Enchantment is the keynote of the Genesian Theatre Company’s new production of Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood (1954).
The stage set is a triumph, deft at delivering many precarious entrances and exits, and inspiring belief in its varied hues - from early morning to late night. The fishing rope that hangs from the heavens entwining glass that is embedded with fairy lights is neither naff nor heavy handed, but a shimmering reminder of how in theatre the artfully suggestive can bring us close to the poetic reality of spoken drama.
The light touch throughout the production (Ylaria Rogers, director) delivers concentrated emotion, the essence of a suggestion, always supporting the poetic whimsy and deeply observed humanity of the text (originally written for radio).
There are so many words delivered in this epic poem. This talented cast deliver them with the middle kingdom lilt of an imagined Welsh accent that adds to the piquancy of this heady brew of imagined village life – with all its dark and wonderful secrets. The generally young cast manage to tackle the voluble tide of cadence, alliteration and rhyme. Sometimes we just catch the hint of their perplexed encounter with such roiling language, but generally its musical pulse is maintained, even if accents wander a little, and some of the diction of the younger players drops down now and then, making one realise how open vowelled this poetic language is. It is almost operatic in its construction. A director has to work imaginatively on its physical manifestation - action as opposed to disembodied voice.
The humour of the piece is sometimes raucous, sometimes wistful and bitter sweet, but always dipping deeper and deeper into these people’s lives. It riffs on the insistent nature of language, its life enhancing thrust to know and to tell. The women hanging out their washing, commenting on the village undercurrents, a simple old-fashioned scene, was deliciously animated both linguistically and dramatically.
The production moves with a pace that mirrors the ebb and flow of the text and weaves its theatrical devices in and around the language, laurelling its beauty with wit and energy.
The cast of nine manage to give us over 50 characters with multiple assumptions proving the mettle of some fine acting, particularly by Martin Searles, Marty O’Neill and Turea Blyth.
The lankish, ultimately attenuated love of the draper Mr Mog Edwards – “I am a draper mad with love” - was given life by Searles, awash with delicate humour and pure piety, while O’Neill was deliciously two faced as the darkly murderous Mr Pugh – his pursed lips and razor sharp politeness delivering unspoken hatred. This scene was a highlight of comic invention/interaction, with Sandra Campbell matching him thrust for thrust as his shrewish wife, Mrs Pugh, she who nags the saltcellar.
The entry of Turea Blythe as Bessie Bighead was like a glorious benediction – as she professes her love for the beauteous cows that return her affection. The joy and simplicity of this scene, with Utah Watkins bellowing in the background and the daisy chain of Bessie’s life unfolding beside our ears, gave us the gossamer threads of love, laid down before us like a rare gift and almost tangy with the smell of milk and grass.
Likewise, the tenderness and warm humanity of Polly Garter was fully revealed by Courtney Hough in her song – as she scrubbed the floor, remembering all the men she has loved and offering her hymn of sad praise to her dead mate: “ but the one I loved best awake or asleep/was little Willy Wee and he’s six foot deep”.
Willy Nilly – delivering the mail - is a delightful comic construct and was given with deadpan gravity by Caspar Hardaker. With his distinct tread, we simply imagined the voice of gossip and opened mail floating its meaning across the town, like words caught in a great fishing net.
The production was beautifully imagined – design by Martin Searles. The ruse of the little boat being hauled by the tentacled ropes was deftly manoeuvred, and before our eyes Captain Cat was tossed on the high seas in deep communion with his many mates lost at sea.
Likewise, the lighting is dreamily suggestive – design by Liam O’Keefe. The costume design by Pheonuh Callan and Susan Carveth is always apt. The music on guitar, accordion and saxophone weaves its deft commentary around the rich subterranean lives of these ordinary folk. The opening with its plucked note, whoosh of a wave and eerie cry of a bird felt like a special call summoning us into a magical world.
In 2012, the Sydney Theatre Company did a production of Under Milk Wood with a cast headed by Jack Thompson and Sandy Gore and directed by Kip Williams. Though interesting, it was static and wordy and did not satisfy the natural thirst for enchantment that a good rendition of this tale brings forth. In 2017, on the tiny stage of the Genesian Theatre in Kent Street, the stars were aligned to this thirst for the magical and we all left the theatre full and ‘pixelated’, readily in touch with a rich world of folk who speak their minds and dreams – with no technological intermediaries, unrestricted by the word length of tweets and the bovine lick of a Facebook like.
This was a rich and satisfying night in the theatre – given with limited fiscal means, but with wit and imagination. For its uninterrupted 110 minutes we are taken into the mysterious heart of simple living: a rare enchantment.
Genesian Theatre Company, Genesian Theatre, Sydney, Saturday 11th March 2017
Declaration: the reviewer has personal connections with some of the cast and crew.
