Missing your school chums? Fondly reminiscing about when you were 16?
Send them this page and organise a reunion at the theatre courtesy of Crushed...
WORLD PREMIERE directed by Lucinda Gleeson starring Sean Barker Lucy Miller Jeremy Waters
Thursday, 10 May 2012
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
(BITTER) SWEET SIXTEEN (or Nirvana in the Bananas)
The Crushed team have asked a few of our close friends to guest blog a response to our upcoming play. First up is Independent Theatre's Superstar: writer, director, producer and all-round-creativity-facilitator Augusta Supple. We asked her to respond to Crushed's tag line: BITTER SWEET SIXTEEN...
Living in a small coastal town in the banana belt of NSW, there was little that linked me to the outside world. TV was limited to 4 channels, (I was secretly obsessed with Paul Reiser from Mad About You), and I was glued to Helen Razer's voice and song choice on Triple J like a grommet clings to his surf board. While my face was buried in suspiciously pristine ancient history text-books with the vain hope that education would set me free from the shit hole I was trapped in.
It was the 90s.
The dawn of the information age. The Gulf War. The Chechen War. The Bosnian War. Kosovo. Australia was having a recession it had to have. Bill Clinton played the sax and his sperm was found on a dress owned by a woman he did NOT have sexual relations with. Kurt Cobain had moaned his way through gritted teeth and a floppy fringe, then blew a hole in his head.
Sixteen for many was not so sweet. It was the age of pregnancy, the school certificate, apprenticeships and expulsion. Sixteen was my year of joining a punk band, writing abusive songs, the obligatory occasional social binge drinking, studying Hamlet, unrequited love affairs with boys who listened to Tool and Pink Floyd, memorizing slabs of T.S Eliot - all while topping my class and dreaming of my emancipated adult life.
I dreamed of a bright future where I didn’t have to ever, EVER confront the boring, dull, flat unprofitable world I was forced to grow up in.
I feared the future school reunion hoping I could forever avoid it… and earnestly hoped by the time it rolled around that I had made something of my life. Something. Anything better than the here and now.
At my local high school, kids wearing an improvised uniform sucked smoke from juice bottles and grinned through red eyes at their future. Flannelette shirts flapped as teens set fire to bins. Grunge was born. I dressed in my grandfather’s clothes and listened patiently as boys my age fumbled around with Metallica riffs on nylon string guitars. River Phoenix died and girls at my school attempted suicide. We were lectured on AIDS ad nauseum and spent long afternoons rolling condoms onto bananas, whilst the cooler kids were practicing the real thing in the scrubland that surrounded my school.
It all felt pointless really.
Skinny girls with no opinions got the boys, then had scrag fights on the school bus. Their earrings ripped out of ears. Blood. Torn singlet tops. Swearing. The boys would look on with dull eyes and not dare intervene. I sat quietly and wrote letters to people I had met who went to 'other' schools.
Inevitably, someone’s cool parents let us have a party at their place. I’d sit planning my future escape and watch as others had fun: Passion pop and Jim Beam. Malibu and Coke. Bongs. Magic mushrooms. Teens gnawing sloppily at each other's faces, having a casual vomit, a micro-sleep, then continuing. At some stage a posse would form and we’d go on ‘missions’ stealing street signs or garden gnomes from unsuspecting homes. We ventured into the banana fields and sang Nirvana songs to keep each other awake. Lying on the ground on deserted country roads under the stars, we soaked up the warmth from the black bitumen and raged over arguments about reality and perception (teenage philosophy a plenty.) We knew it was all empty, all pointless – the universe too big, the world uncaring. Everything had been thought of before, everything had all been said before. We knew poverty could not and would not be ended by Bono or any other aging rock star who chose to wear rose-coloured sunglasses.
It wasn’t sweet. It was bitter.
Flash forward 16 years.
At the start new millennium the school reunion is unavoidable. It’s not a phyisical thing – it’s the casual surprise of a Facebook 'friend' request… sometimes from someone who has changed their name and judging by their photo has either regressed thirty years or had a baby.
Although I’m a world away from a drunken pash in the banana fields, the sting of school remains: the pointlessness, the feeling of being trapped in a shit hole, the dreams I had, the pressure I felt, the boys I loved, the friends I had. I watch the film clips, sing along to Hole or Pearl Jam. Yet the memory is not bitter. Not at all.
It’s sweet.'
One of Woolgoolga's popular tourist attractions.
Like what you're reading? You can follow Augusta's blog write here, write now:
www.augustasupple.com
Like what you're hearing? Then book your tickets to Crushed!
http://www.newtheatre.org.au/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=99&Itemid=129
'There wasn’t much that was sweet when I was sixteen.
