Review: Fair Play (Old Fitz Theatre)

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Venue: Old Fitzroy Theatre (Woolloomooloo NSW), Mar 6 – 21, 2026
Playwright: Ella Road
Director: Emma Whitehead
Cast: Rachel Crossan, Elodie Westhoff
Images by Robert Miniter

Theatre review
Ann and Sophie first cross paths as teenage athletes, both chasing the same shimmering horizon: Olympic glory in the 800 metres. What begins as parallel ambition gradually intertwines into something deeper—a bond that seems impervious to fracture. Yet Fair Play, Ella Road’s penetrating drama, understands that the most devastating ruptures often arrive disguised as inevitability. When crisis finally strikes, it exposes not merely personal betrayal but the insidious architecture of a system that routinely engineers competition among women, transforming potential solidarity into corrosive envy.

Road’s early scenes occasionally risk the prosaic, relying perhaps too heavily on the familiar rhythms of sporting narratives and adolescent camaraderie. Yet this mundanity proves deliberate—a foundation upon which the later moral complexity acquires its full, disquieting force. When the narrative pivots, it does so with devastating precision, compelling us to confront one of contemporary society’s most fraught ethical battlegrounds. The play ultimately rewards patience with a meditation of considerable sophistication, as it interrogates the conditions that conspire to pit women against one another.

Emma Whitehead’s direction (along with exciting choreography by Cassidy McDermott Smith) imparts a vital buoyancy to the staging, evoking with precision the vigour of youth—that particular alchemy of velocity and infinite horizon that defines adolescence at its most hopeful. They render visible the girls’ intimacy not through declaration but through accumulated detail: the shared language of glances, the physical fluency of bodies in syncopated motion, the unspoken covenant of ambition mutually held.  When the narrative’s rupture finally arrives, Whitehead navigates the transition with remarkable adroitness, modulating seamlessly into an atmosphere of sombre gravity, to honour the weight of the social terrain now under examination, treating the play’s emergent concerns with the deliberation they demand.
 
Design elements cohere with admirable precision, conjuring a kinetic vocabulary that renders the athletic milieu not merely as backdrop but as embodied philosophy. Kate Beere’s set operates on dual registers: the literal, with its tactile evocation of racing tracks as arenas of corporeal sacrifice; and the symbolic, its organic curves suggesting femininity itself as sites to be navigated, contested, inscribed upon. EJ Zielinski’s lighting and Aron Murray’s video projections interweave with the sonic architecture of Mitchell Brown and Osibi Akerejola to forge a taut, propulsive rhythm, to hold us in sustained anticipation.
 
Actors Rachel Crossan and Elodie Westhoff distinguish themselves not merely through individual proficiency, but also through the sublime chemistry they generate in concert. What proves most striking, however, is their navigation of the play’s political subtexts. They communicate the covert economies of female friendship—the unspoken negotiations, the micro-calibrations of power—with the same fluency they bring to more explicit ideological content. The result is a performance that operates on multiple frequencies simultaneously: the immediate human drama and its broader sociological implications, the personal and the structural, held in productive tension.

 

(Spoilers ahead.)
The revelation of Ann’s PAIS or Partial Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome marks the play’s foremost intentions—what begins as narrative twist crystallises into urgent ethical inquiry. Fair Play thus positions itself at the volatile intersection of contemporary sporting discourse and broader debates surrounding sex, gender, and bodily autonomy. Road declines the comfort of easy resolution; no tidy settlement is proffered, no ideological position fully vindicated. Instead, the play achieves something more valuable: it carefully charts exactly how injustice operates, in all its complexity.

We encounter sporting authorities obsessively preoccupied with demarcating the boundaries of sex and gender, yet demonstrably incapable of furnishing coherent definitions for the very categories they police. Trans and intersex athletes thus find themselves suspended in a state of administrative limbo, condemned to navigate systems that simultaneously demand their classification and deny their intelligibility. Their innocent bodies become the terrain upon which ideological warfare is waged, and Fair Play recognises that none of it is genuine ethical concern but ritualised purification, a periodic expulsion of those who threaten the fantasy of binary certainty upon which so much of our mythology depends. The cruelty is systemic, the uncertainty weaponised, the suffering rendered as collateral damage in a conflict that purports to be about protection, while actually securing older hierarchies of tyrannical exclusion.

