
Shirong Wu. Photo: Lucy Parakhina. On a positive note, the cast manage to produce some enjoyable work, despite every character sounding like a chatbot trained exclusively on YA melodramas and TikTok comment threads. The excellent Shirong Wu has fun playing both the distraught Jillian and Sage’s mother (in an outrageous wig). Georgia Yenna Oom juggles Lilian’s ambition and nervous energy well. The play’s highlight is a completely incomprehensible but very enthusiastic cyber-sex scene brought to life with some extremely energetic movements — Ruby Duncan does things to that TV screen that frankly stole the show.
But their good work and personal charm can only carry us so far, especially when the material feels instantly out-dated and tired. Video calls that sound like Skype. References to Perez Hilton. Sage wears sunglasses indoors as if she’s a “hacker” from The Matrix. People slowly wave their arms around like they’ve just watched Minority Report. Even the basic premise of “influencers are frauds” is played out already.
Ruby Duncan. Photo: Lucy Parakhina. Does werkaholics tackle the modern influencer economy with originality or insight? No. Does it show an understanding of how the influencer world functions? Also no. All of this would be forgivable if werkaholics offered interesting outsider commentary or demonstrated some kind of novel point-of-view. But as it creaks towards its truly baffling conclusion (the final scene exudes real “oh-fuck-how-do-I-end-this” desperation), it’s clear the level of thought here is only one pixel deep.
Werkaholics needs a lot more “werk.” The “fake it ’til you make it” mantra may be acceptable for wannabe influencers, but not for theatremakers asking audiences to pay for a seat.
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Grief is the Thing With Feathers (Belvoir) ★★★★½
Written by Simon Phillips, Nick Schlieper & Toby Schmitz. Adapted from the novel by Max Porter. Belvoir. 26 Jul – 24 Aug, 2025.
Belvoir’s streak of literary adaptations unearths another winner with Grief is the Thing With Feathers. This production gives Toby Schmitz a chance to soar. As the list of playwrights suggests, this is a collaborative affair that merges the disciplines of theatre into one poetic whole. Don’t be put off by the title; while it meditates on grief, it’s also quite fun, albeit in a dark way.
Toby Schmitz. Photo: Brett Boardman. An academic and father of two young boys attempts to cope with the loss of his wife. Then, one night, as if summoned by the household’s pain, Crow arrives and takes over their lives. This metaphysical encounter—or psychological break, if you prefer—serves as both a chaotic disruption and a possible journey to healing.
The true test of a play’s power lies in how much lingers in my mind after leaving the theatre. The morning after seeing Grief is the Thing With Feathers, I still hold a crystal-clear image of Crow. He is vivid. This mastery of storytelling means that, although Crow manifests onstage only through subtle changes in Schmitz’s accent, posture, and mannerisms, in my mind he transforms into a powerful, sleek, black-winged creature of terrifying size and beauty. The play sent my own imagination soaring.
Toby Schmitz. Photo: Brett Boardman. The opening moments showcase that rare theatrical magic Belvoir captures so well: Crow’s entrance is one of the most exciting acts of misdirection and majesty I’ve seen all year. I found myself grinning from the back row. Craig Wilkinson’s projections and animations beautifully expand the tale while maintaining the bleak, pungent atmosphere of the emotionally drained household. Nick Schlieper’s lighting design has more than a few tricks up its sleeves.
Schmitz clearly enjoys playing both the mild-mannered English Dad and the rougher, ruder Crow. Ella Butler’s dark-toned, layered costumes punctuate Crow’s presence, enhancing Schmitz’s performance. Dad walks—Crow leaps. Dad watches and thinks; Crow reacts and snaps. It’s a joy to watch.
Toby Schmitz, Fraser Morrison & Philip Lynch. Photo: Brett Boardman. Schmitz is joined on stage by Philip Lynch (The Lewis Trilogy) and Fraser Morrison (Cruise) as his two sons, along with composer Freya Schack-Arnott, who performs the cello-based score live. Lynch and Morrison cavort like children, bringing innocent, blunt acceptance to the strangeness of their new post-mum lives. Their narration blends childlike observations with future-adult rationalisations, giving the play the temporal elasticity of memory.
Fraser Morrison & Toby Schmitz. Photo: Brett Boardman. There is a strong echo of Patrick Ness’s 2011 YA hit A Monster Calls in the story. The opening moments are strikingly similar (a feather in a bedroom versus a leaf), and the transformation of unfathomable emotions into a supernatural force unfolds in much the same way—just swap Monster’s Yew Tree for Grief’s Crow. Max Porter’s verse, largely unaltered on stage, retains its lyrical mysticism, making this a far more successful adaptation than other stage versions of A Monster Calls I’ve seen. On a lighter note, some of the ‘da-dum’ sound transitions amusingly reminded me of TV’s Law & Order.
