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Free flowing flutes with bubbly billowing out of the huge white doors of the Stables Theatre. No smashing of glasses and a house facing front toward the Theatre crashes out with its arm hanging in the gutter, the belt is still clean and tight around the upper arm.
Cabanossi cubes chat with the crackers on one plate as severed lamington fingers get the cold shoulder from the biscuits on another. Odd tasting beetroot dip goes head-to-head against the curry flavour and its the latter that wins with a drool slick coming off the edges. Wetness and a sinking feeling for the bright red loser in this competition.
Rest of the review of Griffin Award - The Stables Theatre - 03/08/06
Ten minutes before the thrusting rush of people, the box office of the Stables Theatre tends to one man looking rather out of stride. Calmly and cooly the situation resolves itself in those dead minutes before the throng. Situation taking care of itself like the self serving asexual star fish.
Questions on burlesque theatre kill a few seconds and make for tentative and wary glances. Lesbians are on the loose and the people are reading about the adventures with a barcode and price tag in the corner. Yet, there remains no one behind any sort of counter collecting the toll. Onward and upward with vague suggestions.
Rest of the review of Speedy Mustard - by Marty Murphy - SBW Stables Theatre - 27/04/06
Sold out for the final preview night, the air in the Stables Theatre ranks of the wrinkle in the many faces around the box office. Air conditioning donation requests are all over the place, dangling with a sickly shine under the laminate.
Scrawlings of peaches and all various incoherent babble for insiders takes over the walls of the theatre and stage. From varieties in the field to notes on cultivation and succulence, a concerted effort with the words moving not one smudge to heavy heads hitting the back wall. Silver and black, not moving a tack.
Rest of the review of The Peach Season - by Debra Oswald - SBW Stables Theatre - 14/03/06
Sleeping ghosts lie awake at night writing epitaphs on their own tombstones. Coordination of tickets for the first production of the year at the Stables Theatre trips up against the holidays. Seconds later and with doubles in hand, a stand against the back drop of a blank wall with cards and posters adorning. Familiar types of people flock with their Bundies and wine glasses, their mutterings overcrowding.
A man tries to impart the experience of a recent read. Lynne Truss' Talk to the Hand: The Utter Bloody Rudeness of the World Today, or Six Good Reasons to Stay Home and Bolt the Door. Numerous shots at interjection and insertion into the flow of conversation are shot down. Time and again, the core values of the book fall short and require the constant propping of reiteration. The man is in loop.
Rest of the review of The United States of Nothing - SBW Stables Theatre - 06/01/06
Free alcohol blocks the entrance of the Stables Theatre. Chattering drunks move, mill and mull like horses ready to stud and make expensively cheap glue. Women, men, all the same. Plastic cups in hand, they watch each other's eyes turn pink and flush their systems with copious amounts of ghostless spirits.
People collecting tickets best watch out for the women with overbearing breasts and men with cock-forth crotches; eager to rise concern, slow in allowing passage to the box office. Anything that comes between them, the liquor and the floor are bound for stares of contempt.
hundred hours comes and goes. The noise in the waiting area of the Stables Theatre would suggest that Hurlyburly might actually be a think piece with the audience providing their own action and spectacle. A scene wherein the hurly-burly of the performance stems from the frustration of the patrons as they wait and wait for the cast to set up the stage.
None of that really is. The show just happens to be running late. By at least thirty minutes. On opening night.
Rest of the review of Hurlyburly - The Group Theatre - SBW Stables Theatre - 12/05/05
With a self-inflicted map in the back pocket of a sweaty palm, locating the Stables Theatre on Nimrod Street might prove to be a challenge. The neon lights of Kings Cross blind the eyes and ears in every direction. Street signs pointing here and there momentarily match up with the scrawls to line a clear trail up behind a steep incline. Up the hill and around a side street, converted stables and a window right into the bedroom of someone's home. They would already be asleep if only the person standing outside would just move along.
Red wood lines the nostrils of the box office foyer. A lone man with meticulous facial stylings handles the ticket sales. Tickets which are nothing more than simple raffle stubs stamped with the date—valid only on the night of performance. Take two, ever in the light of everybody disappearing for family gatherings on a day between a strike of public holidays thanks in large part to the undead. All without notice. Strange.
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