By Natalie Ristovski
Bloomsday, a commemorative yearly celebration of the life of James Joyce, finds its Down Under home via Bloomsday in Melbourne – a team of dramaturgs who have been diligently working going on thirty years to bring the works of the esteemed Irish writer, widely considered to be one of the most important and influential creators of the twentieth century, to Australian audiences.
Their 2025 offering, Circe’s Carnival of Vice, touted as a “fevered dreamscape (of) surreal hallucinations,” is perhaps one of the most well-known chapters of Joyce’s Opus Ulysses, a famously difficult to read tome that puts a (now dated 1900s) “modern” spin on Homer’s Odyssey via a day in the life of three upper middle-class Dubliners. There is a lot to be said for Joyce’s stream of consciousness narrative style – in delving through the thoughts, hopes, fears and hallucinations of his protagonists, he allows the reader (or in this case, viewer) a raw glimpse into what makes the main players tick. Yet in so doing, he also leaves both his characters, and his works open to the pontification of intellectual scrutiny. Journalist Djuna Barnes once quoted Joyce in his lamentation that “the public will demand and find a moral in my book—or worse they may take it in some more serious way, and on the honour of a gentleman, there is not one single serious line in it.” And therein lies the rub – with both Ulysses as a whole and with this production…one’s understanding and enjoyment of it rests solely and completely in the hearts and eyes of the beholder. That, or Joyce was one of the earliest of the white male contingent to court social outrage, only to later declare it “just a joke.”
As a production, Circe’s Carnival of Vice is simultaneously a barren and sumptuous affair. Its staging is notably minimalist, with few props and/or set pieces give or take the odd chair, cigarette holder or gilt frame, leaving much of the dramatic heavy lifting to the lighting design and cast. By contrast, Zachary Dixon’s delectably maximalist costuming is a delight to behold. Working magic with Temu-grade corsetry and cleverly placed fabrics, beading and curtain tassels, Dixon manages to create carnivalesque couture that sits somewhere between the best of the burlesque revival and a staging of Eyes Wide Shut, with a clear penchant for tulle, glitter and lace and that was very much appreciated. Props (hah!) must also go out to Ellana Hedger’s magnificent puppet which, paired with Stelios Karagiannis’ lighting, was a strong contender for performance of the night.
The script, drawn directly from Chapter Fifteen of Joyce’s novel, is a mishmash of narrative styles, at times beautiful and eloquent, and at others dreadfully droll and self-indulgent. When performed in the round sans microphones, one was hard-pressed to catch every nuance and inflection of dialogue – which left viewers without a degree in Intellectualism in Ireland in the 19th Century somewhat at a loss to interpret the myriad of very topical intertextual references. Thematically, if one was to ignore Joyce’s insistence that the viewer not succumb to pareidolia, the piece swam the mostly shallow end of the gender identity debate, prodding a toe at (disproportionately) men’s inner desire to break free of the patriarchal expectations of what it meant to be a man within the context of the world both Joyce and his protagonist Leopold Bloom (Eric Moran) inhabited.
There were some poignant moments within the production – Bloom’s genuine joy at being prettied up in corsetry and stockings and the seeming delight with which he embraced a large portion of his submission at the hands of Bella Cohen (Kelly Nash) – were well handled and convincingly delivered by Moran, but these were mostly marred by the underlying misogyny throughout. The more feminine Bloom became, the more he was mocked and jeered at – his transformation into a ‘pig’ (a nod to Circe’s penchant for turning men into swine), preceding his debasement and surrender into a dominated woman. The subsequent revelation of Bella Cohen’s moustache as she shifted within Bloom’s mind into the cruel ‘Mr Bello’ did not read so much as commentary on man’s tendency towards brutality as it did on a woman’s inability to dominate. Indeed, women in general within this snapshot were largely portrayed as either virgins or whores, and the harpy-like screeching of those declaring ‘me too’ as the crowd condemned Bloom for his social crimes echoed keenly similar to the cruel laughter of the prostitutes mocking him during his debasement. Whether reflective of Joyce’s own views on the fairer sex (he was famously quoted as claiming to dislike intellectual women), or a wider commentary on Ireland’s overall view of women at the time, the perceived liberalism of the piece was rendered somewhat moot and tokenistic as a result.
The ‘Vices’ aspect of the production, reminiscent in staging to the theatre scene in the 2000s movie Quills, was hit and miss – for all its overt sexuality and Femdom slant, the entire affair smacked heavily of kink shaming (if you’re going to have a woman shart on a man, it’s probably best not to have her fellow onlookers turn away in disgust). Vanilla’s would certainly have gotten a mortified kick out of some of the edgier fetishes on display, but most seasoned kinksters would barely have bat an eye. Dubious consent, physical and sexual assault, humiliation…these things may have shocked in the 1900s, but without the benefit of a deeper meaning or exploration in 2025, they seemed no more than a rather tawdry display.
By contrast, the entire cast was phenomenal. Eric Moran took a thoroughly reprehensible and pathetic character and made him watchable, and Kelly Nash slayed every moment she was on stage, in many ways stealing the show. Personal notable standouts were also the breathtaking Veronicka Devlin (who was the production’s choreographer) – an absolutely mesmerising performer as Circe and every other incarnation embodied; and Ryan Haran, who by virtue of simply existing in the space managed to solely capture the beautiful genderfluidity and grace that I suspect the production was initially going for.
Ultimately, Circe’s Carnival of Vice is not for everyone. For the wine-swirling pseudo-intellectuals with a university degree who like to pop off to the theatre after dinner at a’laFlounce, sitting in an inaccessible cold basement for almost two hours watching a group of very attractive and very talented dramaturgs try to ascribe poignancy and meaning to an upper middle class white man’s mental diarrhea from 100 years ago may sound like a good time – particularly as they guffaw at the shocked faces of the plebs. For those of us who don’t fancy ourselves aging libertines born in the wrong era, the show was an exercise in remembering to smile encouragingly at the artists every time they made eye contact. It’s been a while since I have adored the visual aspects of a performance and been awed by the professionalism and talent of the cast, while simultaneously utterly despising the show they were performing…but here we are. I hope to one day see this team tackle something more worthy of their bravery and skill, because for this particular reviewer, James Joyce ain’t it.
Image: Jody Jane Stitt
