By Georgina Luck
Well-crafted stories about the choices that shape our lives
It was a pleasure to attend the second well-curated season of 10-minute plays from members of the Melbourne Writers Theatre.
Karyn Lee Greig’s skilful direction once again draws out a striking immediacy in every monologue; each feels like a story that must be told, a quality that defined Showcase 1 as well.
Jeannie Haughton’s ‘The Good Deed’ follows a frazzled mother driving home with quarrelling children when she sees an old man collapse by the roadside. Despite every reason to keep going – tired kids, dinner, sheer exhaustion – she chooses to stop. As she and the children help him carry wood and listen to fragments of his life, her feelings shift from compassion to growing unease as his questionable views on women surface. The piece becomes a compelling study of moral ambiguity. Performer Monique Kerr charts the protagonist’s emotional whiplash with precise, nuanced control; one moment she regrets stopping, the next she chastises herself for being unkind, only to be unsettled again by another offhand remark from the old man. The monologue quietly raises a resonant question: when should we get involved in things we can’t change? A significant strength lies in the subtext – brief hints of deeper stories that linger long after the performance. My only hesitation is the exaggerated portrayal of the old man; while clearly a deliberate choice, it sometimes felt tonally misaligned with the subtlety elsewhere. Given the actor’s skill, a less caricatured approach might have landed more powerfully. Still, this is a small quibble. Without spoiling the ending, the final line – delivered with disarming sincerity – is a quietly stunning moment.
In ‘Renovation Ruin’ by Bruce Shearer, a deliciously self-parodying, Miss Havisham‑esque figure answers the door to someone selling solar panels. When the unseen salesperson asks to use the bathroom, the protagonist – played with wit and irresistible charm by Donna de Palma – must explain why it’s not quite functional. What unfolds is a wonderfully unhinged tale of a dream renovation: a shared project she and her partner once approached with passion, optimism, and a sledgehammer‑ready enthusiasm. “When I wreck something, I really wreck it!” she gleefully declares, before the cracks in both the bathroom and the relationship begin to show. The perpetually unfinished bathroom becomes a sharp and effective metaphor for the slow erosion of a partnership and the slide into solitude. In a different play, the protagonist announcing her Dickens namesake might have felt too on-the-nose; here, it becomes a clever flourish. By naming herself after Miss Havisham, she reveals not only her self-awareness but her ability to poke fun at her own theatrics. For all its comedy, the piece steadily exposes the quiet truth at its centre: a deep, aching loneliness that sits just beneath the laughter and is rendered with poignant clarity.
In Leisa Whyte’s ‘Deep Breath’, a university student – the first in his family to reach higher education and carrying all the weight of their hopes, plus a Nonna convinced he’s starving – stands staring at the
sea, trying to quiet the voices in his head. But these aren’t the voices we might expect. He has a rare, overwhelming empathy, a sixth sense that sometimes allows him to feel the thoughts and pain of others, all pressing in alongside his own. What might have been a gift has become a curse. While juggling university life and the simple quest for a decent coffee, he stumbles upon an ornate wooden door advertising for a barista. Like a character from a modern fairytale, he steps inside and finds a haven. The refreshingly gentle heart of this story really resonated with me. Anthony Pontonio plays the character with such sincerity and sweetness that we’re immediately on his side. A standout moment is the frantic Nonna on the phone transformed into the sound of a squawking seagull – a witty use of sound. A lovely, tender piece.
In Maree Collie’s ‘Wakeup Call’, a woman in her later years looks out her window to find a skip in the neighbour’s driveway – and realises, with rising horror, that the neighbour’s life is being thrown away. After a fall has left the neighbour hospitalised, with little chance of returning home, her possessions are being cleared out with ruthless efficiency. The protagonist – played by Clare Larman with a beautifully calibrated mix of sympathy, indignation, and wry self-awareness – watches the scene unfold and grows increasingly furious. But alongside the anger sits an honesty that grounds the piece; the protagonist’s frustration is not only about what’s happening across the fence but what it reflects back at her – the unsettling truth that she too is “getting closer to the top of the list”. The neighbour’s life being tossed into the skip becomes a catalyst – a stark, galvanising reminder that time is finite. It nudges the protagonist toward the things she’s been delaying, the dreams she’s set aside, perhaps even the long‑imagined trip she’s never taken. I found the play to be a thoughtful, quietly powerful meditation on ageing, fear, and the fragile imprint we leave behind. It made me reflect on my own life, and the choices we all postpone until something forces us to pay attention.
In Louise Hopewell’s beautifully-written ‘Dream Home’, a woman lies awake while her partner sleeps soundly beside her. What keeps her awake is the image of a blonde, charismatic art teacher – kaftans, mini‑skirts, flamboyance, everything this sensible, orderly maths teacher is not. At first, we wonder: is this woman a threat to her marriage? An aspirational fantasy? An obsession? As the protagonist wanders the house, a darker truth emerges. The women are connected by something far more disturbing than envy or imagination. Years earlier, something terrible happened to the blonde woman in this very home – a notorious incident the whole community remembers. Everyone except the protagonist. Once she learns what happened, the sleepless nights become an act of witness, a desire to acknowledge what happened to the former occupant and to offer some measure of peace to them both. My one suggestion is that spelling out the incident was perhaps not necessary; we work out what has happened from the skilful writing, and the stark naming of it lessened the power a bit for me – but others might disagree. Charmaine Gorman’s performance is wonderfully nuanced – grounded, restrained, and emotionally precise. The result is a moving, poetic meditation on empathy, trauma, and the unseen stories that shape the places we call home.
The monologues are complemented by simple but effective sound and lighting design by John Jenkin, AV design by Martin Hunter, and intuitive stage management by Gemma Valastro – resulting in a stylish, seamless production.
Congratulations to Clare Mendes from the Melbourne Writers’ Theatre for producing such strong seasons.
Metropolis Monologues is playing at The Stables @ Meat Market at in a double-bill season with ‘Who I’m Doing This For’ until 1st April.
Image of Clare Larman
