To Dad With Love

A Tribute to a Beloved Father

Exhibition review: Bill Henson

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Some 10 years ago, Australian photographer Bill Henson was the subject of rolling controversy, with opprobrium upon him cast from household kitchens to houses of Parliament. His use of young pubescent models in attitudes that insinuate sexual imaginings, while accepted as artistic prerogative within the confines of a gallery, met with public outcry when the picture of an almost-naked girl made its way outside the esoteric space on invitation cards.

His latest exhibition features large-scale photographs that examine the themes of nudes and portraits, their relationship with museum exhibits, a fascinating interplay with lush, meditative landscapes braided through it.

Rich and sensuous and graceful the images exude atmosphere in a room so pitch it is as if you’ve been granted privileged access to the artist’s darkroom. When your eyes have adjusted to the low illumination, you begin to begin to notice just how smooth-tender flesh approaches in shade and light to the likeness of fine marble, of which sculptures captured in works selected for display here are made.

A boy leaning forward to pull a thorn from his foot resting on one knee bears uncanny resemblance to the structure of the stone Spinario in a photograph a few photographs along the wall.

By photographing the juxtaposition of great, ancient art inside famous halls with visitors inspecting them, Henson opens up a conversation about whether one may indeed become art through the simple act of observing.boy

In the same way the landscapes on show are studies of twilight — the in-between moments that straddle days — figures in the portraits are in that delicate phase of woman-child or child-man in which they look nearly androgynous. Invariably self-absorbed, preoccupied with internal reveries, heads averted or bowed, limbs hanging, other times strained, young sitters startle with their precocious expressions wedged into the gap between delirium and discomfort, the transitory spell from resistance to surrender.

Bill Henson is not a narrative; it is a mood poem dwelling on an elusive, momentary condition, and a dialogue that explores imagination in all its (im)possibilities.

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Exhibition review: William Eggleston Portraits

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A photographer for more than 50 years William Eggleston is revered as one of the most important artists of the 20th-century in his field.

This, though, has not always been the case. Showcasing the use of colour at a time when black and white alone were considered the stuff of which fine arts was made, Eggleston’s 1976 exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York drew some of the vilest reviews. More than that, critiques of the American’s devotion to the mundane, the everyday were swift and merciless. Blatant absence of any attempt on his part to entice the viewer only became fodder for more criticism.

Now, for the first time, over the next few months, at the National Gallery of Victoria (NGV), we get to experience the Southerner through his portraits, captured mostly during the 1960s and 70s in or around Memphis, Tennessee where he was born.

While the works have obvious contrapuntal rhythms — between colour and black-and-white, between studies of strangers and non-strangers, subjects’ unawareness and awareness — there is a felt sense of drama in every image, lurking inside postures or clothes, within eyes or shadows, however banal on the surface they seem.

In a grainy picture of Eggleston’s mother, for instance, shot with a miniature spy-camera on police-surveillance film, she is caught leaning forward with outstretched legs on bed, wearing life in her nightie, fatigue etched upon the languor. Flaunting bright, bold colours of blue and yellow, all the same, another frame shows an immaculate woman sitting by an empty road, staring straight at the lens, the thick, iron chain wound round a vertical support nearby echoing her austere primness.william eggleston mother

The presentation at the NGV is lush, fetching, and elegant, giving the exhibits room to breathe. It is the inclusion of inscriptions for some displays, and none for others, nevertheless, that build intrigue.

We learn, for example, that Eggleston’s dentist-friend standing nude in his violent bedroom, between crimson walls (perhaps a harbinger for what was to come) that were splattered with graffiti, was later murdered and his body burnt in that house. One cannot help when we afterwards come upon a picture, unaccompanied by any message, but to wonder then about the narrative behind the coiffure and the angular cigarettes, and to muse on willaim eggleston cigarettesthe possible facial expressions and dynamic concealed from inspection.

For all the controversy about his rebellion against convention around colour Eggleston’s talent with light and precision are in fact what distinguishes him. In the famous Untitled c.1975 his one-time regular model Marcia Hare lies on the ground, the lower-half of her floral dress and grass deliberately off-focus to create a dream-like milieu, sharpness gradually progressing up her body until the arm (with a camera) and her head come into stark clarity, an air of abandonment sprawled across her lids and face, above a line of ruby-red buttons running down her chest, like jelly-beans.

