Courtesy of Beckett, Welles, and most ubiquitously Hollywood, dystopian visions of our civilisation decimated by disaster are a familiar dramatic trope. But what if our world came to an end not with a bang, but a whimper? Or at least an apathetic shrug? The dinosaurs may have met their demise with a blockbuster-worthy spectacle of cosmic hellfire, but since the dawn of the industrial age, it has grown ever more apparent that humanity's fate will likely be a far less hurried affair.
This reality clearly isn't lost on British playwright Lucy Kirkwood. Rejecting the stereotypical smoking ruins of other apocalyptic tales, her cautionary three-hander offers a simple yet sophisticated domestic drama about the manmade perils pushing our species towards extinction.
Set in the humble front room of a rural cottage on the English coast, Hazel (Pamela Rabe) and her husband Robin (William Zappa) are unexpectedly visited by a decades-absent friend Rose (Sarah Peirse). Inside this quaint home everything appears, at first glance, unremarkable. But outside a catastrophe has unfolded. As was the case at Japan's Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant in 2011, a freak earthquake and tsunami have caused a reactor meltdown at a nearby power station, showering the surrounding areas with deadly radiation. Forced to flee their small farm, Hazel and Robin now live on the edge of the exclusion zone, so that Robin can venture back daily to feed the livestock that have inexplicably survived against the odds.
At first, Rose's unannounced arrival seems innocuous; she shares pleasantries with Hazel over a cup of tea. But much like the deceptive tranquillity of their irradiated coastal home, toxic secrets silently emerge from this cordial chit-chat. Hazel, Robin and Rose are all retired nuclear physicists who once worked at the damaged power plant, and not only do they understand the true magnitude of the meltdown's dangers, they were also responsible for some of the ill-conceived protocols that allowed it to happen in the first place. With the appearance of Rose, not only are they forced to stare down their grave professional negligence, they will also be confronted by even darker emotional truths from a past that threatens to drastically redirect their future.
There are few young playwrights whose star is on the rise quite as meteorically as Lucy Kirkwood. Her 2013 breakout play Chimerica and The Children, premiered in 2016, have both enjoyed rapturous seasons in London's West End and New York's Broadway, the former receiving its Australian premiere last year in Sydney to much acclaim. And truly, Kirkwood's writing is more than worthy of this success. With astonishingly economical resources, Kirkwood offers in The Children a powerful perspective on globally reaching concerns, and yet these hefty themes are buoyed by wit, humour and beautifully observed characterisations.
This is a play the thrums with subtext, challenging the notion that these issues are too great for an individual to affect change, that our human dominion is immutable, that our intellectual superiority inoculates us against whatever ecological doom the future may hold. It questions the nature of inter-generational responsibility, the obligations and repercussions of bringing a child into the world, and the tension between our innate instinct for self-preservation and the moral artifice of self-sacrifice. That Kirkwood is able to communicate such epic concepts via such intimate and accessible means is a testament to her brilliance as a dramatist.
So too is it a credit to the three largely excellent performances in this MTC production. Under the direction of Sarah Goodes, who continues to cement her stature as one of Australia's most important theatre-makers, Rabe, Zappa and Peirse bring great depth to their portrayals, although the credibility of some corners of the plot feels stretched by an occasional lack of nuance. Nonetheless, witnessing three of Australia's most stellar character actors tackling such rich and complex theatre is a privilege, even if the pacing of this production is somewhat lethargic in its opening moments; those hoping for the kind of special FX-laden disaster-porn you'd find at the cinema should look elsewhere. This slow-burn is not without its rewards, however. It allows a creeping dread to amass almost unperceived, so that when it finally spills forth (both figuratively and literally) its impact shifts the tent poles of the narrative with seismic force.
Whether Kirkwood intends The Children to be a warning or a contemporary memento mori is an unanswered question that hangs in the air long after the curtain comes down, and it's this lingering ambiguity that is perhaps this play's most important gift. These unresolved issues should persist in the mind, disturb us, and keep us awake at night; despite appearances, the apocalypse may already be underway.
Melbourne Theatre Company presents The Children till 10 Mar at Southbank Theatre
