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Evita Too ★★★★★ Who gets remembered? Who gets erased? Evita Too turns the machinery of patriarchy into one very funny, very filthy, very smart musical. EVITA. You know her. The white dress.The balcony.The songs.The myth. ISABEL? Um. This is precisely where Sh!t Theatre’s Evita Too begins to mess with us. Rebecca Biscuit and Louise Mothersole have taken the enormous cultural phenomenon that is Evita and started pulling at its seams. Who was Eva Perón? Who was Isabel Perón? Why do we know one and barely know the other? And — most importantly — who gets to become a myth? Isabel Perón became Argentina’s first female president. Eva became Evita. Therein lies a show. And what a show. History gets dragged into the rehearsal room, musical theatre gets put on trial, and Isabel Perón is caught somewhere in the middle. There are songs, puppets, video, wigs, jokes, historical research, tangents and the kind of gleefully anarchic theatricality that Sh!t Theatre have made their own. It is chaotic. It is funny. It is very, very clever. And underneath all that apparent mayhem is some seriously rigorous theatre-making. Evita Too isn't a straightforward biography of Isabel Perón. Thank god. Instead, Sh!t Theatre use her as a way into something much bigger: the construction of political myth, celebrity, power and memory. The Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice musical becomes both the culprit and the playground. We aren't simply being told, here is the real story behind Evita. We are being asked: Why did this woman become a myth? And why did that woman become a footnote? The intersection of gender, political power and populism is explored with all the subtlety of a brick through a window and yet the thinking underneath it is anything but blunt. Biscuit and Mothersole are terrific as ever. They ooze talent and have that rare ability to make an audience feel that we are all in on the joke together. Their rapport is infectious. Their timing is impeccable. Their theatrical confidence allows the show to veer off in seemingly ridiculous directions without ever completely losing us. And then something happens. The jokes start to land somewhere else. Throughout the show there is a recurring image of ancient hands painted onto cave walls. A hand. I was here. Thousands of years ago someone pressed their hand against stone and left a trace of themselves behind. And suddenly this riotous investigation into Isabel Perón becomes something else. Who gets remembered? Who disappears? What survives us? What do we leave behind? What remains when we are gone? This is where Evita Too got me. Because beneath the politics, the celebrity, the jokes and the glorious theatrical mess is a surprisingly tender meditation on death, grief, memory and legacy. I was deeply moved. And hovering behind all of this is the patriarchy of course, the systems that decide whose stories are amplified, whose power is legitimised, and whose lives become legend. And yes, one critic has described the show's nudity as “unnecessary and irrelevant.” Well. Thank you, Sir. Another man taking up space to tell us what women should and shouldn't be doing with their bodies. You can be the judge of that. Sh!t Theatre's great achievement is that they make serious research feel like play. They make history unruly. They make political theatre funny. They make a musical about one forgotten woman while simultaneously asking why we remember anyone at all. It is riotous.It is irreverent.It is ridiculous. And then, it asks you to think about your own disappearance. EVITA. Remembered. ISABEL. Forgotten. US? Who knows. For just over an hour, Sh!t Theatre make us think about what it means to leave a mark. I WAS HERE. It's brillant - go see it! Review by Kate Gaul Image: Alie Wright

Flesh ★★★★★“A masterclass in what can be delivered in 60 minutes: fearless, exquisite and gloriously strange.” Flesh (at Zoo Southside) creates an epic world in just 60 minutes with elegance, extraordinary physical skill and remarkable emotional range. The concept and direction by Sophie Linsmaux and Aurelio Mergola is a masterclass in what can be delivered in the Fringe context. Belgian company Still Life is not frightened of the edge. In fact, it seems most interested in what happens when we step over it. Across four vignettes, we encounter the breadth of human life - and death - through the body. The body is the language, the landscape and, at times, the horror. Bodies desire, fail, transform, decay and surprise us. What begins in one register can suddenly tip into something absurd, poignant and profoundly disquieting. And then there is the sheer craft of it. The lighting is beautiful. The design is exquisite, the colour palette throughout is to die for. Sound, lighting, costume and physical performance combine to create a world that feels hyperreal and, when necessary, utterly ordinary. Since premiering in Brussels in 2022, Flesh has travelled across Europe and Asia, and it arrives in Edinburgh with the confidence of a work that knows exactly what it is doing. There is a particular pleasure in watching theatre that trusts the audience enough not to explain itself. Flesh gives us four stories rather than one neat narrative. Sometimes the connections are visceral rather than intellectual. Sometimes they are funny. Sometimes they are deeply uncomfortable. And then a VR Titanic experience that is recalled on loop in the memory long after the performance ends. Because why not? That is part of the joy of Flesh: just when you think you understand the rules of its universe, it subversively changes them. It captures those moments in life when something that should be profound is suddenly interrupted by the ridiculous by distraction, by circumstance, by all the annoying stuff of being alive. This is sophisticated physical theatre, and a work with a very particular theatrical intelligence. It understands that the body can tell stories that words cannot, and that comedy can sit extraordinarily close to horror. Absurd, poignant and disquieting is an accurate description. I would add beautiful, fearless and very, very strange. An extraordinary way to start a day at the Edinburgh Fringe Review by Kate Gaul Image by Hubert Amiel

