A quick pointer to George Hunka's excellent roundup of the scandal unfolding around Mike Daisey's The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs, in which journalistic and theatrical ideas of truthfulness have collided head on. The ensuing debate opens a can of worms about documentary theatre. My comment on Superfluities, which I'm pasting below:

It seems Daisey – unwittingly, I think, in that I don’t believe he did anything in bad faith (update: it is undeniable that Daisey lied, both to his audiences and to TAL about the nature of his work) – encouraged people to think of his work in the ways it was received. There’s no doubt that the facts he’s retailing are pretty much true, whether or not he personally witnessed them, as anyone who reads the accounts of Foxconn elsewhere would know; but putting his work in the context of TAL would only make the distinction between the ethics of journalism and theatre more confused. There’s a larger question underneath there, about the illegality of imagination in contemporary culture, and the passive acceptance of various kinds of authority, that I find disturbing. I haven’t seen Daisey’s shows, but it seems clear that he’s not making verbatim theatre, where one might be on surer ground. But he has created a persona who acts very much like an investigative journalist, and that brings him up front in conflict with the ethics and responsibilities of journalism. My first thought was the scandal around the fictionalisations of the Independent journalist Johann Hari, whose career was basically destroyed when it was discovered that he was taking imaginative liberties in his stories, placing himself at the centre of events or conversations where he was not present and, worse, which might not have happened. This is the same problem, but from a different practice in which fictionalising is part of the practice.

But I agree, what’s mainly disturbing is the complacent acceptance of the “authentic” in the audience. Brecht’s practice was about stimulating the performance of thought, both in his actors and in the audience. This is the reverse of that: it’s about different kinds of authority which anoint the transmission of information with veracity, and that veracity then driving action. I am mainly surprised, perhaps because I haven’t seen Daisey in action, that so many people who ought to know better took Daisey’s monologues as literal fact, which suggests a shocking naivety: it’s like those people who send wedding presents when characters get married in soap operas.

Just a note on the “willing suspension of disbelief”: Coleridge specifically was speaking of the fantastic, works like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, in which it was wholly clear to any reader that the story wasn’t “true” in any factual sense. “My endeavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic, yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith.” In other words, the disbelief comes first, and then is suspended. This work, it seems to me, asked for belief without any sense of disbelief, and therefore contains no moment of suspension, or of movement to what Coleridge calls “poetic faith”: and that is clearly its problem.

You can read George's editorial, with handy links, here. Footnote: the real issue with This American Life is that Mike Daisey misrepresented the nature of his work to Ira Glass, and misled the program. The lie exists in that action, not necessarily in the work of theatre itself. The ethical problems around it do raise questions about documentary theatre, or theatre that presents itself as factually true.

A quick pointer to Jana Perkovic's fascinating critique of The Wild Duck, and the conversation which it's prompting. Warning: long. But stimulating.

I missed the opening night of The Seed. From other reviews I've read, this was probably a good thing: sometimes it strikes me that press night is probably the worst time to review anything. Instead, I attended a matinee a week or so after the opening, and saw a work that had been run-in in front of audiences and was probably closer to the director's intention. I walked out with one big, nagging question. What's wrong, I thought, with making things up?

Tony Martin, Sara Gleeson and Max Gillies in The Seed. Photo: Jeff Busby

The Seed is a fictionalised autobiographical play by Sydney actor/writer Kate Mulvany (as the program explains, it's based on her own family history, reinforced by interviews from Vietnam veterans). Before this production, directed by at the Fairfax Studio by Hayloft artistic director Anne-Louise Sarks in her MTC debut, it had two successful outings at Belvoir, in which Mulvany played the role that is presumably based on herself.

The play itself shows that Mulvany is a writer of considerable talent, with a good line in tough, sparky dialogue and an actor's understanding of the stage. But its framing and structure are clumsy: The Seed feels chained by its roots in biography and social issue. It's a text struggling to take imaginative flight, a play that wants to be a play but is bogged down somewhere in a no man's land between documentary and fiction. This is reinforced by the meta-fictional figure of Rose, who carries a tape recorder as part of her mission to note down her family history, presumably so she can write the play we are watching, and flicks it on whenever her father or grandfather threatens to launch into a speech.

