If it weren't for the likes of Tamarama Rock Surfers and Griffin, God only knows what shape Australian theatre would be in. Sydney theatre, anyway. It doesn't bear thinking about. The latest from the former is Anna Robi & The House Of Dogs, staged in the darkened basement of the characterful Old Fitz, in downtown Dowling Street, Wolloomooloo. Maxine Mellor is a young gun playwright from the deep north; three-time winner of QTC's Young Playwrights Award. Her cachet is such Iain Sinclair (who you may well know, for example, as director of STC's recent production of Our Town) was, apparently, seduced to direct on the strength of it.
Where she's succeeded here is in creating in-your-face characters: real enough to be arresting, bizarre enough to be intriguing. Where she's failed is in taking it anywhere at all. At least anywhere I can discern. If the message is that men are dogs, we're not being told anything we don't already know. If the objective was to disgust, it worked for me, all too well.
I'm no prude. It takes a lot to offend me. So I was unfazed by warnings of coarse language and such, emblazoned on the door of the theatre. But, aside from wondering, from quite early on, where it was all heading, and even in acknowledging shining performances (especially from Jeanette Cronin, as the malingering mum, which isn't to diminish producer Stefanie Smith, as her clueless carer and impossibly, tediously naive, virginal daughter, Anna), and though it ostensibly fit the roles, I found the 'language' came on a little too strong, a little too often. In other words, much of it seemed entirely gratuitous. It seemed designed to shock. But, the sad truth is, such language is no longer shocking. It's far too commonplace to be that anymore. Rather, it's just boring. At least that's the case when unattended by wit, which it overwhelmingly is.
Debra Oswald has described the writing as vivid and muscular, which may amount to a poetically euphemistic way of saying the same thing. Sure, there are some funny lines: picking your pocket is a crass allusion I've not struck before, thanks to a pristine and sheltered life. And the ribaldry is so intense and anatomical, one can't help but chuckle. But much of the time I found myself forcing a smile, which was more of a wince, or a cringe, on the inside. Mind you, around us were paroxysms of laughter; albeit nervous and uncertain. The kind that shouts, that doth protest too much and just a little too loudly, 'hell yeah, I'm completely cool with this!'
The play begs banal questions, above all: like, how much essentially repetitious telephone sex is enough? And yes, this is a play to see when too much masturbation and bed-wetting is never enough. And if you're squeamish about graphic representations of two dogs fucking, better not go. And it doesn't end there. Not by a long shot. Why has Anna decided she's in love with Roger, who tosses off at the sound of her grating voice? How did they 'meet'? Why is she so utterly unworldly? What's the bloody point of it all? Of course, I know, I know: not everything has to have a point. But if not, it has to have something. This work is characterful; bold; bursting with life; dark. It's just not that humourous. Blackly, or otherwise. And it's sheer vitality isn't, in the end, enough. I was left agitated, frustrated, unfulfilled. Dramatis interruptus.
Designer Tabhiyah Feller has worked wonders with newspapers and canine excrement, which cover the floor. (Well, let's face it, it's probably better than the carpet at your local RiSsoLe, or seagrass matting.) But much better yet are the mechanical dog 'puppets', ingeniously devised and constructed by Meg Ashforth & Jemima Snars. Smith and Dean Mason prove to be outstanding wranglers, too.
Anna is at the mercy of her wily, voluntarily bed-ridden mother, who spends most of her time sleeping, smoking, swearing, making crude pontifications and teaching lewd life-lessons. She calls for a piss-pot and Anna obliges. She insists she's not bitter. But her intransigence seems to suggest she's immobilised by guilt and regret. Anna is captive, on a short leash, like their dogs. Her resistance, such as it is, would seem to be useless.
In the end, it's as disturbing as it is funny (which isn't that much). We likely all know, have met, or heard about, people who live lives of quiet, or not so quiet, desperation. We may be among them. In some sense, or to some degree, we probably all are. Perhaps that's the point.
This is suburban malaise in extremis. That's what piqued my interest in the play from the get-go. But my intellectual arousal has, at least so far, gone unrequited. It might've been the wee smalls when I started thinking and writing about this, and the brain-fag born of decaffeination of no assitance, but I've now slept on it and the epiphany I crave still hasn't arrived. Somehow, I don't think it's going to happen.
You can tell Mellor is capable of great things. And if accolades are anything to go by, she's already achieved them. There's an urgent, feverish energy here that's palpable. Not to mention a sugar-high, Grimm imagination in the David Lynch mould. It's just that this particular work, just keeps turning over, and over, and over, without ever achieving ignition. Or combustion. Plenty of fuel. No real fire.
Bad Boy Bubby meets Kath & Kim? Maybe. I really don't know. I'd like to say it's bitchin', but, in truth, I think it's a dog. Can someone throw me a bone?
House of Dogs in association with Tamarama Rock Surfers presents
ANNA ROBI & THE HOUSE OF DOGS
by Maxine Mellor
Directed by Iain Sinclair
Venue: The Old Fitzroy Theatre | 129 Dowling St, Woolloomooloo
Dates: 17 November – 12 December, 2010
Times: Tuesday – Saturday 8pm; Sundays 5pm
Tickets: Concession $21, Adult $29, Beer Laksa & Show (BLS) $35, Previews and Cheap Tuesday: General $17, Beer Laksa & Show (BLS) $25
Bookings: www.rocksurfers.org | 02 8019 0282