Benelong in London Wharf 1 Bennelong in London (by Jane Harrison, directed by Ian Michael, Sydney Theatre Company) frames history through an intriguing theatrical device. A young First Nations actor preparing to audition for the role of Bennelong is confronted by Bennelong himself, who insists that if his story is to be told, it must be on his own terms. The play moves fluidly between present-day Sydney, the early years of the colony and London in the 1790s, tracing Bennelong's capture, his relationship with Governor Phillip and Barangaroo, and his extraordinary journey to England. In doing so, it shifts Bennelong from the margins of Australian history to its centre, asking who has the authority to tell our national stories, and how history is shaped through performance, memory and power. The production is anchored by two compelling performances. Guy Simon is, as always, a consummate performer. He brings warmth, precision and quiet intelligence to Sebastian, ensuring the contemporary framing device never feels like a simple rehearsal-room conceit. Simon discovers a genuine emotional and cultural connection to Bennelong's story, allowing the past to resonate through the present. Opposite him, Googoorewon Knox is utterly captivating as Bennelong. Playful, generous and quietly commanding, he moves effortlessly between guide, knowledge holder, storyteller and performer. His musicality, humour and ease with the audience make Bennelong feel both historically significant and deeply human. Composer and Sound Designer James Peter Brown's work is exceptional. From the cries of gulls, the wash of waves and the whisper of wind to a haunting original score, the soundscape becomes another storyteller. It underpins the emotional core of the production and carries us beyond language into feeling. Alongside the beautifully judged movement towards the play's conclusion, Brown's score reminds us that some histories are experienced as much through rhythm, memory and emotion as they are through words. Emma White's design was the one element that left me less convinced. Its amalgam of suburban domesticity and the natural environment occasionally feels too literal for a work that is otherwise so imaginative in its theatrical language. Yet perhaps that visual familiarity is intentional, offering audiences something recognisable while they absorb a deeply confronting history that remains unknown to many Australians. Judging by the audible emotion in the theatre, there were certainly tears flowing around me. What impresses is the play's sense of place. Sitting in the Sydney Theatre Company, between Barangaroo and Bennelong Point, we are surrounded by names that have become part of the city's everyday geography. Bennelong in London restores the people behind those place names. In a city where we casually speak the names Barangaroo and Bennelong every day, this production returns those names to the people who first carried them. In doing so, the production doesn't simply recount history, it makes it immediate, personal and impossible to overlook. Review by Kate Gaul Image by Daniel Boud

Casey and Diana Loading Dock History has a way of feeling distant until theatre reminds us that it was lived by ordinary people. Nick Green's Casey and Diana takes us to October 1991, inside Toronto's Casey House hospice, as patients and staff prepare for the visit of Princess Diana, a visit that would become one of the defining public moments of the AIDS crisis. Rather than making Diana the focus, Green centres the people waiting for her. Their conversations are filled with wit, longing, irritation and hope. One patient wonders why his roommate has never seen Steel Magnolias; another obsesses over eggs that somehow smell like cat food. It is funny, disarming writing that constantly reminds us these are not symbols of a tragedy but people living complicated, vibrant lives. Mi Todo Productions' Australian premiere embraces the play's warmth. This is an unapologetically old-fashioned two-act drama that allows relationships to breathe and characters to unfold without rushing towards its emotional destination. The production gently transports us back to the late 1980s and early 1990s, to memories of Diana's extraordinary compassion, the devastation of the AIDS epidemic, the fear, the stigma and, perhaps most importantly, how far we have come. Nancy Denis takes the reigns as director and is efficient and clear in her task. Gabriel Alvarado delivers the standout performance of the evening. His work is beautifully understated, carrying enormous emotional weight beneath an outward calm. There is always another thought passing behind his eyes, another feeling left unspoken. It is a performance rich in nuance, never asking for our sympathy but quietly earning it. Isabel Burton is equally impressive as the hospice nurse. She brings warmth, charisma and meticulous detail to the role, embodying the emotional labour of those who cared for patients when so