Living in a small coastal town in the banana belt of NSW, there was little that linked me to the outside world. TV was limited to 4 channels, (I was secretly obsessed with Paul Reiser from Mad About You), and I was glued to Helen Razer's voice and song choice on Triple J like a grommet clings to his surf board. While my face was buried in suspiciously pristine ancient history text-books with the vain hope that education would set me free from the shit hole I was trapped in.
It was the 90s.
The dawn of the information age. The Gulf War. The Chechen War. The Bosnian War. Kosovo. Australia was having a recession it had to have. Bill Clinton played the sax and his sperm was found on a dress owned by a woman he did NOT have sexual relations with. Kurt Cobain had moaned his way through gritted teeth and a floppy fringe, then blew a hole in his head.
I dreamed of a bright future where I didn’t have to ever, EVER confront the boring, dull, flat unprofitable world I was forced to grow up in.
I feared the future school reunion hoping I could forever avoid it… and earnestly hoped by the time it rolled around that I had made something of my life. Something. Anything better than the here and now.
At my local high school, kids wearing an improvised uniform sucked smoke from juice bottles and grinned through red eyes at their future. Flannelette shirts flapped as teens set fire to bins. Grunge was born. I dressed in my grandfather’s clothes and listened patiently as boys my age fumbled around with Metallica riffs on nylon string guitars. River Phoenix died and girls at my school attempted suicide. We were lectured on AIDS ad nauseum and spent long afternoons rolling condoms onto bananas, whilst the cooler kids were practicing the real thing in the scrubland that surrounded my school.
It all felt pointless really.
Skinny girls with no opinions got the boys, then had scrag fights on the school bus. Their earrings ripped out of ears. Blood. Torn singlet tops. Swearing. The boys would look on with dull eyes and not dare intervene. I sat quietly and wrote letters to people I had met who went to 'other' schools.
Inevitably, someone’s cool parents let us have a party at their place. I’d sit planning my future escape and watch as others had fun: Passion pop and Jim Beam. Malibu and Coke. Bongs. Magic mushrooms. Teens gnawing sloppily at each other's faces, having a casual vomit, a micro-sleep, then continuing. At some stage a posse would form and we’d go on ‘missions’ stealing street signs or garden gnomes from unsuspecting homes. We ventured into the banana fields and sang Nirvana songs to keep each other awake. Lying on the ground on deserted country roads under the stars, we soaked up the warmth from the black bitumen and raged over arguments about reality and perception (teenage philosophy a plenty.) We knew it was all empty, all pointless – the universe too big, the world uncaring. Everything had been thought of before, everything had all been said before. We knew poverty could not and would not be ended by Bono or any other aging rock star who chose to wear rose-coloured sunglasses.
It wasn’t sweet. It was bitter.
Flash forward 16 years.
At the start new millennium the school reunion is unavoidable. It’s not a phyisical thing – it’s the casual surprise of a Facebook 'friend' request… sometimes from someone who has changed their name and judging by their photo has either regressed thirty years or had a baby.
Although I’m a world away from a drunken pash in the banana fields, the sting of school remains: the pointlessness, the feeling of being trapped in a shit hole, the dreams I had, the pressure I felt, the boys I loved, the friends I had. I watch the film clips, sing along to Hole or Pearl Jam. Yet the memory is not bitter. Not at all.
It’s sweet.'
Like what you're reading? You can follow Augusta's blog write here, write now:
www.augustasupple.com
Like what you're hearing? Then book your tickets to Crushed!
http://www.newtheatre.org.au/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=99&Itemid=129
Thursday, 26 April 2012
Conversations with Ghosts
Actor Jeremy Waters, who plays Jason in Crushed, shares a spooky story with us....
Actors can be a superstitious bunch. Curses, ghosts and rituals carry a lot of currency within the board-treading fraternity. We’re attuned to any ‘signs’ that shape our theatrical destinies. I think the ephemeral nature of theatre encourages this. It makes sense that strange parts of our universe can be stirred as we go about the business of telling stories.
While rehearsing Melita
Rowston's brilliant new play Crushed
at Queen St Studios, Sean Barker, Lucy Miller and I were diligently working
through some of the complexities of the play when something occurred that left
us all open-mouthed…
There’s a strong
balloon motif that runs through the play – literally and figuratively. So,
there we were, three actors alone in the big Queen Street Studios space working
on a scene that centres around this motif. We were actually doing work. Really.
We were. I was offering a piece of blinding insight towards this crucial scene
– really, I was, when I saw a flash of colour in the corner of my eye and Stone The Flamin' Crows Elsa! a cheeky clutch
of helium balloons hovered mid-air between Sean and I. They must have been clinging to the high ceiling then deflated and floated down while we gabbed about
the play.
