Guy Webster

The curtains of Her Majesty’s Theatre open on Neil Armfield’s magnificent production of Arthur Miller’s Death of A Salesman to reveal a towering grandstand; rusted and weather-stained, ‘Ebbets Field’ printed across the top of its commentary box. All but one of the 14-strong cast are sitting on the bleachers, waiting. "Willy?", Linda Loman asks as her husband limps on stage holding two suitcases. It’s one of the most recognizable images of 20th-century theatre, and it’s keenly watched by the entire ensemble. Miller’s Pulitzer Prize-winning script seemed like a death knell for the American Dream when it premiered in 1949, but 70 years later it’s still ringing on, louder than ever. That it has only become more relevant over time adds to its tragedy. An Australian audience, for instance, will find it sadly unsurprising to hear that our titular salesman, Willy Loman, is unable to retire at 63 when a cost-of-living crisis is currently forcing many of our ageing population below the poverty line. Armfield’s iteration represents the third national revival in less than two years, but every production has unearthed new depths to the contemporary classic. With sterling performances and an inspired set, Armfield’s triumphant show breaks new ground by bringing attention to the collateral damage that follows in our salesman’s wake. There are many things that make Miller’s Willy Loman a tragic figure: his inability to see a life beyond his work, his ego-led self-delusions, his growing seni

It’s pretty early on in Ash Flanders’ newest play, This Is Living, when we learn that the title is a reference to a prime-time travel show; a tagline that soon becomes the play’s unofficial calling card. Characters scream it at strangers and mock each other with it. As the play goes on the phrase becomes a hollow brand name and an existential lament in one. Add a question mark and it’s incredulous, nihilistic; add an exclamation point and it is victorious, life-affirming. This is Living swings between both polarities as it explores the messy intricacies of care. But for all the emotional and conceptual depth of its content, the show and many of the relationships at its heart feel surprisingly under-baked. Five long-time friends descend on a bougie country estate in Victoria’s Hepburn Springs for New Year's Eve. Struggling couple Hugh (Marcus McKenzie) and Will (Wil King) are the first to arrive, already in the midst of another passive-aggressive fight. Things are tense between the pair since Hugh’s cancer diagnosis a year ago, and he spends most of the first act finding more eggshells for Will to walk on – creating fights out of misplaced chip packets, open sliding doors and a FOR SALE sign that blocks the view from the master bedroom.  Before long Alex (Belinda McClory) and Jo (Maria Theodorakis) arrive to cut the tension in a sea of Gormon totes and Burberry silk scarves; a bawdy pair of fifty-something one-time theatremakers who now moonlight as a TV presenter and academic

A shoulder-padded man with an Edna Mode bob and a thick moustache somersaults onstage oozing testosterone, bravado and thinly veiled mediocrity. He could be any number of pseudo-intellectual auteurs, damaged poets with shelves full of Ernest Hemingway or mediocre artists with more ego than talent (but always time to play devil’s advocate when discussing Pablo Picasso). The author of four cookbooks, fourteen films and countless plays, he’s a male genius here to talk about his newest theatrical ‘masterpiece’: Fat Cunt.  So begins Masterclass, a wry interrogation of gender, power and art from the Dublin-based Brokentalkers theatre company. It’s Inside the Actor’s Studio meets Between Two Ferns; a surrealist skewering of patriarchal power that aims the near-farcical ways men – from well-meaning allies to toxic artistes – achieve, preserve and weaponise power in an increasingly 'woke' world. Adrienne Truscott is our brooding male genius, the "perennial Mr. Nasty of American Theatre", interviewed by co-writer Feidlim Cannon in a glorious brunette perm. Along with Gary Keegan, the trio has constructed a playful hour-long two-hander that unfurls in complex layers; each scene peeling back another aspect of contemporary gender dynamics alongside a new theatrical style. But the show doesn’t quite ace the landing. Despite creative stagecraft and expert physicality from its two leads, stale technical elements and some aged generalisations compromise the potency of its ideas. It teases wit