many others turned away. Burton never allows the character's compassion to become sentimental; instead, she grounds it in the practical, everyday work of caring. Lucy Miller provides the production's emotional centre. Her performance opens up painful questions about family, faith and the ways fear can fracture love, before revealing that human touch is ultimately worth more than ideology, possessions or judgement. It is devastating without ever becoming melodramatic. Chad Traupmann, who also produces the work, confidently carries the central role with a convincing Canadian accent, expertly coached by Linda Nicholls-Gidley, who also appears in the production. Lib Campbell plays Diana. The ensemble as a whole works with generosity, creating a believable community whose humour and affection become as important as their grief. Loading Dock proves an ideal venue for this Australian premiere. Its intimacy makes Casey House feel immediate and lived in (Designer Maitê Inaê), drawing us close enough to witness not only the suffering but the extraordinary acts of everyday care that sustained people through unimaginable circumstances. For many audience members, this will be an emotional evening. Tears were certainly shed around me. The subject matter remains confronting, and for some it may prove difficult viewing, but Green's play never wallows in grief. Instead, it honours the courage of patients, carers and advocates whose compassion challenged prejudice one conversation, one gesture and one human touch at a time. There is also something quietly significant about this Australian premiere finding its home at Loading Dock within QTOPIA Sydney. As Australia's first dedicated centre for queer history and culture, QTOPIA provides more than a venue, it provides context. This is not simply a play about Princess Diana or the AIDS crisis. It is a work that remembers a community, celebrates those who cared when others would not, and invites a new generation to reflect on a history that continues to shape our present. At a time when empathy can feel increasingly fragile, Casey and Diana reminds us that compassion is not abstract. It is built through ordinary acts: sitting beside a bed, holding someone's hand, refusing to look away. That is why this production matters here, now. Review by Kate Gaul Image: Teniola Komolafe

The Day of the Triffids New Theatre There is something wonderfully apt about bringing The Day of the Triffids to the stage in 2026. John Wyndham's 1951 novel has lost none of its potency. Its vision of environmental catastrophe, societal collapse and humanity's uneasy relationship with science feels remarkably contemporary. More than seventy years after publication, its questions about resilience and survival continue to resonate, making James Jay Moody's long-gestating adaptation feel less like a nostalgic revival than a timely reimagining. It is also clearly a labour of love. Having worked on this adaptation over many years, director and designer James Jay Moody approaches Wyndham's world with imagination and theatrical confidence. The production embraces a "two planks and a passion" aesthetic that perfectly suits a post-apocalyptic landscape. Staged in the round at The New Theatre, the audience is drawn into the action from every side, the intimacy of the space creating an immersive experience while still allowing enough scale for the story to breathe. Visually, the production is consistently compelling. Moody's production design finds inventive theatrical solutions rather than relying on spectacle, trusting the audience's imagination to fill the gaps. Holly Nesbitt's lighting design is exceptional, transforming the space with sophisticated precision and atmosphere, while Aubtin Namdar's sound design creates an unsettling sonic landscape. The noir-inspired score and the visceral, organic sounds of the Triffids themselves become almost characters in the production, generating genuine moments of tension and unease. As a piece of theatre, it is an impressive achievement. As an adaptation, however, it proves less certain. At two uninterrupted hours, the production begins to lose momentum. The adaptation is imaginative in the way it translates Wyndham's expansive novel to the stage, but it doesn't always find the dramatic engine needed to sustain its running time. The audience already knows the broad trajectory of civilisation's collapse; the script therefore needs to work harder to surprise us, deepen character, or sharpen the moral dilemmas along the way. Instead, some scenes linger beyond their dramatic usefulness, and the narrative occasionally slips into a sense of inevitability. The result is a production that is visually engrossing but dramatically less urgent than its source material deserves. The cast, largely newcomers to The New Theatre, throw themselves into Moody's ambitious vision with admirable commitment. Performing in English accents with varying degrees of success, however, presents an ongoing challenge. In a production fuelled by urgency and chaos, there is a great deal of shouting - as the circumstances arguably demand - but in the round this often comes at the expense of clarity. Too frequently, dialogue is swallowed by the space, making it difficult to follow the text at precisely the moments when the script most needs to carry the audience forward. Among the ensemble, Max Ryan makes a memorable impression. His crisp, public-school English diction cuts cleanly through the auditorium, and his inventive, energetic performance ensures that even a comparatively small role leaves a lasting impression. Umai Shantharajah, as