Set against the backdrop of a share house – a situation many of us are only too familiar with – Banana Republic is a humorous depiction of what happens when three friends start up a ‘commune’. An amalgamation of everyone’s assets, consensus decision-making and non-hierarchical structures are defining characteristics of a commune – but in a house where one is an unemployed couch potato, one is a burger flipper and the other is a law student who works part time, the results are comical and catastrophic.
Jen is an articulate but highly strung law student who prides herself on being a progressive young thinker but nevertheless buys into consumerism and a lifestyle largely shaped by her whims. Enter Geoff, her left-leaning latte-sipping revolutionary new boyfriend who shuns every form of excess and champions against corporatisation, environmental degradation and child labour (to name a few of his causes). Jen’s cousin and housemate Julian is unhappy at his rudimentary job flipping burgers but is even more chagrined by Jen’s newfound love for activism – as a result of her infatuation with Geoff – and suggests turning the house into a ‘commune’ to show Jen the folly of her ways. Both are undone when their third housemate Dill discovers his knack for online trading on the stock exchange and uses the commune’s money to buy stocks – essentially turning the play into a microcosm of the global financial crisis and a portrayal of the nuances of Australian politics compressed into a single household.
Nary a dull moment exists as each actor enthusiastically wrestles with the contradictions of their characters, each line delivered with aplomb and each complex issue delved into with a striking simplicity that renders it at once accessible and entertaining. The camaraderie between cast members is evident, enlivening the plot and injecting each heated debate with an added intensity. The play is replete with memorable one liners, while conversations between the characters are innocuously peppered with political turns of phrase as the play deftly contrasts the rigours of share house leaving with the political minefield that is its premise.
Self-described as a part play/part sitcom, Banana Republic also successfully merges the mechanics of a live television set with the intricacies of a contemporary theatre show to make for an interesting experience. Audience members are asked to make different sounds – varying from raucous laughter and shocked gasps to hysterical screaming – which are recorded at the outset and played at sporadic intervals throughout the play. The boundary between audience members and performers is further blurred when the audience is given the opportunity to bear witness to what goes on behind the scenes; in one scene preparation, for instance, Julian runs on the spot, works himself into a fit and douses himself in water to assume the sweaty sheen of a burger flipper.
In another departure from traditional plays, a camerawoman follows in the wake of each character as the play simultaneously broadcasts on a small television screen above, nimbly capturing the essence of a sitcom as audience members are gifted the treat of enjoying the play from different angles and in divergent ways.
The result is a refreshing, uproarious and thought-provoking take on contemporary Australian politics, the moral ambiguity of the many different causes that people unite under, and the mayhem that ensued after the seemingly avoidable global financial crisis.
Banana Republic runs until 7 October at The Owl and the Pussycat. Tickets are $20 full-price and $15 concession (group tickets are $18 per person for four people).
