Samson and Delilah

‘Samson and Delilah’; a primeval movie made in a primeval land. The movie is billed as a love story, in the same way ‘Sid and Nancy’ was a love story; bleak and raw.

What is there to do in Warlpiri? Wake up sniff petrol, eat, go to bed – this is Samson’s life, day after day after day after relentless day. The only sunshine in his life is his attraction to Delilah, a girl who lives with, and cares for, her grandmother; a grandmother who paints the dot pictures for the ‘white fella’ to sell to the tourists and art dealers of the big city for thousands of dollars but returns to the artist less than a token, just enough to keep them in paint a little amount of food. As the one telephone in that is in community is left to ring unanswered, how does Samson express his growing feelings for Delilah? The only ways he knows how; by throwing rocks at her, or drawing ‘S4D’ in permanent marker on the wall of the only store, or by moving in, unasked, with her and her nanna.

When nanna dies both Samson and Delilah are cast out, they steal a car and head to the big city only to discover that the isolation they are fleeing is magnified by the loneliness of living in the white man’s world. Through all this the one thing that holds them together is their unspoken love. As Samson slides further into his petrol induced haze, Delilah endures the violence, starvation and addiction that are heaped upon her with a quiet dignity that defies her age.

The strength of this film lies not only in the ability of Director/Writer, Warwick Thornton, to convey in image rather than word the bleakness of this world but also in the talent of his two lead actors, Rowan McNamara and Marissa Gibson to effectively portray that image for us in a way that doesn’t just alienate us but allows us to still feel empathy for them. At no stage does Thornton allow the film to wallow in cheap sentimentality.

This film could not be made by anyone other than an Aboriginal film maker. No Aboriginal community could open up and allow their story to be told by anyone else, possibly because they have been used and misrepresented more often than not by well meaning white men looking to do the ‘right thing.’ Hopefully enough people will see ‘Samson and Delilah’ to dispel the image of the ‘noble savage’ as portrayed in Baz Luhrmann’s, ‘Australia.’

The disturbing thing for me as I watched the film, I realised; I was to a large extent untouched by it. This is not to say I wasn’t moved because I was, deeply; but the world that Samson and Delilah inhabit is as far away from my reality as mine is from theirs and I couldn’t integrate that world with my own, and I guess that really is the point – I can’t for one minute believe that this world exists, yet it does. To live in the outback in a ‘black fella’ community, as presented in this film, is a life sentence without possibility of parole.

In ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ I was horrified by the filth and the abject poverty but this is my own country, how can we allow this to continue? But we do … but I do. It’s easier for me because I rationalise it; it happens out there, in the Outback, yet if I went two suburbs over from my safe haven in Darlinghurst I would be in Everleigh St., Redfern a suburb where the lives of the Warlpiri are alive and not so well.

We pride ourselves by saying how far we have come as a country, our Prime Minister has said ‘Sorry’, but in reality what has actually changed for Australia’s Aboriginals – nothing. The white man is still making good capital from the black man’s plight, both politically and financially.

Russell Crowe Gives Good Head(line)

Here is the gag line – “Russell Crowe gives good head(line).”

After sitting through the forgettable ‘Angels and Demons’, I was beginning to think that Hollywood had lost the art of story telling; ‘State of Play” reminded me that when Hollywood gets it right, they get it right brilliantly. This is a movie for adults; ‘State of Play’ directed by Kevin MacDonald (The Last King of Scotland), starring Russell Crowe (A Beautiful Mind), Ben Affleck (Good Will Hunting), Rachel McAdams (The Notebook), Helen Mirren (Gosford Park) and Jason Bateman (Arrested Development) has enough talent both on screen and off to guarantee that you that you are in for a treat.

Without giving away all of the tricks; it’s set in Washington, Cal McAffrey (Crowe) a hard drinking, hard assed, old school newspaper reporter teams up with a young blogger/reporter Della Frye (McAdams), to investigate the death of one of Congressman Collins’, (Affleck), aides. The seemingly unrelated death of a bag snatcher proves that there is more going on here than just a random act of violence. Collins was having an affair and making some very powerful people extremely nervous. That’s just the start; throw in Homeland Security, mercenaries, corruption and conspiracy and you have the makings of a really good yarn with enough twists, turns and last minute surprises to keep you guessing right through to the end credits, and stay for the credits they are worth seeing. Director MacDonald, who also made ‘One Day in September’, keeps the movie ticking along and just when you think you have it worked out you realise that … well see the movie.