Josella, is a genuine discovery. She brings intelligence, warmth and emotional presence to the role, creating a character of real substance amid the chaos. It is easy to imagine this being the first of many significant stage appearances. As the young Susan, Claudia Elbourne delivers a beautifully measured performance. Avoiding sentimentality, she brings quiet nuance and emotional truth to the production, grounding the story whenever she is on stage. Leading the production, James Collins possesses an assured, understated authority as Bill Masen. With an effortless leading-man quality - there is more than a hint of classic BBC drama about him - he anchors the sprawling narrative with calm conviction and humanity. Special mention must go to Tony Llewellyn-Jones, whose considerable experience elevates every scene he inhabits. His blind farmer is deeply affecting, full of dignity and pathos, while his various appearances throughout the production are marked by precision, generosity and remarkable character detail. He has that rare ability to create fully realised lives in only a handful of moments, enriching the world of the play every time he steps on stage. Watching The Day of the Triffids also serves as a reminder of what a remarkable asset The New Theatre is. Its scale, generous seating capacity and inner-city location make it one of Sydney's most valuable theatre venues. It is large enough to accommodate ambitious design and staging, yet intimate enough to retain the connection between performers and audience. There are very few theatres of this kind left operating in the city. This production is, proudly, a community theatre production and an excellent one at that. It also prompts reflection on something missing from Sydney's theatre ecology. The New Theatre's decision to discontinue its Indie program several years ago quietly removed one of the few platforms where independent artists could develop work with a degree of autonomy while aspiring to professional standards. That distinction matters. Community theatre occupies a vital place in our cultural landscape, providing opportunities for people to create theatre for the love of it, and our city would be poorer without it. But independent theatre occupies a different space. It is where artists, producers and designers test ideas, take creative risks and, on occasion, receive at least a modest fee for their labour. In truth, very few independent artists in Sydney are remunerated in any way that reflects the value of their work. Yet the aspiration towards a professional practice, however precarious, is an important part of the ecosystem. The Day of the Triffids demonstrates just how much imagination, craft and ambition can be found within Sydney's community theatre sector. It also reminds us what a versatile home The New Theatre can be. One hopes there might again be room under its roof for both outstanding community productions and a revitalised independent program. Sydney's theatre ecology would be richer for it. James Jay Moody's production may not entirely solve the challenge of adapting Wyndham's sprawling novel, but it succeeds in something equally worthwhile. It reminds us that the best theatre is driven by conviction. In an era when the questions at the heart of The Day of the Triffids feel more urgent than ever, that conviction makes this production well worth seeking out. Review by Kate Gaul

Healing Scars Carriageworks - Moogahlin Performing Arts There is something quietly ceremonial about entering Healing Scars. The audience is gathered in a semi-circle around an ochre-covered performance space, the scent of eucalyptus lingering in the air as Warren Mason's haunting live music hangs over the room. Before a word is spoken, the work has established an atmosphere of reflection. Having first seen Healing Scars as a work-in-development during Sydney Festival in 2024, it is rewarding to witness how confidently the piece has matured. The visual and sonic worlds have deepened, allowing the performance to breathe without sacrificing its intimacy. Mason begins by drawing what resembles a topographical map across the floor in ochre. It is a deceptively simple image that becomes the foundation of the performance. Karen Norris' sophisticated lighting and Alex Moss' beautifully integrated projections gradually animate the markings, transforming the floor into a living landscape. As performers emerge and move through this shifting environment, the work unfolds with an intimacy that feels deeply personal and remarkably fragile. Rather than presenting a conventional narrative, Healing Scars invites the audience into an act of witnessing. The title prepares us for what follows, but Healing Scars resists easy definitions of healing. While the atmosphere is undeniably beautiful, there is a persistent mournful edge that reminds us that healing is neither linear nor complete. Gentle, ritualised gestures are taught, repeated and shared, tracing connections across generations rather than attempting to resolve them. Yuwaalaraay composer and performer Warren Mason, of Tin Camp Studios, constructs an intricate sonic landscape by looping the natural sounds of his homeland with the haunting strains of guitar, spoken word in multiple languages and the songs of his Old People. The result is less a musical score than an act of remembering. This tapestry of sound is interwoven with choreography by Jasmine Gulash (Gubbi Gubbi), performed with quiet authority by Jo Clancy (Wiradjuri) and dance artists Lily Shearer (Murrawarri/Ngemba) and Kiarn Doyle (Dunghutti). Their movement carries an understated dignity, tracing