The Marvellous Elephant Man is a comedic re-imagining of the real-life story of Joseph Merrick, a man who suffered the indignity of being exhibited as a ‘freak’ in the 1800’s, a time when society felt it acceptable to make the misfortune of others a spectacle for privileged amusement… oh wait.

Current social commentary aside, the Marvellous Elephant Man is first and foremost a musical. I mean musical in every sense of the word – musical, musical… musical. We are introduced to the ensemble and the main characters, Nurse Hope, reminiscent of GiGi, a young virginal woman being pushed by her family into marrying “up”, Dr Frederick Treves the shallow narcissistic surgeon who is the “catch” and of course Joseph Merrick the sweet, intellectual and misunderstood Elephant Man.

The cast is incredibly strong, and while this show is perfectly suited to the famous Speiegeltent, these performers would easily be at home on a much more prestigious stage. Clark is a remarkable tenor, he embodies the sweet and sorrowful Merrick in his quest to free himself from his unfortunate position. Anneliese Hall portrays Nurse Hope and is every bit the downtrodden Disney princess type, but the indisputable standout of the show is Kanen Breen as he personifies the villain Treaves. He is perfect as the baddy that you love to hate however, he does not completely steal the show, owing to the strength of the other performers.

While I see this has received rave reviews elsewhere, I couldn’t help but to feel like the central storyline was just Emma/Beauty and the Beast/any teen movie where the cool character realises that they like the person who they actually have things in common with rather than the vapid idiot they had romanticised in the first place. This however wasn’t really the problem, after all, Clueless was still great. The main problem was, for me, the gags all seemed to be a bit single tone, mostly dick jokes.

The production was excellent in pretty much every other way, and the writing wasn’t poor, but it had the opportunity to be so much more with the source material and the vantage point of 2023.

– Tamara Haines

In the modern fringe and festival scene, acrobatics, lights, and glamour often take center stage, but the most memorable nights can be found on a simple small stage where storytelling creates magic. A Place That Belongs to Monsters is a beautiful example of well-crafted and beautifully performed theatre that transports you to another time and place.

Casey Jay Andrews is utterly captivating, recounting the stories of four women at different stages in their lives, each dealing with their own internal struggles in an unfair and unkind world. Loosely inspired by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, these narratives traverse the ubiquitous human experiences of grief, rebellion, defiance, compassion, bravery, and determination.

These characters are ones you can get behind. You immediately become wrapped up in their individual plights, curious about where they will end up next and how they will ultimately fare. As the story switches between each character, Andrews seamlessly picks up where she left off, taking you back to the courageous little girl, the complicated lovestruck teen, the lady in her thirties dealing with loss, and the elderly woman on her personal pilgrimage. The original soundtrack by George Jennings perfectly punctuates the path each tale takes.

All roads converge as the various horses lead the characters to the same location but to very different places.

A Place That Belongs to Monsters evokes a great nostalgia for a bygone era of magical moments at the Elizabeth St Factory, Tuxedo Cat, Depot, La Boheme, or any of the other small random holes in the wall of the past fringes that hosted memorable pieces of whimsy and delight. These are the type of stories that stay with you, poetic and spellbinding, capturing your heart for an hour and hopefully taking up a space in your memories for years to come.

– Tamara Haines

Electric Dreams: Torrent is an immersive and multi-sensory experience that transports its audience to a different reality. From the moment you enter the darkened entranceway, you are greeted by the familiar sounds of electronic music, setting the stage for the visually stunning performance to come. The star-filled screen emblazoned with the word TORRENT and the red carpet lead you into a space filled with projections of an outer-space other world, creating an alternate reality that is both familiar and fantastical.

The performance is presented in a small and intimate area with limited seats and sitting room, in stark contrast to the large-scale digital art experiences offered by Illuminate Adelaide. Instead, Electric Dreams: Torrent is more reminiscent of 2020’s Yabarra – Dreaming in Light, with its unique combination of spoken-word poetry, original music, digital art projection, and live dance using motion-capture technology.

The visual highlight of the performance is the precise contemporary-style dance of Stefaan Morrow, whose every move is replicated by a digital shadow dancer made up of shimmering dust particles. The dancers’ movements are followed by their respective on-screen shadows, which morph from dust to water as they traverse different landscapes. This is all set against the backdrop of a new spoken word performance piece by Yankunytjatjara/Kokotha poet Ali Cobby Eckermann.

