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The French film theorist and critic, Nicole Brenez, once wrote of those films “you can’t watch again because you’ve loved them too much”. (She was talking about Godard’s Le Mépris.) Here in Australia, where for the most part only opera
The Nature Theatre of Okalahoma, I was perhaps not too surprised to learn, is in fact not from the forty-sixth state of the union, but rather from New York City, its name lifted with characteristic tongue-in-cheek-ness from Kafka’s Erectile Dysfunction
HOMER: Wait, I’m confused about the movie. So the cops knew that Internal Affairs was setting them up? MAN: What are you talking about? There’s nothing like that in there. HOMER: Well, you see when I get bored I make
Ceci n’est pas une critique, as Magritte might have put it, but rather a rather too personal reflection. If I thought too highly of Wendy Houstoun’s Happy Hour, it is only because I saw too much of myself in it.
There is, I will admit, a certain quality of movement to the dancers one cannot but find compelling. There is their weight, of course, their sheer solidity, and the manner in which it brings them to earth with an inevitability
My first experience of Koskyan excess went swimmingly. After the spare and considered Tell-Tale Heart and the bloodied but balanced Women of Troy, I was almost beginning to worry that it wouldn’t, that I was maybe becoming too accustomed to
Earlier this year I was lucky enough to catch a nasty little production of Brecht and Weil’s The Threepenny Opera, which everyone else seemed to miss. For reasons of my own, it was my first encounter with the text: with
It’s hard to say who’s more impressive: Cheryl Barker, whose performance in the title role is the kind that inspires a certain inability to put a sentence together, or Neil Armfield, whose production is among the most visually and emotionally