Review: An Open Letter to MY FATHER'S LEFT TESTICLE at Depot Theatre

To the cast and crew of My Father's Left Testicle,

One of my deepest concerns is that after the performance it is possible you saw your work as 'disruptive' and congratulated yourselves on the number of walk-outs and cries of anguish from the stalls as though these were achievements, or validation of your purported "holding a mirror to modern society". Equally, I'm concerned you will dismiss my response as an anomaly, or a mere misinterpretation of your "ends justify the means" approach to abducting the stories of some of the world's most disenfranchised people. It is in my nature to believe the best in anyone, and I acknowledge my own imperfections in this area, but I've not been given the platform you were, the platform you compromised.

As a reviewer, I take great pride in remaining objective to connect the right audience to a show. I'm disappointed that for the first time in my reviewing career I was compelled to walk-out, finding My Father's Left Testicle to be, however intriguing in its execution, morally abhorrent in its conceptualisation. I appreciate this might cause distress to the creative team, cast, crew, venue and even other supportive audience members. However, in the particular light of recent times, a production that calls one's integrity into question truly requires deeper investigation and genuine criticism. I make it absolutely clear to any reader that unlike any other review I have posted prior, this review does not reflect the entirety of the production, and my response is personal.

This is not the first time Depot Theatre have presented a production where swapping out actual diversity and first-hand trauma for the "what if white people were refugees?" device is used under the misapprehension this will evoke any productive sense of empathy. Appropriating the very real suffering of communities for the purposes of comedy, for example transforming the desperate action of sewing one's own mouth shut into an inflictive, vindictive slapstick routine (fraught with such intense screaming it could be heard from the carpark) does not activate a non-refugee's self-awareness because it melodramatises; evoking pity, not empathy.

Despite excusing its actions as "Black Comedy", My Father's Left Testicle failed to promote the stories of refugees as not a single refugee or primary refugee narrative took the stage. If Writer/Director Murray Lambert's intention was to condemn the indeed repugnant treatment of asylum seekers and refugees, then he ought to have further developed the opening scene of the play, which actually was quite strong for it's direct mocking white politicians. The rule in comedy of punch-up, kiss-down in this Political-Puppet-Pals scenario, was swiftly disregarded in favour of repurposing crimes against humanity through the lens of privilege for patronising vignettes.

The performers were committed, for that I will commend them. Their approach to the humour, and chemistry as an ensemble, came across. I do wonder if the performers felt proud to be the face of a 'divisive' production, and I urge all performers to consider their moral standpoints on productions that strip all but controversy from communities of which they are not a part. The scrotal set-piece designed by John Sullivan, and the uncredited sound design did much for the dynamism of the piece and the absurdity it attempted to emote. The functionality of the testicle-apparent showed great talent on Sullivan's behalf. The lighting design by Mehran Mortezai was similarly playful and punctuating.

It is my sincere hope in future that refugees are more persistently represented in Australia's creative outputs, with the legitimate placing of diverse communities on stages, behind tech desks and in the wings. It is also my sincere hope that white and white-passing communities don't require such an arrogant gesture as trying asylum-seeking on for size in order to be distracted from their apathy. It is my sincerest hope that those audience members who remained watching My Father's Left Testicle were so discomforted that they did volunteer, donate or somehow involve themselves in the actual resolution of the issues. It is not for me to say if by the end, the play did somehow revert itself to making a direct and proactive statement, too little too late for some. I believe it to be a severe error that no indication proceeds of any kind from the production would be used to aid refugees, nor any trigger warning offered to demonstrate compassion or even consciousness regarding the content.

I appreciate your consideration of this response as a desperate plea that we are moved to challenge issues as artists not by our own interests, but by the instruction and involvement of the people living with the injustice we're attempting to resolve. You are, most regrettably, not alone in your reprehensible misinterpretation; plays about women written by men, about Indigenous people produced by third-generation immigrants, plays about people living with a disability performed by the able. As artists we must be willing to listen, be invited and be directed by the first-hand experience of these people whose stories are valid in their own right, much less in what way we can place ourselves in them.

Sincerely,

Brodie Paparella

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