Written and directed by Reg Cribb
Fremantle Theatre Company
Designed by Renato Fabretti
Lighting designed by Peter Young
Sound design and music performed by Cat Shaw and Steven McCall
Performed by Michael Abercromby, Kasmir Sas, Chloe Hurst, Sandie Eldridge and
Josh Virgona
Victoria Hall, Fremantle
until August 27
 |
| Michael Abercrombie and Chloe Hurst |
I’ve nothing but praise for
this powerful, precisely produced and performed revival of Reg Cribb’s Return (2008), now retitled as Last Train to Freo. As an entertainment, Cribb’s
narrative, consciously or otherwise, is a take on the craft of Agatha Christie;
not a whodunit exactly, but one steeped in the strategies and tactics of her game
of cat and mouse.
Inside the skeletal, but
convincing, frame of a Transperth carriage, designed by FTC’s artistic director
Renato Fabretti, late on a night when the usual railway security patrollers are
out on strike (real-world improbability is always acceptable in a good cause),
a disparate band of travellers take the 50-minute ride from Midland to
Fremantle.
Steve (Michael Abercromby)
and Trev (Kasmir Sas) take this trip regularly, but for no good purpose. They
hoon down the tracks, tearing around the carriage and harassing its passengers.
Trev is a bit bruised and
battered, his arm in a sling; he’s a small dog in the habit, one suspects, of
biting off more than he can chew.
Steve is a different kettle
of fish entirely. He looms over the space, there’s magma in him. He’s a
dangerous man.
For a while they have the
carriage to themselves, but in Bayswater a young woman, Lisa (Chloe Hurst) gets
on. If she’s taking a basket of goodies to Grandma in Fremantle, she’s just run
into the wolf.
A little later an older woman
(Sandie Eldridge) lugging a suitcase, and a young man (Josh Vigona) also come
aboard. They sit quietly, she in a seat by the carriage’s standing room, he
huddled darkly in back, scribbling in a notebook.
All the while Steve’s
attention is turning to Lisa. He mocks her with faux politeness, invades her
space, probes at her. He’s up to no good at all.
But what, the Christie in
Cribb asks us, is she up to?
Of course, none of these
people are who they seem, all of them are carrying secrets, all of them have
reasons to be where they are when they are.
Having mixed his brew, Cribb
lets it bubble until it overflows in rage, terror and, finally, exposure. If
the momentum flags a little in the final scenes, it’s a forgivable flaw;
there’s much to reveal, and explain, and it has to be done sometime.
The cast is exemplary. None
better than Eldridge, who gives Maggie fortitude, good sense and the courage
perhaps only those with nothing left to lose can muster.
So to is Hurst. Her character
is in an illogical and invidious position, but you can look back on what you’ve
seen and realize that she had something going on that you, and her antagonists,
aren’t aware of. It takes skill to be an actor playing an actor, and Hurst has
it.
For all that, Last Train to
Freo is Steve’s play, and Abercromby gives a mighty performance. It’s a rare
gift to be genuinely menacing on stage (let’s call it the Chopper effect), but
Abercromby does it. As Steve is revealed to be more complex, more unexpected,
and both less and more dangerous, Abercromby’s performance expands to encompass
it all.
At the core of his character
is an explosive misogyny, as eloquent as it is repugnant. It explodes in a rage-filled
attack on women, single mothers in particular, that is a distillation of the
hatred and loathing underlying so much of gender politics and behavior in
society.
I was taken aback by its
ferocity, and the impact on the audience pressed close to the action by the production’s
traverse staging, was apparent.
Could permission be granted
for such an outburst in a work of art? Who gets that permission, who doesn’t,
and who grants it?
I was curious to see what response
this would generate, and I didn’t have long to wait.
I won’t single out any
particular commentary, but amongst them two reactions have given me pause.
One, in essence, disapproved
of the play because it observed the
behavior and attitudes portrayed in the play but didn’t criticize it.
Another suggested that the
play was dated, not because of the reprehensible conduct of some of its
characters, which no-one can deny is still there in the real world, but because,
in these enlightened times, it should be portrayed more “carefully” than in its
original iteration twenty years ago.
The world, this argument
runs, had changed in the intervening decades, but Cribb’s play had not.
I couldn’t disagree more. The
theatre’s mission is to show, not tell. If you want sermons, go to a TED talk
or your local church. The artist should show us the world that has such people
in it, and let us draw our own conclusions from what we see.
Characters can’t be
amortised, they can’t be made to fit the zeitgeist, or the sensitivities of the
observer. They must be alive, in the real world of the play.
Like it or not.
Absent that, theatre becomes
a lecture rather than an exchange between its creators and an engaged,
participating audience with the agency to come to their own conclusions.
The worst play I have ever
seen, despite its glittering reputation, is Peter Shaeffer’s Equus. In it, the
mystery and terrible beauty of the boy’s relationship with his horses is
completely undercut by the interventions of the psychologist who explains to us
what is behind what we have just seen.
When I saw it, at the old
Playhouse, with Richard Todd as the psychiatrist I had to resist the temptation
to storm the stage and tell him to fuck off and let us work it out for
ourselves.
And that’s what theatre should
do. This is not a “Cancel Culture” argument, neither is it an attempt to
rationalize the shameful or forgive the unforgivable.
Quite the opposite. It’s an
argument for clarity, for insight, against bowdlerization and dishonesty. An
argument for the theatre, unfettered.
All of which Last Train to
Freo is.
The
season of Last Train to Freo was interrupted by COVID, but has been extended until August 27 at Victoria Hall, Fremantle