pathways that seem to lead simultaneously across Country and back through time. The choreography never illustrates the music; instead, movement, sound and image converse, each deepening the resonance of the others. Healing Scars is not interested in telling a story in the traditional sense. Instead, it asks audiences to slow down, observe and listen. Those expecting a conventional narrative may find its meditative rhythm and ritualised repetition quietly demanding, yet it is precisely this commitment to ceremony over dramatic progression that gives the work its emotional integrity. It is theatre that invites contemplation rather than resolution, offering an experience that lingers long after the final image fades. At just under an hour, the work understands the power of restraint. It never outstays its welcome, instead allowing audiences the time and space to contemplate memory, grief and resilience. Healing Scars does not seek to explain healing. Instead, it creates the conditions for reflection and witness. By the time the final image fades, what remains is not a neat conclusion but the privilege of having shared in something deeply personal, generous and profoundly respectful. Reflection and honour are the words that linger long after leaving the theatre. Healing Scars is less a performance to be watched than an experience to be shared, and it feels genuinely special simply to have been present in the room. Review by Kate Gaul Image Jamie James

Thirty Six The Loading Dock, QTOPIA How long do we expect to live? It is a question most of us have the luxury of postponing. In Thirty-Six, Bayley Turner reminds us that for many transgender people, mortality is not an abstract thought reserved for old age but a companion that arrives far too early. The work begins with a birthday. Turner has reached her thirty-sixth year, having quietly crossed the age that folklore and misinformation long suggested transgender women rarely survived. While that statistic has long been discredited, the fear it generated remains painfully real. The violence, discrimination, inadequate healthcare and social isolation experienced by many trans people continue to shape lives in ways that make questions of ageing, dignity and legacy feel deeply urgent. Created by Turner with celebrated Scottish playwright and trans activist Jo Clifford, now in her seventies, Thirty-Six unfolds as a conversation across generations. It is part memoir, part reflection and part love letter between two women whose lives have been separated by decades but connected through shared experience. Together they ask not only how we survive, but how we grow old, who remembers us, and what it means to be seen. It is a remarkably gentle piece of theatre. Rather than building towards confrontation or outrage, it invites us to sit with uncertainty. The stories unfold with warmth, humour and honesty, allowing the audience to recognise that while the specifics of transgender experience may differ, the inevitability of ageing and death belongs to us all. Bayley Turner gives a heartfelt and quietly captivating performance. There is an ease and confidence in her presence that immediately establishes trust with the audience. She never appears to be performing at us; instead, she welcomes us into an intimate conversation. It is a generous performance, rich with vulnerability but never asking for sympathy. Turner embodies womanhood with grace and assurance, allowing her own lived experience to illuminate the work without ever reducing herself to a symbol. Director Kitan Petkovski wisely resists the temptation to overcomplicate the material. The production breathes. Moments of silence are allowed their full emotional weight, while shifts in tone from humour to melancholy happen with effortless fluidity. There are inventive theatrical touches throughout, particularly the deployment of multiple live cameras that capture and project Turner's image from unexpected perspectives. These projections become more than visual decoration; they quietly suggest the fragmented ways identity is witnessed, documented and remembered. One image lingers in particular: Turner lying across a table while the cameras continue to observe her from above. It is at once peaceful and unsettling, evoking examination, ritual and remembrance without insisting on any single interpretation. It encapsulates the production's greatest strength in its ability to create images that resonate beyond explanation. Petkovski's elegant direction and the thoughtful design elements continually draw the work back into the theatrical present. The production trusts its audience to think rather than simply react. The response at Qtopia reflected that trust. The applause was warm but restrained, the atmosphere reflective rather than exuberant. It felt as though the audience understood they had not simply witnessed a performance but been entrusted with someone's lived experience. Thirty-Six is a play about being transgender. It is also about growing older, facing death, searching for community and hoping that, when our lives are over, we will have been recognised for who we truly were. Those are profoundly human concerns. The fact that transgender people must so often confront them earlier, and with greater uncertainty, is precisely why this story matters. There is enormous courage in the quietness of Thirty-Six. It refuses sensationalism, choosing instead empathy, conversation and grace. In a cultural landscape where trans lives are too often debated rather than heard, this gentle, deeply humane production offers something more valuable: the opportunity simply to listen. Review by Kate Gaul Image: Meagan Harding

