'The man who loomed up beside me was like the north Queenslander from central casting. He had big canecutter’s hands, and a neck burnt red from the sun, which may also have reflected his politics. “You can have all the government-paid steak dinners you like,” he told me, “but you won’t change anything for blackfellas.” He told me that “your mob” need to work and take responsibility for their lives.' (Introduction)
'Twenty years after The Matrix gave him a career in America, Hugo Weaving is back at the Sydney studio where the film was shot, only this time Weaving’s rehearsing a play instead of swinging on wires. The other day he took a phone call from one of the Wachowski sisters, who directed The Matrix, marvelling at the serendipity, and Weaving keeps bumping into crew he’s worked with over the course of a screen career that’s now almost four decades old. Weaving is at Fox Studios because the Sydney Theatre Company (STC) has temporarily decamped to a row of shopfront offices here while the company’s home at The Wharf is under renovation. Tucking into a salad beneath one of the lot’s outdoor pavilions, he admits to experiencing a kind of cognitive dissonance, as if two mistresses – local theatre and Hollywood blockbusters – have accidentally been introduced.' (Introduction)
'Although the Malthouse Theatre’s production of Cloudstreet is flawed, its failings cannot overshadow the fundamental power of Tim Winton’s novel.'
'The 12 graceful young men move together like a pod of mythical sea creatures, cresting, breaching, elegantly powering through the space as if it is water. Piqué. Arabesque. Sauté. The absolute control over their bodies. Their muscles coiled and taut. The confidence as they lift and hold, sway, then relax into each other with fluidity and apparent effortlessness. The subtle angle of a neck, the delicate shape of fingers, their arms curled overhead in movements unique to internationally acclaimed choreographer Jiří Kylián. Mesmerising.' (Introduction)
'Things Nobody Knows But Me opens with Amra Pajalić learning, at age 16, that her mother’s illness is in fact bipolar disorder, and proceeds to build back to this moment. Through interlinked vignettes, she presents complex portraits of maternal grandmother Adevija, mother Fatima and her child self, and examines the fractured relationships between all three. The episodic structure compartmentalises key events, supporting Pajalić to juggle multiple perspectives effectively, while also providing much-needed emotional respite. As she pieces together her family’s past from their accounts – Adevija’s marriage is the result of blackmail and Fatima’s is arranged – the author experiences, and demonstrates, the power of storytelling.' (Introduction)