After the requisite
‘Whooooahs’ and ‘What the....s,’ we agreed this was a sign from the theatrical
powers that be, a quiet little nudge to let us know that we were not alone as
we pushed off from land in the good ship Crushed…
I mean, when was the
last time you sat in a room and a bunch of coloured air balls parked themselves
next to you while rehearsing a scene in which they figured prominently?
Coincidence you say? Methinks not.
When our esteemed
director Lucinda Gleeson returned from a production meeting, she was suitably
impressed by the cool shit we had seen. Being of our ilk, she quickly
recognised ‘The Happening’ for what it was. So, to ensure our director caught a whiff of
its presence, our friendly spirit let one last balloon float down and nestle
gently at her feet.
Call me crazy (it’s
been done) but this was an intervention. We now know that the Crushed
team are not alone as we embark on this significant theatrical journey.
‘And you, a would be player too
Will give the angry ghosts their due
Who threw their voices far as doom
Greatly, in a little room.’
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
Sunday, 22 April 2012
A little sad and a little hilarious.
Our wonderful director Lucinda Gleeson was out spruiking Crushed at the culmination of our Queen Street Studios Performing Arts Residency last week, when she had a chat to the barman at our fave pub, The Clare, he asked her what the play was about and she mused...
'Well, it's about Gen X, it's a little sad and a little hilarious.'
The Gen Y barman replied, 'Oh, so just like Gen X then, really.'
'Ouch!' she said as she stood there...
'OUCH!' she said as she walked away....
Lucinda - a little sad and a little hilarious and a little bit SLASH.
Melita: Artist of The Week: Griffin Theatre's blog!
In case you missed Melita as 'Artist of the Week' on Griffin Theatre Company's blog last week, here's the repost:
What are you working on currently?
I’ve just handed in the locked down script
for my play Crushed, which starts
rehearsal on Monday. I had the luxury of a month of staggered script workshops
with the cast, director and dramatrug. We workshopped each scene on the floor,
questioned relationship and action lines, rewrote chewy dialogue and sharpened
the turning points. The actors start rehearsal knowing that any further changes
are going to be super slight. How awesome is that for an independent
production?
Who, or what, inspires you to create?
Well, I love my country.
Call me unfashionable or just plain downright weird, but I really love this
country! I don’t have a Southern Cross tatt, I hate sport, and I’ve never
gambled, but there’s an essential part of me that feels such a strong
connection to this place, to our stories. I started writing for theatre because
I felt a strong pull to tell the many stories of this beautiful, fraught and
complex country that I am so proud to call my home.
What was the most interesting thing you saw recently?
I’m a bit obsessed with Brene Brown at the
moment. I recently caught her TED talk and it still hasn’t left me. Brene’s a research
professor who studies vulnerability and shame. ‘Only when we are brave enough
to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.’ I’m
writing a new play called Goodnight Moon
and in that context, her work reaffirms much about the human condition. It’s charged
me to want to write flawed, vulnerable and very confused characters!
Passing the TED love on:
What is the best piece of advice that you've been given?
Margot Nash, my screenwriting mentor at UTS,
said to me, ‘Don’t listen too much.’ She was talking about listening to
feedback. Feedback can get in the way. I’ve learnt this the hard way! Ultimately,
I’ve learnt to trust my own impulses and tell the story my heart wants to tell.
I think of what Margot said every time I go into a script workshop.
Who, past or present, would you like to share a meal with and why?
Berthe Morisot. She was a French Impressionist
painter. I saw quite a few of her paintings when I was living in Paris. Berthe
was good friends with Manet and also sat for him. In those paintings, there’s a
delicious unspoken relationship that plays out between Berthe, the sitter, and
Manet, the artist. (I might be writing about this)… They were both married, but
I totally reckon they did it. I’d ask her if they did it. And if she has a good
recipe for homemade pate.
Thursday, 19 April 2012
Pooky and Boo Boo
My husband Rob and I live in a state-of-the-art Spaceline display home near the Beauty Bay Shopping Concourse.
We have two Airedale Terriers called Pooky and Boo Boo.
Pooky and Boo Boo.
It's been a dream of mine to breed Airedales. Their temperament is energetic and boisterous. We cemented over the backyard and bought cages in preparation for breeding, but it was not meant to be as the council didn’t approve our application. I still go to the breeding shows run by DOGS NSW now and again and imagine what could have been...
Pooky and Boo Boo are my consolation after long days at Beauty Bay LAC. As the Susie Greene case has been getting more intense it's such a joy to come home to these personality PLUS creatures and forget about the worries of the world!!!!!!
Pooky and Boo Boo are my consolation after long days at Beauty Bay LAC. As the Susie Greene case has been getting more intense it's such a joy to come home to these personality PLUS creatures and forget about the worries of the world!!!!!!
Keep Yourself Safe.
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