ATM
Bowlers' Club of NSW, January 7
That late-20th-century phenomenon, queueing at an ATM, is the subject of a new play.
Reviewed by Stephen Dunne
Amid nondescript brown brick walls and a contrasting slice of vertical astroturf, the title character of Brendan Cowell's play flashes, beeps and whirs. It speaks with an icily seductive, electronically treated voice.
"Hello my name is ATM," it says.
"I am automatic. I am a machine. And I am a teller. Here begins the telling."
Amid dispensing cash and accepting deposits, ATM tells stories of its existence, acutely descriptive and bleakly ironic about the humans who queue for its services.
Inside his accurately observed and viciously acidic social satire, Cowell's play is thematically concerned with the emotions of fiscal exchange.
The revolting dating agency couple conjoin credit cards at their oh-so empty wedding. The backpacker doesn't have enough cash to escape Sydney for the alleged serenity of the Gold Coast. The office boy is paranoid in the queue, depositing more money in cash cheques than his dad will earn in his lifetime.
Even poor Brian, dumped by Clare for a flashy coke-freak nightclub lair, is eventually taken back for monetary reasons. Clare realises his no-hoper status is what she likes - she loves it when he owes her money.
Claire enjoys indebtedness, but not that fuzzy, dated indebtedness about good deeds done, favours chanced and love returned. This is a modern balance sheet of the emotions, where affection is depreciated and rounded down to the last unlovely dollar.
Among the play's exceptions to love as double-entry book-keeping are the two way-too-stoned/too-pilled raver boys. They're hilarious and frighteningly accurate as they descend into reefer blankness. Yet when Raver A shares his huge joint with Raver B, he's doing something unique in the world of this play - giving away something of cash value, with no expectation of a pay-off.
One of the sharper satiric moments concerns the utterly pretentious cokeheads waiting for a taxi outside their nightclub. They're obsessed with what's in and out; their emptily chatty nonsense is interrupted by a drunk bloke after a cigarette. They react in horror at a request for such a passé drug and then shift into a spot of baiting the unemployed. "Buy your own. Get a job. Have a shower," opines one, nostrils dripping.
The production is strongly directed by Leland Kean. Natalie Wood's strikingly funny costumes and Peter Best's sound and score work superbly.
Alice Lodge's design provides a clean background and a flexible playing area and the production mostly overcomes the problems of its unraked auditorium.
It is wonderfully performed by Blazey Best, Natasha Beaumont, Anthony Hayes, Damon Herriman, Katherine Slattery and Darren Weller, each playing numerous roles. The cast, excellent at the broadly comic tone, also finds moments of emotion inside the comedy: the waiter woman with the suicided son is effectively drawn, the father looking for his junkie son a little less so.
The play isn't perfect yet - there's still some fat that could be trimmed, and the production drags slightly in the last half hour. Still, Cowell is an exciting and distinctive writer and, with this production, the Sydney Festival's decision to include new Australian writing has already paid off handsomely.
This review was found at http://www.old.smh.com.au/news/0201/10/entertainment/entertain9.html