Review: The Nightwatchman

The Nightwatchman by Daniel Keene

Griffin Theatre

29 March 2007

All day I was madly trying to finish a huge article.... a financial article. Two thousand words. Bloody long. But at the end of the day I knew I had a reward - Daniel Keene.

Daniel Keene is one of those few playwrights that are an absolute gift for a director. Shouldered on intimate stories of regret and reflection are beautiful pages of words that soar, giving untold theatrical possibilities.

The first time I read a Daniel Keene play was a few years ago - Untitled Monologue. It was from that time that I fell in love with his work.

This love peppered me throughout the day, as I battled with my article on my little laptop sitting outside as autumn leaves showered.

Bathe and out the door. A quick drink and into the foyer of the Stables Theatre.

One of the actors is unwell and an understudy will take his place. No matter.

Up the rickety stairs, to the intimate little stage that resides in an old stable in the inner city of Sydney. The space is sparse with black sand and a single chair. A lighting effect of words is reflected on the stage floor... "in our garden..." or "in a garden.." - I can't really remember.

The production starts. Sound effect. Crickets. Birds.

We must be in a garden.

We have an older man, blind, leaving his past behind, an old house in the country. His children struggling with his decision to leave the house that has been the home of their childhood memories, of family and of their dearly departed mother.

It's just so beautiful. The words allow you to conjure the world around them so vividly and so colourfully despite the fact that the man can't see.

He is filled with a sadness that each of us will feel as we get old, lose people, lose, lose, lose.

It's grim.

I know those moments in Keene's plays. The journey's of the mind when a character soliloquises to no one but his intimate surroundings. Where will the play soar? My anticipation is palpable.

But nothing.

It's there in the script, but something is wrong.

Actors are playing out realism in a play that begs for theatricality and creativity. Moments of solitude, where anything goes are buckled under this desperation to keep it real.

I look at the set again. It's all new and alternative, but plonked in the middle are chairs, a table, wine glasses. They are an island, a bubble, as the words of the play beg beg beg to be let out and fly into the hearts of the audience through the tongues of these actors.

And more bird sound effects.

And more wine glasses and clumsy entrances and exits in a world that is sometimes blind and sometimes not.

The timidity of the production in crucifying. My mind flashes and I shut my eyes. I can only imagine how the French produce Keene's work. The passionate and brave explorations of brave and passionate words.

My reward at the end of my day was frustrating... one of the most unique theatrical voices so misunderstood.

Image: Bill Zappa courtesy of Griffin Theatre