My Father's Left Testicle

MY FATHER'S LEFT TESTICLE

Written & directed by Murray Lambert

Starring Nicholas O'Regan, Emily McGowan, Robert Carne

In light of the last few days, it may feel to those on the progressive side of politics that we’ve seen and heard enough; that our fragile, empathetic hearts couldn’t possibly take another blow.

Balls to that, say Murray Lambert and co., blustering in on a tragicomic dervish so galling that, had its knife-edge gallows humour not been performed with such commitment and skill, would shred the soul completely.

A boatload of Australian refugees is found taking on water in the national waters of a new land, and its passengers are quickly tossed into ‘Camp Assimilation’, a processing facility for new arrivals.

But before our heroes reach that dreaded place, we are introduced to the country’s parliament and the gaudy, overt physicality of commedia-style clowning. The air of the recently departed Dario Fo hovers close over proceedings – the grand old provocateur would surely smile to see his style so cleverly applied to contemporary issues.

So, too, is Antonin Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty invoked; arguably a necessity. Lambert and his cast lure in an unsuspecting crowd with flippantry and buffoonery before slamming them with harsh expressions of abject emotion. “If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry,” remarks Matthew Lausch early in the play, setting the stage for a secondary performance where a poorly timed laugh or a discomfited walk-out can make an audience member seem openly complicit in our country’s ills.

Subtlety is not in this ensemble’s repertoire – as evidenced by the gigantic scrotum that is the play’s central prop – but it excels at extravagance. Each performer takes on dual roles as both victim and oppressor. Watching Nicholas O’Regan, one could be forgiven mistaking him for a rejuvenated Jim Carrey, albeit with a sharpened tongue; Emily McGowan dives spectacularly between deep sorrow and deep silliness; and Robert Carne’s range and potency are impressive.

The enormous bollock onstage is, like the play, deceptively complex: it opens to provide a range of set pieces and a backstage area in an otherwise exposed stage. John Sullivan’s ingenuity and devotion to gonad detail are worthy of applause.

Lambert’s show milks comedy out of genuine nightmare fuel – one slapstick sequence involves two men accidentally sewing their mouths to each other while on hunger strike – but never loses sight of the humanity of those in pain. It is blatant, abrupt and confronting, and it damn well should be. It’s also very, very funny, thanks to the bravery of the cast.

The time for sensitivity in the asylum-seeker issue has passed; this production is a well-timed kick in the nads.

★★★★

My Father's Left Testicle was reviewed at the Depot Theatre on Thursday November 10.

Post originally printed in The BRAG; available at http://thebrag.com/arts/my-father-s-left-testicle