Mad Max. An action film, built around what might've seemed, at the time, a far-fetched premise, but which might, one day soon, be regarded as 'faction'. Award-winning playwright Wayne Tunks' latest, somewhat bleaker than is customary work, Petroleum, owes much to George Miller's seminal series, including, perhaps, a sincere apology. Because wars over petroleum isn't a new idea; in the arts, or politics. And there's nothing new here. In fact, as cogent as the material is, or ought to be, it amounts to 90 minutes or so of pointlessness, with what little pathos there might've been spiralling into unintended parody.I think I've observed before that, while Tunks has a practically peerless capacity for observance, documentation and hyperextension of Aussie vernacular, his record with and talent for solemnity and high drama, outside the confines of brick-veneered, suburban family dynamics, is limited, to say the least. Moreover, vernacular sometimes leans too far, even by, say, Port Kembla standards, towards vulgarity, which too often becomes a substitute for dramatic vocabulary. Having said that, he can be a funny bugger! The pre-show announcement, warning of coarse language, adult themes, violence, what-have-you, went on to warn that if patrons failed to switch off mobiles, they might meet with a similar fate. And I loved (couldn't help myself) and laughed loudly at: 'you say potato, I say fuck you!'
But that's not enough to sustain a pseudo-political play about petroconflict, let alone one along the broader and laudable lines of David vs Goliath. As usual, Tunks heart and soul are in the right place, but his vision is marred by its realisation.
The strong points are production values. Direction, by Wollongongster Alexandra Byron, is taut. Stage management, by Lydia Kelly, equally and flawlessly so. Mim Person's set is simple and effective: oildrums propping-up a rustic bar, in a post-apocalyptic pub; and little else (with little else needed), save for corrugated panels lining the stage. Pat Hartigan's sound design is rightly robust. Larry Kelly's lighting cues all the right moods. Andrew Cutcliffe's fight choreography is quite convincing, save for the fact that certain of the cast , including Tunks himself, seem reticent in following-through; a little more Edgerton is implicated.
The weak points, regrettably, lie with performance. Michael Elbridge's Eamon lacks conviction and, thus, is almost utterly unconvincing, even if he seems to narcissistically revel in the physicality of his role (mind you, in that, he's pretty damn good). It was only opening night, however, and in the latter stages he showed definite promise of being on it, even early in the season. Scott Grimley's Lane had dicky diction and too many stumbles, but he isn't bad. Nat Scotcher's Skeet was indefinably aggravating, though made a good fist of one (literally) pathetic scene; a reminiscent farewell, to his deceptively smitten sister. Mel Kleores had the swagger to carry off her sassy role, as Asha. Kellie Clarke was well-measured, as barmaid Skylar. Emma Harris (a Tunks productions vet), as the evil corporation's loyalist lieu, was particularly good. The increasingly svelte and streamlined Wayne Tunks, as unforgiving and determined sarge, Odele, while possessing pailfuls of vocal & bodily capacity, seemed, as has been the case previously, uncomfortable in the bastard's shoes. Methinks he's just too nice a bloke to pull it off, even for an hour-and-a-half.
The play isn't too long, but seems it, and it's jarringly inconclusive. Lord knows there's plenty to bolster our belief it could all come tumbling down to this Mad Maxwellian conclusion, but even as a card-carrying member of cynics not-so-anonymous, I harbour higher hope. It would be worth examining if it hadn't been done, better, before, and with more prescience. Now, it could be seen as just cashing-in on paranoia, like the Howard government did for so many years. In that sense, it's a little too topical, if you will.
Colin Hay was plying his substantive trade right next door, and I confess I toyed, more than once, with slinking off to that show.
The most valiant and admirable effort came from Andrew Cutcliffe, as the principled Tanner, the concession to corporate conscience, whose Ensemble training appears to have equipped him with the capacity to make a good fist of a futile fight.
As always with the eminently likable and hot-and-cold running Tunkster, I only wish I could be more consistently charitable.
PETROLEUM
by Wayne Tunks
Venue: Fusebox @ The Factory Theatre | 105 Victoria Rd, Marrickville, NSW
Previews: Sept 16 & 17 (All preview tix $11)
Dates: Friday September 18 - Saturday October 10, 2009
Times: Tuesdays to Saturdays at 8pm
Tickets: $32.50 / $27.50 (Conc) / $25 (Groups 10+) | All Tuesdays $16 / Wednesday Student Specials $11
Bookings: 02 9550 3666 or www.factorytheatre.com.au