The stage set is a triumph, deft at delivering many precarious entrances and exits, and inspiring belief in its varied hues - from early morning to late night. The fishing rope that hangs from the heavens entwining glass that is embedded with fairy lights is neither naff nor heavy handed, but a shimmering reminder of how in theatre the artfully suggestive can bring us close to the poetic reality of spoken drama.
The light touch throughout the production (Ylaria Rogers, director) delivers concentrated emotion, the essence of a suggestion, always supporting the poetic whimsy and deeply observed humanity of the text (originally written for radio).
There are so many words delivered in this epic poem. This talented cast deliver them with the middle kingdom lilt of an imagined Welsh accent that adds to the piquancy of this heady brew of imagined village life – with all its dark and wonderful secrets. The generally young cast manage to tackle the voluble tide of cadence, alliteration and rhyme. Sometimes we just catch the hint of their perplexed encounter with such roiling language, but generally its musical pulse is maintained, even if accents wander a little, and some of the diction of the younger players drops down now and then, making one realise how open vowelled this poetic language is. It is almost operatic in its construction. A director has to work imaginatively on its physical manifestation - action as opposed to disembodied voice.
The humour of the piece is sometimes raucous, sometimes wistful and bitter sweet, but always dipping deeper and deeper into these people’s lives. It riffs on the insistent nature of language, its life enhancing thrust to know and to tell. The women hanging out their washing, commenting on the village undercurrents, a simple old-fashioned scene, was deliciously animated both linguistically and dramatically.
The production moves with a pace that mirrors the ebb and flow of the text and weaves its theatrical devices in and around the language, laurelling its beauty with wit and energy.
The cast of nine manage to give us over 50 characters with multiple assumptions proving the mettle of some fine acting, particularly by Martin Searles, Marty O’Neill and Turea Blyth.
The lankish, ultimately attenuated love of the draper Mr Mog Edwards – “I am a draper mad with love” - was given life by Searles, awash with delicate humour and pure piety, while O’Neill was deliciously two faced as the darkly murderous Mr Pugh – his pursed lips and razor sharp politeness delivering unspoken hatred. This scene was a highlight of comic invention/interaction, with Sandra Campbell matching him thrust for thrust as his shrewish wife, Mrs Pugh, she who nags the saltcellar.
The entry of Turea Blythe as Bessie Bighead was like a glorious benediction – as she professes her love for the beauteous cows that return her affection. The joy and simplicity of this scene, with Utah Watkins bellowing in the background and the daisy chain of Bessie’s life unfolding beside our ears, gave us the gossamer threads of love, laid down before us like a rare gift and almost tangy with the smell of milk and grass.
Likewise, the tenderness and warm humanity of Polly Garter was fully revealed by Courtney Hough in her song – as she scrubbed the floor, remembering all the men she has loved and offering her hymn of sad praise to her dead mate: “ but the one I loved best awake or asleep/was little Willy Wee and he’s six foot deep”.
Willy Nilly – delivering the mail - is a delightful comic construct and was given with deadpan gravity by Caspar Hardaker. With his distinct tread, we simply imagined the voice of gossip and opened mail floating its meaning across the town, like words caught in a great fishing net.
The production was beautifully imagined – design by Martin Searles. The ruse of the little boat being hauled by the tentacled ropes was deftly manoeuvred, and before our eyes Captain Cat was tossed on the high seas in deep communion with his many mates lost at sea.
Likewise, the lighting is dreamily suggestive – design by Liam O’Keefe. The costume design by Pheonuh Callan and Susan Carveth is always apt. The music on guitar, accordion and saxophone weaves its deft commentary around the rich subterranean lives of these ordinary folk. The opening with its plucked note, whoosh of a wave and eerie cry of a bird felt like a special call summoning us into a magical world.
In 2012, the Sydney Theatre Company did a production of Under Milk Wood with a cast headed by Jack Thompson and Sandy Gore and directed by Kip Williams. Though interesting, it was static and wordy and did not satisfy the natural thirst for enchantment that a good rendition of this tale brings forth. In 2017, on the tiny stage of the Genesian Theatre in Kent Street, the stars were aligned to this thirst for the magical and we all left the theatre full and ‘pixelated’, readily in touch with a rich world of folk who speak their minds and dreams – with no technological intermediaries, unrestricted by the word length of tweets and the bovine lick of a Facebook like.
This was a rich and satisfying night in the theatre – given with limited fiscal means, but with wit and imagination. For its uninterrupted 110 minutes we are taken into the mysterious heart of simple living: a rare enchantment.
Genesian Theatre Company, Genesian Theatre, Sydney, Saturday 11th March 2017
Declaration: the reviewer has personal connections with some of the cast and crew.