Writing

Theatre Reviews

Read my reviews and interviews for ‘Australian Stage’:

Brahms & Shostakovich: Gala: WASO

Hare Brain; Spare Parts Puppet Theatre

Taking Liberty: Ingle Knight

Presence: So Frenchy Productions

Interview with Robert Reid, Melbourne playwright: Portraits of Modern Evil

The Girls Stand Up: featuring Claire Hooper at The Comedy Lounge

The Mercy Seat, Neil LaBute

Far Away: Caryl Churchill, Black Swan Theatre Co

Alfred Hitchcock’s The Lodger

Quest: a Tell-Tale of the Heart: X-RoaDS COLlectIVE (Warren Herbu)

Big Purple Undies, Lou Kelman

WASO at the Movies, conducted by Brett Kelly

Interview with Chris Kabay, Artistic Director of Yellow Glass Theatre

Dance a la Carte, a triple bill of contemporary dance

The Pitch, Peter Houghton

Speed-The-Plow, David Mamet

Baby Boomer Blues, Alan Becher

The Return, Reg Cribb

Threeway, Belinda Dunbar

Books

Beat

Beat is about beats of time and what they mean: the beat of a heart; knowing someone for a brief moment and the impact this can have on your life; how short each life here can be. It explores the nature of relationships - with our parents, our spouse, our selves, our spirit. Beat is about a mother who holds on too tight and the consequences of that. It’s about a man who is forced to face the truth of his life and the vastness of his spirit. Beat is a love story. And it’s about a woman who is forced to confront her ego and uncovers her compassion.

Excerpt from Chapter Two

The force that split Claire Rossetti’s forehead open and obliterated her jaw was a man and he was lying crumpled and twisted half on her lap and half on the gear shaft, an arm flung casually across Adam as if they were old friends. The man was wearing a motorbike helmet painted orange and black. Adam’s head was resting on the window at a gentle angle as if he was deep in thought. Ahead was commotion. In the car with the new car smell of leather and polish a quiet calm was broken by an odd assortment of sounds that began to form a sort of curious harmony. Small, thick chunks of glass from the windscreen were falling everywhere, like spiked rain; over the mangled dash; from the body of the motorcyclist; from Adam’s mother’s head and shoulders; from the back seat and the roof, tinkling. There was a creaking sound, metallic and dull, as if the car itself was shaking out the glass and counting the broken bones - and there was a sonorous rasping sound that floated under all of this - an escaping of air through a hole that wasn’t there before and shouldn’t be there now. Soon the harmony faded away leaving one lone line of melody to carry on on its own; the rasping of air through a hole that shouldn’t be there; a body wrecked; requiem of a modern age.

Does My Vagina Look Fat In This? is for anyone who’s ever joined a gym and felt ridiculous, stood next to a model and felt suicidal, looked in the mirror and hated what they saw, opened a fashion magazine, turned on the TV, read the paper, went to the office, or just opened their eyes in the 21st century and felt like they just weren’t up to scratch and needed to laugh, cry, and do something about it.

Imagine, just imagine if it were considered desirable to have a fat soul housed in a fat body; Buddha would be the new Depp and half of Hollywood would be outcasts. This book is a guide - well sort of a guide - on how to eat, exercise, feed your spirit, and care for your soul in the 21st century. The Age of Aquarius is upon us, with all of its resplendent promises, such as the rebirth of feminine energy. This book takes a tongue-in-cheek look at the old Piscean, patriarchal energy and asks, nay, encourages the reader to take a leap of faith and jump into this new Age; to jump into their own truths and to grab hold of whoever’s next to them and take them too. It is a cross-generational, New Age, old-school, ultimate diet and health tool for faint-hearted feminists, frustrated fatalists, and anyone who’s ever dared to look at the most intimate parts of themselves. Hold onto your knickers!