The performance is exquisitely executed by the highly trained and talented dancers, choreographed by fellow South Australian, Lewis Major. Though the work is short, it is masterfully crafted and combines so many beautifully delivered components that the audience will not feel short-changed.

Electric Dreams: Torrent is an immersive and visually stunning performance that combines spoken-word poetry, original music, digital art projection, and live dance to create a unique and captivating experience. It is the perfect mid-week escape for anyone looking to be transported to another reality, even if only for a short while.

– Tamara Haines

Swamplesque, formerly a sold-out show at the Fringe, is a burlesque twist on the epic adventure of Shrek, Donkey, Princess Fiona, and Lord Farquaad. Unlike some tribute-style shows, Swamplesque does not rely solely on the audience’s affection for the source material; rather, it delivers a high-energy performance with a soundtrack that perfectly complements the show’s energy.

The performance features the main characters and supporting cast of the original movie, notably the Gingerbread Man complete with gumdrop nipple covers. Swamplesque covers all the classic parts of burlesque, including strip tease, bump and grind, tassels, and assels, and executes them brilliantly with on-point choreography and exceptional costumes.

Each cast member has their chance to shine, and the show follows the narrative of Shrek while pausing on moments like the Magic Mirror struggling with that existential question of ‘who am I’ while disco-style dancing to Michael Jackson‘s Man in the Mirror. The coupling of classic pop bangers to dynamic dancing is a crowd pleaser, with many audience members singing along and creating a burlesque sing-a-long atmosphere.

The only drawback of the show is the seating arrangement at the Flamingo, which makes it difficult to see all the floor work from the middle of the crowd. However, future performances could encourage the audience to get up and rock the concert-style atmosphere of the show. Swamplesque is an exceptional show with talented performers and deserves to be experienced in a fully immersive way.

– Tamara Haines

Ever since Bass Fam Creative burst onto the scene with their fiery debut, the smash hit Matador they have been one to watch. Quickly gaining a reputation for high production value, engaging storytelling, impeccable choreography and precise performance, their follow-up Oracle continued to wow audiences at the Adelaide Fringe.

This year they have return with Mansion and true to form they have created an enthralling misadventure into a ghoulish nightmare.
Mel Walker tragically lost her husband in unexpected circumstances and she packs up her two children Levi and Rachel to start afresh in new place.

However, they soon learn that they cannot outrun their grief and instead of finding a place of safety, they are both haunted and seduced by the grim history of the Mansion.

Set to a soundtrack of hit songs that have been broken down and reimagined into dark dramatic pieces, Mansion engulfs the audience in the emotionally intense narrative of a family who have descended into a battle for their sanity and possibly even their lives against the sinister spirits that now surround them every day.

This is all delivered through a mix of acrobatics, contemporary dance, ballet and projection expertly executed in intricate and nightmarish costumes. The Walker family embody the fear, stress and chaos of their situation and their tormentors are powerfully frightening, eliciting more than one jump and shriek from the audience. One of the more perplexing things is the undercurrent of sensual energy that permeates even the more gruesome sequences yet this works seamlessly for this sightly burlesque dance genre.

From beginning to end this is a show that will captivate you while keeping you slightly on edge. Part horror show, part tragedy, part love story and part family reunion, Mansion is the haunted house you will want to visit.

– Tamara Haines

Robertson and Jones’ biopic of New Zealand’s Mother of the Nation, Whina begins in 1975 with a powerful shot of Rena Owen standing with fierce optimism. With a cinematic merging of gender and land themes, 1895 saw Whina Cooper being born into this loss of land, while distinctly labelled ‘not a boy’ at birth. Whina embodied her activism in the fight for female presence to lead societal change by marching the length of the North Island to Parliament House, bringing unity and recognition of Māori land rights. The 640km march allowed the Māori people to finally be seen and heard by ‘waking up the consciousness of the pakeha’ (English settlers). Compensation began and continues because of this outcry from the Māori.