At 100 minutes, the show starts to feel a bit claustrophobic in its second half, with the oppressive world of black and grey wearing thin. Still, it’s more than worth enduring for the beautiful catharsis of the final moments.
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Fewer Emergencies (Old Fitz) ★★★★½
Written by Martin Crimp. The Company Theatre. The Old Fitz. 22 Jul – 3 Aug, 2025.
If you’re a fan of the challenging, conceptual work of Caryl Churchill or Sarah Kane, then make your way to The Old Fitz for this late-night treat. Martin Crimp’s triptych of stories about stories is woven seamlessly together in director Harry Reid’s new production. It offers no new answers to the play’s questions but presents them with exhilarating conviction.
Bayley Prendergast, Monica Sayers, Olivia Hall-Smith & Clay Crighton. Photo: Robert Miniter. In Reid’s interpretation, three (or is it four?) cleaners invent stories about the world around them as they work. In the first, Whole Blue Sky, a stray scarf sparks an improvised tale of a young woman who may (or may not) have the perfect marriage. Together, the storytellers develop and correct each other’s versions as they go—but the story reveals more about the teller than the subjects, taking darker turns along the way. In the second, Face to the Wall, they imagine a school shooting from the shooter’s point of view—someone who, on the surface, seems to have the perfect life (could he be the husband or father from the first story? Possibly). In the third, the short Fewer Emergencies, the storytellers glimpse a flicker of hope, whether real or imagined, in the distance.
Monica Sayers & Bayley Prendergast. Photo: Robert Miniter. This is the first piece of genuine “lean-in” theatre I’ve seen in a while, and despite the lateness of the hour, it gripped me completely. Crimp’s ambiguity invites the audience to create their own narrative, sharing a sense of personal responsibility for the direction the story takes. It’s manipulative and more than a little cruel—but thrilling all the same. Just as Beckett’s Happy Days (recently performed at Sydney Theatre Co) places us in an existential space to focus on the characters and their humanity, Crimp’s stories expose the inner workings of the storytellers and their own violent impulses. By compelling us to imagine the visuals ourselves, we experience a fully immersive virtual memory. This is storytelling at its most disturbing.
The Company Theatre provides an extra layer of context through the cast’s costumes and actions, gently guiding us into the world rather than leaving us in a purely conceptual space (when Fewer Emergencies premiered in 2005, it was staged in an all-white room with the cast seated around a table). I’m sure some purists will object, but I found it to be additive. There’s a reassuring confidence in the cast’s performances too—they seem to know where we’re headed, even if we do not, which lets us sit back and immerse ourselves more fully.
Bayley Prendergast, Monica Sayers, Olivia Hall-Smith & Clay Crighton. Photo: Robert Miniter. The cast of four—Clay Crighton, Olivia Hall-Smith, Bayley Prendergast, and Monica Sayers—are all exceptional. With such a conceptual script, it would be easy for their characters to feel cold or detached, but instead, each is vibrantly alive. Telling these stories seems to be their great joy, and that enthusiasm, however twisted or macabre, holds us enthralled.
As part of The Old Fitz’s late-night programme, Fewer Emergencies takes place on the same basic set as the main show, Betrayal, which is completely transformed with the addition of some props and rich lighting by Izzy Morrissey, whose work does much of the visual storytelling.
Clay Crighton. Photo: Robert Miniter. But fear not—Fewer Emergencies isn’t nearly as disturbing as some might suggest. It feels like watching an unsettling yet wildly entertaining episode of Black Mirror, rather than enduring a Saw movie.
Frankly, this is fantastic work. Experience it alongside Betrayal, and you’ve got a double bill of the highest calibre.
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The Book of Mormon (Capitol Theatre) ★★★★★
Book, Music & Lyrics by Trey Parker, Robert Lopez & Matt Stone. Capitol Theatre, Sydney. From 15 Jul, 2025.
I had no intention of actually reviewing The Book of Mormon. After a very hectic week (lots of shows, lots of writing, lots of day job work, lots of real-world dramas), it was meant to be a simple, fun night at the theatre with a friend—something I didn’t have to think about too much. I wasn’t invited to review it, so there was no obligation, etc. This one was just for funzies. So why am I writing this now?
Because it was completely, filthily, fucking five-stars worth of brilliant!
