Almost all of the musicals that tour Australia come prepackaged: pre-designed, directed, orchestrated, and choreographed. Sets are shipped from overseas, costumes are lovingly reconstructed. These replica musicals brought in more than $300m in revenue in 2014 alone; musicals are one of Australia’s most lucrative art industries but allow for very little local creative input.
But with Little Shop of Horrors, the director, Dean Bryant, and his team have made a thrilling case for handing the creative control back to Australian artists. Their new revival of the Howard Ashman/Alan Menken cult musical made its debut on Tuesday at Sydney’s Hayes theatre, with an Australian tour to follow – and it’s a black comedy triumph.
After the 2014 success of Bryant and his team’s Sweet Charity – an electric revivification of independent theatre – the two shows demonstrate a clear Australian approach to classic musicals: investigating contemporary classism and prohibitive social structures by highlighting just how rarely “dreams of a better life” come true.
Bryant brought dignity back to Charity’s dancehall dreamer, Charity Hope Valentine, and rediscovered her humanity despite her social stasis. In Little Shop, his cast of depressed lost souls are offered a hint of social and cultural capital in the form of fame – which benefits a host of agents, marketers and merchandisers but turns deadly for the show’s heroes.
In a country with inflated housing prices and which threatens access to shelter and healthcare for its most vulnerable citizens – turning away the helpless and refusing to share its profits – is there anything more relevant than this? Bryant and his team have found the dark heart of this decade’s Australia and he’s brought it to life in all-singing, all-dancing social commentary.
The world of Little Shop begins with a flash (the lighting design is equal parts apocalyptic thunderstorm and if a soap opera crossed signals with a rock show) and a surprise narrator cameo, before this tragedy’s Greek chorus (Chloe Zuel, Angelique Cassimatis and Josie Lane) introduce us to the show, the neighbourhood and the defiance of living proudly when the world thinks you’re a joke. The women are the anchor of the production: fourth-wall breaking, smart and funny.
The heart of the show is Seymour (Brent Hill), an impoverished orphan living on “Skid Row”, who works for shelter and food at Mushnik’s, a failing florist store. His boss, Mr Mushnik (Tyler Coppin), is ready to close up shop permanently when Seymour and tragic shopgirl Audrey (Esther Hannaford) suggest he display one of Seymour’s beloved exotic plants in the window.
The plant is Audrey II, a weird-looking thing that flourishes after sucking on a few drops of blood from Seymour’s pricked finger. It becomes an overnight sensation, giving Seymour a sudden taste of fame – and all he has to do to keep it is pay for it in blood.
At first, that blood is just his own. At first.
Audrey II (puppets designed to revel in hilarious, schlocky glory by Erth Visual and Physical Inc) is voiced by Brent Hill and thus by Seymour and, with this choice, Bryant’s Little Shop becomes a darker horror. Is the plant’s predilection for murder the one outlet Seymour has for his rage against an unfair life? Is the plant using a kind but ultimately disposable man as a vessel for its darker humanity-eradicating plot? Both readings hold up throughout the show and that uncertainty adds a psychological bent to the story, deepening the experience. It’s also a phenomenal showcase for Hill, who never loses Seymour’s physicality and demeanour, even when voicing the boisterous, demanding plant.
Bryant revels in his oddball characters. Audrey’s boyfriend, Orin Scrivello (Scott Johnson), is all swagger and nitrous-induced delusions of grandeur; Seymour is hapless but with just enough fire to press his life forward; Audrey is a caged bird singing, never judged by her inability to leave her abusive relationship, choosing financial stability over safety.
Audrey’s story is deeply rooted in queer storytelling. Ashman and Menken have tapped into the tragic beauty of the diva and of gay identity in the 1980s. In this production she’s Bryant’s Billie Holiday, the vulnerable diva who is allowed the dignity of tolerating the violence of her boyfriend because it’s the only twisted affection she’s ever known; she’s to be understood as too good for the cruelty of existence, as too precious to stay long in the world.
Hannaford imbues Audrey with sweet humour and full-bodied wistfulness; in the second half of Suddenly Seymour, when she and Seymour connect romantically, her full voice erupts from her tiny frame and it’s a beautiful roar, a declaration of self and of liberation.
Bryant careens from dark humour to terror and then sets up another laugh for necessary relief. The stage design is a big source of humour in itself – its big change in the second act is so delightful that it earned cheers and applause on opening night – and the choreography indulges in quick, visual gags and late 1950s movement references to lighten the atmosphere.
It is rare for a musical to achieve real creative greatness. Musical theatre production is so deeply collaborative and requires each element – from book and music and lyrics to choreography and set design and performances – to be in service of the heart of the story. Little Shop is entirely in sync. As the show settles, it will trust itself to take a few moments to breathe, for the more emotional scenes to stretch and settle, but it’s so close to it now that it touches the divine.
Watching this show feels like a discovery, or a reaffirmation; to be reminded why musical theatre matters, to be assured that musicals are a difficult, exhilarating art. And all this from a campy cult classic. What magic.
- Little Shop of Horrors runs at the Hayes theatre in Sydney until 19 March; at Her Majesty’s theatre in Adelaide from 20 April; at the Comedy theatre in Melbourne from 4 May; at the Canberra theatre from 25 May; at the Playhouse theatre QPAC in Brisbane from 1 June; and at His Majesty’s theatre in Perth from August 4
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