Toy Symphony Pavilion Performing Arts Centre, Sutherland What a fitting way to launch an in-house production program than with one of the Shire's own. Directed by playwright Michael Gow, Toy Symphony returns home in a production that celebrates both the play's enduring strengths and the growing ambition of the Pavilion's producing vision. This is my fifth encounter with Toy Symphony since its unforgettable premiere in 2007, and the play has lost none of its capacity to surprise, unsettle and move. One of Gow's most personal works, it sits alongside Away and Once in Royal David's City in its exploration of memory, identity and the lingering effects of childhood experience. Blending autobiography, fantasy and psychological realism, the play follows playwright Roland Henning as he confronts a profound creative crisis. Struggling with writer's block and increasingly disconnected from those around him, Roland is drawn into an excavation of memory through therapy, revisiting childhood experiences, formative teachers, artistic heroes and the habits that have shaped both his success and his failures. This production draws on local talent (Kane Herbert, Kaitlyn Thor, Alex Baum), ably supported by the experienced presence of Sam O'Sullivan as Roland Henning and Georgina Symes as the unforgettable Miss Walkham. O'Sullivan deftly navigates the contradictions at the centre of Roland: charismatic and vulnerable one moment, selfish and self-destructive the next. Symes brings warmth, wit and quiet authority to a character who looms large in Roland's imagination, embodying the teachers whose influence can echo across a lifetime. Designer Kate Beere makes a striking contribution. Rather than concealing the mechanics of theatre, Beere opens the magnificent Pavilion stage to reveal fly lines, the grid, upstage walls and backstage doors. Flying objects in and out from the stage and adding simple furnishings to create the various locations of the story. The result is a space that feels simultaneously expansive and intimate, perfectly aligned with the play's meta-theatrical journey through memory and imagination. The theatre itself becomes part of the storytelling, a place where memories are summoned, rehearsed and replayed. The production's visual atmosphere is beautifully supported by lighting and projection designer Aron Murray. His work creates a succession of evocative environments within the largely open stage picture, allowing memories to emerge and dissolve with elegance and clarity. Sound designer and composer Johnny Yang - one of the most exciting artists working in independent theatre today - shows remarkable restraint. Rather than competing with the titular “Toy Symphony”, which provides one of the play's emotional touchstones, Yang's score complements and enriches the production, knowing precisely when to speak and when to remain silent. His work comfortably enhances the play’s arc, creating an aural landscape that supports rather than overwhelms the drama. What remains remarkable about Toy Symphony nearly twenty years after its premiere is its refusal to romanticise the artist. Roland's journey is neither noble nor straightforward. As the play unfolds, Gow offers an unflinching portrait of a man whose creative gifts coexist with dependency, manipulation and emotional recklessness. Figures from Roland's past, alongside literary heroes such as Anton Chekhov, emerge through the play's dreamlike structure, forcing him to confront uncomfortable truths about himself and the stories he tells. Watching the play again in 2026, I was struck by how much darker it feels than I remember. The second act, in particular, offers a stark portrait of an artist in crisis. Roland's dependence on drugs, his exploitation of those around him and his willingness to sacrifice personal relationships in pursuit of creative renewal are presented without sentimentality. Gow resists easy judgement. The play acknowledges the damage Roland causes while still finding room for compassion, humour and redemption. Under Gow's direction, this production embraces both the shadows and the optimism embedded in the text, inviting audiences to reflect on the messy realities of artistic creation without losing faith in its value. The Pavilion itself proves a remarkable resource for the region: a theatre capable of hosting work of scale while maintaining a strong connection to its community. If Toy Symphony is an indication of what lies ahead, Sutherland audiences have much to look forward to. Thoughtful, ambitious and deeply local, this production marks a confident beginning for what one hopes will be a long and fruitful journey of locally produced theatre for curious audiences. In an era when many venues have retreated from producing their own work, the Pavilion's investment in homegrown theatre feels both courageous and necessary. Review by Kate Gaul Image: Saz Watsons