When Once first premiered in 2011, it was the first of its kind: a simple story with a big heart, packed with enough folk ballads and torch songs to pack a pub to the rafters. Based on the 2006 film of the same name, it traded in the usual Broadway spectacle for something quieter, more minimalistic. Darlinghurst Theatre Company’s much-acclaimed 2019 production managed to breathe new life into this twelve-year-old show. It now arrives at Melbourne’s Comedy Theatre at long last with many of its original cast and largely unchanged since its premiere. Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová’s sumptuous score still thrums with the lovelorn poeticism that made the show famous. But this production began in a small black-box theatre, a setting that helped it achieve a vital sense of intimacy hard to replicate in the 1000-strong Comedy Theatre. Despite this production's best efforts, the bigger venue dilutes some of the show’s potency, making its already understated style appear muted. Still, there’s plenty to love about this big-hearted and skillfully rendered revival. "Enjoy the buskers", we’re told via overhead speakers before the show starts. In effect, we already have; the show’s 13 cast members have been wandering the aisles of the theatre, laughing their way through various acoustic covers of Top 40 hits. The fourth wall isn’t broken so much as it is quietly stepped over. It’s an ingenious move from director Richard Carroll; the perfect introduction to the casual, pub-style atmosphere

Samuel Beckett’s dark dramedy Happy Days has posed a challenge to theatre companies for more than sixty years. The Beckett estate is much like Beckett was in life; a notoriously tyrannical presence when it comes to revivals, curtailing any attempt to revise his script. But their fastidiousness has also helped create great ingenuity, forcing each iteration to carve out a unique vision with minimal resources and a script simply about a woman – Winnie – stuck in a mound of earth. In 2009, Sydney’s Belvoir Theatre shrouded their Winnie (Julie Forsyth) in jet-black shrapnel; in 2021, she was entombed by tropical sands blackened with the soot of bushfires at the Old Fitz Theatre. These productions found a way to innovate a show within suffocating confines, like sourcing blood from the very stone swallowing up our leading lady. While Melbourne Theatre Company’s production shows splashes of technical ingenuity and creativity, there is little evidence of an overarching vision needed to elevate its choices. Directed by Petra Kalive, it seems unsure of what it wants to say about Beckett’s canonical piece or the woman at its heart. Each part struggles to cohere as a result, despite the efforts of our Winnie (the comedian-actress Judith Lucy). We meet Winnie in the middle of waking up. Woken by a blaring alarm, she stretches up, looks out at us, and cracks a wide smile. Despite being buried up to her waist, she is an unfailing optimist in pearls and a black fascinator, ready to launch int

Things have changed a lot since Ed Bryne’s triumph of a show, If I’m Honest, first appeared at Edinburgh Fringe Festival four years ago. Game of Thrones is no longer culturally relevant, and various prime ministers have come and gone. Byrne’s kids have also changed; they’re older, more annoying, and more like him. What remains steadfast is Byrne’s fixation on one question: what have I passed onto them? The Irish master of observational comedy grapples with this question with a frenetic energy that has defined his brand as a stand-up for over two decades. His hour-long set is packed to the brim with well-observed rants and personal anecdotes ranging from the pains of parenthood to hot takes on pop culture. For example, Paw Patrol is televised trash and middle-class interior design is inane torture.  All the while, Byrne - as spritely as ever at 51 - gallops across Malthouse Theatre’s Beckett stage with a permanent grin and near-boundless supply of energy. He’s the comic equivalent of dropping Mentos in a Diet Coke can; sweet, bubbly, explosive. An unbridled live-wire, he propels through every transition and punchline with breakneck speed and well-honed instincts for comedic timing and pacing. There’s nothing more magnetic than watching an established comic at the top of his game. Between sharp observations on fatherhood, child-rearing and the glorious tedium of triathletes, Byrne returns to moments of self-degrading humour with the endearing self-awareness and infectious chagr

