By Michael Orland / Directed by John Michael Burdon
Once upon a time I was involved in a production that called for the murder of one of my cast mates. Not the character they were portraying, I hasten to add, but rather the actor himself. We had rehearsed the moment exhaustively, and had gone to great lengths designing the set so that the murder (a beating to death with a cord of firewood) was hidden from the audience behind several large blocks – the kind of nondescript grey cubes that rely on mammoth leaps of the audience’s imagination to pretend they are anything other than signs of the production’s almost nonexistent budget. In this instance I believe they were to be used as stairs, not because the production really called for another storey, but because without them the stage was about as enchanting as a sand dune in the middle of a desert. The plan was simple: the actor, having been drugged, would collapse behind the stairs. Another actor would step forward to carry out the attack while I stood as lookout by the front of stage.
What the audience was unaware of, however, was that behind the “stairs” a small piece of metal protruded to catch the firewood as it came down, sparing any actual violence. Nonetheless the drugged actor would begin screaming in pain, rolling about the ground and dragging himself offstage as he pleaded for mercy. The murderer would then follow, where the death would conclude off in the wings. The cast and crew all agreed that it was a surprisingly realistic little trick, and those who saw the scene for the first time always flinched when the screams began.
When opening night came and the scene approached, I began to feel nervous. Not because I thought anything would go awry or that I might forget my lines. I was just anxious to see the audience’s reaction as the beating commenced. To catch the flinch.But the scene did of course go awry, and instead of striking the metal catch, our murderer brought the firewood down with all of his strength across the actor’s shins. The shrieks were terrific, and as we stood there dumb with shock, watching our friend attempt to drag himself away on what were now genuinely crippled legs, all agreed that it was an amazingly convincing moment and that the evening was a complete success.Opening night kinks were not the reason for my trepidations in watching Beaudy, an Australianised, musical retelling of the Sleeping Beauty story. I always find there to be something sad and desperate in these fractured fairy-tales, as though only by contemporising such myths does the author feel their message can be translated, that their audience can be primed to understand. Still, deep down I’m a sucker for musicals, and any story that involves witchcraft, treachery, love and greed and also has a beat you can click your fingers to has my attention. So I entered the Parade Theatre in Kensington anticipating either something spectacular, or something uselessly silly. I didn’t see much potential for middle ground. In this regard, as with so much of the night’s performance, I was to be wrong.
The Parade Theatre is operated by the National Institute of Dramatic Arts, a fiercely competitive, educational Mecca for the aspiring actor, director, playwright, indeed the whole gamut of performing arts production, and it is not difficult to see why. Entering the Parade foyer is like stepping inside the theatrical equivalent of Planet Hollywood. In place of movie props and dilapidated pieces of set-design from 1990’s action films dangling garishly from walls and ceiling, one finds sombrely spot lit costumes from productions past; framed stills depicting illustrious (and not so illustrious) performers forever-caught in dramatic pose; plaques and medallions behind gleaming glass walls noting the school’s myriad achievements; black-and-white headshots of current students arranged on a far wall as though Ingmar Bergman were devising his own bleak version of the board game Guess Who?. Should one feel inclined to follow a life on the stage, you would be forgiven for imagining this to be the first dusty golden brick on the road to Oz.
And what a stage! The Parade was only opened back in 2002 (NIDA itself was established in 1958), and it really is one of the most pleasing theatres in Sydney. The stage is quite large, the front of which drops off into an orchestra pit separated from the stage by a large pane of glass. The effect of this, once the production gets underway, is to reflect the conductor and certain musicians in rainbow arrays as the stage lights shift. Looking out at the audience from the stage would give the impression of standing in the belly of some enormous beast - you are bounded by great wooden tiers that encircle the room like ribs from which distant faces peer down as though admiring the creature’s colourful gullet.
I was seated between my Long Suffering Companion and a stout bearded man, immaculately dressed with an almost overpowering smell of mothballs who introduced himself as The Judge. No other title was volunteered, and judge of what exactly I was never to learn (“The Judge and the Reviewer side by side, eh!” he laughed, “Makes you think they seated us here like this for a reason!”). Despite claiming he was not connected to the production, and despite the fact it was opening night, the Judge nevertheless knew precise details of the play, including the changes to the ending that had occurred over the last few rehearsals.
“Trust me” he grinned, “You’re going to hate this. Just wait for the disco balls.”
“Something about this place makes me feel like I’m on drugs,” my Long Suffering Companion whispered, and the room went dark.
Although things began going terribly wrong terribly quickly for the cast of Beaudy, they had started out with promise. The opening number was a grand introduction to the various characters we would be introduced to throughout the play, and the choreography was spellbinding. In fact, I found it difficult to fault any of the choreography in Beaudy. The dancers were not only technically competent, but their ability to sustain their roles (secretarial caricatures for office scenes, giggling beach-goers for Surfer’s Paradise, etc) was superb. A great amount of time has evidently gone into practising blocking, and such was the ease with which the actors were able to navigate the stage and each other, you would think they had been acting out this drama their entire lives.
The story doesn’t deviate far from the original Sleeping Beauty plot. Self-styled King Edward (Stephen Fischer-King, here the champion of the “Prices so low, you’ll think I’ve gone craaay-zy!” television spot) holds a christening for his daughter Laura. The entire township of The Woods arrives for the event including the uninvited and, more importantly, decidedly evil Patrice (Lizzie Taylor) and her simpleton toy-boy, Shane (Matt Greenlaw). True to form, Patrice lays a curse on the child, vowing that young Laura will never see her 19th birthday. In an effort to protect his daughter, and conscious that Laura would best benefit from both a father and a mother, he convinces his best friend Andrew (Scott Radburn) and wife Stephanie (Anita Hartman) to adopt the baby. Jump forward 18 years and around fifty weeks later and Laura has grown into a beautiful young woman (Belinda Morris), rebellious against the over-protective care of her parents. After fleeing to Schoolies she meets and swiftly falls for ‘Prints’ Tom (James Jack), only to be drugged into an everlasting sleep by Shane, naively carrying out whatever order his mistress hands down (this scene occurs beneath the revolving glitter of disco balls, I should point out). At this stage, I’m sure you can anticipate the rest.