As much as an examination of the sitter, a photograph is no less a mirror held up to the artist. The emotional detachment with which Eggleston regards people on the other side of his aperture is most potent where a former girlfriend will forever be remembered for having openly wept.

Part of the Festival of Photography, William Eggleston Portraits is publicised as a social snapshot of  “a time, place, and way of life”. This is true insofar as what can be derived from a telling work in which Eggleston’s uncle is seen standing beside his car, hand in pocket, gazing into the distance, his butler a few meaningful steps behind him, striking the exact same pose. Yet, another encounter — a young man, presumably a supermarket clerk, arrested in profile, pushing a trundle of trolleys, his resolve cast as silhouette on a wall — is not as unfamiliar; after all, some themes (like emotions, like the human condition) are enduring and universal.William Eggleston supermarket clerk

Still, Eggleston does not consider himself a documentarian. Rather, he has said, his interest resides in “democracy”: not one perspective is less or more important than another.

Film review: Moonlight

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In an indelible scene near the opening of Barry Jenkins’ Moonlight nine-year-old Chiron (Alex Hibbert) picks up a broken piece of glass on the floor of a derelict building where he is hiding from a group of bullying boys. As he holds the blood-stained fragment between his fingers, with looming consequences, Juan (Mahershala Ali), a local crack-dealer, who has seen then followed the predatory chase, bursts into the room through a boarded-up window.

Like sunshine upon the dark, lonely corner in which the child has been crouching, Juan coaxes him out with good humour and seeming kindness. Only, we don’t see the drug-boss try to pimp the vulnerable figure, whose wary eyes explain why he does not utter a word; instead, with his girlfriend, Teresa (Janelle Monae), through food and gentle-naturedness, Juan cajoles the boy to finally say his name and take him home.

The way tenderness is shone into a reality of violence and isolation says much about Moonlight, Jenkins’ second feature, based on an unpublished, semi-autobiographical account by Tarell Alvin McCraney.

Segregated into three sections — Little, Chiron, Black — to reflect the nicknames given to the central character, the story follows a young African-American grappling with his identity and his sexuality while growing up in Miami, Florida.

And the protagonist is powerfully embodied by Hibbert, by Ashton Sanders, and Trevante Rhodes for each of the respective stage of his life: an adolescent, then a teenager, and an adult in his early 30s.

Moonlight sustains an exquisite balance between the horror and humanity existing in society’s underbelly. The actors wear their roles in superb performances devoid of exaggeration and stereotyping. Like no other film on black, gay America I can recall, it conveys with empathy the anguish suffered because of one’s nature, and the intense fragility of myriad bonds with nuance and discretion.

After their first encounter, Juan, despite hostility from Chiron’s single mother (Naomi Harris) — ironically hooked on cocaine he supplies — keeps up the relationship with the child. Learning to float and to swim in the ocean turns out to be, in effect, a lesson for Chiron from his mentor not only on how to survive in the unpredictable world, but also, more interestingly, to let go and be whom he is amid buffeting waves.

Tormented in school for being ‘soft’, and at home by a parent who resents his presence for getting in the way of her life, Chiron, now 16, in not wanting to bring trouble on the ever-generous Teresa (Juan, unseen, presumed dead) retreats deeper into his misery.

In one of the movie’s sexual sequences, remarkable in its subtlety and taste, filled with longing and reticence and apologies, the lanky introvert discovers his first physical awakening on the beach one night with Kevin (Jharrel Jerome), a childhood friend, who by calling him Black persuades Chiron to accept himself as he is, in a single frame that feels at once liberating and poignant. The sense of deep understanding and sharing is written in the air between their fingers lingering before they part.

Meeting up again after many years, having taken radically different paths, Kevin (played eventually by Andre Holland) is astounded at the gold-plated teeth and rippling muscles and smell of unclean money on the boy he thought he knew well, and Chiron, too, is surprised (if disappointed) at the person he’s all this time tucked away in a special place in his heart.

Yet behind all the awkwardness and ambivalence and artificial fronts, the feelings and magic prove to be very much alive.

“In moonlight black boys look blue,” says a young Kevin (Jaden Piner) early on in this Oscar winner that perceives the raw emotions brought out among blacks (as they do whites and browns and caramels) when no one is watching — although not before sunshine comes and warms up that dark, derelict corner.