 

 

www.oldfitztheatre.com.au | www.lostthought.com

Review: A Mirror (Belvoir St Theatre)

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Venue: Belvoir St Theatre (Surry Hills NSW), Feb 21 – Mar 22, 2026
Playwright: Sam Holcroft
Director: Margaret Thanos
Cast: Eden Falk, Faisal Hamza, Yalin Ozucelik, Rose Riley
Images by Brett Boardman

Theatre review
A clandestine troupe stages a subversive theatrical production, its barbs aimed squarely at the Ministry of Culture and its censorious apparatus. Interwoven throughout are meditations on the nature of representation itself—whether literal or fictitious—as though artists must cleave to one pole or the other. Sam Holcroft’s A Mirror opens and closes with considerable force, yet the intervening dramaturgy wanders in states of descriptive and ideological confusion.

The decision by director Margaret Thanos to render an authoritarian regime through Australian voices, produces an effect of unintended absurdity, particularly when measured against the evident depth of our own democratic institutions (in comparison with other nations). There is, undeniably, a kernel of truth in the play’s suggestion that socioeconomic forces shape the conditions under which art is made, but whether Holcroft’s heightened, schematic approach can resonate meaningfully beyond that observation is less certain. What lingers is not the intricacy of the political critique, but the more elemental, perhaps eternal, truth that enduring work has always demanded of its makers one indispensable quality: courage.

The principal quartet—Eden Falk, Faisal Hamza, Yalin Ozucelik, and Rose Riley—bring considerable acuity to their respective roles, yet seldom cohere into an ensemble that transcends the sum of its parts. For all the mounting urgency of their narrative arc, little of enduring resonance remains once the final curtain falls. The design elements, too, settle for competence rather than distinction. Angelina Daniel’s set and costumes, while serviceable, lapse into staidness precisely where theatrical boldness is most required. Phoebe Pilcher’s lighting and Daniel Herten’s score prove their mettle in moments of heightened tension, yet falter during the protracted stretches of naturalism, which grow unnecessarily dour.

It is undeniable that fascism is ascendant across the globe. In Australia, democratic institutions appear, for the present, intact—yet the historical record offers scant comfort. Subversion, after all, requires no novelty of method; the same infiltrations attempted for centuries persist, adapted to contemporary conditions. Authoritarian regimes, almost without exception, train their sights first on the arts and the media—not merely as instruments of propaganda, but as sites of potential resistance. History demonstrates that while the wholesale destruction of a creative culture may require extreme force, the systematic erosion of democratic voice is altogether more achievable, more insidious.

The possibility that such a future could take root here is not abstract; it is a latent condition, ever-present. What stands against it is not inevitability, but resolve. The more tenaciously we hold to our convictions—the more defiantly we insist upon critical thought, and the messy, generative space of artistic freedom—the less hospitable this society becomes to the despots who would claim it. Resistance, in this sense, is not a dramatic gesture, but a sustained practice.

www.belvoir.com.au

Review: Afterglow (Eternity Playhouse)

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Venue: Eternity Playhouse (Darlinghurst NSW), Feb 26 – Mar 22, 2026
Playwright: S. Asher Gelman
Director: S. Asher Gelman
Cast: Julian Curtis, Matthew Mitcham, Matthey Predny
Images by Cameron Grant, Parenthesy

Theatre review
In S. Asher Gelman’s Afterglow, the familiar architecture of the ménage-à-trois serves as the unstable foundation for a drama about the limits of non-monogamy. When the married couple, Josh and Alex, invite Darius into their bed, the arrangement predictably unravels, not from jealousy, but from a more transgressive breach of contract: the development of genuine, “forbidden” emotion. While the play’s narrative arc is undeniably conventional, its very simplicity throws into sharp relief a rarer cultural conversation. It examines the particular anxieties that surface when gay men, having embraced the ostensibly stable structures of marriage and domesticity, find themselves haunted by the very bourgeois values they have adopted, revealing the potential for anguish when liberation is measured against a heteronormative template.