Whether you like him or loathe him Crowe delivers, he never just phones in a performance. From ‘The Insider’ to ‘The Gladiator’, he commits. Sometimes it becomes hard to tell where the character ends and Crowe begins. He really is one of the great talents of the last fifteen years and I’m not even a fan.

Ben Affleck, who seems to have had a hit and miss approach to acting since ‘Good Will Hunting’ and has made some pretty forgettable movies between then and now, dare I mention ‘Gigli’. His Congressman Collins, decorated war hero and all around good guy, is one of those roles that fit Mr. Affleck like a well tailored suit.

Rachel McAdams is terrific as the blogger/reporter with aspirations that is mentored by Crowe.

The most surprising performance for me in this film was Jason Bateman, (Dominic Foy), who has a ball as a narcissistic, pill popping sexually gregarious PR consultant.

There is a message in this movie that quietly gnaws away at you as you are taken up by the events on screen. We are becoming so used to people like me, bloggers, people who write without too much research and spew forth opinion as if it is fact. What place does real reporting have in a society of Facebook journalism, a society where Wikipedia is the first and sometimes the last reference tool used. As newspapers begin to close and on-line sites begin to prosper what hope is there for the ‘old fashioned’ investigative journalist of day’s gone bye?

‘State of Play’ is running in wide release at a cinema near you – do yourself a favour go see it.

Get Outta My Face (book)

It’s Friday night, it’s been a shit of a week, so to celebrate I thought I would treat myself to a cup of tea, a normi, (the tablet not the singer although they both achieve the same result) and a good lie down. By 10.45 I was happily, blissfully, asleep. I had survived another week and was looking forward to a relaxed and pressure free weekend. What I didn’t realise was that while I slumbered, somewhere across the globe in hundreds of darkening rooms; a plot was being hatched by faceless, nameless “friends”.

I woke up the next day, groggy, my face forming a perfect relief map of the Blue Mountains, to discover I had 300 new friends! Now I don’t know about you but I have trouble keeping track of the five, okay three, friends I have IRL, (that’s young folk type for “in real life”). So the weight of 297 people demanding my attention hit me like the Liberal Party election loss.

Let’s be honest, I’m too old for Facebook and not nearly “gay” enough; I don’t straighten my hair and I wear my jeans around my waist. God knows why I joined in the first place - but I did. I’m thinking at 50 I’m more a “Get Outta My Face” book type of guy. I’m not a networker, social or otherwise, in fact I don’t really like people much at the best of times, just ask my partner. I went to Stonewall, once, only because I thought it was still the NAB, (National Bank of Australia). I did think it strange how funky the tellers were dressed as I handed over my deposit. (What is the deal with old banks turning into gay bars anyway?) I’ve never sent a Christmas or Birthday card in my life. Even a quick text to say “thanks for dinner” is beyond me but now I’m constantly sending hugs and kisses to these strange friends.

Do I really want to go to Ryan’s farewell drinks in Basingstoke on Trent, do I care that Sally has split up with Fiona but is now partnered for life with Cherie from Lucerne or Jose` is seeing Sweeney Todd in Queens? And just who is David Paris?

My time is being co-opted by these pals, demanding that I join their clubs, sending me nudges, pokes, winks, pictures and links to YouTube videos that are just NOT funny. Why do I have to write on someone’s Super Funwall, why do I have to take quizzes all to find out I am most like Joan Crawford and not Joan Fontaine? Why do I keep accepting the invite? It’s insidious, addictive, destructive and yet strangely compelling.

I can’t leave my bedroom, I’m forced to eat cold meals delivered by Christine Courier in front of my laptop, I chew coffee beans to keep myself awake, my back is developing a hump. I’m going mad answering every message that hits my intray. I don’t wash, I don’t shave, my hair has become home to a small nest of spiders and my fingernails are heading to Howard Hughes length. I have no me time, no down time, no quiet time.

I’ve never been so popular.

Please, please, please if my name pops up on your screen don’t feel compelled to add me, treat me the way you would if you saw me or any other MAG out. Ignore me! Gotta dash, Andrew’s not coping with Biomechanics, (I mean really, who is), and my two new “best friends forever” from Ghana want me, or at least my account number at Stonewall.

Who Do I Want to Be Today?