Over the past week or so, I have announced in every possible internet way my intention of seeing less theatre and giving some necessary time to my other writing hats. It is somewhat awkward to find that while I was, perfectly sincerely, proclaiming my stern resolution, I managed to see four shows last week. As the poet said, Between the idea. And the reality. Between the motion. And the act. Falls the Shadow... Oh well. There's always next week.

Anthony Phelan and Anita Hegh in The Wild Duck.

One of the shows I saw was the Malthouse edition of Belvoir St's production of The Wild Duck. Luckily I saw that one in Sydney. I don't have much to add to what I said then: the production has transferred triumphantly to the Merlyn, basically replicating the space at Belvoir Upstairs. There are subtle refinements, but it is the same show: the performances remain remarkable, the emotional impact devastating. It's deeply intelligent, beautiful theatre, and pairs with Thyestes as Simon Stone's best work so far. And it's selling out fast: best to book now, if you don't want to be disappointed.

At the other end of the scale, I caught the train to Thornbury to see a play in a backyard shed. It was Summertime in the Garden of Eden, the latest offering from Declan Greene and Ash Flander's queer theatre collective, Sisters Grimm. This was, in its own way, as remarkable as The Wild Duck. Both shows, in completely different ways, demonstrate how little (and how much) it takes to make compelling theatre: you can make it with almost nothing, if you invite the imagination of the audience in to open up its dark and tender places. It's the one thing theatre can't fake, and no amount of plush can cover its absence.

Ms TN is heading up to Sydney tomorrow to participate in Belvoir St's upcoming Sunday Forum on Reviewing Theatre: In Print and Online. My fellow panelists, moderated by The Chaser's Chris Taylor, are Chris Hook (The Daily Telegraph), Elissa Blake (The Sun Herald), Jane Simmons (Shit on Your Play) and Darryn King (Time Out Sydney). Me, I'm hoping for more light than heat, but we'll see how events unfold. 3pm, Belvoir St, free but bookings essential.

I'll be taking a couple of days out in Sydney - yay - and then I'll be back in the saddle. Come Wednesday I'm starting a new novel, which means I'll be on the 2000-word-a-day treadmill for the next three months. (Deadline: June.) I'll still be regularly at the theatre - I can't seem to stop - but I have to be realistic about what I can see and write about: a review takes a lot of hours and a lot of brainspace. This in turn means that I'll be firmly saying no to many companies which otherwise I would like to see. Be patient with me, folks, and remember that this novel malarky is how I make my living.

Under the curation of new artistic director Jonathan Holloway, the 2012 Perth Festival generated more energy than a windfarm in a tornado. My only real regret - and regret it I do - is that I missed out on Matthew Lutton's production of Richard Strauss's Elektra, of which the word of mouth was ecstatic. (You can read Cameron Woodhead's review here. As an aside on Lutton's direction, it's fair to say that I differed enormously in my response to his production of The Trial. Moreover, I recommend my ponderings on The Trial to new readers of this blog as a clear statement of my ideals as a critic). Elektra is rumoured to come here in 2014, so perhaps I haven't missed out entirely; but it's a long time to wait, and there's many a slip twixt cup and lip, etc. Cross your fingers, Melbourne.

James Thiérrée in Raoul.

What struck me generally about the theatre I saw was Holloway's inclination toward works with a clear, uncompromising aesthetic. Peter Brook's final show as artistic director of the Théâtre des Bouffes du Nord, A Magic Flute, showed the maestro of the essential theatrical gesture at his most lucid. The Lucinda Childs Dance Company's revival of Childs's groundbreaking minimalist work, Dance, was equally an unwavering, incomparably realised exploration. These were among my highlights, although perhaps the show which will stay with me most was the Teatro de los Sentidos's extraordinary immersive experience, Oráculos. This was the major attraction for me before I went: I had heard of this show, which is one of the iconic works of immersive theatre, but never thought I would be able to experience it.