Originally staged by Gelman in 2017, the production shows only faint traces of its vintage. Ann Beyersdorfer’s scenic design impresses less through bold aesthetic choices than through its architectural fluidity, reshaping itself to the narrative’s spatial demands with a necessary pragmatism. Jamie Roderick’s lighting bathes the stage in a high-gloss, almost cinematic glamour, yet this polish proves a double-edged sword; the illumination frequently spills into the house, breaching the fourth wall in a manner that diffuses focus rather than deepening immersion. Between scenes, Alex Mackyol’s sound design becomes most discernible, its sonic cues evoking a distinctly late-aughts gay sensibility—a period detail that now situates the action in a specific, if recent, cultural moment.

The three-member cast commits fully to material that offers them little shelter. As married couple Alex and Josh, Julian Curtis and Matthew Mitcham channel genuine intensity into the domestic rupture at the play’s core, their performances lending weight to a script that often lacks it. Matthew Predny, as Darius, locates something rarer still: a vein of authentic vulnerability that cuts against the work’s prevailing surface performativity, hinting at the more grounded drama that might have been.

The casting of three white men in this Afterglow is not a neutral choice but a necessary one. It is what permits the play its studied obliviousness, its serene detachment from the sociopolitical currents that continue to churn beyond the bedroom door. Marriage equality was never an ending, only a waypoint—a fact underscored daily by resurgent homophobic violence in Australia and the fascistic lurch of American politics. To present queer domesticity as a closed loop, untroubled by the world outside, is to mistake a fragile foothold for a permanent perch. The afterglow is real. It is also, for many, already fading.

www.afterglowplay.com

Review: Head Over Heels (Hayes Theatre)

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Venue: Hayes Theatre Co (Potts Point NSW), Feb 20 – Mar 22, 2026
Book: Jeff Whitty
Adaptation: James Magruder (based upon The Arcadia by Sir Philip Sydney)
Director: Ellen Simpson
Cast: Thomas Campbell, Nancy Denis, Gaz Dutlow, Ellen Ebbs, Alana Iannace, Minerva Khobande, Lucy Lalor, Jenni Little, Adam Noviello, J Ridler
Images by Kate Williams

Theatre review
Adapted from Sir Philip Sidney’s 16th-century prose romance The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia and set to the effervescent catalogue of The Go-Go’s (including solo work by lead vocalist Belinda Carlisle), the jukebox musical Head Over Heels follows King Basilius of Arcadia as he flees into the wilderness with his royal court, desperately seeking to outmanoeuvre a quartet of ominous prophecies. While a deliberate queering of the narrative lends the production a timely, subversive edge, the 2015 creation remains conceptually thin—an exercise in nostalgic pastiche that, for all its exuberance, ultimately fails to transcend the limitations of its own conceit.

Ellen Simpson’s direction is conventional without being uninspired, yet it fails to cultivate the crucial investment that might elevate the piece beyond its modest virtues. The production’s buoyancy is its greatest asset, an infectious lightness that often carries the day even as the characters remain at a narrative arm’s length. Music director Zara Stanton and choreographer Ryan González follow suit, offering pleasant, polished contributions that are content to serve the material’s needs rather than striving for innovation.

Josh McIntosh’s set sketches a charming pastoral world through its key features—a graceful proscenium arch and an evocative backdrop—but the effect is compromised by rolling units whose rustic utilitarianism clashes with the design’s more delicate aspirations. Sidney Younger’s lighting, though visually restrained, demonstrates scrupulous calibration, modulating energy and atmosphere with precision if not poetry. The cast, uniformly accomplished and visibly committed, labour against a fundamental limitation: the show’s characters are drawn as caricatures, and no amount of performative investment can quite animate them into three-dimensional life.

