Review – Nostalgia For Reality

Nostalgia for Reality is the most brilliant piece of satire I have ever seen.

There isn’t a theatregoer alive who hasn’t, at some point, sat through some interminable, self-indulgent piece of avant-garde tripe.

Nostalgia takes all the tropes of experimental theatre and effortlessly sends them up in an hilariously non-hilarious package.

The roast begins the second the show starts: a grainy black-and-white projection (with just the right amount of tilt!) of a man doing a hackneyed dance is quickly replaced by an oh-hi-didn’t-see-you-there guy who tells us the show’s lead is quite dead. But, he says, if we clap our hands if we believe, he’ll come back to life!

I wish, dear reader, I could tell you what happens next. But I leave that to you to find out, lest I spoil the amazing surprises. Rest assured, though, that every iota of pain you’ve ever experienced from self-indulgent experimental theatre is represented herein.

There’s interpretive dance – so much interpretive dance. Eurotrash boys exploring their sexuality. Gloved hands emerging from the backdrop to embrace and abuse the characters. There are mannequin heads used as characters, long-winded and vague rants in indecipherable accents and – my personal favourite, dear reader – forced audience interaction. And then they mix the forced audience interaction with the interpretive dance! Oh, my cup runneth over.

The production values are incredible. The creative team have made an absolutely herculean effort to make this show seem as avant-garde and cheap as possible. I shudder to think of the number of set prototypes they must have thrown out in their quest to get that perfect “experimental” look – you know, where the performance is of such perfect quality that it whisks you away to Nirvana and your imagination, unlocked by the truth-bullets slamming into you, transforms the pulled-off-a-dump props and sets into an incredible fantasy land.

I exhort you, dear reader, to see this show. There is nothing bad I can say about it. Well… no. But… well, just one small thing. There was a pang of disappointment at the end of the show. I had laughed my way through the derivative and annoying introduction of the actors, one by one (oh look, here comes yet ANOTHER one! – sheer perfection). And the bows were suitably sudden and unexpected. But, dear reader, there was no “fin” title card at the end. Sure, the pseudo-obnoxious slideshow of photos of the cast in costume down Rundle Mall, interspersed with images of the shows poster, was a nice touch. But if there was just one teensy-weensy improvement to be made – in, I hasten to add, this absolute tour-de-force of satire – I would like to come and see the show again and maybe see a “fin”.

(That wasn’t satire. That was a serious piece of theatre. You’re fired. –Ed)