Another successful face transplant has been carried out in the United States, this time for a man who was horribly disfigured after falling on electrified train tracks. He is the third person reported to have had this kind of surgery. Isn't it amazing what science can achieve?


Where will it end? If you think about it, knowing the kind of people we are with the vanity we have, at some stage, within the next fifty or so years, this kind of operation will become commonplace and will probably be considered 'elective surgery' and be covered by your health fund. All the bright young things will decide that not only can they change their hair colour and bust size but now they can literally have a new face.

Plastic surgery, as we know it, will be as old hat as the 'rotary dial telephone'. 'Face Shops' will pop up all over the world. The incredibly wealthy from Asia, Russia and America will flick through the fashion magazines of tomorrow and pick out their look for the new season. Impoverished people from the Third World with good genes and incredibly high cheekbones will sacrifice the faces of their children so that the International Jet Setters of tomorrow can look less like Mutton and a lot more like Spring Lamb.

I can already see the ads on Television, "No Visage, No Worry. Have we got a face for you, no wrinkles, one owner. Dial this number for a new dial. If you are not entirely satisfied then we will give you your own face back at no extra charge. All major Credit cards accepted. Why wait, call now - remember the look you want is just a clone away."

I am prepared to wager large sums of money that somewhere, someone is cloning Brad and Jennifer, Leo and Kate look-a-likes for the single purpose of selling their faces to the highest bidder. If they aren't doing it now, trust me they will be by the time the operation is perfected. Imagine a world full of Paris's.

Remember that old Urban Myth where the man wakes up in the ice bath missing a kidney, well the next time you wake up and think to yourself "gee I was off my face last night", check the mirror.

Who would I want to wear on my face - I guess I am leaning towards a George Clooney look but knowing my budget I will probably end up with Bert Newton's old face if and when he is finally done with it.

All in all the whole thing is pretty scary and ... maybe not so pretty either. I might just stick with my own scars and imperfections.

Angels and (miss) demeanors

Dan Brown is to writing what Starbucks is to coffee. If you are on holiday in America and can't find a good cafe` then Starbucks will do - if you are at the Airport and can't find "The Slap" by Christos Tsiolkas then Dan Brown will do.

The good thing about Mr. Brown is that after you have read him you forget him - that is until Ron Howard comes along and forces him down your throat again.

We all sat through the interminable screen version of 'The Da Vinci Code', a movie that did more damage to the art of film making than the Catholic Church has managed to do to Science in it's entire 2000 year history.

You may have noticed I'm not a fan.

What has happened to Tom Hanks? This was the actor who so powerfully portrayed 'Andrew Beckett', a gay man dying of HIV/AIDS in the 1993 film 'Philadelphia', an actor who convinced us that "life was just a box of chocolates" in 'Forrest Gump' and who took us across the beaches of Normandy to save Private Ryan. What has happened - we know he can act, we know he can and will make courageous choices in the the roles he plays - why oh why has he revisited this rather dull character of 'Professor Robert Langdon'? Has the Global Economic Downturn hit the mega rich so hard, that it is robbing them of their talent?

It's a silly plot - The Pope has died, let's elect a new Pope, let's kidnap the favourite candidates, let's resurrect the 'Illuminati', (boy can they hold a grudge), lets drive fast through the streets of Rome, (or a town that could possibly be Rome if we had not been banned from filming in Rome), might as well throw in the 'Hadron Particle Super Collider' and instead of the Anti Christ I know let's have some Anti Matter .

Why did I go and see it - well it was free. Proving once again that old adage, "There's no such thing as a free film in this town".

Now look here Mr Howard, you gave us 'Frost/Nixon', you gave us 'Apollo 13' and you gave us 'A Beautiful Mind' - why oh why are you punishing us with this dross? Perhaps you and Mr. Hanks have made some secret compact to punish all of us who still remember you as 'Opie' and him as 'Kip Wilson', ('Bosom Buddies').

Look go and see it if you want, it's not 'Citizen Cane' and by the time you get back to your car you will have forgotten just how ordinary this movie really is. A much better idea would be to bite the bullet and see 'Samson and Delilah', one of those movies you always say that you should see but always put off because you are never quite in the right frame of mind. It's the difference between artifice and art.

Sometimes YES means NO

A lot has been made about the issue of ‘consensual sex’ over the last few weeks especially with regard to the behaviour of the Cronulla Sharks in New Zealand in 2002. Legally the question comes down to the issue of ‘consent’ - when is consent given, when is it withdrawn? If someone is drunk do they still have the ability to make that kind of decision? This is no cut and dry case.

