Save Suvla Street by David Britton, 31 Jan 1995

At La Mama Wed -Sun until Feb 19, 1995

Reviewer: Kate Herbert around 31 Jan 1995

This review published in early Feb 1995 (in either The Melbourne Times or Herald Sun. Sorry, I don’t have the details now). KH

 

Just like the weird perfumier in Patrick Suskind's literary and olfactory novel, Perfume, I spent much of Save Suvla Street at La Mama obsessed with smells around me. My neighbour wore a cloying blend of frankincense and cigarette smoke, the woman in front exuded sweet French perfume, Carlton smelt of petrol and coffee.

 

This was not merely the result of a wandering mind but was stimulated by David Britton's solo character, Hilda Armitage, who stores her memories in jars filled with smells, stinks and aromas from her past: her husband's sweaty singlet, the bullocky scent of her first love Gunter, her daughter's lunch box. We even got to play "spot the pong" when she passed her "memories" around for sniffing.

 

The writing is swift, intelligent, witty, at times echoing almost forgotten Australian idiom then drifting into a timeless, lyrical language which creates an unexpected emotional layering to the text. Hilda is a feisty old bag with a crusade: to save her beloved home in Suvla Street from being bull-dozed and turned into a Hotel. She has called her neighbours (the audience) into her front yard (La Mama courtyard) to discuss the tragedy of a society which no longer values anything old, unless it's an antique. This includes old mums we are soon to discover.

Sue Jones works hard alone on stage for 90 minutes and there are many warm, funny and gently moving moments. She engages and entertains. Director, Catherine Hill, has taken the challenge of the monodrama, and drawn some charming moments from it.

 

The location in the La Mama courtyard was a great choice, if a shade risky during this balmy, wet January. Anna Borghese's set was evocative and attentive to the minutiae of an elderly woman's life.

 

Somehow the production, although generally entertaining, did not seem to penetrate the surface of a potentially intensely emotional piece. It was erratically paced and, at times, did not do justice to Britton's fine poetic language.

 

KATE HERBERT