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The Children’s Hour Old Fitz Theatre   Within the context of today’s politics and accusations of “fake news,” Tiny Dog Productions & Dead Fly Productions present a timely production of Lillian Hellman’s 1934 classic “The Children’s Hour”.  Its presentation underlines the importance of looking back to a previous time in history to find stories about a valiant struggle for truth. Set in 1937 in New England USA, with fascism on the rise in Europe, “The Children’s Hour” tells the story of two long-time friends and headmistresses, Karen and Martha, whose reputations are threatened when Mary, a difficult child, spreads a lie.  “The Children’s Hour” was extremely controversial when it was produced in 1934. It was being considered seriously for the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, but the judges were accused of rejecting it because of the play’s reference to the two women having an affair.  Outraged by the Pulitzer decision, the New York Drama Critic’s Circle responded by awarding its own award the next year. Without giving any spoilers, this isn’t a happy story for lesbians. It represents the time-honoured tradition of realist plays in which lesbians have no choice but to kill themselves at the end (or die otherwise tragic deaths from inoperable cancer or other deadly means). But the play isn’t “about” lesbians but was rather about “a lie.” However, The Children’s Hour  has always been discussed as one of the first American plays with lesbian content.   This production at the Old Fitz (directed by Kim Hardwick) is set firmly in the 1930s. The cast use American accents with various de grees of proficiency (Accents/dialect coach: L inda Nicholls-Gidley).  The setting itself is quite dreamy with a backdrop of hand painted delicious gauzes by Emelia Simcox.  Jimi Rawlings lights the show with sensitivity and as we get into the darker aspects of the story the space becomes almost existential. Restrained support by Michael Huxley in the accompanying music and sound department. It's the large cast that is exciting.  A pack of younger actors playing the students are glorious and particular mention to Kim Clifton who plays the electric and scheming Mary Tilford along with Sarah Ballantyne who deftly plays her hapless victim, Rosalie. Amongst the more seasoned cast is and impressive Annie Byron who is nuanced and powerful in her seniority. Mike Booth is settling into older-man characters and let’s hope we see more of him on Sydney stages.  His work is very good.  Romney Hamilton, playing one half of the accused headmistresses, has quite authority in her role.  Jess Bell is astonishing as the troubled Martha. More critically, the play really needs a snip or two as it can meander even with the building tension around the snowballing effect of a whisper. This is where is shows its age and it’s a pity some steps were not taken to tighten the screws on an otherwise gripping realist event. What is more significant is the presentation of this play in a world where  there is still an issue of visibility when it comes to writing by women. Resurrecting neglected plays and celebrating the talents of writers like Lillian Hellman are a welcome exception to our theatrical programming. The landscape is shifting, and it is now possible to roll off a list of female playwrights in Australia.  This is worth celebrating as is acknowledging the shoulders of giants which we all stand in the decidedly macho business of the stage! Review by Kate Gaul

Furious Mattress 25A Australian playwright Melissa Reeves play “Furious Mattress” premiered in 2011.  This Legit Theatre Co. production directed by Margaret Thanos is its Sydney debut as part of the 25A program. Written back in the day when plays had an interval this two-hour stint is loosely based on the events that led to the death of a 49-year-old woman in January 1993 after her husband, and three other members of a breakaway Lutheran sect, performed an exorcism at the couple’s home at Antwerp, near Horsham. It’s a great premise and Reeves has fun playing with genre whether it is comedy and satire, naturalism, the gothic and surreal, or drama. It’s hard to get away from what is essentially the unpalatable story of a hapless husband (played shrewdly by Julian Garner) challenged by his trapped wife, Elise’s sensuality (played deliciously by Matilda Ridgway).  Enlisting the support of a duplicitous Anna the exorcist (a magnetic Alex Malone with gloriously painted nails and a to-die-for handbag) and local plumber Max (played savagely here by Shan-Ree Tan) the team not only bash bibles but bodies and some of it is hard to watch (fight choreographer Diego Retamales had done a fabulous job!). Else is slowly tortured and killed by her husband and those he enlists. “Furious Mattress” opens on an image that sets up everything perfectly – a chair askew with rope hanging from one arm, a lifeless body in a bed, the faint buzz of flies and two sweaty humans holding bibles.  