I've just been told that my play Samarkand, which was produced by the Red Shed in Adelaide just over a decade ago, was broadcast by ABC Radio National on Sunday on Airplay. I am fond of this production, which was performed by the original cast, Annabel Giles and Edwin Hodgeman, and directed by Tim Maddock. If you're curious, you can listen online, or wait for the repeat at 9pm on Friday.

It struck me with seismic force yesterday that the Australia 2020 Summit is this weekend. Well, at least it doesn't give me too much time to panic. And I'm looking forward to it with lively interest: whatever transpires, positive or disappointing, it can't fail to be educational.

Summit participants have been given a private website in which we can engage in preparatory chat. A smart idea, I think. Interestingly, the "stream" (we're all in different streams of this great big delta of ideas) that has most taken advantage of this is Creative Australia. Unkind souls might suggest that this is because artists haven't anything better to do: personally, I can assure you that this is definitely not the case. Lately I have been heard muttering that April is indeed the cruellest month...

Trawling through the different streams, I also notice that Creative Australia has by far the biggest component of recommended background reading. All sites have links to a background paper and an overview of the public submissions; a few maybe have links to a couple more documents. Creative Australia includes links to no less than 10 rather hefty documents from a wide variety of sources, local and international, including a couple of the excellent Currency House Platform Papers series.

Combined with my own background reading, this adds up to hundreds of pages of information and argument. Perhaps the key issue here is that Summit work is unpaid. Anything new or revelatory in that? Not for anyone who works in the arts...we've long known that arts work is anything but a soft option. And while I'm here, the TN 2020 wiki is still open for business, and will be until Friday morning, when I'll be heading to Canberra. It includes some interesting discussion from various bods, and anyone else who wants to chew my ear is welcome.

UPDATE: Creative Australia co-chairs Cate Blanchett and Julianne Schulz outline the broad agenda in the Age today, and it makes me feel very upbeat. They've been listening: and they're taking the ball and running with it.

On Thursday night, Linden Centre for Contemporary Art in St Kilda is opening its new exhibition, My Doubtful Mind, subtitled "Artists aim to screw with your head". A gruesome prospect, indeed. It seems that several artists were asked to make visitors as uncomfortable as possible, and the exhibition, curated by Jan Duffy and Alex Taylor, is an investigation of irrational phobias (including a phobia of bananas). But a couple of theatre artists are there in the mix.

Dan Spielman's contribution is, as far as I understand, a meditation on grief, so I'm not sure how much it has to do with irrational phobia. This is Dan's debut as a visual artist - a man of many talents, he is best known as an actor, and over the past few years has forged a career which included being a founding member of the Keene/Tayor Theatre Project and a two-year stint, until he resigned last year and was replaced by Luke Mullins, at the STC's Actors Company.

Moreover, this exhibition includes a suite of poems written by Daniel Keene, best known as a playwright (and whose diptych The Serpent's Teeth opens at the STC next week - personal disclaimer in the sidebar, blah blah). Daniel will be reading at the exhibition opening on Thursday evening, at around 7pm. It's called a "spoken word performance" on the web page, but I call it a poetry reading.

The 39 Steps, adapted by Patrick Barlow, from an original concept by Simon Corble and Nobby Dimon, directed by Maria Aitken. Designed by Peter McKintosh, lighting design by Jon Buswell, sound design by Mic Pool. With Helen Christinson, Marcus Graham, Grant Piro and Tony Taylor. Melbourne Theatre Company @ the Playhouse Theatre, Victorian Arts Centre, until May 10. Bookings: 1300 723 038.

The 39 Steps is a classic British spy thriller which began life as a 1915 novel by John Buchan. It’s hit the screen three times, most notably via Alfred Hitchcock’s 1935 film, and its latest incarnation is this seductively irreverent adaptation by Patrick Barlow.

In Hitchcock’s hands, Buchan’s book is barely recognisable. He vamped up the plot and injected romantic interest in the shape of a series of photogenic women. And it’s Hitchcock’s movie that is so gloriously spoofed here.



Despite its cinematic provenance and gleeful Hitchcockian allusions, The 39 Steps – a remount of Maria Aitken’s original London production, complete with original designer Peter McKinstosh – is pure theatre.

The story is enacted by four performers, with Helen Christinson as the various women, Grant Piro and Tony Taylor playing everything from rural Scots hoteliers to underwear salesmen to spies, and Marcus Graham as the tweedy hero Richard Hannay.

The show is a meta-theatrical joke that relies on an audience’s willingness to suspend its disbelief while simultaneously being diverted by the transparent tricks of theatre. In Melbourne we’ve seen a fair bit of this lo-fi theatrical piss-taking, which paradoxically requires a high degree of precision.

