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Foam still wraps the dividers on the fresh walkway block of The Studio. New jutting from the old and even the windows claim the off cuts of recent work to the glass installations. People are filing in with an apparent float on beer and champagne. Tables on the floor straight up sign this work to be a cabaret style affair.
No apparent need for actual tickets as the psychic paper works well enough in the face of the lost. Watching on, the cold of the air conditioning cools things down quick. Too quick for some and the night is still day outside for an early performance before the sunset.
Broken circuit city ushers with exceptionally long eyelashes and wires jutting out all over the foyer of The Studio set up the freaky nature of the night. Mute and jerky, the women bump about handing out disclaimer forms; signing the waivers probably optional. Nobody checks them nor do they inspect tickets on the way into the dark of the floor.
No seats save for a few benches around the edge. Older set taking them up in a snap. From the very start Emergence breaks in the hint that the movement and participation of the audience is vital to the enjoyment and running of the production. Still, there are a couple of guys sitting on the centre stage waiting for the action to begin. Action which starts as soon as the ushers show them outside the white circle.
Barely a foot over the threshold into the Foyer, just outside both the Playhouse and The Studio, an usher directs all on a path toward the cloaking area. With not even a pause for a breath or to negotiate a waffle cone over the tongue and down the throat, the hustle is over and potential bombs safely put away. Collection tags still reek of a system in disorder with speed of retrieval on gestures from patrons.
Popcorn crams a mighty load into the nostrils as the audience locate their seats. A smooth and ambient jazz click tripping the soundtrack of a disquiet air. Popping out from The Bedroom, clearly marked on the white wall stage door, hosts Glenn (Shaun Parker) and Rhonda Flune (Veronica Neave) greet the guests. Offering cans of VB to the many, one finds herself holding a bowl of popcorn, salted beyond taste.
Rest of the review of Blue Love - The Studio, Sydney Opera House - 04/08/05
Relief stems the throat and sweat of Chris Addison as he prepares for the final stretch of this feature presentation, Civilization. Three more to go, he says, delighted at the prospect of finally taking to rest this show of his. Within the relaxing and intimate atmosphere, Addison strikes up an instant rapport, chatting calmly with the audience after the loud hush of the introduction.
With the title of the show clear from the start, the night rolls into a serious of markers and lessons in deconstructing the construction of a civilization. Control of the universe, the rules and rulers, cities and monetary concerns, just some of the chapters through the night. Taking points along the way, Addison briefs those in attendance with naked facts and opinions dressed in the furry overcoat of a wry style of delivery and acerbic observation.
Rest of the review of Chris Addison - Civilization - The Studio, Sydney Opera House - 29/04/05
Two hours before the crazy xylophones even start banging away, the man at the box office says that the Maria Bamford show is "pretty much sold out," as he spits out two tickets to The Studio. Back row, up on the side of the mezzanine. Down in the pit, with the chairs at the tables all taken to with drinks, rows of seats are on a toilet break. Holes here and there seriously rubbing doubtful gasps on the claim at capacity.
Nothing spectacular announces the performance, outside the booming voice, standard fare. Maria Bamford is a woman with an amazingly wild head of hair. So much so that at times it's not even certain if there is even a face underneath it all. Thoughts quickly taken outside with the rabid dog as her lips and eyes poke out at intervals and clears the way for certain characters from within.
Xylophone frenzy warns those stuck in the box office queue that the show will be on within a few minutes. High note beats back against a low note and the one-upping seems to hold on to a little pea of crazy. Effeminate-man walks along asking for pre-paids to hand out tickets to and spills a lie about the good seats still on offer for the unfortunates saddled with being last in line. Their seats are directly opposite on the other side of the mezzanine, looking down into a pit of round tables filled with drinks and grey-haired people. Turtle-woman at one of the tables below sets the scene for the night with a freakishly disproportionate head against a large body. Estimated age for the night is a generous 54.
Directly opposite the ukulele-shaped stage, a man tries on and wears a French-styled accent for the night. "Presenting for you, The Burlesque Hour…"
Rest of the review of The Burlesque Hour - The Studio, Sydney Opera House - 02/11/04
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