Film review: Manchester by the Sea

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Arresting in its stillness, washed either in the liquid colours of sail and sky or in brooding winter greyness, Manchester by the Sea feels in many places like a gallery of photography exhibits. There is not a stir in the clouds nor movement in the waters. Boats moored at the dock appear as if they’ve been nailed to the air.

Set in the Massachusetts town where its small community is as intimate as the anchored skiffs, this poignant story follows Lee Chandler (Casey Affleck), a handyman, who while eking out an existence in Quincy, Boston returns home on the sudden death of his brother (Kyle Chandler), to find himself entrusted with the care of a 16-year-old nephew, Patrick (Lucas Hedges).

Imposed with this unexpected responsibility, Lee is drawn back to confront his own past, in which an excruciating  incident had created the very demons he has been wrestling with inside him ever since.

With grace and control Director Kenneth Lonergan tells in this, his third, feature an unseen emotional narrative, by interspersing flashbacks with present-day realities.

Like his basement apartment looking out on passing feet with three tile-sized windows Lee views the world through the prism of his ineradicable mistake. Affleck, hunched and stone-faced gives his character an inscrutable aloofness — uninterested in women, nor in life — that cracks on occasion into fistfuls of unjustified violence. With a convincing portrayal of somebody clearly intent on coping with new circumstances while all the time defeated in his personal battle, the BAFTA nominee wins hearts by droves.

Hedges, by the same token, wears his part with jaunty talent. Essentially still a child on the cusp of adulthood, Patrick astonishes with his worldly cynicism, is precocious, yet vulnerable. His best times with his uncle are spent fishing on his late father’s boat. When he silently smiles while holding the girlfriend with whom he has just made love after a day sailing in the sea, one wonders about the source of his satisfaction.

And aptly in Lonergan’s creation, men are not the only ones who struggle in their private lives. Here, everybody is flawed and women are just as incapable in their efforts at communication and managing their feelings.

As Lee’s former wife, Randi — a role curiously marginalised — Michelle Williams in grappling with grief and remorse delivers in a performance that is beyond reproach.

With Albinoni’s Adagio weaving through a sparkling screenplay the writing alludes more than once to the way that life, for all it throws at us, brings with it choices as well.

Manchester by the Sea is a film about the true grind of real living where subsequent to turbulent events people often find themselves caught up in an inner swell that rages wildly beneath a quiet surface.

Film review: Jackie

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In a poem Elizabeth Bishop says: the art of losing isn’t hard to master. But it seems the art of making a masterwork on loss may be harder than that. The mystery surrounding Jacqueline Kennedy, particularly her experience immediately following the assassination of her husband, whose broken head she cradled in her lap, has fascinated many for many years.

Here, director Pablo Larrain tells her story with his characteristic blend of melodrama and flourish. Jackie is unflinching, grave, empathetic, even if it anchors itself on a few known facts, and fills in the blanks with brazen imagination.

The American icon, famous for her couture and style, is played by Natalie Portman. It is in Hyannisport, Massachusetts  one week after the tragedy when we first meet her. She receives a journalist, Theodore White (Billy Crudup), through whom she is determined to define The Kennedy Legacy which others have begun to desecrate.

Time spools backward and we encounter her in the recognisable deep-pink suit, with black lapels, elegant beside President Kennedy greeting crowds in Dallas, Texas on the fateful day.

And, as the interview touches on the broadcast tour the First Lady conducted on national television, there is grainy footage of Jackie padding across the White House chambers inducting the country on refurbishments completed under her auspices.

As in his portrayal of poet Pablo Neruda in another biopic, Larrain’s approach is unpredictable: the plot is non-chronological but moves forth and back and farther back and forth into a heady, swirling whole.

Accompanied by the lustrous ache of Mica Levi’s music, scenes are shot in 16mm, and backdrops are wan, as if colours themselves have been washed away by shock. Jackie, however, is consistently cast as a bold, definitive presence, Portman’s lithe physique marking her in red or lime or black, like ink-stamp on onion-paper.

In an affecting sequence, at the end of her long journey alongside the casket back to Washington D.C., that offers a glimpse into Jackie’s rare moments of solitude, her husband’s blood runs off her hair under the shower down her naked back. The dramatisation is at once violent and calm.