The last show I saw was the final Perth performance of James Thiérrée's Raoul, of which many words have already been written. This is going on to the Adelaide Festival, so be alerted: Thiérrée is surely one of the best clowns working today, quite the equal of Jacques Tati, whom some of his work irresistibly recalls. Aside from his astonishing physical abilities, which include acrobatics, aerial tricks and some of the funniest body work I've seen, this is glorious visual theatre. Raoul is a particularly French combination of puppetry, clowning, dance, circus and visual theatre, and it makes utterly beguiling theatre.

Thiérrée introduces us to a world in which dualities are animated and smashed: divisions - between human and animal, self and other, inside and outside - appear, waver and vanish. There are two Raouls, each seeking the other, achieved by some clever theatrical doubling.
In the course of events, such as they are, Raoul is visited by some benign giant puppets (a catfish, a jellyfish and a very peculiar elephant) and he quarrels with his own body, his reflection, his house, his other self. At last, when all his protections have been destroyed, we find him alone in the darkness, a joyous explorer of a new, mysterious world.

The production itself is impeccable. The entire set, a kind of post-apocalyptic shipwreck, is ingeniously animated as if it's an extension of Thiérrée's body. It's a collection of junk - patched, billowing sails, an old gramophone player, a worn velvet curtain on a rail, a square of threadbare carpet - which takes on its own, unpredictable life. The clowning is punctuated by a precise and hilarious sound design.

The echoes of Beckett are strong. Raoul himself is like one of Beckett's tramps, his doppelganger is very like the doubles in Beckett's Ohio Impromptu, and at one point he even hides in a dustbin, appearing from underneath the lid like Nagg from Endgame. Contingency is all, and nothing in this desolately beautiful world is what it seems. And it's a total crowd-pleaser: the afternoon I saw it, a delirium of delighted gurgles from a small child in the stalls rose above the rest of the audience, sparking more laughter. It's that kind of show.

Raoul, designed, directed and performed by James Thiérrée. La Compagnie du Hanneton/Junebug, Perth Festival. Adelaide Festival Centre, Adelaide Festival, March 1-6.

Disclaimer: Theatre Notes visited Perth as a guest of the Perth Festival. 

When I emerged from Beautiful Burnout, the National Theatre of Scotland and Frantic Assembly’s examination of the art of boxing, I tweeted enthusiastically (in twitter language, which as you might know is its own special dialect) something like “awesome!” To my surprise, this created a minor avalanche of replies to @alisoncroggon, almost all of them variations of “Rlly? Shocked!!!!”

Ah, the instant responsiveness of the internet age: it’s twitchier than the skin of a thoroughbred racer. I am long used to being a minority opinion, even a minority of one, but this gave me unusual pause. I had just seen what I thought was a powerful and moving show – it certainly left me in tears - and my interlocutors, none of them fools, were telling me they found it boring, old-fashioned, unengaging and stale.

Beautiful Burnout: from left, Eddie Kay, Kevin Guthrie and Taqi Nazeer. Photo: Brett Boardman

I can’t presume to second-guess the other responders, all of whom saw this production in Sydney. Aside from differences in taste, I wonder how much this division of response has to do with the venue: in Perth Beautiful Burnout was staged in the ABC studios in East Perth, a huge unadorned space which allowed the set to function very like that of a real boxing ring.

I also wondered how much these responses have to do with our expectations of physical theatre. Australians do physical theatre exceptionally well: it’s a tradition that stretches back to the early days of Circus Oz and the Pram Factory, and given a particular fillip by the tours of Pina Bausch's dance theatre in the 1970s. In recent years this tradition has cross-pollinated with local dance culture to produce work of astounding quality and variousness. If you think of collaborations like Chunky Move’s Tense Dave, Nigel Jamieson’s Honour Bound, Splintergroup's Lawn or Kage's Headlock, to randomly name some notable examples, it’s clear that much of the innovative thinking in Australian theatre has focused on physical theatre.