Head Over Heels illuminates the slender margin between inspired invention and well-worn trope. The production brims with undeniable flashes of creativity, yet they never quite coalesce into something genuinely artistic. Instead, the whole resolves into something more modest: a serviceable vehicle for entertainment, one with which many audience members will undoubtedly leave content, if not transformed.

www.hayestheatre.com.au | www.welldonecreative.com.au

Review: The Elocution Of Benjamin Franklin (Griffin Theatre Co)

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Venue: Belvoir St Theatre (Surry Hills NSW), Feb 21 – Mar 29, 2026
Playwright: steve j. spears
Director: Declan Greene
Cast: Simon Burke AO
Images by Brett Boardman

Theatre review
Robert O’Brien leads a life of deliberate seclusion, his world contained within the walls of his home where he devotes himself to the exacting art of vocal pedagogy, instructing pupils across the full spectrum of age and aspiration. The equilibrium of this carefully calibrated existence is disrupted when Benjamin—a twelve-year-old of startling precocity and unsettling sophistication—arrives to reveal himself as nothing short of prodigious. This narrative unfolds in the early 1970s, an era of terrifying peril for all who share Robert’s sexual orientation; even his most careful navigation of social propriety cannot insulate him from the devastating ease with which circumstance may turn into accusation, suspicion into ruin.

Half a century has elapsed since steve j. spears’ The Elocution of Benjamin Franklin inaugurated its world premiere upon the Sydney stage, and while the landscape of queer liberation has undergone transformation beyond measure, the play’s explorations of intolerance, prejudice, and bigotry remain as piercingly relevant as ever—a testament to the uncomfortable truth that while laws may evolve, the fundamental human capacity for cruelty and hate often endures.

Under Declan Greene’s direction, the production carries an unmistakable reverence—a profound acknowledgment of a generation for whom queerness meant navigating a world far more hostile than today’s youth might readily comprehend. The work functions, quite clearly, as homage to those forebears and elders who charted paths through terrain that could, at any moment, turn treacherous. Yet the production never settles into mere period tribute; it remains astutely attuned to the present, using its historical lens to examine the seemingly cyclical nature of persecution and the ease with which any minority can become scapegoat du jour. The Elocution of Benjamin Franklin ultimately wields considerable power in its address, even as its dramatic traction proves somewhat uneven—with individual scenes varying in their capacity to compel as the narrative unfolds.

Isabel Hudson’s production design conjures a genteel nostalgia—an aesthetic meditation upon queer history that attends with equal sensitivity to the elegiac allure being manufactured and to the precariousness underlying its surface. Lights by Brockman prove instrumental in choreographing our temporal passage, whether languorous or abrupt; its mercurial unpredictability generates a distinctly satisfying theatrical frisson. Working in intimate concert, David Bergman’s sound and music prove equally indispensable, enabling the production’s transcendence of material realities to reach the essential core of its thematic concerns.

Simon Burke AO delivers a performance of remarkable depth and emotional acuity in his portrayal of Robert. Whether navigating registers of flippant vivacity or mortal gravity, he maintains a presence at once reassuring and undeniably sincere—radiating a warmth that secures our attentive vulnerability, rendering us receptive to the excavation of a queer historical epoch that demands our permanent remembrance.

Just when one might have reasonably supposed our community could begin to shift its focus from old battles to new horizons, these last forty-eight hours have delivered via the news, harrowing accounts of violence against young gay men—assaults whose contours bear chilling resemblance to those that recurred with grim regularity before decriminalisation, before marriage equality, before any number of legislative milestones we imagined might signal lasting change.