Amid the confusion and trauma she is confronted by the harsh reality of having to vacate the premises without delay to make way for the new President.

With astuteness Larrain works in the solace from a handful of loyal supporters, not least Bobby Kennedy (Peter Sarsgaard) and confidante Nancy (Greta Gerwig).

Yet, the Chilean filmmaker and his screenwriter Noah Oppenheim might have on occasion allowed their artistic licence to stray beyond the bounds of propriety: often one is led to muse upon whether the First Widow is grieving for the death of a spouse or of a lifestyle.

During a conversation her screen-depiction has with the priest (John Hurt, outstanding), Jackie reflects on whether her insistence on a grand funeral is in fact for her own vanity.

Jackie is, nevertheless, a worthy addition to movies of the genre for, if nothing else, Portman’s performance is sterling. Her Jackie is beautiful and brittle, volatile and vulnerable, a double portrait of a woman holding with both hands an illustrious name as she did the name’s ruptured skull. Only, despite her wish for the presidency to be remembered by Camelot — that ‘one brief, shining moment’ — nobody ought to second-guess the character behind the conundrum.

 

Film review: La La Land

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From the very first shot Damien Chazelle’s La La Land articulates through symbol after meaningful symbol: in a gridlock on the freeway to Los Angeles motorists get out of their cars and burst into a song-and-dance spectacle, creating magic in the traffic-jam of life, enroute to their dreams. We shall return to these same roads towards the end of the film, but the characters would come to decide on a detour; and much unfolds, meanwhile, in the snarl-ups within their stories to keep us riveted.

Separated into four inseparable sections, or weather seasons, to reflect the various states of a romantic affair, the tale details the fated encounter between an aspiring actress, Mia (Emma Stone) and Sebastian (Ryan Gosling), a traditions-driven jazz pianist.

After an abrasive first meeting, as his classic convertible swerves past her Prius, the pair falls inexorably in love. Sebastian, now no longer a single man, signs up with a modern band (led by John Legend), despite reservations about their musical style, to fulfill what he believes to be Mia’s conventional expectations of him.

In this time, following repeated-failed casting auditions, Mia herself prepares to stage and perform in a one-person play she has written under Sebastian’s encouragement, that would turn out to be an unnerving experience leading to unforeseen circumstances.

The acting is beautiful in this second feature by Chazelle who shot to acclaim with Whiplash. The chemistry between Stone and Gosling is mystical in a wise, grownup, clear-eyed way.

In one scene, at the planetarium, Mia and Sebastian launch into a magnificent dance routine, suspended on air against a cosmic backdrop, revealing how they feel.

Stone, who has co-starred with Gosling on previous sets, uses her expressive eyes to surreal effect — when not conveying energy and wit then welling up with disappointments or disbelief — while Gosling cuts a deep and nuanced, soulful figure, one prepared to make sacrifices for the woman he loves. The atmosphere is steeped in maturity by way of suffering.

Justin Hurwitz’s original score (the theme track, in particular) is stirring, like the best kind of stillness, in which hidden emotions are brought to vivid life.

There have been criticisms of tremors in Stone’s singing voice and Gosling’s steps . But, to me, they only add to the movie’s ingenuous charm.

Of good, pure, unblemished jazz, Sebastian emphatically pronounces, “This is the dream, it’s conflict, and it’s compromise; it’s very, very exciting.” And that, in essence, sums up what this Golden Globe winner has to say about art and love, sums up what it has to say, really, about living, with its many detours and traffic-jams.

Film review: Nocturnal Animals

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Toggling between the breathtaking high-ceiling-and-glass architecture in Los Angeles and the dry, dusty Texan brushland Nocturnal Animals places art and life on a collision course, freighted with retaliation and regret.

It is the explicit imagery sparked on impact, however, that suffocates of nuance and enticing ambiguity this feature by Tom Ford.

Susan (Amy Adams), an accomplished gallery owner, receives the manuscript of a novel, entitled Nocturnal Animals, from her former spouse, Edward (Jake Gyllenhaal). With her current husband (Armie Hammer) on another alleged business trip, she starts to read the book.

Dramatising the written narrative Ford introduces us to Tony (also played by Gyllenhaal), a family man taking his wife (Isla Fisher) and daughter (Ellie Bamber) on a road-trip to Marfa, Texas.