From the moment that Philip Glass's insistent, spiralling score erupts in the auditorium, this revival of Lucinda Child's 1979 work Dance is relentless. Each dance in this trilogy begins and ends abruptly, filling all available space and then stopping. It's a thing that is and then isn't, in a way that I haven't seen very often, and watching it feels a little like being possessed and then released.

Lucinda Childs Dance Company

Yet Dance is a far cry from the Bachannalian. Its cool, formal loveliness is the acme of Apollonian art: these are not erotic bodies, but avatars of pure form. Its classicism shows the influence of Merce Cunningham, but unlike Cunningham's work, the dance is precisely relational to the music: every movement seems to have its instrument, every note its gesture. Childs's choreography is the analogue of Glass's continuous variations, the swirling, ever recurrent arpeggios and bursts of voice that are always the same and always different.

Its distillation of form made me think of nothing so much as the paintings of Matisse: the movement is like an idealised folk dance stripped to its most essential gestures, and then sped up. The pleasure is in the precision, both in each individual dancer but also in their spatial relationships on stage, and in the increasing depth of the work's texture. As with Glass's music, its complexities spiral out of its constant subtle variations.

On this mercifully cool Perth day, Ms TN found herself in a fragile state. This is entirely the fault of the "festive" part of "arts festival". After last night's show I met some writerly friends at the Festival Gardens, the pleasantly democratic festival bar. The gardens are a wittily designed astro-turfed space strung with rows of lamps and stocked with reclaimed furniture. There's a looping video of circling rubber ducks where the cool kids dance, and right next to the lounge is the Main Stage, where the music acts are performed (last night it was Bonnie Prince Billy).

Inua Ellams in The 14th Tale

It's in these kinds of hubs that you feel the life of a festival gather and lift. A festival is much more than just a bunch of acts, and venues like the gardens provide a focus for the quickening it also represents. The night was balmy, the conversation delightful... And in the way of these things, one drink led to another and, well, here I am, facing my busiest two days in Perth, with a vague space where my brain used to be.*

This weekend's shows include the National Theatre of Scotland's Beautiful Burnout, Lucinda Childs's Dance, Raoul and Barking Geckos Driving Into Walls. I plan to write about them when I return home to Melbourne and am safely locked in my study. But before I sign off for an emergency dose of alka seltzer, let me briefly tell you about The 14th Tale, Nigerian poet Inua Ellams's irresistible one-man show. It was a last-minute booking for me, and I attended with no idea of what to expect.

UK Shakespearean company Propeller is an odd beast. Under the artistic direction of Edward Hall, its mission is to refresh Shakespeare using physical theatre. With this goes an attempt to recreate the rough-house theatre of Elizabethan times: without claiming that Propeller is a theatrical version of those early music groups that play baroque scores using authentic instruments of the time, the company calls on some familiar tropes of the Elizabethan theatre, reworking them for a contemporary audience.

From left: Gunnar Cauthery, Tony Bell and Richard Dempsey in The Winter's Tale. Photo: Manuel Harlan

Hall takes a populist, irreverent approach to the plays, importing quotes from British popular culture into their productions, just as the 16th century playhouses had acrobats and jugglers to entertain the groundlings. As in Shakespeare's day, Propeller is an all-male troupe. This might in fact be the most interesting aspect of their work, as it promisingly highlights the playfulness of gender in Shakespeare's texts. Even the set design is a take on the classic Elizabethan stage: it's a bare playing space with a balcony back stage over doors leading to the tiring room, the whole capped by representations of the heavens - a full moon in the first half, stars in the second.

For the Perth Festival, the company brought out Henry V and The Winter's Tale, which are playing in repertoire. I wonder in retrospect if I made a mistake only choosing to see the latter; it is certainly the lesser play. The evening passed painlessly enough, and there are certainly things to admire, but I was curiously unengaged for most of it. It felt as if I were witnessing all the appearance of theatre with not much of the substance.