At the Abandoned Quilt Factory in Brunswick, which was a little less straightforward to get to than I expected. Also, a little cooler.
But pretty awesome space, and particularly suited to the mood of this piece. Whimsy, melancholy, grief, that peculiar relief that comes from knowing where you are, knowing that this is what things are.
The performers are Splatt and Lark. They are both good. Solid with the mime and the puppets. The show plays with the separation between the puppet and the puppeteers, which I particularly loved. Also, between the conceit of the staging and the realism of the relationship.
It also has a fantastic soundtrack. And some vivid imagery.
There’s a YouTube video bit about this piece. I got to see it in Syndey when I was there to see the Biennale.
I was stunned. It was brilliant. I’d forgotten that dance could do that. Or, well, not really, but. Because the music is not all, well, music, the dance responds to the soundscape more so than the music supporting the dance.
It’s a piece about “what happens when Alien and Predator movie fans vent via YouTube.” That’s the description from the Opera House website: here. I don’t know whether the YouTube reviewers are aware that they are now part of this.
I think that this piece could be full length, just because there is a depth of possible analysis of the movie franchise and the fanbase, but it works excellently as it is. The ending is sharp, and a joke that I got because I’m involved in media fandom online. (In fact, almost all I know about Alien and Predator comes from general fandom absorbed knowledge – character in fanfic making references and people discussing Prometheus.) At one point, during a series of quotes from the films, a man in the third road stood up and got the lines about being on his way to work and “can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?”. It was a perfect way the break the work. Some people had already started laughing, including me, with the delight of it all, and the bemused affection with which we encounter other people’s fannishness.