Exposing the devices of theatre makes us complicit in imagining the action, galvanising an active relationship between performers and audience. As was clear on opening night, it’s an approach that immediately invites the audience into the show.

Notable recent examples of this approach are the British duo Ridiculusmus’s absurd two-man performance of The Importance of Being Earnest, Suitcase Royale’s Chronicles of the Sleepless Moon, and Brian Lipson’s Freudian mayhem in the Melbourne Festival show Berggasse 19 - The Apartments of Sigmund Freud.

The 39 Steps doesn’t explore, as Lipson and Ridiculusmus did, the deeper implications of theatrical role-paying; it's content to remain high-spirited nonsense. But there’s no denying that it’s irresistibly funny.

Backed by Mic Pool's witty sound design, Aitken’s direction ingeniously exploits every possible device, from music hall hat-swapping to shadow puppets to blindingly fast costume changes. There’s a river conjured from a length of blue cloth, bogs that are mackintosh-clad actors and toy trains chuffing across the forestage. And, naturally, tons of smoke.

The lynchpin is Graham’s brilliant performance as Hannay. Here Graham’s considerable gifts as a stage clown are brought to the fore: he achieves the baffled sincerity appropriate to the romantic lead while slyly taking the mickey.

He’s ably backed by the other three cast members, no mean clowns themselves, in their dizzyingly various roles. Cliches are seldom this much fun.

Photo: Grant Piro and Tony Taylor in rehearsal for The 39 Steps.

This review was published in today's Australian.

What was Little Alison doing this morning? No, she wasn't lounging in bed being fed hot toast and tea. (Sadly, this never happens, but as Wittgenstein pointed out, some things are better passed over in silence). She was in fact staring biliously at pink champagne and nibbling croissants among the hard hats at the official MTC launch of its new home.

Such events normally wouldn't tempt me out of my burrow, but I've been dying to get a peek at this space for months. And believe me, even as a building site, it's impressive. By August next year, when it officially opens, the MTC will have - in the shape of the justly named Sumner Theatre - arguably the most beautiful modern theatre in Australia, as well as the 160-seat Lawler Studio, a genuine black box studio space that has been a signal lack at the MTC.


The Sumner Theatre features an intimate 500-seat auditorium that sweeps up from the foot of the stage, with brilliant sight lines even from the back row. The height of the building is mitigated by some false balconies, and the walls will be decorated by an LED display that features quotes from famous plays - from Wilde to Beckett, Chekhov to Sartre, Lawler to Shakespeare.

But it's the other side of the stage that's impressive. It's designed to be wholly flexible, and it has practically everything that opens and closes. The fly tower is 20 metres high, with 64 flylines, and the entire stage floor is trapped. There are juliet (false) balconies either side of the stage that lead to the balcony areas above the auditorium, which can be used in productions. There's a retractable orchestra pit (in three sections) and a centre aisle can be created or removed at will.

And there's an adjustable proscenium that, aside from allowing designers and directors more control of the kind of stage they want to play with, will permit, for example, shows designed for the letterbox stage of the Sydney Opera House space to be moved in without the design problems faced by the Playhouse season of The Season at Sarsaparilla.


But, brilliant though all this architecture is (it certainly excites politicians - the launch featured the Victorian Minister for the Arts, Lynne Kosky, and the Minister for Major Projects, Theo Theophanous), it's what this space makes possible that strikes me as most exciting. This could be as significant for Melbourne theatre as the launch of the Malthouse out of the ashes of the Playbox. As artistic director Simon Phillips says, it opens MTC programming up to a range of new possibilities. They'll still be programming big shows at the Arts Centre Playhouse, but with these smaller spaces, they can take some risks.

"It opens everything up," said Phillips. "To date, it's been incredibly difficult to program smaller works, and there have been things we'd have liked to do, but couldn't because we didn't have the right space. Now we have a theatre in which 20th century drama can stand effortlessly, and with the studio we'll have an incubator space for new Australian work, and for edgier, more contemporary European-style work."

Moving MTC operations into the centre of the arts precinct - near the Victorian College of the Arts, the Malthouse, Chunky Move and ACCA, and just down the road from Federation Square - should mean more than a physical relocation. Phillips is hoping that the MTC will similarly situate itself in the centre of Melbourne's theatre ecology, rather than perching uncomfortably on top.

If the 2009 program demonstrates half the imagination that the actual building does, Melbourne theatre is in for a most interesting ride. And those who care about independent and experimental theatre should be as interested in how it goes as any MTC subscriber.

