Left - Nicholas Bakopoulos-Cooke & Matthew Newton. Cover -Greg Stone, Linda Cropper, Nicholas Bakopoulos-Cooke, Matthew Newton & Sara Gleeson. Photos -Tracey Schramm
Let's call a spade a shovel. This isn't a 'play with songs', it's a musical. After all, at least in terms of the end result, done well, what's the diff? Of course, taking a seemingly disparate sadbag of songs and melding them, thematically, into this fine form would've been much more difficult were it not for two glaring realities. Firstly, the canon of songs of Tim Finn, upon which Poor Boy draws and (from one) borrows its name, are such a cypher for the soul of the writer they can hardly help but bear some cohesive songlines. Secondly, Matt Cameron is such a fine playwright; a true craftsman. There is poetry, lyricism, melody, cadence and subterranean meaning in the work of both, which makes them natural, easy bedfellows. Overwhelmingly, the semblance of narrative plays second fiddle to bigger ideas, feelings and observations. It's painterly: big, broad splashes of colour, redolent of universal struggles.
Two households, both alike, in indignity: the families Glass and Prior. Even here, there is art and a wry tonality: Miles Prior, younger brother of the deceased central character, Danny, is so-named, no doubt, as he's weighted-down by the past, which keeps him fixed, like an anchor, knotted 'round his neck. There is, indeed, much reference to the maritime and many metaphors involving knots and ties that bind. The Glasses (if I may) have a son, Jem (Jeremy, played, alternately, by STC novice, Jed Rosenberg, as on this occasion, and Nic Bakopoulos-Cooke), a strange, aloof boy, prone to fainting and feint connections with the here-and-now. He senses the presence of another, trapped inside the old mantle radio, with its eery resemblance to a tombstone. This begins, of course, to trouble his already tormented, conflicted mother, Viv (Linda Cropper), who comes to recognise some reality to the boy's duality. it's less trouble for her, perhaps, as she already lives in the black-and-white past; the shadow of her fading youth and beauty. Not so his father, Sol (Greg Stone), obsessed and consumed by the vast blankness of the ocean; yearning, it seems to be swallowed by its unrelenting power and authority, rather than the malevolence of the facts of his life. Their daughter, Sadie (Sara Gleeson), in turn, is rendered invisible by her parents' telescopic, one-eyed focus on their second-born.
The Priors comprise the ghostly Danny (Matthew Newton), inseparable from his corporeal 'mentor', Jem. He, of course, is fully-grown; in more than the chronological sense, and must instruct the living on how to conduct and survive the persistent agonies of their lives. His still doting, god-bothering mother, Ruth (Sarah Peirse), has nothing to cling to her but her faith, which pertains to things much less tangible still than God. Miles (Matt Dyktynski) has never come to terms with his brother's demise, not least in having been rendered as invisible as Sadie, which leads them to an awkward, desperate conjugation, albeit one riddled with much less guilt than that which has arisen between he and Clare (Abi Tucker), Danny's grief-stricken, time-locked widow.
This is where we lay our scene. And if it all sounds rather bleak, tawdry and depressing, well, when was the last time you dug down to the deep end of your family? Family, as we learn is the collective noun for a company of strangers: 'a murder of crows; a family of strangers'. As I've already said, this story is subservient to bigger ideas: the depth of love; the redemptive, transfiguring power of forgiveness, especially of self (from ancient grudge, we can break to new emotional mutiny); the very nature of family. In exploring these, Cameron has the eloquence and concision of Shakespeare, but it's Finn's songs which hold the key that opens the heart, as well as the head, to these conceptions. Beginning with the celebrated title song, we're reminded, 'my love is alien'. Jolted back to the realisation and cold remembrance love can be intimate, alienating, or both. Sometimes simultaneously.
All performances are well-worthy of the casting and director, Simon Phillips, has done a sterling job of pulling all the strings into a rope that could tether the Titanic. The only sinking ship here is the leaky boat of human 'relations'. It's always compelling to hear actors sing, even when success in the endeavour is variable. Their obsession with text and phrasing tends to lend new impetus to familiar genius. And it has here. What's more, the singing itself is very, very good.
There are many heroes in this production. Ian McDonald's musical direction. Iain Aitken's towering and evocative set design. Adrienne Chisholm's costumes. Nick Schlieper's lighting.
At the end of the night, though, it's Finn's inimitable stake-through-the-heart songs which steal the show. Without him, Cameron would still have written a very fine play. With him, he's created something which has a singular life and momentum. Let's hope it has nine lives. That Finn stays close to his zebra. And Cameron close to his Mac. And that they stay close to each other. From forth the fatal loins of these two friends, we've been given something unforgettable. And I still reckon it's a musical. So there.
Sydney Theatre Company, Melbourne Theatre Company and Qantas by arrangement with Poor Boy Enterprises Pty Ltd and Llegup Pty Ltd present
Poor Boy
a play with songs by Matt Cameron and Tim Finn
Director Simon Phillips
Venue: Sydney Theatre, 22 Hickson Road, Walsh Bay
Dates: 6 July to 1 August 2009
Tickets: $30 - $85
Box Office: 02 9250 1777 | sydneytheatre.com.au