It is clear that legal frameworks, however essential, cannot alone dismantle the deeper machinations of prejudice. The same streets that witnessed violence decades ago continue to witness it still; the same fear that coursed through gay men navigating public space in the previous century courses through their counterparts today. Progress, for all its genuine achievements, does not move in an unbroken forward trajectory. It stalls, it falters, and sometimes it reveals itself to be far more fragile than we wish to believe. Hate crimes against queer people are not anachronisms—they are the present, demanding we reckon with how much remains undone.

www.griffintheatre.com.au 

Review: Evil Dead (Seymour Centre)

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Venue: Seymour Centre (Chippendale NSW), Feb 20 – Mar 21, 2026
Book & Lyrics: George Reinblatt (based on characters created by Sam Raimi)
Music: Christopher Bond, Frank Cipolla, Melissa Morris, George Reinblatt
Director: Daniel Stoddart
Cast: Grace Alston, Jake Ameduri, Elaina Bianchi, Oliver Clisdell, Harley Dasey, Harrison Riley, Emma Wilby
Images by Peter Stoop

Theatre review
Five college students venture into a remote cabin for spring break, only to succumb one by one to demonic possession—unleashing bloody carnage upon their unsuspecting friends. This is Evil Dead: The Musical, a stage adaptation of Sam Raimi’s seminal horror film. Where the 1981 original genuinely terrified audiences, the musical version leans gleefully into slapstick, transforming the source material’s gruesome set pieces into comical, blood-soaked punchlines. The result plays less as parody and more as affectionate tribute—a theatrical love letter to a film that has since ascended to iconic cult status.

While the material itself may not consistently land with comedic precision, director Daniel Stoddart compensates with an infusion of irrepressible exuberance that propels the production forward. The contributions of choreographer Lochlan Erard and music director Mark Bradley, while adhering to conventional frameworks, provide a polished and professional foundation for the production.

Much of the evening’s success rests upon the sheer infectiousness of the cast’s enthusiasm, which effectively distracts from jokes that can otherwise skew toward the trite. In the central role of Ash, Harley Dasey demonstrates technical competence, even if his portrayal falls somewhat short of the roguish, beleaguered heroism the part demands. More memorable are supporting players like Emma Wilby as Cheryl and Harrison Riley as Jack, whose impeccable comic timing yields the production’s most substantial laughs.

Eric Luchen’s set design proves memorable in its effective realization of the narrative’s supernatural demands. Together with Renata Beslik’s costumes, the production’s visual landscape achieves a faithful, if overly conventional, period authenticity. It is Jason Bovaird’s lighting design, however, that injects genuine dramatic tension, its increasingly dynamic palette mirroring the story’s gradual descent into high-octane chaos and effectively propelling the production toward its bombastic conclusion.

Review: Gravy (KXT on Broadway)

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Venue: KXT on Broadway (Ultimo NSW), Feb 18 – 28, 2026
Playwright: Gemma Burwell
Director: Saša Ljubović
Cast: Meg Hyeronimus, Deborah Jones
Images by Abraham de Souza

Theatre review
Confined within the oppressive intimacy of close quarters, mother and daughter find themselves separated by little more than the porcelain curve of a bathtub. It is within this suffocating proximity that their shared claustrophobia becomes the crucible for an outpouring of anguish, regret, and disillusionment—at once accusatory and raw with frustration. Gemma Burwell’s Gravy eschews narrative transparency for formal abstraction; yet the emotional architecture it constructs is undeniably vast, audacious, and hypnotic. Burwell’s dramaturgy serves as a potent reminder that theatre must transcend mere intellectual provocation—that it bears equal obligation to the unruly territories of heart and soul.

Under the direction of Saša Ljubović, the production seizes upon the surreality latent in Burwell’s text and takes flight—soaring into a theatrical realm at once mesmerising and palpably risky. Coherence is deliberately destabilised; we are never quite certain what is unfolding, as the possibilities for interpretation remain deliberately, thrillingly multiple. Yet paradoxically, we sense that the action coheres, if chiefly in ways that bypass the rational mind and speak directly to the viscera. That the stage appears perpetually inundated—water surging, defying containment—renders the proceedings irreducibly unpredictable, importing nature’s own recalcitrance into the theatrical equation. Here, theatre claims a latitude of freedom all too absent from Western dramaturgical convention. James Smithers’s set design accomplishes this not merely with efficacy, but with consummate sophistication and polish.