When I saw the show originally (back in 2013), I remember cackling my arse off but doubting it would work as well a second time around. Many of the laughs then came from the “oh-my-god-I-can’t-believe-they-said-that-on-stage” shock factor. Would any of it be funny when you already knew what was coming? And that’s true—the incongruity of hearing a bunch of words I won’t repeat in the middle of brassy Broadway numbers is still there, but now it gets a wry smile rather than a shocked guffaw.
What I’d forgotten is just how sharp everything else about the show is. The book of The Book of Mormon walks a gossamer-thin line between lovingly poking fun and raucous abuse of the Church of Latter-Day Saints (and all religion, really). The genius move is digging beneath the intellectual self-denial of spiritual belief to explore the suppressed, complex emotional lives of believers. From Elder Price’s vanity and self-serving sense of destiny to Elder Cunningham’s hunger for approval. Even the intense profanity has a deeper point about entitled white saviours, racist caricatures, and the gap between words and deeds. Casey Nicholaw’s choreography is genuinely a standout (despite my pet hate—the accursed fake, amplified taps and claps).
And the new cast are sharp. So fucking sharp! They have real “first cast” energy, not “touring cast 14 years after the debut” energy. Sean Johnston completely nails the physicality and tone of the optimistic-and-over-entitled Elder Price. And his vocals—Jesus Christ! Nick Cox brings the schlubby Elder Cunningham real comedic charm while perfectly nailing the choreography and vocals. Together, their dynamic powers the show and gives it a stronger emotional core than I expected beneath the mountain of crude jokes. But it doesn’t stop there. The entire ensemble is both in on the joke and performing like their lives depend on it. The big production number “I Am Africa” is jaw-droppingly ridiculous and impressively precise.
As the stink of aggrieved religious conservatism creeps into the political arena overseas, The Book of Mormon remains a breath of fresh air. Will it offend? Quite possibly—hearing an ensemble sing “Fuck you, God” while joking about female genital mutilation isn’t exactly mainstream family entertainment, even in 2025. Will you laugh? For sure. Should you book? Fuck yes.
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Babyteeth (KXT on Broadway) ★★★
Written by Rita Kalnejais. White Box Theatre in association with bAKEHOUSE Theatre. KXT on Broadway. 18 Jul – 2 Aug, 2025.
Rita Kalnejais’s teen cancer weepie, Babyteeth, starts with a kick to the guts before inserting layers of emotional complexity. It’s a brutal play that brings out the best in some younger performers.
Fourteen-year-old Milla (Rachel Thomas) is struggling. Beyond the usual trials of being a teenage girl on the cusp of young adulthood, she has cancer and isn’t sure how much longer she wants to keep fighting. Her psychologist father Henry (James Smithers) and her mother Anna (Jane Angharad) are on the verge of their own breakdowns, dealing with the pressure and growing acceptance of their daughter’s fatal condition. So, when she comes home with a 23-year-old drug dealer named Moses (Campbell Parsons), who she is clearly infatuated with, they try to take it in their stride. Grief takes many different and unexpected forms.
Campbell Parsons. Photo: Phil Erbacher. Thomas is fantastic as the teenage Milla. Bringing the same innocent charm she showed in These Youths Be Protesting earlier this year, she now uses it for pathos to great effect. Similarly, Parsons’s Moses never seems overly exploitative in his relationship with the younger girl—despite making decisions that are clearly illegal and unethical. There is a tortured soulfulness to him, even as he proves to be an opportunist. This duo forms the absolute highlight of Babyteeth.
Rachel Thomas. Photo: Phil Erbacher. Under Kim Hardwick’s direction, the scenes carry a mournful energy that wallows in anticipatory grief. The production doesn’t always navigate the different emotional tones, especially the sharp shifts into comedy with over-the-top side characters like Esha Jessy’s pregnant neighbour Toby or Philip D’Ambrosio’s violin teacher Gidon. The stark design and neutral colour palette sit across the stage like an icy depression, only given reprieve by Topaz Marlay-Cole’s subtle lighting shifts.
If you’re familiar with the excellent 2019 film adaptation, you’ll know how the story unfolds. This is not a feel-good night at the theatre, but this production highlights some exciting onstage talent.
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Emerald City (Ensemble) ★★★
Written by David Williamson. Ensemble Theatre. 18 Jul – 23 Aug, 2025.
Time is a funny thing, and the Ensemble Theatre has done us a huge favour by presenting classic and contemporary David Williamson in the same season. It’s a great opportunity to see how he has evolved as a writer over the decades. With the new production of Emerald City—his Sydney-skewering high point from the 1980s—we can now look back with wry amusement.