It's been a difficult three weeks for the multi-award-winning cabaret extraordinaire Reuben Kaye. Since being unceremoniously ‘cancelled’ for a bawdy religious joke he told on Channel 10’s The Project, he’s had thirty five Daily Mail articles written about him and become a one-man lightning rod for conservative ire. But Kaye, who made himself a household name with The Butch is Back and The Kaye Hole, is too strong of a comedian to let himself be the butt of someone else’s joke. With Live and Intimidating, he reclaims the narrative that has sprung up against him. Two minutes in and he’s already taking aim at the hypocrisies he has been subject to with intelligence, wit and his signature microphone trailing a long thread of horse hair behind him. Public outrage is a whetstone for a sharp tongue and there’s none sharper than Kaye’s. Live and Intimidating sees Kaye at his most unbridled. The poise and wit we’ve come to expect from him is here, but it’s stormier, more unpredictable. He is a comedic live-wire; bombastic, furious and magnetic. Speeding through non sequiturs that range from anti-monarchy conspiracy theories to kinky hot takes on The Godfather, Kaye’s wry asides are punchier and more frequent. He’s given himself free reign for an hour to follow every impulse, offering a showcase of his killer natural instincts as a performer. Ad-libs are sharp as ever, and Kaye’s control of his audience – whether straddling, caressing or lovingly insulting them - remains unparalleled.

Technically there are only three jokes in Rosie Jones’s uproarious new show, Triple Threat. Or, so she tells us. The UK-based comedian - who last wowed Melbourne audiences in 2019 as part of New Order – firmly believes in the ‘rule of threes’, or a comedy triple; a staple for any good stand-up comedian. The rule is simple: tell audiences a joke once and they’ll laugh, but tell it in variation three times and you’ll strike gold. Thankfully Jones’s carefully crafted sixty minute set has much more than three jokes to its credit. Packed to the brim with bawdy witticisms, cracker punchlines and her signature brand of brash confessional humour, it is a shining example of expert comedic timing matched by skilled delivery. But her tongue-in-cheek promise of three jokes drives the show. In fact, while we wait for our three jokes, Jones - with a mischievous grin - tells us to expect three expletives too.  Jones has made a name for herself since 2019 with star-making turns in the writers' room of Netflix’s Sex Education and Channel 4’s Disability Benefits, among others. Her stand-up centres her experience as a gay woman with cerebral palsy with fine-tuned wit and an unapologetic lewdness. She’s a triple threat; she tells us: ‘gay, disabled, and a prick’.  She’s also a ‘national treasure in waiting’, anxiously awaiting the passing of David Attenborough so she can assume her rightful title. But if she can’t attain national treasure status in her home country, it’s only a matter of time be

Anyone familiar with the Melbourne International Comedy Festival knows Diana Nguyen. Her signature blend of honest storytelling and gaudy wit (as well as her charming snort-laugh) has made her a festival staple since her first show back in 2016. In Going All In, she emerges from a seven-year journey of self-discovery and soul searching. In the years since that first performance, she’s surfed the world’s most dangerous waves, fallen in love and even dabbled in holotropic breath therapy. Now, she’s ready to go ‘all in’ and dive even deeper into her past. And she’s taking us along for the ride. Early on, Nguyen describes the show as a chaotic collection of moments of ‘fight or flight’ throughout her life, from a failed Australian Idol audition in 2003 to a near-death experience in Bali. With charm and charisma, she unpacks personal baggage and embarrassing memories with break-neck speed, like pitching her new app, ‘Dick Advisor’ and unpacking her fear of the ocean in the same breath, recounting her featured role on Bondi Rescue and exploring her experience as a second generation Vietnamese Australian in the next. It’s fifty minutes packed with bawdy anecdotes, physical skits and original music that swings boldly between the outrageous and the sentimental. While it’s an incredibly personal show, Nguyen never takes herself too seriously. In her hands, ‘intergenerational trauma’ – a phrase she defines simply as meaning ‘we’re all fucked’ – can be found in the unlikeliest of places,