Whina is compiled of scenes flitting back and forth across eras spanning 1895 – 1975, not always with fluidity. Considering the connection to land holding paramount importance to her story, and New Zealand being known for its rugged terrain, Leon Narbey’s cinematography surprisingly didn’t spotlight this expansive element. A reverence for the land was lost in this decision as a recurring quote adds to this sentiment, ‘land is permanent, people disappear’. A cinematic highlight, however, was the inclusion of real footage from the 1975 march, holding the greatest emotion for me as it spoke of Whina and her actions as the beacon for not only her people, but Indigenous communities worldwide. Another touching scene was Bennett heralding McDowell as chief by a moonlit window; this composition created a stunning display of his intimacy and belief in her sacred duty. The plot clearly held themes of the burden of leadership and the tender balance needed to mediate communication between different authorities and worldviews. A pattern emerged of shots panning from elite shoes up to the person, reflecting this continual play with power.

While the themes of Whina’s life and her fight for Indigenous and gendered equality resonate, there was little connection to character. The intergenerational, gendered and religious tensions were strongly felt, yet Owen and McDowell’s portrayals lacked originality. Time after time, Whina was shamed and exiled from land and community and yet the pace of the film didn’t allow us to truly connect with her turmoil, instead check-boxing key events. Considering the historical weight of her life and the events for the Māori, I felt there was little room to honour cultural presence. Thankfully, the craftsmanship of the wood carved guardians provided meaningful commentary on Māori healing, opposing the colonisation of their sacred beliefs; this dissonance between religion and culture was an important feature.

Although the historical significance will remain close to the viewers, the overall production of Whina felt somewhat tired and predictable. I was left wanting more connection to place and people, as Dame Whina Cooper ONZ DBE clearly personified in her 98 year fight.

– Abi Catchlove

In Lukas Dhont’s aptly titled Close, everything about it is tactile; the friendship between Leo (Eden Dambrine) and Remi (Gustav de Waele), the handling of flowers, brotherly connection, parental comfort, all drawing us emotionally close as we experience the omnipresence and dynamism of grief from a slow build-up of losses. This dance of closeness, and cleverly closure, begins playfully, with a secretive look into their make-believe, putting an instant smile on my face. The ease of play is demonstrated in an achingly natural dynamic between the young boys. We observe an intimacy between them, and intergenerationally as they intertwine limbs, banter and flop over their respective parents, the physical affection, palpable.

The Belgian drama holds a seemingly singular narrative, and then transitions into two realities, leaking into multiple lived experiences. The use of a bilingual screenplay (French and occasionally Dutch) is perhaps in reference to the journey of these two worlds of Remi and Leo; similar and near to each other, but ultimately different. The plot stays close to the characters’ response to an event that pulls the depths of intimacy and culpability into question.

Dambrine introduces us to Leo with longing looks of adoration for Remi. Throughout the course of Close, we continue to study him observing the world as he expertly portrays the painfully familiar territory of adapting to shifting inter-relational dynamics and new worlds, the most prominent being high school. As he navigates rumours of sexuality, his blushing says enough. De Waele is equally lovable as Remi, his innocence highlighted in contrast to the verbose adolescence in their new school setting. The normalcy of their connection with each other is challenged and through Dhont and Angelo Tijssens’ easeful screenplay, we are invited into a world that holds both familiarity and awkwardness. Their combined discomfort and eagerness to belong thrusts the viewer back into that lens of insecurity and this relentless watching of ‘other’ to determine one’s own behaviour, highlighting us as creatures of observation, ultimately for survival.

The impenetrable force of peer pressure is present through both Dambrine and de Waele’s agile performances as we witness the growing silent anxiety between them, mostly through their once soft and loving gazes, now looks heavy with insecurity and confusion. In this way, they embody their emotionality to captivate the audience; their faces are books and we are eagerly reading what’s to come. We are left with the painful unreliability of even best friends being able to hold loyalty and connection. This is viscerally clear in their play/tackle scene that features how energies can merge and oppose; in a minute movement, everything is changed.

Frank van den Eeden’s cinematography is faultless. The storytelling is both intimate and expansive as we move from faces to fields. Our understanding is determined by where the camera leads us, what it chooses to reveal. Van den Eeden’s commitment to showing us the listener rather than the speaker, the response rather than the telling, is ultimately what engages and immerses the audience to empathise and reflect.