It's a no-brainer that a healthy independent theatre is essential to the health of our main stages, for where else are new energies to emerge? But equally, it's just as important for independent and small companies that our main stages are vital, creative places. The zero-sum thinking that complains about large companies swallowing money that ought to go elsewhere is short sighted: in culture, possibility creates possibility. And a great big possibility is soon going to open its doors. Like the man says, I'm excited.

Pictures: (top) architect's impression of the Sumner Theatre auditorium (bottom) live webcam image of the MTC theatre construction site.

Not my area really, but I wrote a piece about the closure of Spamalot for the Guardian theatre blog pages, which seems to be resulting in a debate about the worth of reading about Australian theatre in England. A question that makes me feel a little aggressive...

It's been a while since I've done a round-up of interesting blog posts. Mea culpa: I've always said that the real point of blogging is the network and conversation. My excuse is that my three lives are all a bit out of control at the moment: besides the usual theatre work, there's the 2020 Summit and a couple of other interesting possibilities; the imminent Australian re-release of my fantasy series, which now have nice new jackets based on the lovely English titles, if somewhat more airportish. (I used to make jokes about writing books with my name in raised gold lettering: well, I'm almost there. These have raised silver lettering. I am a real author! The only thing wrong with the new books is that somehow I missed a booboo in my bio, and it turns out that I am married to David Keene. My other husband is a bit miffed.) As well, on my dining table is the intimidatingly large proof of the final book, The Singing, due out in June. And I'm also planning a poetry tour of the UK in June, of which more later.

But that's enough about me. Below is a brusque list of links to a few of the blogposts I've enjoyed reading recently, some a little belated:

* The ever-reliable George Hunka on Wagner and Beckett, jumping off the NY Met's production of Tristan und Isolde.

* Andrew Haydon on the various responsibilities inherent in theatre culture - making, seeing, writing.

* David Williams links to a bunch of his thoughtful reviews of recent work in Sydney.

* Another view of the Malthouse Theatre's Moving Target from Chris Summers.

* Ming-Zhu blogs her rehearsal process here and here.

* Chris Boyd tells Odette to jump in the lake after seeing Swan Lake six times. (I love Chris. I never really understand what he's talking about).

* Lyn Gardner defends theatre producers on the Guardian's theatre blog.

As threatened/promised last week, I've made a wiki to clarify my own ideas and incorporate those of any readers who care to contribute. It's now ready for public exposure, so heave yourself over and have a squiz. Theoretically, you should be able to contribute your own editorial once you sign up. Those intimidated by the wiki software can just email me (email alisoncroggon at aapt dot net dot au). I'm working out the wiki format as I go, so bear with me on any glitches...

Over to you!

Ms TN is a bit slow off the mark this week - blame the massive bundle of proofs that thumped on my doormat yesterday, distracting me from the press releases in my inbox. But good news is good news, be it ever so second-hand. As Jo Roberts reports in today's Age, the Malthouse Theatre and Chunky Move have scored slots at the Edinburgh International Festival in August. The shows invited by festival director Jonathan Mills are Barrie Kosky's The Tell-Tale Heart, a sell-out hit at last year's Melbourne Festival, and Chunky Move's new work Mortal Engine, which premiered earlier this year at the Sydney Festival.

The Tell-Tale Heart is Kosky's second Edinburgh appearance under Mills's directorship - last year, his version of Poppea wowed the UK critics. Mortal Engine is a continuation of the collaboration between Gideon Obarzanek and Frieder Weiß that resulted in Glow, a bright little gem which, having toured Australia, is now off around the world. Roberts also reports that Mortal Engine is a strong tip for this year's Melbourne Festival, so prime that credit card: I saw a showing of this dance piece in rehearsal just before its premiere and, believe me, you don't want to miss it.

The Winterling by Jez Butterworth, directed by Andrew Gray. Set design by Peter Mumford, lighting design by Stelios Karagiannis, costumes by Naomi Clegg. With Steven Adams, Nicholas Bell, Ella Caldwell, Adrian Mulraney and Martin Sharpe. Red Stitch Actors Theatre until April 19. Bookings: 9533 8082

The Ghosts of Ricketts Hill, directed by Neil Gladwin. With Joseph O'Farrell, Miles O'Neill and Glen Walton. Suitcase Royale @ The Bosco, Federation Square, Comedy Festival, until April 5. Bookings: 1300 660 013

The intimacy of Red Stitch theatre is peculiarly suited to creating claustrophobic spaces. And for its production of The Winterling, designer Peter Mumford has conjured a derelict farmhouse, an eyescape of greys and dun browns that generates a tangible sense of poverty-stricken gloom. What's fascinating about this, however, is that while the space itself is claustrophobic, it calls up a powerful sense of a dark, huge emptiness offstage, inviting your imagination into the harsh, bare landscapes of rural Dartmoor.