Benjamin Nichol's new one-man show begins, like its mythological namesake, with a figure sitting on a cliff face, watching the ocean. A story of desire and entrapment, part love story, part coming-of-age tale, Sirens concerns a small-town larrikin, Eden (played by the playwright) navigating the contemporary queer dating scene and regional family life. Over the course of a tightly wound 60 minutes, Nichol offers a portrait of queer experience in regional Australia that is perceptive and deeply affecting.  We’re in an unnamed Australian coastal town lovingly described as the amalgamation of six servos, four milkbars and 11 Christmas wreaths. It’s a 36-degree day when we first meet Eden, a brash 22 year-old once hailed as the ‘soprano prodigy’ of the local church choir. He’s writing his name in the truck window of an online hook-up. (If he has a siren song, it’s expressed in quiet moments of intimacy like this – a name traced in a foggy window, a shared Spotify playlist or a karaoke song sung to the back corner.) In hook-up after hook-up, Eden seeks out ever more innovative, and at times destructive, ways to connect. He is a hopeless romantic hiding behind machismo, and it’s not long before the heart on his sleeve is revealed.  Nichol received well-deserved acclaim for his play Kerosene in 2021, a one-woman monologue that examined violence with a similar interest in ideas of connection and alienation. With Sirens, he doubles down on these themes with confidence and nuance, offer

This review discusses self harm. In a luminescent triangle at the back of Solidarity Hall there hangs a sunhat, a bouquet of lilies, a plate, a blouse, two floral gloves, a small summer dress and a picture. It’s a memorial to Naomi, the woman at the centre of Patrick Livesey’s one-person show about their mother’s suicide. Together, these found objects offer an impression: a glimpse into a person via the things they left behind. Over the course of 60 minutes the actor inhabits eight people mourning the death of Naomi. From 30 hours of interviews with friends and family, Livesey constructed a verbatim portrait of Naomi’s final days in an attempt to better understand how she came to take her own life. Like the assemblage of found objects hanging at the back of the stage, these individual stories combine to offer an impression of Naomi, and a tribute. With a bravura performance by Livesey at its centre, Naomi provides an unflinching look at the realities of grief and mental ill health that marks it as a standout at this year’s Melbourne Fringe. The stage is dark when Livesey first walks out in a simple white T shirt and jeans. When they turn to face us, their gait and expression is that of a much older woman: Jean, Naomi’s younger sister. Subtle vocal affectations complete the transformation and, as Jean describes her sister’s green eyes and magnetic charisma, all traces of Livesey are lost. Livesey’s previous performances in Angus Cameron’s DIRT and cavemxn quickly singled them

Australian audiences cannot get enough of Club Kabarett, Bernie Dieter’s bawdy homage to Weimar-punk. After a sold-out season in Sydney in March and again in August, this bombastic spectacular has arrived at the Magic Mirrors Spiegeltent at Queen Victoria Market with high expectations and well-deserved fanfare. It’s easy to see why Dieter’s award-winning show has garnered such esteem since touching down in Australia earlier this year. Less than two minutes in and our M.C., Bernie has thrown off her tartan dress to reveal glittery tights and feather-tipped shoulder pads. Soon after, she’s straddling an audience member and enlisting the help of two others – lovingly named ‘Shaven Haven’ and ‘Silver Fox’ – to carry her back to the stage in the splits. The fourth wall is not so much brought down, as elegantly side-stepped by her sky-high stiletto heel. All the while, Bernie’s quick-wit and dirty mouth find comedic beats in the unlikeliest – or, as it were, the most unwilling – of audience members. "Tonight is about letting loose, letting go, and getting a little bit more intimate with each other" she croons before dismissing her handlers. What follows is a 100-minute feast for the eyes. Beneath the Spiegeltent’s technicoloured fairy lights, a diverse array of spectacular performers deliver acts that are as aesthetically pleasing as they are thrilling. Each act elegantly straddles the line between carefully curated danger, sex-appeal and cirque-style acrobatics. From the aerial st