As night falls the travellers find themselves accosted by a group of brutish young men who take away the women. Tony is abandoned among the white windswept grass and country ruin.

While she follows Tony in the quest to avenge his loss, Susan begins gradually to cast Edward as the protagonist, and herself and their (hers and Edward’s) never-born baby the wife and child forced from Tony — a reasonable premise given the way readers tend to people characters in fiction.

Intuitively photographed by Seamus McGarvey, who brings equal care to contrast the raw humanity in the printed tale and reality’s myriad absurdities, Tony goes on to reveal a strength he doubted he had, and within the sub-text Edward, too, demonstrates a resilience he was made to feel he did not have.

The film, adapted from Tony and Susan, a publication by Austin Wright, effects with deftness the journey after love is lost down the path of anguish. There is no distinction here from bereavement by death.

Long and lugubrious Nocturnal Animals, nevertheless, spells out its themes too extravagantly, that complex enigma essential for good cinema struggles for air. In one scene, as Susan stares up at a massive work of painting made up only of an arrangement of the letters R-E-V-E-N-G-E, you feel in one spectacular let-down to be watching a school drama.

Fortunately, Ford leaves the biggest conundrum unresolved. I like to think he acknowledges there is no clear answer whether vengeance is really the face of toughness, or a mask to hide weakness.

Film review: Doctor Strange

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A confounding study of supernatural powers and epic heroes, Doctor Strange explores, between scenes of the good fighting the bad, an abstract reasoning of time and a transcendental interpretation of life’s purpose.

Stephen Strange (Benedict Cumberbatch) is a neurosurgeon, brilliant, wealthy, arrogant. He is condescending towards colleagues, and holds but a vague flame for girlfriend Christine Palmer (Rachel McAdams), despite her devotion.

All he has accomplished is at once lost, however, when Strange meets with a tragic accident that leaves his hands wasted. After exhausting every scientific option to restore his physical disability, the shadow of the man journeys to Nepal where he ends up under the tutelage  of The Ancient One (Tilda Swinton), an unageing spiritual guide or cult leader or sorceress, who has apparently healed those incapable of being medically healed.

Only, Strange, having swapped surgical scrubs for long-flowing monastic robes, finds himself in confrontation with an erstwhile disciple of his newfound teacher, a disciple turned renegade, Kaecilius (Mads Mikkelson), who seeks to destroy the world.

It is a quirky tale, one that affirms the need to surrender to the current of an unseen energy to acquire mythical powers, one that depicts time in whose advance we age and die as the real enemy of the human race, that offers an enlightened (if romantic) meaning of existence.

In one sequence the astral being of The Ancient One tells Strange, her body languishing on the operating table, “It’s not about you” — suggesting one ought to live for others.

Throughout the film, director Scott Derrickson deploys a deft understanding of visual atmospherics: as Kaecilius — in working for the Dark Source to, in his words, defeat time — sets out to inflict carnage upon cities, skyscrapers and bridges and trees fold into the ground as paper does in origami; roads tear apart like old cloth by shears, beneath which rubble is regurgitated, as warriors traverse archways and mount stairs floating on air.

While this is impressive the inordinate attention on special effects hobbles the drama somewhat. We spend much of the 115-minute run watching the sophisticated battle between honour and malice, and this reduces the chance to develop more involvement in Strange’s character transformation or, indeed, metaphysical aspects of the story. The movie becomes little more than a venue to play out our childhood fantasies.

Fortunately, the portrayal of the Guru as less than a paragon of virtue adds a welcome layer of moral complexity to this action-toting adventure.

And a stellar cast handles the rolling masonry and defeated evils remarkably.

Ultimately, Doctor Strange is arresting and bullish and funny, albeit way too spectacular.

Film review: The Girl on the Train

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Inside The Girl on the Train, a taut psychological thriller involving homicide and alcoholism, is an excruciating drama in which the lives of three women are strung together in a singular experience, their desires and memories and hopes interwoven into a tapestry of indignation and strength.

Much of the precision is etched on the eloquent face of Emily Blunt who plays Rachel, 30-something, unable to control her drinking, and struggling, when we meet her, with a marital break-up.

Despite having lost her job, Rachel commutes each day to the city on a train that passes by a leafy suburb. Every day she rides on that train; and every day she finds herself observing a woman on a balcony facing the railway track. Together with the man of the house, they represent to Rachel “the embodiment of true love”.