Danielle Carter. Photo: Phil Erbacher. Colin (Tom O’Sullivan) is a screenwriter known for solid, respected films about the Australian middle class. His wife, Kate (Rachel Gordon), works in book publishing. Together, this “champagne-socialist” couple have traded Melbourne’s café culture for Sydney’s glistening avarice, where waterfront proximity defines your status.
When Colin struggles to excite his producer Elaine (Danielle Carter, very much in her element) about his next project, he meets Mick (Matt Minto), an entrepreneurial scriptwriter tired of talky, arty films. Mick wants to make Hollywood-style blockbusters in Australia. Mick needs industry credibility; Colin needs commercial success—they just both need to hold their noses and compromise.
Matt Minto & Tom O’Sullivan. Photo: Phil Erbacher. Let’s get the most insufferable aspect of Emerald City out of the way: the constant fourth-wall breaks. Characters frequently monologue directly to the audience—mid-scene, mid-conversation—which mostly feels unnecessary. This stylistic flourish disrupts scene rhythm and oddly resembles a reality-TV show cutting to cast interviews. Williamson was ahead of his time, but the didactic tone of the monologues feels clumsy compared to his later work.
The cast handles these moments well enough, though not flawlessly. Thankfully, the rest of the play strikes the right notes. In the battle of art versus commerce, commerce always wins—best illustrated through Kate’s publishing subplot. While Colin is consumed by impotent ambition, Kate quietly soars and convinces herself that enjoying the spoils doesn’t compromise her integrity. Williamson also slips in some excellent one-liners on marriage and relationships, and Kate feels far more realistic than Colin.
Tom O’Sullivan & Rachel Gordon. Photo: Phil Erbacher. Simple staging by Dan Potra, including evocative ’80s/Ken Done harbour-inspired illustrations, keeps us focused. The costuming feels a touch on-the-nose: Colin starts off wearing a black turtleneck (Melbourne!), before changing into a gaudy shirt (Sydney!).
The Sydney of Emerald City is a peculiar metropolis—one we might not recognise today. Its reputation as Melbourne’s cruder, shallower cousin still rings true (just compare radio’s Kyle & Jackie O, who tops the ratings in Sydney but flopped in Melbourne). Yet this avaricious chase for harbour views feels distant from 2025, where most people simply try to buy… any house.
Matt Minto. Photo: Phil Erbacher. Of course, this production plays not just anywhere in Sydney, but at the Ensemble Theatre—literally perched on the harbour central to the story. We are surrounded by the very homes the play depicts. The audience clearly enjoyed reminiscing about the ’80s and their own journeys to waterfront properties.
The sad irony of Emerald City is that Mick’s vision of the film industry has triumphed. After the Australian New Wave’s golden age in the ’70s, backed by strong government support, the industry shrank in the ’90s and pivoted into an international production hub for Hollywood blockbusters with little local relevance—just as Mick envisioned.
Emerald City deserves its place in Sydney’s theatrical canon. It’s a major work capturing the spirit of its time. Nearly 40 years later, it feels both quaint and depressingly accurate.
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Betrayal (Old Fitz) ★★★★
Written by Harold Pinter. Sport For Jove. Old Fitz Theatre. 18 Jul – 10 Aug, 2025.
Sport For Jove’s production of Harold Pinter’s Betrayal peels back layer after layer of relationships and asks us: who can you really trust?
Emma (Ella Scott Lynch) and Jerry (Matt Hardie) meet in a pub after a few years apart. They catch up on their respective families like the old lovers they are. Emma reveals that she has just told her husband Robert (Andrew Cutcliffe) about their past affair. From this moment, a complex web of deceit unfolds as each scene takes us further back into their shared history, showing lies piling up over the years.
Matt Hardie & Ella Scott Lynch. Photo: Kate Williams. Does a lie hurt if it is never discovered? Emma, Jerry and Robert have been lying to each other for years. The question of who knows what, and when, drives this mannered comedy of revelations. Betrayal is funny—partly because the script’s major surprises catch us off guard, and partly because Pinter’s rhythms are so familiar they verge on self-parody.
Pinter’s cold, compassionless menace is best captured by Cutcliffe’s Robert, who seems more interested in squash and poetry than in his wife’s wellbeing. You’re left wondering where polite British reserve ends and genuine indifference begins. It’s a performance told largely through subtext—brilliant to watch. In contrast, Lynch’s Emma appears to be constantly questioning her decisions, on the verge of changing her mind at any moment, while Hardie’s Jerry moves from warm reserve at the play’s start (the end of their relationship) to reckless abandon. This emotional “three-body problem” feels inevitably destined for chaos.
