MANAGING CARMEN
MANAGING CARMEN, Ensemble Theatre, 6 December 2012-26 January; Glen St Theatre 30 January-9 February; Joan Sutherland Performing Arts Centre, Penrith 13-16 February 2013. Photos by Natalie Boog: l-r Morgana O'Reilly, Glenn Hazeldine, David Hynes, Leigh Scully and Rachel Gordon; right: Glenn Hazeldine.
Glenn Hazeldine is very good at splenetic rage and near-apoplexy, which means he spends a fair amount of time being alarmingly funny in David Williamson's bitter-sweet new comedy, Managing Carmen. Hazeldine plays Rohan, business manager of superstar footballer Brent (Leigh Scully), a man with the off-field charisma of a tree trunk.
Brent is just 24, captain of his team, already a dual Brownlow medallist and touted as the greatest ever AFL player; but it's 2012 and that's just not enough. If he's to capitalise on his earning potential he has to perform off the park too, and there he's a dud. He can't sell himself nor the sponsor's products and as quickly as corporations line up to sign him, they disappear the moment they see how hopeless he is at what really matters: the spruik.
More than that, he's also a flop in the cot. Despite good looks, a great body and gangs of women flinging themselves at his feet he's incapable of faking that either. Rohan has already resorted to buying him a girlfriend, the lubricious wannabe-WAG, Clara (Morgana O'Reilly). She lives in the star's Bay-side pad but exhibits all the charm and sensitivity of a St Kilda Road tart; it's not working. The photos in the social pages tell a story of two people talking different body languages. You don't have to be a linguist to spot it and tabloid sports hack Max (David Hynes) sniffs a smelly story, if he can just work out what it is.
In despair after yet another potential money-spinning client walks away, Rohan hires Jessica (Rachel Gordon). She's a corporate psychologist and is tasked with finding and bringing out Brent's inner Brando. It's an uphill battle but she eventually discovers his secret: he's a closet cross-dresser. And in a scene of delicious high farce, Clara discovers it too when she walks in on him parading around in one of her frocks.
The race is on to "cure" him of his addiction to designer schmutter before the odious Max finds out. It is at this point that disbelief and and any other kind of logic has to be suspended if the evening is to be enjoyed. Leaving aside whether cross-dressing is or isn't an addiction and whether or not it can be cured through therapy or simply accepting the premature deaths of one's parents and beloved sister; the main problem to be wilfully overlooked is Max, the hoary old journo.
In a play where smart phones are whipped out to capture embarrassing moments in pixels, it doesn't make a lot of sense that dopy, droopy Max is the one who is likely to break the story. A Tweeter or Facebooker is the obvious answer and a grubby troll from the digital world would have added some heft to the play where Max actually takes it away.
Part of the problem seems to be in the way Max is played. He wants to be liked and he wants to be funny - which is a pity, because the play would have a darker centre and he would be more effective if he dropped those ideas and instead embraced the old style sleaze of the character. Although it would be even better to transform Max into a person more in tune with the gadgetry of today.
What is interesting, however, is that in a comedy whose under-story - its bass notes - are about tolerance and intolerance, Brent's deep, dark secret is cross-dressing. This signals - accurately - that being gay would no longer be sufficient motivation to cruel his career. Just the opposite, in many instances - think Ellen and her multimillion dollar endorsements, including the hilarious anti-ad for Bic's infamous "Lady Pen".
Cross dressing, however, is different. It still is a taboo and little understood. This is a man who isn't gay, isn't transexual, doesn't want to be a woman and doesn't want to have sex with men. He's a heterosexual man who's a champion athlete and who also likes dressing up in women's clothing and being…Carmen!
As the writer is David Williamson, what happens is both humorously predictable and also sweetly and humanly just the opposite. Acceptance and rejection come from unexpected quarters; outcomes are not what one might expect or be prepared for. Mark Kilmurry's fluid direction keeps the players and the play humming along so that the potholes and sharks are successfully jumped, for the most part. Those that remain can be mulled over later.
Designer Steven Butler and lighting designer Peter Neufeld have made the most of the Ensemble's tricky stage with an array of screens that signal events and places and help with the relentless forward momentum of the play. Within the broad farce and arf arf comedy are moments of poignancy and thoughtfulness that make the doco-watching, frock-wearing footballer and unlikely yet attractive hero.
There's food for thought for Fatty and Matty and all the other boofheads who pretend to pretend they're only pretending when they get up in drag. And it is by the end, Brent's story arc has turned him into the kind of man many women would kill to hang out with - as friend or lover. Not least because he'd let you borrow his designer dresses.
Nevertheless, total satisfaction is thwarted by the Max character who is made of cardboard and flab and is not real. There is also a much more interesting play obscured by an array of routine one-liners that don't live up to the premise and the ideas. But Glenn Hazeldine and Morgana O'Reilly are consistently and inventively funny; and Rachel Gordon and Leigh Scully make the most of their classic romantic leads. Well, classic when both hero and heroine wear the skirts.
The Ensemble season is close to sell-out already, apparently, then the production moves on to Glen Street and the Joan at Penrith in the new year. It would have been good to spend a bit more time cutting and polishing the play - despite assured success - because although it's fun and has a heart it could have been even better.
