David Williamson’s new play, Rupert, delivers exactly what it’s meant to: a slightly depressing, decidedly funny, all-singing-all-dancing journey through the life of the world’s biggest fish in an international pond, Rupert Murdoch.
It’s hard to tell where Williamson’s script ends and the MTC’s production, excellently directed by Lee Lewis, begins. Rupert is a work that has clearly been workshopped extensively by its cast and director, to its benefit; the show is full of tiny strokes of fourth-wall-breaking comic genius.
The framing narrative, such as it is, has Rupert Murdoch (Sean O’Shea) telling the story of his life. He has appointed a younger, squarer-jawed, spikier-haired version of himself to do the heavy theatrical lifting (Guy Edmonds) while a bevvy of six business-suited lackeys with iPads take the roles of everyone else in his life. We follow Murdoch from Oxford right through to the Leveson Inquiry, as he sheds skins, buys new ones, and out-manoeuvres anyone and everyone in his way.
Performance-wise, Sean O’Shea somewhat overshadows Guy Edmonds – not least because of the decision to make O’Shea look like the Murdoch we all love, or love to hate, while Edmonds looks like he might have strayed out of a boy band. Nor do the two Murdochs share anything in common in terms of voice, mannerisms or physicality; while O’Shea is always marked in his physical presence, Edmonds tends to disappear into the suit-wearing crowd of extras. Which is not to say that either performance is unenjoyable – Edmonds gets a couple of cracking moments in – but O’Shea gets the big soliloquies, and generally pulls off a more sinister Murdochian quality.
The ensemble cast has many joyous moments, particularly Bert LaBonté, who comes through again and again with perfect comic timing. There’s also a stellar turn by Marg Downey as Maggie Thatcher and a pocketbook of accents and single-handed portrayal of almost every Australian politician in the Murdoch era by Simon Gleeson.
Stephen Curtis’ set is admirably flexible, shedding layers as Murdoch’s world grows; ingenious props and costumes appear and disappear five times a minute, some real, some projected, some puppets. A special mention has to go to dramaturg Chris Mead on this one; it must have been an epic trawl through quite that much history.
Rupert is a play that competently and enjoyably does exactly what it’s meant to. It’s a thoroughly enjoyable night out. There is dancing. There are quirky asides. Fun is poked at Murdoch from start to finish, from his political involvements (and denials) to his wife-switching, and his constant quest for a bigger bottom line.
Somehow, throughout the work – which isn’t short, weighing in just under three hours including interval – we find ourselves vaguely cheering for Murdoch, the cheeky unstoppable rogue of right-wing enterprise. It isn’t until the set falls away, leaving O’Shea on an emptying stage with the face of murdered schoolgirl Milly Dowler projected behind him, that we’re reminded that this larrikin media crime boss is a real person, and that the cringe-worthy comedic stories of manipulation and callousness are real.
Rating: 3½ stars out of 5
Melbourne Theatre Company present
Rupert
By David Williamson
Director: Lee Lewis
Set, Costume and AV Designer: Stephen Curtis
Lighting Designer: Niklas Pajanti
Composer: Kelly Ryall
Dramaturg: Chris Mead
Assistant Director: Clare Watson
Choreographer: Andrew Hallsworth
Assistant Choreographer: Tanya Mitford
Dance Captain: Bert LaBonté
Voice and Dialect Coach: Anna McCrossin-Owen
Production Researcher: Tania Lentini
Illustrator: Conrad Miles
Animator: Rebecca Hayes
Stage Manager: Rebecca Hitchcock
Assistant Stage Manager: Vivienne Poznanski
Playhouse, Arts Centre Melbourne
24 August – 28 September
(Pictured: Photo: Jeff Busby)
