The State

The State presents – in a wildly hilarious, allegorical form - a dystopian state of things uncannily much too much like our current reality.  This black-as-black comedy and its icy, sharp-edged satire cuts close to the bone.  We quickly recognise what underlies the comedy and we might wince as we laugh at its inescapable accuracy.

And just so we do not miss a word of the mad-as-hell, heightened, nasty, funny text, it is projected in surtitles – in perfect sync with the spoken words on stage.

Visually, the style of The State is stunning – bold and highly original: a wildly disparate but highly successful amalgam of Commedia del Arte, Bouffon, Kabuki, Theatre of Cruelty, Theatre of the Absurd, and a bit of circus thrown in.  Admiration and tribute must be paid to the highly imaginative designer Leisl Lucerne-Knight, responsible for the costumes (vivid courtier pantaloons and capes over black body suits, absurd headdresses) the numerous big and small masks and, I assume, the wonderful, detailed make-up that renders each of the lead characters as a grotesque, grinning doll – and the bewildered ‘public’ blank and sad.  The choreography, there I assume by directors Marli Jupiter and Rhi Bryan, is intricate, expressive and executed with perfect precision by the cast.

The (nation) State is made up of four states: This State, That State, Which State and What State.  Each of these separate, interdependent but rival states are ruled by ‘Daddies’ – This Daddy (Lucy Wong), That Daddy (Jo Cooper), Which Daddy (Mazey O’Reilly) and What Daddy (Rhiannon Bryan).  The Daddies are boosters who revel in their power (they get off on it – their costumes include permanently erect penises).  They make fatuous speeches (content-less in Scott Morrison mode), promise things that will never happen and float crazy policies that - supposedly – will save their states’ floundering, bankrupt economies.  Like What Daddy’s brilliant plan to legalise and reward leg breaking so as to fill the newly built but empty hospitals.  Or That Daddy’s plan to charge tolls for every human movement including walking on footpaths…

But these Daddies - these Hollow Men – are all under the sway and domination of a mysterious, towering, stern-masked figure known as ‘Mummy’ (Henry O’Brien) whose love they seek but before whom they cringe, cower, make excuses and ever more grand announcements.  (Freudians may make of this what they will.) 

News of these ‘announcements’, delivered with hectoring, confident enthusiasm, are heralded by portentous fanfares – as ‘news’ is these days (sound design by Lara Pollard) – and followed by a breathlessly excited TV ‘journalist’ (also Henry O’Brien).  The public, also represented by the cast but now sporting a variety of grumpy masks, are confused, sceptical, gulled, whining and angry.  To no avail.

The State is held together by a hapless figure, Flung About (I couldn’t tell which of the cast plays Flung), who is searching for his mother…  The search takes him on a journey into every more desperate places until, believing that only ‘direct action’, including sabotage, can effect change, he joins the radical CDF (Common Dog Fucks) …

However, while this superb cast continue to represent their myriad characters and move and dance with the same high energy and precision to the very end, the plot (mainly Flung’s search and the political machinations and fiascos) becomes almost too convoluted to follow – and it gets emotionally repetitious as well.  It’s as if Jupiter and Bryan are so talented in saying what they have to say that they outstay their welcome by – in effect - saying it again.  If we can’t follow the plot, we won’t attend to the satire.  And the show becomes, unfortunately in it’s last twenty minutes, say, a triumph of style over content. 

But I’m told that this is a show still in development, so it is bound to become even better with some pruning and sharpening.  Despite some false steps, its originality and invention are brilliance are overwhelming.

Michael Brindley