Playwright Julian Larnach describes this play as a “powerful family portrait”, and that is perhaps the best way to frame this performance. This 75-minute play, adapted from Favel Parrett’s novel of the same title, paints a story of three brothers living on the ruggedly beautiful but unforgiving southern coast of Tasmania as they deal with the death of their mother and the presence of their abusive father, an abalone fisherman.
The performance begins with a moving monologue on time and memory, which is jolted with a sudden change of scene to the brothers on a boat with their father, working on seas as unsteady and dangerous as their treacherous patriarch. This jarring shift between scenes sets up the theme of the performance - one which, although raw and vulnerable, is albeit, unclear.
Director Ben Winspear uses actors Meg Clarke, Ryan Hodson and Griffin McLaughlin in a multiple role performance exploring the brutality of childhood and adolescence. Whilst conceptually this appears to be quite a fascinating choice, its execution falls short at times, leaving the audience uncertain about who is playing which role. This comes at no fault of the actors, who provide a strong emotional range. It is in the central moments of tension that the audience can find its bearings, and we are provided the luxury to be completely immersed in the battles that brothers Tom, Harry and Miles face. Without throwing around too many cliches, it would be an understatement to say you could hear a pin drop in these moments.
However, in a play that aims to evoke emotional depth, the generous space of ATYP’s Rebel Theatre at times makes it hard to hear the projection of the performers. Whilst all three performers attempt to compensate for this, the result is a yelling match in scenes where there really shouldn’t be one. It is hard to consistently empathise with these broken boys when they are so unintentionally boisterous. It is in these scenes where Hodson and McLaughlin lose command of the stage and become lost. Clarke’s consistent strength in the performance despite these difficulties is the anchor which keeps you rooting for these boys. In these scenes where such emotional depth is unclear, Jason James and Nema Adel’s lighting and projection is the crutch which supports the performers. The lighting and visual imagery ground the play when the pacing of the show slows, compensating when emotional clarity is lacking.
Larnach’s poetic script provides strong imagery, which complements the stylistic choice of Keerthi Subramanyam’s set design. The minimalist design provides enough space for the audience to project their own image of Lanarch’s work, which is frighteningly powerful to envision. However, much like reading poetry, there is an ambiguity in the script which reduces the strength of the performance. The play reads more like a piece of literature rather than a theatrical performance, interspersed with overdrawn monologues which feel out of place in a performance which is already challenging to place and comprehend.
Whilst there is a nakedness and vulnerability reflected in the limited costume and set design of Subramanyam, it does also add to the confusion in both the roles being played and the actual setting of where the performance is placed. It would have been nice to have seen some markers of difference between the boys, who clearly refract a prism of multifaceted experience despite living in the same household.
Past the Shallows does paint a family portrait, but through a fragmented segment of stills, which removes from the seamless pacing of theatre. Raw and honest, it is a sound performance, but leaves too many gaps which makes the audience do much of the creative heavy lifting.
Past the Shallows plays at the Rebel Theatre, Pier 2/3, until November 9, 2022.
