Be sure to leave all expectations, assumptions and “colonial constructions” (as performer Mel Ree aptly puts it) at the door. This 65-minute poetic performance is a demi-biographical tapestry woven from the multifaceted nature of trauma, memory and belonging.
From the moment Ree enters on the blacked-out stage, crawling into a small, hunched position, there is a looming and overwhelming presence felt. Even when reduced to a fetal position, Ree establishes her command of the stage and makes you realise the opportunity to view her performance is a rare privilege.
Ree’s control throughout the performance blurs the boundary between Mel Ree the performer and Mel Ree the persona. Ree expertly reels the audience in – as she confronts the abuse and loneliness of her past, you are unable to look away, implored to relive it alongside her. Blessedly, the timely execution of self-deprecating humour provides a light touch of comedic relief. Ree’s witty one-liners, breaking of the fourth wall, and choreographed movement (from the guidance of the skilled choreographer Fetu Taku) all colour this profound exploration of a troubled adult with an inner child who simply wants love.
There is a seamless integration of the tribulations of trauma into everyday life. Ree personifies the concept of memory, allowing the audience to meta-theatrically observe and experience the mind of a person who has suffered through hardship, leading us through a stream of consciousness which goes from happily pottering through everyday matters, to sudden dark relapses caused by uncontrollable triggers. This balanced contrast ensures the persona is re-centred as a survivor rather than a victim.
Ree’s vulnerable performance could not have had the depth it garnered without the mastery of Nema Adel’s and Frankie Clarke’s lighting and projection design. The lighting removes you from the confines of Griffin Theatre’s compacted home at the SBW Stables Theatre, making you truly feel like you are at a rave, in the car, or at Ree’s best friend’s place. Clarke’s use of low-key lighting enhances the careful exploration of magical realism which Ree soundly integrates into her performance.
The complexity of identity explored in Mother May We is complemented by Georgia Harper’s costuming. Harper’s minimalistic attire is symptomatic of Ree’s disconnect and inability to ‘wear’ her own identity. The stylised choice to have a stand-alone garment be worn at most times, like a pair of knee high boots, emphasises the desire for the audience to focus on who Ree is rather than what she wears – an extended metaphor which establishes one of the key themes of the performance. Where the costuming, or lack thereof, falters is when Ree almost completely undresses. What is an attempt at rawness feels like an overly punctured emphasis on vulnerability which does not provide the tension it tries to emanate. As Ree evolves, and begins to take ownership of her identity, this costuming begins to take on a more present space, ending in a celebration of self and femininity draped in pink.
Raw femininity radiates throughout the performance. Ree’s afro hairstyle, in conjunction with the powerful costuming of heels and dresses, embraces the experience of not only being a person of colour, but a woman of colour. Ree’s feminisation of the moon as “Mother Moon” broadens the sacred position of motherhood to embrace sisterhood, a process which activates Ree’s growth and healing.
Despite its darker undertones, Mother May We is not a performance of loss, but one of hope and faith. Save for some (very) minor blunders in costuming and set malfunctions, prepare for an interactive performance which invites the audience into a shared cathartic release, an invitation which is almost (in the most marvelous way possible) forced onto you through Ree’s control of the stage.
Mother May We is part of the Griffin Lookout program, which celebrates the best of independent Sydney theatre. It plays at Griffin’s SBW Stables Theatre until October 8, 2022.