The rest of the action explains what has happened by going forward and backwards in time. This production sets the action in one room dominated by a bed in which the dead wife, Else, lies for much of the play.  Designed by Angelina Daniel the room is padded foam on both floors and walls… a reference to an ancient, padded room?  A skeletal structure of wall uprights and cross bars suggest a gaol. The play can be read as a critique of the patriarchy and religious zealots but I am not certain what Reeves intention is here. Does it show us anything new and do we really need to see these people behaving badly? At one point late in proceedings a giant creature emerges from the actual mattress and attacks or fucks the exorcist (not sure which) amidst flashing lights and appropriate sounds. Kudos to Harry Milas (magic consultant) who presumably created and renders this moment of theatrical transformation.  It does suggest that the writer might have made more of this imaginative assessment of her subject to great effect.  In its naturalistic moments – although well rendered – the play is plodding. There is a kind of hint that the company knows or feels that the extraordinary is required to make this work – but it comes across as mildy exaggerated Aussie accents and not-quite-B-grade-enough aesthetic to land.  And the play never delves into the whys and wherefores or goes beyond the surface of strange human behaviour but stays safely “funny” - which is infuriating. A top notch team deliver a hit and miss Australian revival and if for no other reason it is great to see Melissa Reeves work onstage. Review by Kate Gaul Image: Robert Catto

Dear Elena Sergeevna Old Fitz   A 1980s Soviet drama in an Australian Premiere, “Dear Elena Sergeevna” is presented by Last Waltz Productions, directed by Clara Voda. Lyudmila Razumovskaya is a Russian playwright. She received a commission from the Ministry of Culture to write a play about ‘difficult teenagers’ and created “Dear Elena Sergeevna”. Rejected at the time by the ministry it has now played all over the world. Four students drop a birthday surprise on their teacher Elena, but the true intention of their visit is unveiled when they attempt to persuade her to hand over the key to the safe where their exam papers are being kept. For the sake of their academic progress, they must falsify their scores; for the sake of their futures, excuses are made to justify their actions. The teacher finds herself in a predicament when her students begin coercing her. To stop them from making further mistakes, Elena stands firm and refuses to compromise. They are stuck in deadlock as night draws in, and the students suggest a shockingly deplorable deal as their last reso rt . Politics, compromise, power, violence – this play has everything. So, what to make of this modest production presented late night at Old Fitz?  There is no doubt this is a cast of skilled actors.  The chosen text seems a combination of something that was written by the playwright (and translated) and parts that seem fully improvised. The result is a mish mash of delivery styles – some of which is completely inaudible.  Coupled with staging that ignores any intelligent sight line so that action is obscured this is a tricky production to take seriously.  I am guessing this is all a nod to “naturalism” and the result is artless.  We know from the moment the students enter the space that they are up to no good – there is no unfolding of action, tension or revelation.  Except for the inevitable undisciplined violence which felt dangerous in all the wrong ways. The two women in the production Madeline Li and Teodora Matovic are stand outs as they have moments where we see something deeper and more personal in their work. Review by Kate Gaul Image: Noah David Perry