It's an evocative visual setting for Jez Butterworth's play, which places the petty and brutal dealings of human beings against a wider natural setting. Here humankind, like nature, is red in tooth and claw, trapped in a remorseless struggle for survival.

It's a play that isn't driven by plot so much as by the imperatives of dialogue; the story is really secondary to the moment-by-moment interactions of the characters. In The Winterling, former hard man West (Nicholas Bell) is hiding out in a remote farmhouse in Dartmoor after he has suffered a nervous breakdown. His former associate Wally (Steven Adams) has driven from London with his stepson, Patsy (Martin Sharpe). During their visit, they encounter two Dartmoor natives, the tramp Draycott (Adrian Mulraney) and Lue (Ella Caldwell), a homeless girl who has holed up at the farmhouse.

Butterworth is a writer who has clearly learnt much from Harold Pinter, especially from his early plays like The Birthday Party and The Caretaker. Like Pinter, his major concern is the relationships between men, and his characters remain largely mysterious: language is not so much a vehicle for communication, as a means of exerting dominance, of establishing territorial rights. Power is a game, and dominance shifts without explanation, sometimes within the space of a line. Again like Pinter, he employs the techniques of surreal interrogation to create a potent sense of menace.

The dialogue - and Andrew Gray's production - are compelling enough to keep your interest throughout the play. And Butterworth is gifted at forging a rich and poetic colloquial speech, especially in the many monologues. But while Butterworth has clearly understood Pinter in the details of dialogue, he doesn't demonstrate a concomitant understanding of larger dramatic structure.

Given the play's linguistic dazzle, The Winterling is puzzlingly clumsy. It is written in three scenes, the middle scene being an unnecessarily explanatory flashback, and draws to a close that supposedly presents a dilemma, but which in fact is too pat, too redolent of a playwright's conscious control of meaning, to resonate with anything but a superficial menace. The larger metaphor of the play ends up being less than the sum of its parts, and consequently Butterworth never crawls out of Pinter's long shadow.

For all that, it's an impressive production, featuring a very strong cast. It's worth seeing for the performances alone, which call up enough neck-prickling moments to justify the price of admission. It's carefully orchestrated, permitting the actors to negotiate those razor-sharp shifts of power with total commitment. I enjoyed all the performances, but a monologue of Adrian Mulraney's involving a real sheep's heart cooked off-stage (where the director invokes the audience's sense of smell) and a rapid-fire dialogue between Bell and Sharpe were standouts.

I'VE FOLLOWED Suitcase Royale since I was enchanted in a Fitzroy back room in by their first show, Felix Listens to the World. They moved on from that irresistible piece of whimsy to the black surrealism of Chronicles of a Sleepless Moon. The Ghosts of Ricketts Hill is their third piece, directed - if indeed this anarchic lot can be directed - by former Los Trios Ringbarkus member Neil Gladwin.

Suitcase Royale's signature is its junkyard aesthetic and the set - largely constructed out of roughly hacked pieces of cardboard - is, if anything, even more low-rent than their previous shows. And the plot pays little heed to any kind of narrative sense. Three aviators in various stages of psychological confusion crash in the middle of the desert. Two depart to look for help, heading for a nearby lighthouse, while the third, in the grasp of some mysterious obsession with the cargo, remains behind. The ensuing story might have been written by George Lucas on a bad acid trip, and involves an evil wolfman, a sentient lighthouse, a battery-powered magical amulet and David Bowie.

But the plot is merely an excuse for the real action, which is the disintegration of the show amid a profusion of boy jokes, groaningly recognisable quotations from popular songs and profane language. Light cues are missed, arguments break out among the cast, actors forget their lines or assault each other. And it all happens at breakneck speed, pulling you along with its raw, anarchic energy.

It's all great, even irresistible, fun, but I miss the delicacy that informed their previous shows, in which the performers' full-on testosteronic energy was put in tension with a genuine poignancy. This extends to their use of objects, a feature of all their work: a great deal of the charm of both Felix Listens to the World and Chronicles of a Sleepless Moon was the ingenuity of the props, the compelling realities that could be made out of discarded objects. Here objects are treated with an awesome disrespect, and everything is mugged for laughs. On its own terms, it works: but you can't help feeling this is too easy.

What The Ghosts at Ricketts Hill lacks is the multiple layering that makes a show more than an occasion for transient laughter, the image that punctures the joke and enters a darker and more troubling space. It seems to me that this is a transitional work, Suitcase Royale on the way from one mode to another. In which case, the show to look out for might be the one after this.

Picture: Ella Caldwell and Adrian Mulraney in The Winterling. Photo: Jodie Hutchinson