The Worst of Us.perhaps, theatre. The Substation, QTOPIA Sydney What is the worst thing you've ever done? A child says something he cannot unsay. A mother clings to a truth that may not be true. A man stands in a garden holding a hoe, facing the hardest decision of his life. These are the questions and stories at the heart of the worst of us., a quietly extraordinary work from perhaps, theatre., woven from anonymous confessions and transformed into a meditation on guilt, forgiveness and the complicated business of being human. When I attended, the audience numbered just two. In lesser hands that might have felt awkward. Instead, it felt like a gift. In an act of generosity and commitment, the show went on, creating an experience that was deeply personal, intimate and unexpectedly profound. Performed at The Substation at QTOPIA Sydney, the worst of us. strips theatre back to its essentials. One performer. A clutch of stories. A guitar. A handful of lamps. From these simple elements emerges a rich and emotionally resonant hour of storytelling. Emmett Aster is a compelling and generous performer. Unamplified in the intimate setting, he held the room with ease, weaving together spoken word, music and storytelling with quiet confidence. His writing is lyrical without becoming self-conscious, moving fluidly between narratives while maintaining a clear emotional throughline. The language is carefully crafted yet accessible, rich with imagery and moments of gentle insight. Scripts are available for purchase after the performance and I found myself wanting to spend more time with the text, to revisit some of its poetic observations and layered storytelling. What is most striking is the show's profound empathy. These confessions are not presented for shock value, nor are they offered up for judgement. Instead, Aster approaches each story with tenderness, curiosity and compassion. The work acknowledges the harm people can cause one another while remaining deeply interested in the possibility of understanding, accountability and forgiveness. The production's visual language is equally thoughtful. A collection of coloured lamps shifts throughout the performance, subtly altering the emotional landscape and marking transitions between stories. There are no dramatic lighting states or theatrical flourishes. Instead, the stories seem to emerge from the spaces between things, arriving softly and finding their way into the audience almost by stealth. As the light changes, our attention moves not only towards the performer but towards one another, creating a shared atmosphere of reflection. This felt less like a performance delivered to an audience than an experience shared with one. With only two audience members present, the intimacy became part of the event itself. For sixty minutes, one storyteller and two listeners occupied the same space, carrying these confessions together. The result was a rare sense of connection and attentiveness. the worst of us. is intimate theatre at its most affecting. Delicately crafted and beautifully performed, it explores the imperfect choices people make and the stories they carry long after those moments have passed. It invites us to look honestly at ourselves, to extend grace where we can, and perhaps to leave the theatre a little more open-hearted than when we arrived. Review by Kate Gaul Image by Sarah Findlay

Phoebs, You're a Lesbian The Loading Dock "Phoebs, you’re a Lesbian" arrives at Qtopia's Pride Fest fresh from a well-received Adelaide Fringe season. Written and performed by Phoebe Rodger, a recent graduate of the Elder Conservatorium's Bachelor of Music Theatre program, it is a bright, personable hour that showcases an emerging talent finding her voice. Framed around Rodger's journey towards embracing her identity, the show navigates first loves, expectations and the peculiar rituals of contemporary queer life. While the autobiographical material rarely digs into darker emotional territory, it provides a solid framework for a series of engaging anecdotes and comic observations. A 78er in the audience on the night I attended provided a timely reminder that we've come a long way. The ease with which Rodger can celebrate, question and joke about her identity is itself part of that story, made more resonant by the fact that the performance takes place within the walls of what was once Darlinghurst Gaol. The freedoms and affirmations that underpin Rodger's cheerful self-examination sit in quiet conversation with a site that once represented something very different for Sydney's queer community. The show confirms Rodger as a promising comedy writer rather than a fully realised cabaret artist. Her observations are smart, her storytelling assured, and there are flashes of a genuinely acerbic sensibility waiting to emerge. One suspects that with age and experience the sweetness may evolve into something sharper, stranger and ultimately more distinctive. Accompanying herself on keyboard for much of the performance, Rodger delivers an original score that is pleasant and earnest, though its reliance on similar melodic structures can leave individual songs blurring together. For a performer with such evident comic instincts, the music occasionally feels content to support the material rather than challenge it. The aesthetic is unapologetically pink, earnest and affirming. Younger audience members may embrace it wholeheartedly; older cynics may find themselves longing for a little more bite amongst the glitter. Yet Rodger's sincerity is difficult to resist, and the audience's affection for her is palpable. As is so often the case in The Loading Dock, the sound balance works against a lyric-driven show. The keyboard arrives crystal clear while key lines disappear into the room, frustrating when Rodger's words are so obviously her strongest currency. "Phoebs, you’re a Lesbian" is less a polished cabaret than a charming introduction to an emerging voice. The evening succeeds not because every song lands, but because Rodger herself does. The talent is unmistakable; the sharper, riskier work that may come next is perhaps the most exciting prospect of all. Review by Kate Gaul Image: supplied

