Critics' choice theatre shows in Melbourne

Snakes have curled their way around mythology for millennia. Present in countless creation stories from Egyptian, Greek and Indian to Norse and First Nations cultures (including the Rainbow Serpent), the loaded symbolism of this coiled creature clasping its tail between its fangs – the ouroboros – evokes eternity.  Sometimes the serpent holds the world together. Other times, it’s a constricting chaos agent. Either way, the fireside nature of myths, oft-shared in storytelling sessions spun under the stars, is inherently unending, melding anew with each retelling. Tackled by everyone from Roman poets Virgil and Ovid to Canadian indie rockers Arcade Fire and Katee Robert’s queered novel, Midnight Ruin, the myth of Eurydice and her Orpheus finds new life in the hands of folk singer-songwriter Anaïs Mitchell. Her eight Tony Award-winning smash-hit musical Hadestown began life as a sung-through community project before she turned it into a concept album, and then a Broadway smash with help from director Rachel Chavkin. In most Greek tales, Eurydice and her Orpheus are happily married, torn apart by a cruel twist of fate: a viper’s bite (sometimes while pursued by toxic dudebro Aristaeus), not even a malicious god in disguise. As she fades into the Underworld, ruled over by Hades and his niece/abducted wife Persephone (!!!), a desolate Orpheus, son of a musical muse, plays his lyre like her life depends on it. Descending into the abyss and crossing the River Styx, he makes a...

Way back when Tim Burton was a much weirder filmmaker, my wee brother and I were unreasonably thrilled by the chaos engine of awfully bad behaviour that was Michael Keaton’s unhinged and unwashed demon, Betelgeuse.  The grotty stripe-suited monster ate up the 1988 film of not quite the same name – the studio figured folks would stay away unless the title was simplified to Beetlejuice. Named after the red supergiant star blazing ferociously in the constellation of Orion, some 600 light years from our solar system, Betelgeuse is an outcast from the hilariously bureaucratic afterlife, aka the Netherworld. Which leaves him preying on the naïve recently deceased, like sweet young couple Adam and Barbara Maitland (Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis), in an attempt to crowbar open the sort of ridiculous loophole the Greek gods are fond of. Say his – apparently too complex – name three times and he’ll be unleashed on the mortal coil once more.  But Betelgeuse’s sleazy attentions are soon distracted by Winona Ryder’s goth child Lydia, when she reluctantly moves into Adam and Barbara’s now-empty house with her dad, Charles (disgraced actor Jeffrey Jones), and his new squeeze, OTT sculptor Delia (fabulously demented goddess Catherine O’Hara). A smash hit, Beetlejuice is a wild and unruly thing writhing with unhinged ideas, from its stop-animated black and white sand worms to characters shrunk into a model of sleepy town Winter River, and on to the hilariously-depicted dead of the surreal...

There’s the sound of gentle sobbing in the audience when Karin McCracken gets her tax return during Heartbreak Hotel. Sitting there, also gently sobbing, I tried to remember who it was that said "There are two certainties in this world: death and taxes". I also wondered if heartbreak should be included as a third certainty, or if 'death' was close enough. It takes McCracken five years to finally finish her tax return, six years to get over her previous relationship and six chords on a synth machine for her to transform those years into 75 minutes of inventive and heart-wrenching theatre. From the acclaimed Aotearoa-New Zealand-based duo EBKM, Heartbreak Hotel is the best kind of show: a conceptually rich and technically daring portrait of a break-up that blends memoir and theatre to bring just the right amount of spectacle to a universal human experience. Are overdue taxes good first date banter? No. Can heartbreak kill me? Yes. When are we ready to move on? Who knows. Why do we do this to each other? Fucked if I know. The show is structured like theatricalised autofiction – each scene a chapter in a dramatized essay on the pathologies and philosophies of love (and loss) packed with personal anecdotes, synth-backed break-up anthems and deep dives into the microbiology of heartbreak. With a heavily modulated voice and an Elvis-style lavender pantsuit, McCracken delivers moody covers of Celine Dion, Bonnie Raitt and the King himself. Each number starts off light-hearted and...

We on the affirmative team contend that taking a high school debating tournament, making feminism the topic of discussion and turning it all into a play is a recipe for a fascinating night of theatre.  This will be the fourth year in a row that Trophy Boys has played to local audiences, following sold-out seasons at La Mama in 2022, fortyfivedownstairs in 2023 and Arts Centre Melbourne in 2024. This time around, the dark drag extravaganza is playing once again at Arts Centre Melbourne’s Fairfax Studio from August 12-24. Tickets range from $30-60 and you can get yours here. Read on for Time Out Sydney's five-star take on the 2024 Sydney run of Trophy Boys. *** If you had asked me what I thought the next canonical Australian text would be before I watched Trophy Boys, I certainly wouldn’t have pegged a play that features a sign boldly emblazoned with the words “Feminism has failed women” set against a backdrop of portraits of “powerful women leaders”. (Jacinda Ardern, Rosa Parks, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Malala Youzafi and Grace Tame are accounted for, to name a few.) And yet, with this hilariously profound production, Trophy Boys proves that a provocative and unexpected approach can pay off handsomely.  We are introduced to a gang of four private school boys from the fictional Saint Imperium College as they strut into a classroom with the kind of boisterous raucousness that can only come from teenage boys. However, these aren’t your average young men – this queer black comedy...