Snakeface 25A Belvoir Fruitbox Theatre present writer, performer Aliyah Knight in “Snakeface”. This is an ambitious 90-minute monologue traversing myth, coming of age, sexual abuse, condemnation, and transformation.  Aliyah Knight is a charismatic presence who draws us to this complex work. The writing is poetic – sometimes arresting with its crystal-clear imagery, sometime opaque, overstated. “Snakeface”, the title, refers to the deadly, snake-haired Medusa of Greek myth. Medusa, one of the most infamous figures in Greek mythology, has long been a symbol of fear, danger, and power. Best known for her serpent-covered head and deadly gaze that turns people into stone, she is typically regarded as a monstrous female figure. However, if we consider Medusa through the lens of masculine objectification, a deeper and more complex narrative emerges, revealing how her portrayal reflects broader themes of power, control, and the male gaze.   “Snakeface” transforms Medusa into a victim, made into a monster by sexual violence.  Along with the text there are moments of frenetic dance (movement director Fetu Taku) behind a central dark screen.  This is striking and leans into subject matter and feeling the text cannot navigate. Possibly the stronger part of the performance once the context is established.  The central screen also acts as a projection surface onto which oblique words and fragments of text are projected. They were hard to read (in terms of legibility) and when considered with the spoken and physical text are possibly redundant in an already overstuffed production of a non-liner story.  A block of what looks like stone, but we discover is wet clay (with numerous religious overtones) – becomes an original metaphor for the body, its sexual encounters, white bodies of lovers, a covering of shame, revulsion as wet handfuls are slapped, nudged and spread on Knight’s body. Our central character, Maddie, is also a sculptor and although nothing really comes of the clay it is an intriguing and unusual element to see on stage.   The work feels authentic, visceral in its telling of growing up black, queer, discovering oneself through high school crushes, sexual trauma, white Australia, art. “Snakeface” offers us an expansive canvas.  Director Bernadette Fam and. Associate Director Rachel Seeto head a large creative team who orchestrate this lively story of twists and turns.  The work does feel overly long, and one wonders of losing some of the repetition might have made for a more searing experience. There is joy in this creative work, and it is exciting to see an imaginative and deeply personal work from artists who intersect marginalised identities (BIPOC, LGBTQIA+) experimenting with form and content. Hearing from new voices opens possibilities for others and validates lived experience.  The team provide resources to support and help audience process the material they have witnessed.   While “Snakeface” and other feminist readings have reclaimed Medusa as a symbol of female empowerment, her dominant representation in mythology and media reflects a legacy of masculine control and objectification, a story in which she is punished for her autonomy and ultimately reduced to a tool for male use. I wasn’t convinced that the Medusa of this poetic rendering had enough pay off, perhaps a clearer dramatic journey may have helped us through the maze of experience. Review by Kate Gaul Image by Abraham de Souza

Taiwan Season: Trace of Belief Chun Dance Assembly Dance Base “Trace of Belief” choreographed by Hsieh Yi-Chun, is a subtle, mesmerising performance that incorporates ballet, tai-chi, salsa, bhangra and kathak in a dreamlike melange. “Trace of Belief”, which blends these dance techniques with a signature dance style Hsieh Yi-Chun is pursuing— low-centred movements paired with fluid circular motions reminiscent of flowing water. Embracing diverse dance styles and various cultural identities, Chun Dance embodies the “glocal” spirit—both deeply rooted in local traditions and globally engaged. connecting with audiences worldwide. Six performers wearing blue and white loose pants and flesh-coloured tops move imperceptibly to begin.  Sounds of waves, bells, birdsong surround them, and the lighting is evocative and is as much a reason to see this production as the movement itself. This is an elegant work.  The consummate dancers have complete control. The compositions of bodies, colour and light is delicious.  The discipline embodied in the piece holds us.  Each movement is precise, exacting. It all feels ritualistic, meditative and then bursts into the ecstatic.  The audience are free to write their own response – whether religious or secular onto the event.  There is not obvious narrative. The title is a frame through which to experience this delightful work. Where do we put our faith?  And in what? The final section features Hsieh Yi-Chun herself, stripped down to her flesh coloured under cloths as if suggesting that we should shed all that is unnecessary to find our own trace of belief.   An outstanding company which is a pleasure to encounter.  Recommended!   Review by Kate Gaul