As far as character arcs go, Beaudy is a little too Disney for my taste. As soon as you know who your characters are, it takes no effort to gauge the entire storyline. This didn’t really bother me, as the plot was always going to play second fiddle to the music, and as long as there were no references to shrimps on barbies I was willing to see what Michael Orland (acting as both writer, composer, lyricist, producer and sound designer) had in store.
Hecklers are never a good sign. They are like hyenas, only ever emerging once the prey is already on the ground and incapable of much of a struggle. They started roughly ten minutes in, but such was the ease with which the cast reacted to them I was convinced it was actually part of the show. Honestly, who in the hell comes to the theatre ready to heckle? So the show soldiered bravely on, but sadly that one heckler seemed to have opened a floodgate. The biggest issue of the night was sound. The lyrics to almost every song were initially drowned out as microphone cues were fumbled. Once songs were completed and ordinary dialogue commenced, the microphones were again delayed. In one scene, Scott Radburn’s mike wasn’t switched on at all. It was enough to make you believe the sound engineer held a personal vendetta against the cast … and then the unthinkable. The absolutely amateur.
The microphones were left on after actors had left the stage.
The first time it happened a kind of pitying groan came up from the audience. After all, what can the cast onstage do while those backstage berate themselves over a flat note or mis-stepped dance sequence other than to act on as though nothing was wrong? The second time the microphones were left on, catching the actors swearing vehemently to themselves, the crowd was shaking their heads in disappointment.
By the third time, the crowd was laughing out loud at the sheer absurdity of it.
Even the lighting cues went awry. As the house lights began to rise at the intermission, the audience began moving from their seats and headed to the doors … only to have the lights go back down and the play continue. For some people it was too much, and they continued on out of the auditorium regardless. After we returned from the actual intermission, large parts of the audience hadn’t bothered coming back at all.
It was a depressing sight, as the actors were doing their very best to keep the show afloat. The quality of singing was quite good, overall. Morris had a lovely range but never seemed quite at ease. Her character is certainly not the most likeable person to ever grace the stage, but it seemed she was uncertain just what kind of role she was supposed to deliver. Fischer-King seemed to have an even greater struggle as her father; his voice, though accomplished, only ever came across as distracted and forced, and listening to his speaking voice was like overhearing Christopher Walken shout at the television from a distant room. Radburn stole the vocal show for me, though once he slid back into dialogue he began suffering from an overly formal, staccato delivery that seemed endemic to the entire cast. The exceptions were Matt Greenlaw and Madeleine Jones. I had seen Jones onstage before at the Old Fitz where she had a leading role, and though she had to settle for several lesser parts in Beaudy she managed to make each portrayal unique. I suspect hers will be a name to watch. Greenlaw’s role was more caricature than character, but he took to the task with such enthusiasm and impeccable comic timing that he seemed to be having the time of his life.
I was lucky enough to find myself with complimentary drink vouchers after the show (I had tried to redeem them at the beginning, only to be told they could only be used at intermission. At intermission, I was told they could only be used after the performance. After the performance, if I still couldn’t get my free wine I was prepared to set fire to the bar), and so I waited around in the foyer hoping to catch some of the cast to get their opinion of the night. Most were, understandably, hesitant to criticise the sound issues and fumbled lines. Greenlaw was friendly and sustained his careening energy … but something in his eyes seemed confused somehow, and unutterably weary. When Morris appeared it was as a forlorn spectre passing through the crowd, head bowed and eyes darting like someone pursued; an anxious figure who seemed both compelled to stay and enjoy the celebration, and to just slip away unnoticed, a flash of pale skin and red hair in an empty doorway...
Before we left, Greenlaw pointed out Michael Orland moving through the crowd. I had intended on speaking to him if I had the chance, but something about the man’s movements made me reconsider. He was carrying boxes from the merchandise table, a Wilford Brimley clone clad in a Beaudy; The Musical t-shirt. Orland hovered about the perimeter of the crowd, and though he smiled as he caught the eyes of familiar faces, he seemed so very alone and removed - like a lone satellite destined to remain watching and aloof. This endeavor of his has been twenty-eight years in the making, and no-one could fault the care with which he has crafted it. I take no pleasure in considering Beaudy to have been something of a disaster, but I’m not convinced that was what played on Orland’s mind that night. Twenty eight years is a long time to see a dream realised. I imagine there is a kind of terror in losing such fantasy to waking life, like having your dreams inverted. Like losing yourself in something beautiful and unreal.
We left soon after. It was after all approaching midnight, and the threat of turning back into a pumpkin was becoming very real. I wish I could recommend catching Beaudy, as it is truly a labour of love. But of course, love too can sour, and I suspect there is something irreversibly damaged within this production. Sure, nobody left with fractured shins or voices hoarse from screaming. But then, perhaps that’s exactly what this performance needed …
Director and Choreographer - John Michael Burdon
Musical Director - Andy Peterson
Writer/Composer/Lyricist/Producer/Sound designer – Michael Orland
Cast – Stephen Fischer-King, Lizzie Taylor, Scott Radburn, Anita Hartman, Belinda Morris, James Jack, Matt Greenlaw, Madeleine Jones
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