1 day Ago By Karl Quinn
Stephanie Broadbridge, Breaking: The Musical Merlyn Theatre, Malthouse April 1 to 3 Rachael Gunn wasn’t in the house on Tuesday night for the first of three shows of Stephanie Broadbridge’s legally challenged musical . And her name wasn’t even spoken. But she was everywhere in this entertaining, messy, incisive, sympathetic, critical and occasionally hilarious production that the audience rewarded with a (partial) standing ovation.
Roo do you think you are? Comedian Steph Broadbridge strikes a pose. Credit: Dylan Coker First, the disclaimer, which flashed up on a screen at the back of the stage before proceedings began. “All characters in this show are fictional, even the ones that seem like they are not.
The ones that seem like they are someone really specific and you are pretty sure they are based on someone real. Also their name sounds heaps like that person’s name that you thought it was. No! They are made up, too.
Everything is pretend.” And then we launch into the tale of a young woman (of 36) from the outer Sydney suburb of Hornsby, who will go on to represent Australia at the Paris Olympics, become known as Spraygun, and be mocked mercilessly for her signature kangaroo dance moves (TM). As if.
Sprachel, as she is formally known, appears to have no particular aptitude for breakdancing, despite having a PhD in it. But her husband does, and he lures her away from ballroom dancing to the street sport, and somehow she manages to reach the top – and then the bottom. Told and sung in verse throughout, Breaking covers all the bases: the accusations of white privilege and cultural appropriation; unfounded whispers of corruption; horrendous online bullying; and, of course, the legal threats that almost stopped this show from ever seeing the light of day (or, to be precise, night).
The occasional appearances of a bewigged barrister are accompanied by the panto prompt, “Look out, he’s behind you”, on screen, and are among the show’s best moments. Breaking: The Musical disclaimer. Credit: Karl Quinn Though self-funded and born of a stand-up’s smell-of-an-oily-rag ethos, this is a fully fledged musical, with a three-piece band onstage and a cast of 12.
It’s a mighty ambitious effort, and even if it doesn’t always land, it’s not hard to see how, with a little more polish, it could have a much longer life than the short-run comedy festival outings (Adelaide, Melbourne and Sydney next) it is currently enjoying. Still, the production was plagued by sound issues on opening night, with Broadbridge among the performers whose mics malfunctioned. Five minutes in, the narrator asked the audience directly if they could hear, received a resounding no, and suggested they start the whole thing again.
After the restart things were better, but Broadbridge, in particular, remained difficult to hear at times. That’s a huge shame because the writing is sharp, and the words and lyrics deserve to be heard. She treads a fine line between excoriation and empathy, and must wonder every night if this show will be the last.
The line trotted out last December, as the legal battle raged, about this being a show that takes its subject’s side would represent at best a very generous reading. Perhaps that was the intention, and then came the legal intervention, and it shifted; who knows. But in execution, it’s pure parody, with just a soupcon of compassion.
Spraygun – if she actually existed – would rightly be a figure deserving ridicule, at least until the point where ridicule becomes cruelty, and then she’s deserving of some kindness. And that is precisely what Broadbridge’s show delivers. Here’s hoping Raygun and her legal team give the show a break – for everyone’s sake.
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