The interplay of internal and external worlds, both the said and greatly unspoken, have an all-encompassing impact on the plot and our response to it; it makes me simultaneously quiet and want to debrief what’s surfacing immediately. This desire to release my own perceptions of the film is reflective of how enveloping Close is, implosive, even. There are countless shots of quiet beauty; paired sleepers under light shards, scenes of pause to lean into presence, internal turmoil reflected in the pummeling cycle of the dahlia flower farm; exposing the necessary destruction and decay that is imitated in our psyche. The juxtaposition of the ice hockey aggression speaks to us of Leo’s new independence and bonds, and jolts us into understanding that their friendship isn’t all-encompassing, after all.

Valentin Hadjadj’s pensive score flows in and out of the narrative, providing a thread through Remi’s concert and the wider storyline. Equally, the use of quietness offers an important balance to reflect upon the fall of connection.

Through Leo and Remi’s closeness, we are invited to sit with reverence and witness the depth of love and dizzying heartbreak. A resounding ache took up residence in my chest throughout Close, opening me up to feelings I haven’t experienced within a cinematic space before. It has easily secured itself as one of the most outstanding films I’ve seen to date. This portrait of connection stays, it is both touching and excruciating as it contemplates the anguish that is reserved for friendship and shows us that sometimes only in looking back, can we move forward.

– Abi Catchlove

I like Kill Bill. I like Kick Ass. I like Deadpool. These films deliver fast action sequences, humorous dialogue, lovable anti-heroes, clever concepts, – excessive, almost comical amounts of blood and gore – all while suspending reality long enough to engross you in a world where a fatal fight could be around any corner.

Yugo Sakamoto’s Baby Assassins is a femme-forward, low-budget take on the assassin-for-hire action genre. Two teenage girls, the bubbly, bright and extroverted Chisato (Akari Takaishi) and the sullen and introverted Mahilo (Saori Izawa) are not quite yet 20, graduating high school and navigating the world trying to look ‘normal’ when they are anything but. They live together, try to hold down regular day jobs and sometimes struggle to remember where they stashed their guns for their next hit.

Chasato relishes the chance to get out into the world, make friends and experience new things while Mahilo really doesn’t see the point of it all. Together they support each other through the mundane reality of life, dealing with people making small talk, working out what to have for dinner all the while – killing people on practically a daily basis.

A spanner is thrown into the works when they cross paths with the Yakuza and have to balance regular life, killing for profit and killing for survival.
Yes, let’s be clear, the film is low budget, the combination of wide angle and hand held camera work was purposeful and true to the genre even though not as masterfully executed as its high budget counterparts however I believe this combined with a heavy rock soundtrack and a whole lot of blood just added to the overall charm.

There are no huge themes or greater meanings however there is a strong exploration of female friendships, some commentary on modern gender dynamics and of course, a lot of action. This might not be one that will win high praise from film critics but as far as a night in with a giant bag of popcorn goes, you can’t go too wrong with this bucket of fun.

– Tam Haines

With Sengedorj Janchivdorj’s iconic style in showcasing Mongolia’s urban youth culture, The Sales Girl has a promising start with a slow pan of a banana peel awaiting the inevitable slip. The plot follows Saruul (Bayarjargal Bayartsetseg) and her quiet evolution from student to sex shop sales girl, under the wing of Katya (Oidovjamts Enkhtuul). Their haphazard alliance traverses sex positivity, classism and how grief can shape us. While there is joy in witnessing cosmopolitan insights into Mongolian culture, the plot meanders over two hours, feeling mildly disjointed, with a lacking ratio of follow-through with threads across a surplus of themes.

Janchivdorj’s gentle cinematography makes for easy viewing and in fact features the quiet mundane moments, one of my favourite scenes being Bayartsetseg’s dancing hands in the bath. This created a breath between shots and was seemingly there, purely for beauty’s sake. I was present in it. Coupled with this intimacy were playful, expansive scenes, hinting towards the more familiar backdrop of rugged Mongolia. The dream sequence flickers, banana segment, lip syncing interludes and name labels plastered on screen were a collection of ideas that somehow felt unfinished, or at least didn’t go far enough, leaving me to ponder the creative rationale.

