SHOOTING HEDDA GABLER
SHOOTING HEDDA GABLER, Seymour Centre and Secret House in the Reginald, 13-27June 2026. Photography by Phil Erbacher
There's a delicious audacity to Nina Segal's 2023 play – a reworking of Ibsen's Hedda Gabler set on the set of a Norwegian auteur’s film version of … Hedda Gabler. It sounds like a concept that could disappear so far up its own meta fundament that it would never be seen again. Happily, the script and director Monica Sayers’ production are considerably smarter than that, starting way across the fjord from Ibsen before echoing him with seemingly inevitable precision.
The protagonist, an unnamed Hollywood actress, played by the more than excellent Jennifer Rani, is referred to only as Hedda, a name she vigorously refutes. A former child star and current tabloid scandal, she's fled LA after “lightly maiming” a paparazzo with a self-driving Tesla (that didn’t) only to find herself in an equally awakward pickle. This Hedda is an improvised arthouse film directed by Henrik, a typically monstrous auteur played with disconcerting creepiness by James Smithers. Everyone else carries the name of an Ibsen counterpart. The layers quickly stack up.
Early on, sardonic fun is made of the mythology of the visionary European director. Smithers’ Henrik is manipulative, cult leader-like, forever pushing his cast deeper into discomfort until the lines between real life and characters blur dangerously. “I don't believe you,” he yells at Hedda, because acting is never enough: it must feel real. It's a dynamic that cuts to the heart of coercive control and the slippery, perilous business of pretending for a living, and when the gun appears, it feels dangerous.
The set design (Smithers with builders Max Shaw and Nick McGrory) is a similar mix of acting and reality: a raised stage surrounded by the detritus of film-making. In the centre is an incongruous yet effective conversation pit – think 1970s Scandi-Bergman interiors. Behind, and glass-fronted, are two dressing rooms, supposedly private but wired for sound and, repeatedly, as uncomfortably revealing as inadvertent nakedness.
Around the edges, the company prowls and watches. Jane Angharad is Berta, the long-suffering, resentful assistant director whose scowl speaks volumes. In a trio of comic turns, Lib Campbell as Thea dons a sharp pair of specs as the on-set therapist; otherwise, she’s an ambitious, snippy actor, then the clueless intimacy co-ordinator. It’s a running gag that lands somewhere between the surreal and inspired absurdity. At the same time, Matthew Abotomey, as Jorgen is all gentle niceness, until he spots an opportunity, when he straps on mental crampons and climbs for his life. Late in the piece, Ejlert makes an electrifying entrance. The once, and possibly future, sex god lover is embodied by Alpha Sylla and, if you catch a whiff of Old Spice, it’s because you’re expecting him to say, “Hel-lo ladies. I’m on a horse.”
Totally unacceptable sex objects aside, the company pulses with nervous, volatile energy, lurking at the edges, watchful and submitting to Henrik's increasingly contemptuous demands. Rani is simply terrific, by turns damaged, cocky, sensual and fierce; a woman whose sense of self was destroyed by child stardom and who is now recklessly desperate to find it.
If there are wobbles, they come from moments where the script momentarily sags beneath the weight of its cleverness. Otherwise, the performances sparkle and, although this is a play about a film about a play, the production doesn’t state the bleeding obvious. Rather, there’s just one camera, used in desultory fashion, and two screens high above the action, easily ignored in favour of the visceral, compelling human action in and around the conversation pit.
Charlotte Savva’s costumes are character-driven and apt. Composer Anthony McDermott and lighting designer Travis Kecek each contribute to the atmosphere of artificial film set and what passes for reality. And dialect coach Patrick Klavins coaxes an authentic whiff of pickled herring where required.
Essentially, while knowledge of Ibsen adds extra layers, the production stands alone, bold and sure. It makes Shooting Hedda Gabler alive, fascinating, and so worth your time. Recommended without reservation.