Indeed, this production foregrounds aesthetics as a primary vehicle for meaning-making and a site of value in itself. Gravy is incontrovertibly macabre, yet equally evocative, inspiriting, and possessed of a terrible beauty. Frankie Clarke’s lighting design oscillates between the dreamlike and the nightmarish, determined to never settle into the merely pedestrian; it is a study in luminous instability. Meanwhile, sound design by Milo McLaughlin and Zsa Zsa proves thrilling in its capacity to conjure atmospheres at once enigmatic and menacing. What impresses most, however, is the intricacy and precision with which the sonic landscape intertwines with the physicality unfolding in live motion—each gesture met, mirrored, or subverted by an aural counterpart, resulting in a synthesis that feels both elemental and meticulously wrought.

Performers Meg Hyeronimus and Deborah Jones inhabit their roles with remarkable concentration and an intimate fluency in the play’s internal logic. Their interpretations abound in imaginative daring and a studied carefreeness that invites—indeed compels—each spectator to forge perspectives irreducibly singular. Their bodies repudiate realism, with physical vocabularies that unfold as a kind of choreographed dialogue: a dance that speaks with potent ambiguity, shifting between brutality and sensitivity. In their hands, archetypal relationships and perennial emotional conflicts are rendered with a freshness that feels wonderfully modern.

The parent-offspring dyad constitutes an inexhaustible wellspring of narrative, yet it is through art that such perennial tales are rendered strange, defamiliarised, and thus perpetually renewed—yielding uncharted resonances for as long as art endures.

Review: Es & Flo (Old Fitz Theatre)

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Venue: Old Fitzroy Theatre (Woolloomooloo NSW), Feb 13 – 28, 2026
Playwright: Jennifer Lunn
Director: Emma Canalese
Cast: Annie Byron, Eloise Snape, Fay Du Chateau, Erika Ndibe, Charlotte Salusinszky
Images by Robert Catto

Theatre review
Esme has turned seventy-one, and the encroachment of dementia is becoming unmistakable. Her de facto partner of thirty-six years, Flo, remains steadfast in her commitment to care for Esme at home. Yet Esme’s son, asserting familial authority, is equally resolved to relocate her to an aged care facility. In Es & Flo, Jennifer Lunn examines a predicament all too familiar to many same-sex couples of a certain generation: the systematic erasure of their relationships by both kin and legal institutions, stripping them of companionship and patrimony precisely when bodily decline renders them most vulnerable.

It is a deeply affecting work, one that, under Emma Canalese’s astute direction, strikes precisely the right register to resonate with its audience, delivering a theatrical experience at once moving and meaningful. Annie Byron is particularly compelling as Esme, capturing with remarkable subtlety the complex metamorphoses that accompany the advance of age. Her portrayal of authentic tenderness toward her partner does much to render their bond credible, thereby securing the audience’s emotional investment in the narrative. Fay Du Chateau’s Flo truly comes into her own as the drama intensifies, revealing layers of fortitude and vulnerability. The supporting ensemble—Eloise Snape, Erika Ndibe, and Charlotte Salusinszky—likewise distinguishes itself, bringing thoughtfulness and nuance to every moment.

Soham Apte’s set design evokes a recognisable domestic sphere even as its spatial demarcations permit scenes to unfold with fluidity. Alice Vance’s costuming conjures persuasive archetypes while conferring upon the stage a distinct, understated elegance. Luna Ng’s lighting, though never ostentatious, illuminates each interaction with precision, calibrated to elicit the requisite emotional response from an audience confronting a narrative at once tender and consequential.

The love between the two elders in Es & Flo is rendered as indissoluble, yet even now such unions remain perpetually imperilled. Statutory equality and the legal recognition of same-sex marriage have not extinguished the social dynamics capable of sundering these bonds—particularly when queer individuals advance into infirmity and can no longer safeguard their own interests. Equality on paper is but a parchment promise unless the circle of kinship closes around us, unless the community becomes armour against the gathering dark of our final queer years.

www.oldfitztheatre.com.au | www.mitodoproductions.com

Review: They Will Be Kings (Qtopia)

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Venue: Qtopia (Darlinghurst NSW), Feb 11 – 21, 2026
Playwright: 
Director: Kaz Therese
Cast: Beks Blake, Danica Lani, Chris McAllister, Angel Tan
Images by Jessica Hromas

Theatre review
Four drag kings converge in They Will Be Kings to excavate the layered narratives of their becoming. Chase Cox, Dario di Bello, Fine China, and Jim Junkie each emerge from distinct origins, propelled by singular raisons d’être—yet together they orchestrate a meditation on gender’s fluid architecture. Against the grain of a world that insists upon the fixed polarity of male and female, their collective performance unravels the artifice of such certainties, illuminating instead the protean, unruly nature of identity itself.