Dulguun Bayasgalan’s score is easily the highlight of the production, making me want to listen to the soundtrack on a bus or while walking and feel everyday settings transform into cinematic ‘coolness’ just as Saruul embodied. This speaks to how music experienced in headphones can very quickly create an ‘indie’ version of ourselves as we go about our day.

Bayartsetseg portrayed effortless chemistry in her interactions on screen, while Enkhtuul presented the categorically lavish Katya with wont poise. I wasn’t sure I believed the relationship between Saruul and Katya, not reflective of their acting abilities, but rather from a potentially shallow plot in which genuine connection lacked; Saruul seemed to have excellent relationships with herself and her parents which made me wonder what drew her to Katya in particular; what deficiency was she needing to fill?

All things considered, perhaps the narrative is meant to hold minor detail, as Janchivdorj invites us to simply enjoy the array of creative expressions through music, lighting, edits and visual art to consider what figures we look to in our ‘coming of age’? What are our influences and who do we influence in turn? As Katya comments, in our youth we look for meaning, and as we age we search for truth. Thus it is fitting that The Sales Girl offers lighthearted glimpses into both meaning and truth, to be enjoyed by all ages, as reflected in securing Best Film in the 2022 New York Asian Film Festival.

– Abi Catchlove

Saeed Roustaee offers us a pensive beginning to Leila’s Brothers, showcasing Saeed Poursamimi as the patriarch of the Iranian Jourablou family. We are then quickly launched into an aggressive introduction of other family members with chaotic tension moving between electric shock massage and factory rioting; the pain and fear, visceral. These settings lay out an analysis of only the powerful having a voice; a theme that is exemplified throughout as the family spirals into deeper poverty. This demise pulls ritual into question, explores the debilitating impacts of maintaining a patriarch, and highlights the costs and benefits of tradition, and the intergenerational pressures of reputation within community.

The Jourablou family-scape provides a tumultuous space in which Roustaee presents larger systemic themes, such as power structures, mortality, poverty, and agency (or lack of); pushing and pulling the audience in a mostly engaging momentum. The occasional theatre-like blocking of characters is visually appealing, especially in intense dialogue scenes between the more rational siblings, Leila (Taraneh Alidoosti) and Alireza (Navid Mohammadzadeh). Their relationship is pivotal in the moral dilemmas the family faces and their connection is pure and fervent. Questions of who holds families together (also demonstrated in the title itself), who’s to blame for misfortune, and who dictates our lives (the dead man’s presence is felt) are held and explored through Alidoosti’s fierce performance and Mohammadzadeh’s keen loyalty to the family microcosm. Poursamimi’s portrayal of the father and his relationship with ego, humiliation, delusion and the teetering nature of power is frustrating, in the best of ways. His stubbornness divides the family and tests the viewer’s compassion. The wider family members play into stereotypes, often with buffoon characterisation, providing comic relief from the growing narrative strain.

Hooman Behmanesh’s intimate cinematography reveals the potent unsaid, especially between Alidoosti and Mohammadzadeh. Their key scenes hold and carry the narrative forward with striking angles and positions in both set and character, deepening the tension aesthetically and thematically. Coupled with quiet takes of Poursamimi in the small daily moments, a picture is created of the complexity of their family dynamic, highlighting their opposing perspectives and interplay between tenderness and agitation. The final scene is exquisite, the lack of dialogue bookends Leila’s Brothers in a way that leaves the audience with an unexpected sense of acceptance.

Roustaee’s screenplay provides punchy commentary, ‘poverty makes you lose confidence and look stupid’ reflecting the alive and kicking class system, combined with family truths, ‘you were taught what to think, not how to think’. The multi-themed storyline results in a long and at times slow viewing. Yet, maybe this is a necessary and intentional build-up by Roustaee to create layers of stress, depth and epic repercussions to encompass the gravity felt by Leila, her brothers and maybe many Iranian families. I did wonder though if the early contextual scenes to Leila and Alireza were needed for the overall plot, as they held a different energy and direction to the remainder of the film.

I was anticipating the film to delve more into the societal layers of patriarchy, however by Roustaee skillfully weaving these threads within a familial context, he highlights a relatability and enables space for the audience to translate at a macro level if we wish. Moreover, this might invite us to question ourselves at a more intimate level as we reflect on our own family structures, dynamics and how we choose to navigate conflicting needs.

– Abi Catchlove