Fuddy Meers - Darlinghurst Theatre Company - 11/05/05

Ethan Switch - Thursday, 12 May 2005 - Print Version

General admission seating in the Darlinghurst Theatre. Rows of red with names on the backs in gold plating. No hideaway space for legs underneath the seats. Standing up to allow the passing of others from the aisle toward the walls leave the feet splaying nowhere and banging harsh up against the wood.

A woman remains asleep on the cheap bed in the middle of the floor as the night's patrons casually fill in the theatre. A questionable hush flows from the audience as dull lights gently pulsate and flick on and off. She's not getting up, even with the clinking of glass flutes and trendy boots.

Stage lights brighten, audience lights dim and the alarm clock buzzes. Finally, she's awake. The show starts.

Waking up from the bed is Claire (Rebecca Rocheford Davies), a victim of a circular case of psychogenic amnesia. With absolutely no memory of the 24 hours previous, every day she wakes up offers her a relatively blank slate. Save for trickles of memory that would pop up to serve the story. As would be in any case, and as would be in this case.

Her husband, Richard Fiffle (David Terry), brings her and the audience up to speed with her condition and the state of her recyclable day. Luckily, today is a day she starts to remember fragments. Or it could be like any other day. Who knows. It's not like they have a serial going, so it's anyone's guess.

Events that transpire would seem to indicate that no, it's not all too regular. A departure from times of knowing before. Something different in her life, and the people in the rows are here to pay witness.

Things happen, a story develops, characters enter and actual bacon strips fly through the window.

Running with the wily and limping Limping Man (Andrew Crowley) is Millet (James Studdert). A man whose hand puppet is stitched up with a foul mouth that takes away a lot from the calmer deliveries. Overshock kills the senses.

Gertie (Susannah Hardy), Claire's mother, is a stroke victim and seriously tests the patience with her nearly there words and "stroke speak." God damn woman, what the hell are you saying? Her speech pattern, however, is pivotal in understanding the significance of the titular fuddy meers.

Shifting and converting props and furniture makes minimal fuss in execution. Watching the limping man—who at times goes by Phil—start the show by packing up a bed and turning it into a car seat is a little weird. Especially as he carries on a conversation with Claire all the while.

Dropping in from the rafters from time to time is a steering wheel to complete various car scene instalments. No deviation along the roads are possible with the straight as an arrow column broken into one stare. It's madness and highly conducive to crashes. As is lighting up a reefer without proper extraction air conditioning.

Whether or not they're using real smoking props is never in doubt. Hardy sniffles and sideways snorts come on in a covert manner as Claire's son, Kenny (James St. John Cox) tokes a doobie/licks a roach/kisses mary jane/etc. Nice and relaxing, he keeps the edge off as the wildness runs all around him. Though it does start smelling like certain Newtown offices with no labels or signs. Good times, high times.

There's a cop in all this, Heidi (Naomi Fryer), sporting a highway patrol officer's uniform that looks more like a cheap rent-a-minute security guard's. Or a stripper from nearby Kings Cross. Delivery of her accent comes from the side of the mouth and bashes in all sorts of nuances and inflections. It's American for the non-Americans.

The walls of white padding surely must say something more than to serve as a generic backdrop for various scene changes. From the basement, to the bedroom to a kitchen, it's an all out insane asylum with wallpaper to match. And it's a close fit to the style of the play, a bouncing ruckus through various scenes and locations.

A massive climax of fury and noise sounds out the first half of the show. No real break is seen as the intermission itself is broken and act two swings back the show. The re-introduction into the flow is the stuff of fun.

What the hell is happening with the spotlights? They glare here, they glare there, and not always in line with stage directions. Eyes are left bleeding and the brain is left reeling.

Playwright David Lindsay-Abaire is an American so it's no wonder that it's an American show. It's the accents that keep reminding everyone of that fact, even if it seems that at times they push a little too hard to keep on the Yankee side of the tongue. It's almost patronising. They seem on edge.

Crafting a web of relations and conclusions, it takes a while before the whole tapestry of the play really comes close to fruition. The pay off is one that isn't overt, relying more on rewarding those who pay attention and remember little things throughout the night.

Ethan Switch