Thing is, Rachel used to live two blocks away in a property where her ex-husband, Tom (Justin Theroux), is now raising a family with his new wife, Anna (Rebecca Ferguson).

Bruised still by the betrayal she suffered, Rachel is not only bitter but painfully self-righteous about conjugal fidelity. So, when she spies the object of her daily fixation kissing another lover on the porch, the inebriated loner decides to take it upon herself to right a potential wrong.

The next day a female resident of the area — Rachel learns that her name is Megan (Haley Bennett) — is reported to be missing. And soon, Megan’s half-decomposed body is found buried in the woods.

Based on a wildly popular novel by Paula Hawkins the film moves back and forth through different time-frames (six months ago, today, last Friday, one week ago, etc.) and dwells by turns upon the various perspectives of our three heroines.

Waking from a black-out with a bloodied temple in her bathroom, Rachel is nearly oblivious to what had transpired. She introduces herself to Megan’s husband, Scott (Luke Evans), with whom attempts are made to incriminate the paramour, Dr Kamal Abdic (Edgar Ramirez), Megan’s psychotherapist — and her newest passion, or distraction. Meanwhile, living under a pall of unsolved crime, all the time trying to protect herself and her baby from what she perceives as constant harassment by Rachel, Anna becomes suspicious of Tom’s efforts to defend his former wife.

In a performance luminous against the complex web of suspense and intrigue, Blunt lets Rachel’s bewilderment and emptiness echo out of hollow eyes ringed in shadows of smudged mascara. Her wan complexion and crusty lips locate the self-doubt that grips one’s consciousness in the aftermath of a booze-infused episode.

Towards the end of the film, from Erin Cressida Wilson’s screenplay, directed by Tate Taylor, we are reminded of the ease with which manipulation could make its way through the sodden flesh of vulnerability.

But above all, The Girl on the Train, gives voice arguably to the often-unheard and presents it in the threads of a gauzy and radiant cinematic fabric.

“I am not the girl I used to be, ” thinks Rachel to herself at the movie’s close, and that same line has a significantly different meaning from when it was voiced-over at the picture’s start.

 

Theatre review: Parley!

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The meaning of the title is as ambiguous as its utterers’ anonymity. In Parley! Ant and Pea are lost at sea on a boat with a broken compass and no food. As hopes for a future fade in the salt-water air of desolation the duo annoy each other with failed attempts at getting along. Recrimination develops and, despite the proximity, there appears to be room for secrets that, even on unravelling, are desperately held through evasions.

Painful silences alternate with snatches of conciliation and delicate farce. Pea and Ant’s yearning and boredom and despair become increasingly more intense as mind and physical games play themselves out.

Harley Hefford’s staging of the piece by Elena Larkin and Rachael Basselink distils the superficial quality of the characters’ interactions by delineating outside and inner selves through the introduction of puppets fashioned in their likeness.

There are no doubt strong elements of Beckett’s Endgame and Waiting for Godot: clever paradoxes in deceptively imbecilic lines, chronic contemplation of death, slow burn of an excruciating relationship. We see the way in which wallowing in their own claustrophobia one can begin to lose memory and knowledge of the world around them.

Larkin and Basselink make a superb cast. Basselink’s Pea, while finding herself trapped in their predicament, insists on being dour in a state of limbo, refusing Ant’s overtures of intimacy, at the same time avoiding the reality of their fate. Larkin’s Ant, on the contrary, is more courageous and proactive, but for all her pragmatism she quickly reveals herself to be equally apprehensive.

With Georgia Symon’s dramaturgy, a surrealistic scene, where Pea and Ant in thrall to the vastness of the water and sound and weather, seemingly absorbed in a sense of wild bewilderment, is especially striking.

I have always observed one of the most delicious sounds in theatre to be silence among the audience. There are several instances in this hour-long production, however, when the stage is totally quiet while laughter rings out from those watching — at apparent absurdities.

Thing is, the play skewers us exquisitely; we are the real butt of the jokes: for, too often, we do not realise the inane things we engage in for a futile purpose.

Ultimately, this is an intelligent, poetic work that will prove timeless. Whatever the meaning of Parley! in this context it has the significance of every weighty word we know, like commitment, like separation.

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