Theatre and literature have always had a close relationship; novels are interrogated, investigated and reinterpreted on stage, where prose transforms into lighting cues and dialogue to find new ways into a story. Theatre can offer a continuation of national narratives, too – a way to reckon with the works that have defined us.
So it feels inevitable that a work by Stella and Prime Minister’s literary award-winning author Charlotte Wood would end up on an Australian stage. The author of nine books, including the stark sensation The Natural Way of Things, Wood is a fearless and thoughtful explorer of the tension between inner worlds and structural pressures. What does it mean, she asks, to live in a world that will not bend for you?
In The Weekend, it’s the linear march of time that does not bend. Adele (Belinda Giblin), Jude (Toni Scanlan) and Wendy (Melita Jurisic) were once a close-knit group of four. Now in their 70s, their friend Sylvie has died, and the three women must pack up her house and grapple with the loss. What does it mean to be older? What does it mean for your secrets, your dreams and your heart? How do we open up to each other when we’ve been holding in impolite, untidy, too-real feelings for too long – and how do we let go of that which doesn’t serve us and accept who we really are?
In the novel, these themes are underlined by the presence of Wendy’s old dog Finn who – suffering from dementia – is both a spectre of death and an affirmation of life. In this adaptation by Sue Smith (Saving Mr Banks), Finn is a heartbreaking, heart-warming puppet (performed with empathetic detail by Keila Terencio, and created by Indigo-Rose Redding). His watchful, enigmatic presence acts as a subtle catalyst for the women: their conflicts and catharsis are connected to Finn.
Smith’s script begins stiffly; it takes a moment to work through clunky exposition and setup. But once the women have all arrived – much of the action takes place on the deck of Sylvie’s home in coastal New South Wales, all open air and wooden outdoor furniture (the set is by Stephen Curtis) – the writing relaxes and develops a naturalistic warmth.
Director Sarah Goodes nurtures that warmth and plumbs it deeper: she builds an elegiac mood that makes the mysteries of life and death and emotion more present through shifting tone. She corrals the elements: Damien Cooper’s lights usher in a change of heart as readily as they signal the approaching storm; Susie Henderson’s video design suggests the outdoors, a rustling of trees and a rush of ocean waves projected behind the set; and composer Steve Francis plays with wistful soundscapes. Even when these women aren’t able to share their feelings with each other, we feel them: they’re all around us.
Goodes’s tone-setting is critical here, because Smith’s script hews towards safety. She introduces a hint of theatre magic when actor Adele summons a sound cue to match her mood, but it’s just one glimpse of meta-theatrics that doesn’t return. Each woman monologues, ostensibly to Finn, but the writing feels hesitant and contained: guarded speech that can’t quite shift from straightforward narrative. Goodes uplifts these moments to elevate the novel for the stage, offering sensory connections you can’t summon with a book – and she carries this good and solid script directly towards the heart.
The ensemble deliver detailed, thoughtful and frequently funny performances built on keen observation. Giblin leans into charming actorly flourishes as Adele, who seems like a flighty friend until we understand her better – and her scenes with young hot-shot director Joe (Roman Delo, with great pouting-genius comic timing) are full of playful energy. Jurisic, as Wendy, cleverly straddles the line between wisdom and naivete (the brilliant academic doesn’t have that same clarity of vision in her family relationships), and she provides a vital stabilising force onstage. But it’s Scanlan’s Jude – quick to judge, slow to reveal herself – who could put a lump in your throat. She’s a study of subtlety, all quick looks and sharp tongue – but when she finally breaks open, it’s gutting.
So what does it mean about us that The Weekend is the story we’ve decided to tell again onstage? The women at its core are white, affluent or successful, a demographic theatre loves to explore (often at the harmful exclusion of others). But The Weekend is so about the guts of life and death – the complexity of our ageing bodies, their relationship to our minds and emotions – that it makes sense to embody this story in three dimensions.
We don’t often place a high value on the stories of women who are, as Wendy describes it, “in their crone years”. We are quick to dismiss their life experience, their desires and their thoughts. On stage, the cast of The Weekend live this story of love and loss and self-discovery – and audiences are let into the lives of people we often ignore.
The Weekend runs at Belvoir St theatre, Sydney until 10 September