Life is a Dream 25A “Life is a Dream” is the best-known play from   playwright Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1634), a Spanish Golden Age writer. It blurs the lines between dreams and reality, destiny and free will. It is a philosophical allegory regarding the human situation and the mystery of life. Rarely staged but those of us from ancient times recall Benedict Andrews/ Beatrix Christian/Justin Kurzel striking production for Sydney Theatre Company (2002). In the original, the play follows the story of Segismundo, a Polish prince who has been locked in a tower since birth. The astrologers predicted that if Segismundo were allowed to roam free he would leave nothing but death and destruction in his wake. His father, King Basilio, heard the prophecy and decided not to take any chances... until now. In this reimagined version by Claudia Osborne and Solomon Thomas the play becomes a palimpsest.  We must imagine Segismundo’s (Ariyan Sharma) entire life confined to a single room. Our only source of entertainment? Grainy ’90s VHS tapes of a family you’ve never met—and Clotaldo (Thomas Campbell), the only man you’ve ever known, who visits once a day (he’s a kind of minder who delivers the daily to-do list). For twenty-two years, this has been your world. Then one day, you’re drugged, dragged to a castle, and told you’re a prince. What to make of this newly minted version? It’s all colloquial language, and looks and feels domestic. First of all, we know the key artists are no slouches – Claudia Osborne is building an impressive portfolio of directing credits ( Burn Witch Burn, Destroy She Said ) and is currently a young Artist with Opera Australia. Solomon Thomas is known for his driving force behind re: group performance collective ( POV, Coil ).  According to the program note, the original pitch was to incarcerate an actor in the 25A space and then we watch via surveillance techniques. Having to settle for something far more traditional, the first part of the production is very much watching a life behind a fourth wall. Segismundo has spent his life imprisoned in his bedroom not knowing he is Prince of Poland. I admit that a combination of preshow sherbets and jetlag afforded me a long blink or two, but I can say with certainty that the veracity, detail and invention of Thomas Campbell and Ariyan Sharma is first rate. It is challenging to gauge in such an intimate theatre. This work is an acting masterclass.   The second part morphs into a family drama guided by live singing of the Saint-Saens operatic aria “Mon cœur s’ouvre à ta voix”. (from a roster of young opera singers). Now we are in the world of a family divided. Resonating themes of confinement, oppression, protection and love are familiar in the family dynamic.  The play asks us to consider the difficulty of seeing through illusion to things as they really are. This version has, thankfully, employed humour and a strong cast fills the stage. Shiv Paleekar (Astilfo) and Ariadne Sgouros (Estrella) are light and funny.  Sgouros is a treat in any production and her beautifully wrought performance here is no exception.  Essie Randles (Rosaura) gives a solid performance in the small role and Mark Lee gives us plenty of power as the patriarch, Basilo – who decides on his 60 th  birthday to release his son into the world. Cris Baldwin's set and costume design, along with Kelsey Lee's lighting and Madeleine Picard's sound design, effectively create the atmosphere for the production. Fireworks are left to the actors. It is always a pleasure to encounter ambitious, thoughtful and intelligent creativity in the theatre. As it might be another 23 years before we see a version of this challenging play, don’t miss your chance to increase your knowledge of theatrical repertoire and the work of young artists on the rise. This is a story vividly portrayed, confidently rendered. Review by Kate Gaul Image: Brett Boardman

Dean, Don’t Dance Old Fitz Theatre   At Old Fitz Theatre, Dean, Don’t Dance!  presents itself as a hybrid of solo musical, autobiographical monologue, and access-led performance experiment. Written and performed by Dean Nash, the work centres on Nash’s experience as an actor with cerebral palsy navigating an industry - and a form - structured around physical conformity. The result is a show that is personable and articulate, if not always theatrically economical. The premise is stated plainly: there are only two kinds of people in the world - disabled people and pre-disabled people. Nash positions himself as simply “ahead of the f#ckin curve,” and frames disability not as anomaly but inevitability. From there, he turns to musical theatre, a form he clearly loves, as the site of an ongoing conflict. Audition rooms, and particularly dance calls, become emblematic of an industry that quietly but consistently reinforces ideas about which bodies belong. Nash’s performance style is conversational