Criptonite: Intergalactic Redux Red Rattler Theatre There is a moment, somewhere between the silver-jump suited stagehands gliding across the stage and a pole artist suspended mid-air under a crescent moon, when you stop watching a show and start inhabiting a world. That is what Criptonite does. It builds the Glimmerverse around you, and then it makes you believe in it. Created and performed by an entirely disabled cast, Criptonite is a high-skill circus theatre work that weaves pole, aerial, live vocals and comedy into one continuous, unbroken journey. The design is precise and thoughtful: glitter-drenched but never cheap, spectacular but always purposeful. Those stagehands deserve a special mention: costumed in silver, they move through the action as if they belong to the galaxy itself. One moment drew particular delight: a spaceship conjured from what appeared to be an umbrella - absurd on paper, completely magical in practice, and greeted with the applause it deserved. The use of UV colours and lighting is unabashedly camp and gloriously corny, and the audience loves it for exactly that reason. This is a show that knows when to wink. The cast dream a world where they belong and are celebrated, and they take you with them. That's not performance. That's something more powerful. The strength and grace on display are extraordinary. Andrew Gregory, known onstage as Tattoo Pole Boy, discovered pole in his forties after a lower leg amputation; Charlotte Evans began aerial six months after losing her leg at twenty. These are not backstories held at arm's length for inspiration, they are the argument the show is making, rendered in motion. Tom North, as MC and improviser, is a vital gravitational force. Charismatic and sharp, he holds the room between acts with wit and genuine warmth, improvising material that earns its laughs without breaking the world the show has built. Dean Nash, the live vocalist, brings soul and a knowing mischief that anchors the whole thing emotionally. At the centre of the Glimmerverse is Deb Roach, pole artist, producer, creative director, and an absolute force. Her costumes alone announce someone with a singular vision: spectacular, considered, every detail in service of the world she has built. And what a world it is, because Criptonite is, at its heart, Roach's personal dream rendered on stage with extraordinary drive and discipline. Watch her duet with Charlotte Evans -tender, gorgeous, two artists in complete conversation with each other - and you understand what is at stake in this work. Then watch what happens when the entire ensemble moves together, the choreography knitting every thread into one, and you understand what she has achieved. This is not a performer who happens to also produce and direct. This is an artist who knows exactly what she is making and will not stop until it exists. The Glimmerverse holds up as a complete world. There is a logic to it, a dream-logic, and you go along for the ride because this ensemble has committed fully to the dream: a universe built from the things we loved as children, reimagined as a space where these artists are not outliers but the centre of everything. It is, in the truest sense, powerful stuff. The Red Rattler in Sydenham is the right home for it. The venue has an edgy reputation for a reason. You don't go there for the usual. It is gloriously welcoming, indie to its bones, and long may it reign. A show on the edge belongs at the edge. Review by Kate Gaul

SONDER Old Fitz Theatre |Berlage & Co Let's start where we have to: the set. Slowly moving shards of mirror hang and descend around a lone figure on a reflective circular black floor, catching light, multiplying it, throwing it back in fragments. As a visual language for a show about shattered identity and the terror of being truly seen, it's close to perfect and it announces itself as the show begins. Berlage has designed for this stage before, but this might be his finest room. Technically, it's a wow from go to go. The directing matches it. There's a maturity here that's genuinely exciting. Berlage has learnt, or deepened his understanding of, something more valuable than spectacle: restraint. He knows when to hold his performer still, when to let silence do the heavy lifting. Those pauses land. Not every director acquires that instinct, and here it's doing an enormous amount of work. The material is heartfelt, important, and worthy - do I really need to say more? Romeo is a gay Māori man navigating the intersecting damages of a violent home, cultural dislocation, and a love affair in Berlin that undoes him. Riki Lindsey, who wrote the book and lyrics and performs the whole thing, brings genuine conviction and a voice that can carry the room. Mitchell Sloan's electronic score moves capably between nightclub euphoria and aching hollowness, and the incorporation of Mau Rākau and ancestral chant gives the piece a ritual weight that lifts it above the merely confessional. And yet. The writing sometimes announces itself where it might instead reveal itself. We're told what Romeo feels at roughly the same moment Romeo feels it, which keeps us in the position of sympathetic observer rather than someone truly implicated in his story. The score has the same tendency: driving hard toward intensity without quite burrowing under the skin. You admire it more than you're undone by it. None of which diminishes what Sonder genuinely is: a significant and necessary new piece of Australian music theatre: queer, Indigenous, formally restless, and unapologetically personal. The production surrounding the material is extraordinary. The material itself is still finding its sharpest edges. Review by Kate Gaul Image by Jessie Obialor