All in the Timing

After negotiating my way out of Tahiti’s darkness almost intact (minus some blood from badly slicing my foot in the pursuit, and about $100, when my assailants elected to accept my peace offering/bluff of a wallet for my backpack, oblivious to the money strap, digital camera, mp3 player and other valuables therein), I’ve limped home with a renewed appreciation and passion for theatre.

 The passion has been dimmed in recent times by practicality: I’ve been discouraged from investing too deeply into a profession with so little prospect of success, howsoever you wish to measure that concept. I count talented actors, directors, producers, writers among my friends. It’s a struggle to craft any sort of career in these pursuits. If we regard our theatrical pursuits as a hobby, or a post-university hangover, we shall be less despondent about having to maintain real jobs.

Fiscal realities are a significant root of the stagnant state of our theatre company, Fourth Floor. Before I went away I had an article by a playwright whose work I enjoy, David Ives, taped to a wall. It served as a constant reminder of the importance of theatre. His article was part of a feature on one-act plays by Zoetrope, a magazine launched by Francis Ford Coppala, and appeared alongside compositions by Edward Albee and Willem Dafoe in the same edition.

Get busy living, or get busy dying. That’s Goddamn right. So I’m going to make my directorial debut in the New Year, and I’m going to try to see more theatre than I have in the past couple of years. I trekked west to see my mate Keith’s fabulous One More Than One last week, and the impending Summer doesn’t only mean gelato and the beach, it also means Sydney Festival. I think I would like to work for the Festival. I believe in it.


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