and direct. He moves between anecdote, commentary, and song with ease, drawing on stories from auditions, theatre training, and nightlife. Humour does much of the work, often deployed to disarm before more pointed observations about internalised ableism and social expectation emerge. The jokes are generally effective, though the rhythm of the piece can feel predictable, with ideas returning before they have shifted or deepened. The show’s aesthetic is deliberately rough-edged. Original songs are paired with intentionally crude video projected material that underscore the work’s refusal of polish. At times, this serves the material well, aligning form with content. At others, it risks flattening nuance, particularly when visual and musical elements operate primarily as reinforcement rather than expansion of the central argument. Where Dean, Don’t Dance!  is most distinct is in its integration of access into the dramaturgy. Audio description and Auslan interpretation are embedded into the performance rather than appended as separate services. This approach reframes accessibility as a compositional choice, altering how the audience experience and who the work assumes is present in the room. The descriptions are occasionally playful, occasionally literal, but consistently foregrounded as part of the theatrical language. Thematically, Dean, Don’t Dance!  returns repeatedly to the distinction between self-perception and social choreography: how identity is shaped not only by internal desire but by the roles bodies are permitted to play. Musical theatre functions less as satire than as case study, a familiar form used to expose structural assumptions about ability, virtuosity, and visibility. While the piece clearly aims to provoke conversation around ableism, microaggressions, and attitudinal barriers, it is most effective when it resists overt instruction. The show is strongest when it trusts the specificity of Nash’s experience to carry its implications, rather than framing that experience as representative or exemplary. Dean, Don’t Dance!  does not fully resolve the tension between performance, explanation, and advocacy, but it is thoughtful about the questions it raises. At the Old Fitz, it reads as a work still negotiating its form, but one with a clear point of view and a willingness to examine how theatre itself participates in exclusion. It is a show that insists on being seen, not as inspiration or exception, but as part of the broader ecology of contemporary performance. I attended the preview performance. Review by Kate Gaul

Split Ends The Loading Dock   Split Ends is a confessional monologue inspired by the performer’s own journey through OCD, coercive control, and the abuse of power. Split Ends arrives in Sydney with an impressive trail of Fringe acclaim, but in performance proves more self-regarding than its reputation might suggest. Written and performed by Claudia Shnier, the solo work hinges on an extended metaphor: split ends as a marker of damage that replicates even as it is managed. It is a clear and serviceable idea, though one that the production leans on heavily rather than allowing to develop complexity. Shnier performs as herself, narrating an escalating fixation on hair, control, and a romantic relationship with an actual Vacuum. The Vacuum sheds, disappears, reappears, professes love, withdraws it, lies, and sheds again. As allegory for coercive control and emotional dependency, the structure is obvious, if effective. What is less effective is the insistence with which the parallel is reinforced. The show rarely risks understatement. As a performer, Shnier is capable and assured. She commands attention, shifts easily between humour and disclosure, and understands the rhythms of solo performance. Audience engagement is rarely in doubt. However, this assurance also contributes to the work’s principal weakness: a lack of editorial restraint. The piece often feels less shaped than accumulated, as though confidence in the material has displaced the need for selection. This is most evident in the use of video. Projected conversations with Shnier’s alter ego, alongside footage of rehearsals and the work’s own development, contribute little beyond reiteration. Rather than complicating the themes of self-surveillance and control, these sequences slow the pace and flatten the dramatic tension. The audience is shown the process instead of being invited to interrogate its implications. Repetition is central to Split Ends , and physically it is deployed with some success. The repeated acts of cutting, plucking, and vacuuming generate a tangible sense of compulsion. Dramaturgically, however, the repetition becomes blunt. Insights are revisited