Ella Scott Lynch, Andrew Cutcliffe & Matt Hardie. Photo: Kate Williams. Director Cristabel Sved strips the production down to near black-box simplicity. Melanie Liertz’s set design threatens to bring back the vertical blind to theatre stages in a way I haven’t seen since the 1990s (kudos to Diego Retamales, who turns opening and closing them into an art form). Lighting by Verity Hampson and Luna Ng subtly shifts the tone, transporting us from Kilburn in West London to Venice. As the play progresses, the stage becomes cluttered with the detritus of the characters’ interactions—what starts pristine ends in disorder.
Matt Hardie & Ella Scott Lynch. Photo: Kate Williams. Reverse chronologies can be tricky (just ask the late Stephen Sondheim). As the play unfolds, we already know the ‘who’, ‘when’, ‘what’ and ‘where’ of events; what remains unknown is the ‘how’ and ‘why’ of their relationships. The drama doesn’t lie in what happens but leaps out in the small lies that are told.
The audience must stay attuned to the micro-moments that make a Pinter play truly sing—though some are not always easy to catch. With a script full of wickedly ambiguous lines that can cut deep and an emotional tension that simmers beneath the surface, some scenes occasionally feel blunt and out of step with the characters.
Betrayal is one of my favourite Pinter plays, even more than the much-lauded The Caretaker, and it’s a joy to see it brought to life in such an intimate space. This is a real “actors’ play”, offering plenty for the performers to savour. It’s all about character, and this cast clearly revels in it. The show is very good now, and I suspect it will deepen further over the course of the run.
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Hedwig & the Angry Inch (Carriageworks) ★★★★★
Text by John Cameron Mitchell. Music & Lyrics by Stephen Trask. Carriageworks. From 17 Jul, 2025.
Seann Miley Moore at first seems a completely incongruous casting choice to play a blonde, blue-eyed German boy who becomes the indie musician Hedwig. But once he hits the stage, Moore transcends the material by sheer force of talent. Hedwig needs cabaret/rockstar energy, and Moore delivers.
Seann Miley Moore. Photo: Shane Reid. This production (by co-directors Shane Anthony and Dino Dimitriadis) throws out any attempt at literal realism. It is both 1994 and 2025 simultaneously – it’s timey-wimey, as Doctor Who might say – letting Moore riff on modern events and play to the crowd. Rather than punk rock leathers, the cast are clad in patchwork denim (designed by Nicol & Ford) that somehow loops from 60s bohemia to 90s Gap-commercial to 2020s chic all at once. Hedwig’s “dreamcoat-of-many-weaves” is a wonder to behold all on its own.
Hedwig & the Angry Inch has always resonated by being both a rock gig and a surprisingly emotional piece of storytelling. Hedwig is a survivor, repeatedly abandoned but always getting back up and forging a new life from the ashes. There is a deep well of sadness and rage fuelling the narrative, which is translated through rockstar verve.
Adam Noviello & Seann Miley Moore. Photo: Shane Reid. Just as Hedwig has been abused, she too becomes the abuser to her second husband, Yitzhak (a show-stealing performance by Adam Noviello, with Amy Hack as understudy), whom she constantly suppresses. It is both harshly comedic and gives this rock/cabaret a story arc you can invest in.
Jeremy Allen’s set design, a circular riser with a staircase, is small but efficient. I would have loved something that took advantage of the expansive Carriageworks space, but as a touring show (which has already been through Adelaide and Melbourne) it needs to be adaptable. Thankfully, the lighting by Geoff Cobham fills the space. Rather than a basement gig, this Hedwig leans into the industrial space with cabaret flair.
Adam Noviello & Seann Miley Moore. Photo: Shane Reid. As creators John Cameron Mitchell and Stephen Trask (Trask attended the Sydney premiere and performed at the encore) have previously stated, Hedwig is not a trans character but a young gay femme boy who is coerced into gender reassignment surgery by an abusive lover. In response, the stage persona of Hedwig is in part a drag performance and an exploration of gender beyond the binary, or even the trinary – giving the role a rich liminal space to exist in, one in which Moore brings a joyous, gender-fuck energy.
Seann Miley Moore. Photo: Shane Reid. The result is a juicy, overflowing performance from Seann Miley Moore that channels itself through the indie rock anthems, and which held me in rapt attention for 90 minutes. This Hedwig & the Angry Inch is not just theatre, it is an event. One you definitely don’t want to miss.
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