Excerpt from Chapter Three: Nature Show

When I am alone I am not aware of my race or my sex, both in need of social contexts for definition. Maxine Hong Kingston

The door opened and in walked what could only be yet another model. She was at least five foot ten, about 40 kilos, had lips bigger than a camel’s labia, looked about as sharp as a wooden spoon, and was approximately twelve-years-old. Sandro and Leo made an attempt to appear casually disinterested in the ensuing stampede to get to her first. Leo won. Of course. He put a chiseled arm around her protectively (as if there was any real competition) and led her into the empty gym like a lamb to the slaughter. “Caitlin, this is my mate, Sandro.”
Sandro took her elongated fingers in his gristly, hairy ones and kissed her hand, “A pleasure to meet you, my dear.”
“Caitlin here is in the Miss Australia contest, aren’t you, love? Our Nadine is going to give her a hand.” Leo flicked his perfectly groomed noggin in the direction of my office. It was news to me. What was I supposed to do with her? Train her fat lips? Caitlin giggled and looked at Leo’s pecs through his sweat-stained shirt. It was a wonder those lips could hold in all the drool that must be accumulating. How did he meet these girls anyway?
“I’m good mates with Caitlin’s old man, aren’t I love?”
That answered that question.
“You want to meet Nadine?” Leo asked her, as if it was all about when she was available. Don’t mind me, Leo, I just work here.
“Nadine! You free?”
No.
“Coming!” I called out.

The introductions were made. I came up to her left tit. Sandro didn’t even say goodbye to me, let alone look at my arse on his way out. Then I was alone with her. Just me and the camel. Did I mention that I came up to her left tit? She sat in my office, in the truth room, and I wondered what the hell I could do for this child. I wanted to fatten her up. I wanted to tell her to get out while she still could. I wanted to put an arm around her and protect her from this cruel, sexist world. I wanted to rip those pouting lips from her perfect face and shove them up that altitudinous arse.

“So, Caitlin,” I asked, “when’s the contest?”
“In six weeks.”
I’d like to say that she had the voice of a four-year-old on helium, but it was sweet and lilting and made me hate her just that teensy bit more.
“What do you think you need to do for it in terms of your physique?”
“Huh?”
Deliverance! I tried again, “Which bits are fat, sweetie?”
“Oh!” Giggles. “My bum and thighs need to be really skinny, for the bikini part.”
The bikini part, of course, silly me.
“Ok, but how about we say toned, rather than skinny? Your bum and legs look perfect to me, Caitlin.”
“Oh, no, they’re not, look!”
Before I knew it she’d pulled her skintight sweats off and was standing ten centimeters away from me in the tiniest pink g-string I’d ever seen. Those lips were certainly not camel sized. She spun. Her bum looked like a stack-hat. Only harder. I was overwhelmed with the desire to poke it and then set it on fire so I’d never have to see it again.
“See!” She said, pulling her pants up.
Despite my malevolence I felt concerned. “Sweetie, you’re perfect. You don’t need to lose any weight at all, even as a model. I think you might actually be the most perfect-looking creature I’ve ever seen.”
She sighed sweetly, “I know.”
Malevolence levels rising, hackles bristling, concern fading. “Get up. Let’s start. There’s only so much you can humanly expect to do in six weeks, so you’ll have to work quite hard. And don’t expect miracles, okay?”
I put her straight on the 45-degree leg press and loaded up the weights. I didn’t give her time to talk or ask questions. Not my usual practice.
“This is a leg press, it’s one of the best exercises for toning your bum and legs.”
She pushed up on my count and the surprised look on her exquisite face was priceless, even if it did make me feel a little guilty.
“This is very heavy, Nadine.”
“Pooh! Its only twenty kilos, my grandmother can do that, now give me fifteen!”
We pushed on, through the leg press, four sets of lunges, three sets of squats, leg extensions, leg curls, ball curls, ball squats, leg lifts.
“How many sessions did you buy Caitlin?” I asked, in the middle of one grueling set of lunges.
“Oh, I don’t know, Leo said not to worry about paying as I’m a model and everything, he just said to do as many as I need.”
“I see, okay, we’re nearly finished, just five hundred and seventy-six more squats and we’re done.”

Later, just after Caitlin had dragged herself on her stomach across the gym floor by her hands and out the front door, tears staining her china-doll face, with me yelling “No pain, no gain sweetie!” after her, Leo walked into my office.
“Where’s Caitlin?”
“We’ve finished for today, she just left.”
“How did she go? Did she enjoy it?”
“Yeah, she loved it, walk in the park.”
“She’s got a chance at it, I reckon. Gorgeous, isn’t she? I wouldn’t mind sticking it to that one, let me tell you.”