Under Kaz Therese’s direction, the production achieves a wonderful alchemy—transmuting four distinct sensibilities into an elegant, unified architecture. They Will Be Kings emerges as a clever meditation on gender variance: its ontological textures, its protean expressions. Each performer—Beks Blake, Danica Lani, Chris McAllister, and Angel Tan—contributes a singular artistic vocabulary, yet coheres through an ethos of collective intentionality. The result is not mere showcase but invocation: an ensemble that summons the audience toward expansiveness, demanding not passive reception but active transformation of mind and heart.

Gender presents a fundamental paradox. It functions as a system built on fixed categories, yet lived experience constantly spills beyond these boundaries into territory that resists easy definition. Humans inevitably sort one another into boxes, yet what we most desire is freedom.
 
Gender, at its best, offers pleasure, play, and genuine self-expression; yet too often it serves darker purposes—erasure, marginalisation, the violent enforcement of conformity. It is something we can resist, yet also something we can savour. To understand how it works—its mechanisms of control—is essential if we hope to move beyond its restrictions and dangers, transforming vulnerability into agency.

Review: Gia Ophelia (KXT on Broadway)

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Venue: KXT on Broadway (Ultimo NSW), Feb 11 – 15, 2026
Playwright: Grace Wilson
Director: Jo Bradley
Cast: Annie Stafford
Images by Phil Erbacher

Theatre review
Gia is desperate to play Ophelia in Hamlet at Sydney’s premier Shakespeare company, yet at twenty-nine she confronts the dawning realisation that this ambition will likely remain unfulfilled. At home, her boyfriend Dan pressures her toward motherhood, rendering their relationship increasingly transactional. In Grace Wilson’s Gia Ophelia, we witness an actor gradually overwhelmed, drowning in disappointment and sorrow—much like the role she covets most.

Wilson’s dramaturgy emerges as the earnest offspring of Shakespearean inspiration, whilst simultaneously offering a laceratingly frank excavation of a young woman’s interiority in the contemporary West. Though punctuated by humour, Gia Ophelia proves ultimately disquieting—almost exasperating in its steadfast adherence to a conception of femininity four centuries old, its refusal to grant Gia the autonomy and agency that her modern circumstances ostensibly afford her.

Direction by Jo Bradley proves steadfastly faithful to the spirit of the text, ensuring that the anguish rendered resonates palpably—an unflinching examination of one woman’s conviction of her own failure. Holly Nesbitt’s lighting design confers a superb sense of theatricality, suffusing the stage with wistfulness and melancholy, discovering moments of unexpected beauty in the protagonist’s struggle-worn expressions. Otto Zagala’s sound and music, though occasionally abrupt in their intrusion, are effective additions to the production’s atmospheric intensity.

Annie Stafford delivers a remarkable performance as Gia, navigating with apparent effortlessness from the play’s levities to its despondent core. Whether in moments of lightness or shadow, Stafford proves eminently compelling—quite miraculously preventing the prevailing sadness of Gia Ophelia from estranging its audience.

One might hope that in this modern age, a woman like Gia could locate peace, happiness, and fulfilment beyond the purview of masculine design. Yet the long shadow of hegemonic patriarchy persists, its ancient architecture still shaping the contours of our lives. This is not to suggest, however, that Gia exists merely as its creature. Women have indeed traversed remarkable distance, and the legacy of her forebears has bestowed possibilities of liberation that Shakespeare and his ilk could scarcely have imagined. The past bequeaths its constraints; it also bestows its momentum.