without being meaningfully advanced, and the accumulation of explanation begins to dilute the impact of what might otherwise be sharper observations. The show is strongest when it resists the urge to clarify itself. In moments where Shnier allows contradiction to stand - where affection and harm coexist without commentary - the work briefly achieves a more resonant ambiguity. These passages suggest a leaner, more disciplined version of the piece that trusts its audience to do some of the work. While Split Ends  addresses significant themes - coercive control, self-regulation, and the endurance of damaging attachments - it does so with a surfeit of material. The critical language that has followed the production tends toward hyperbole. The work is thoughtful and well-intentioned, but not especially rigorous. In the end, Split Edsz would benefit from a more exacting approach to its own metaphor. Like the split ends it invokes, the material continues to divide rather than resolve. A sharper cut might reveal a stronger core. Review by Kate Gaul

WAKE Carriageworks “WAKE” arrived at the Sydney Festival with a thumping soundtrack, international credentials, and an appealing premise: a contemporary reimagining of the Irish wake as a communal ritual of remembrance, release and celebration. Created by Dublin-based collective THISISPOPBABY and staged at Carriageworks, the work promises to collapse the distance between audience and performer, grief and joy, tradition and pop spectacle. The intention is admirable and culturally grounded. Irish wakes are historically social, noisy, irreverent affairs - spaces where storytelling, music and laughter sit comfortably alongside loss. “WAKE” seeks to honour that tradition by assembling a multi-skilled cast of dancers, musicians, aerialists and spoken-word performers in what is framed as a shared gathering rather than a conventional theatrical work. What the audience receives, however, is less a ritual than a revue. “WAKE” positions itself as a high-energy event. After some Irish jigs play as we find our seats, the live music pumps, performers circulate confidently, and the tone is unmistakably upbeat. Individually, the performers are highly skilled. Tap dancers deliver speed and stamina, aerial acts demonstrate impressive physical control, and vocal performances are strong and assured. The band is tight driving the show forward with a concert-like momentum that never really lets up. But momentum is not structure, and enthusiasm is not dramaturgy. As a piece of theatre, “WAKE” lacks focus and cohesion. The 90 minutes unfolds as a loose succession of acts rather than a shaped experience, more akin to a cruise-ship cabaret or a Schools Spectacular / rock eisteddfod than a work with a clear theatrical arc. One number follows another with little sense of escalation, contrast or emotional logic. The wake, as a conceptual frame, is invoked but never meaningfully deepened. The show’s MC and spoken-word segments gesture toward reflection, connection and collective meaning, but these moments feel underpowered against the production’s default setting of maximal energy. Any possibility of stillness, ambiguity or emotional complexity is quickly smothered by the next musical cue. The result is a flattening effect: everything is presented at full volume, leaving no room for resonance. Visually, “WAKE” leans heavily into spectacle. Costuming favours glitter, exposure and boldness, but rarely with discernible purpose beyond provocation. Men in sparkly G-strings do not make a tap-dance routine more compelling; nor does aesthetic excess compensate for a lack of choreographic or thematic clarity. At times, the visual language feels interchangeable with commercial entertainment contexts, undermining the work’s claim to ritual or depth. There is no doubt that “WAKE” is well intentioned. Its inclusive spirit, its celebration of queer joy, physicality and collective experience, and its desire to reclaim mourning as something communal rather than private are all laudable. The performers’ commitment is palpable, and the audience is frequently encouraged - implicitly and explicitly - to join in the celebration. Yet good intentions do not absolve a work from the need for form. Without a stronger curatorial hand, “WAKE” becomes a showcase rather than a statement. It gestures toward meaning without ever quite landing it, substituting volume, sparkle and scale for focus and development. In a festival that regularly presents complex, rigorous international work, “WAKE” ultimately feels undercooked as theatre. Celebration, like grief, gains power through shape, contrast and restraint. Here, the party never quite knows why it’s happening - or when to stop.

Opera for the Dead 祭歌 The Neilson Nutshell Opera for the Dead 祭歌 , (Sydney Festival) created by Mindy Meng Wang and Monica Lim, announces itself not as an opera in the conventional sense, but as an immersive rite - part installation, part concert, part collective act of remembrance. Inspired by Chinese mourning rituals yet deliberately porous in its meanings, the work unfolds as an abstract meditation on grief, ancestry and impermanence, inviting audiences not to follow a story but to enter a state. From the outset, the experience resists fixed vantage points. As we enter plastic mandarins bounce on upside down sound speaker’s innards – the piles of fruit are gradually added to by subtle assistants who later add bells to the mix. Audiences are free to wander through a space in continual metamorphosis: a stage dissolves into a cinema, which in turn becomes a series of shadowed ritual chambers. Ambisonic sound, 3D animation and shifting architectural forms conspire to destabilise orientation, producing a gentle but persistent sense of flux. This is a work less concerned with spectacle for its own sake than with atmosphere -an enveloping field of sound, light and motion that asks for surrender rather than scrutiny. At the heart of the piece is the music, where Wang’s guzheng and Lim’s electronic soundscapes interlace ancient musical forms with contemporary textures. The score breathes with a living tension between the archaic and the emergent, its timbres oscillating between intimacy and vastness. Ritual chants and melodic fragments surface, dissolve and reconstitute themselves within electronic landscapes, creating a sonic environment that feels devotional and is insistently modern. Chief vocalist Yu-Tien Lin delivers a performance of extraordinary presence. Lin navigates the score’s demands with commanding assurance, moving seamlessly between registers, styles and embodied traditions. Their technical virtuosity is undeniable, but it is the performative intelligence that truly astonishes: each vocal shift feels dramaturgically precise, emotionally charged and spiritually grounded. If one can embrace this environment it is this sound that opens a fissure between worlds. Design elements play a crucial supporting role in shaping the work’s affective power. Leonas Panjaitan’s costumes ingeniously repurpose Chinese operatic and mourning garments, lending the performers a ceremonial gravitas. Video design by Nick Roux and lighting by Jenny Hector is all deliciously over the top, absolutley compelling, and contributes to the sense of ritualised excess. What makes Opera for the Dead 祭歌 particularly powerful is its refusal to resolve meaning. This work neither explains nor reconciles tensions between cultures, fractured understandings and lived experience. Instead, it holds life and death in suspension, allowing grief to remain at once private and communal - spiritual, material, eternal and fleeting. This is unmistakably a “festival work”: ambitious, immersive and unapologetically experiential. Yet beneath its technological sophistication lies something profoundly human- a recognition that mourning is not linear, that remembrance is performative, and that ritual can be reinvented without losing its power. Opera for the Dead 祭歌 is not an opera to be watched from a seat, but a space to be entered, traversed and carried with you long after you leave. Review by Kate Gaul

Big Mouth Strikes Again (The Smiths Show) Wharf 1   “ Big Mouth”  is not so much a Sydney theatre show as it is a temporary relocation. For ninety breathless minutes, Salty Brine whisks the audience somewhere electric and a little dangerous - somewhere that feels unmistakably like New York, even as it pulses through a Sydney Theatre Company’s Wharf 1. It’s the kind of performance that reminds you theatre can still feel like a secret you’ve stumbled into - thrilling, intimate, and slightly unhinged in the best possible way. At the heart of the show is Salty Brine, a true original whose presence alone could power the night. From the moment they step onstage dripping in Arctic fur, there is an astonishing sense of momentum. This is not a performer who warms up; they ignite. The energy never dips, never falters, and never feels forced. It is propulsion as performance - joy, fury, camp and vulnerability all moving at once. What makes “Big Mouth”  genuinely gripping is its audacious structure. Brine interweaves personal narrative with Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein”  and the music of The Smiths 1981 album “The Queen is Dead”,  creating a hybrid that could easily collapse under its own cleverness. Instead, it coheres into something strangely inevitable. Mary Shelley’s tale of creation, monstrosity and longing becomes a prism through which Brine refracts their own story, while the songs - so often soaked in melancholic irony - are repurposed as narrative tools rather than nostalgic hits. Crucially, this is not cover-song cabaret. Brine is not interested in reverence. The lyrics are used, reshaped, occasionally tweaked, and recontextualised, with new arrangements that feel emotionally precise rather than showy. Each song advances the story, deepens the stakes, or cracks the audience open a little further. Even familiar lines land with fresh force, as if you’re hearing them not for the first time, but for the first time truthfully. Vocally, Brine is astonishing. They move from spoken word to singing with zero hesitation, as though thought itself simply tips into melody. The voice is elastic and commanding – everything from intimate and confessional to gloriously theatrical. If you had to pin it down (and part of the pleasure is that you can’t), it sits somewhere between Sam Smith’s emotional clarity and Ethel Merman’s unapologetic belt. It’s a voice that refuses to choose between pop vulnerability and old-school bravura and is all the stronger for it. The costume is delightfully mad - bold, excessive, and entirely in dialogue with the show’s themes of self-invention and visibility. Once the fur trimmed cloak is shed, we see a pink and silver lamé pussy bow frock. And later a little black sequined number.  The costumes announce Brine as a creature of their own making, stitched together from influences, obsessions and sheer audacity. Supporting them is a brilliant 4-piece band, tightly responsive and clearly having a ball. What ultimately makes “Big Mouth”  so commanding is Brine’s total ownership of the space. This is a performer who understands how to tell a story with every tool available - body, voice, text, music, silence. Humour, camp excess, and genuine risk. Brine is not hiding behind irony; they are offering something raw, intelligent and deeply felt. For Sydney audiences, “Big Mouth”  is a gift: a reminder that theatre can surprise, seduce and transport us completely. For ninety minutes, you’re not just watching a show - you’re somewhere else entirely, held in the mouth of a singular, fearless artist. by Kate Gaul Image: Harry Elletson

Rothar Sydney Opera House   Child’s play in the very best sense, “Rothar” is an imaginative bicycle adventure from Ireland that proves wonder can be built from simplicity, ingenuity, and trust in young audiences. “Rothar”, by the way, is an Irish (Gaeilge) word that means “bicycle.”   So,in the little bike shop at the end of town, a world of adventure awaits - and from the moment the lights come up, the audience of youngsters is completely engaged. There is instant laughter, the kind that bubbles up when children sense they are in safe hands. “ Rothar”, presented by Branar, is pitched perfectly for its audience: playful without being frantic, imaginative without being overwhelming, and confident enough to let moments unfold at a child’s pace. Miquel and Moisés arrive for work at a modest bicycle repair shop. There is no exposition, or explanation of who they are or where we are. Instead, the story emerges through action. As the two set about their day, the space gently transforms into a workshop of the imagination. Using objects found in the bike shop, the performers begin to create worlds far beyond its walls, inviting the audience to travel with them purely through play. Largely non-verbal, “Rothar”  relies on physical storytelling, visual invention, and an acute understanding of how children read movement and rhythm. The comedy is gentle and generous: a wobble, a misjudged balance, a moment of shared concentration that tips into delight. Giggles, gasps, delighted recognition – and even advice - ripple through the theatre as each new idea reveals itself. The imaginative journeys are conjured with remarkable economy. A sea shore (of paper) appears, its breeze and waves suggested through movement, sound, and light. Soon after, we slip underwater, where the performers’ evocative physicality evokes drama without ever spelling it out. Later, the space becomes a circus tent, wheels spinning into daring feats and familiar mechanics turning into acts of risk and bravado. Each transition feels surprising yet entirely logical within the world of the play. One particularly inspired stroke is the inventive use of a leaf blower and it really pays off. Employed with precision and restraint, it becomes a tool of transformation rather than chaos, creating moments of heightened spectacle that draw audible delight from the audience without tipping into sensory overload. It is emblematic of the production’s overall approach: playful, inventive, and always controlled. Branar’s design is deceptively simple, allowing imagination to do the heavy lifting. The music and lighting are beautifully calibrated for young audiences — evocative and atmospheric but never frightening. There are no sudden shocks or looming darknesses here; instead, the soundscape and lighting shifts guide the emotional journey with reassurance and clarity. This careful attention to tone makes “Rothar” especially welcoming as a first theatre experience, while still holding enough sophistication to engage adults in the room. The relationship between the two performers anchors the fantasy. Their dynamic - cooperative, competitive, affectionate - is instantly legible and deeply human. Without words, we understand their disagreements, their shared triumphs, and the joy they take in making things together. It is this emotional clarity that allows the show to travel so fluidly between imagined worlds without losing its audience. Produced in association with Drama at University of Galway and Baboró International Arts Festival for Children as part of the Creative Europe Mapping Project , "Rothar"  arrives in Sydney with strong international credentials. Supported by Sydney Festival and Culture Ireland, it is polished and wonderfully intimate. “Rothar”  is a celebration of imagination, collaboration, and the sheer pleasure of play. Come on a bicycle ride through the imagination - and rediscover how thrilling it can be to see the world anew. Review by Kate Gaul Image: Supplied