As far as we know, at this point, Clare willingly went back to a motel room with two men. Once there, other members of the Sharks decided that ‘one in all in’. According to Johns, Clare made no protest and encouraged other players to participate, however according to her she did not. What happened in that room is a matter of conjecture but what does seem clear is that what did happen was immoral. Clare was a teenager, a waitress in a bar, the players a combination of singles, married men and team officials who should have known better.

This side to Australian male culture of regarding alcohol fuelled sex as a rite of passage is a hangover from a time that is best consigned to the dustbin of history.

Public opinion seems to have come down 75% on the side of Mathew Johns for having the courage to stand up and own his actions. Good for him.

However the majority of comment I have read has condemned Clare, saying that she is deserving of what happened to her. Some people believe that the reason she waited so long to bring it to the attention of Four Corners was to ‘grab the cash’, she was in fact approached by Four Corners. She has variously been described as, ‘a money hungry whore’ and ‘a wowser for not taking on the rest of the team’. A few preface their comments with, ‘I’m not in favour of rap (sic) but …’ or ‘if this had happened to a gay guy it would just be considered a dud root’. Those comments were taken from just one discussion on Facebook between a group of twenty something gay males. The comments section of The Daily Telegraph is filled with more vicious bile directed at this girl and the mix is 50/50 female male but almost all of it against her.

The consensus seems to be she got what she deserved.

I am amazed, horrified and frightened that we ‘gays’, along with the rest of society, are so quick to trivialise what has happened to this girl and dismiss those events with that old fashioned line “she had it coming”, this is the same argument that homophobes and racists have been using for years to justify the bashing, rape and even murder of any number of homosexual men and women.
One case in particular comes to mind; Mathew Shepard who was brutally bashed and left for dead on October 8, 1998 aged 21 in Laramie, Wyoming. The argument of the two accused was that he was ‘asking for it, he wanted it, he deserved it because he made sexual advances to us’. This was the birth of the sometimes successful “Gay Panic Defence”.

It is not too much of a stretch to see that if Clare had put up a fight, had resisted, then in the hands of another group of men she too may have been physically, as well as sexually, assaulted or worse.

Are we going to regress to a time when we could be bashed because of what we wear, how we act or who we are? Wasn’t it just a year or two ago when we took to the streets to protest at the violence that is plaguing Oxford St.

What gives any of us the right to judge what has happened to this woman? Was it consensual; possibly … was it moral, no.

The Age of E (lasticity)

As I sat, in the foyer of Royal Prince Alfred Hospital, drinking a cappuccino and scoffing a large pink doughnut after having a small film crew exploring my nether regions looking for polyps, or the Labor Party environmental policy, I got to wondering about “Life”.

My current journey began ten years ago in the uncluttered fabulousness of one of those brilliant new restaurants that everyone wants to be at, a place too loud to make conversation pleasant. Six of us sat hunched on the backless hardwood chairs, jammed cheek by saggy jowl, into a room too darkly lit, trying to order food and more importantly wine, from a menu that might as well be written in Sanskrit. Everything on the menu seemed a blur, one dish melting into another. At first I blamed the lighting, then the ridiculously small font, then the colour of the ink against the papyrus. The waiter, a louche young man with impossibly high cheekbones, a child god, who I instantly recognised from the “my favourites” section of Gaydar, stood over me beaming a 'too white' Brittany Spears smile. All eyes were turned on me, feeling pressured I pointed at something I hoped was Chicken with Pasta. As the “vision” sashayed off to attend to a fusion table of AussieBum models and Arq barmen, my dearest friends turned and squealed, “Goat Lung with Witlof Salad!”

I needed specs - I sensed the beginning of a new chapter in my life.

It started with my eyes and moved rather quickly to my butt. What was once pert and high, with the round firmness of a ripe peach, has now taken on the texture and look of a golf ball that’s been around the sand traps once too often.

Herewith a very personal example of the indignity handed out to the aging.
To add insult to sagging injury I met a very attractive boy on line a year ago - perfect hair, perfect skin and a perfect - he was mighty fine - thirty minutes later he was knocking on my front door. Now, my pics; they may have been taken by Cecil Beaton using the Doris Day filter, but I think you still get the idea that this is who I once was and in the right blackout could be again. We raced upstairs to my loft, where he did something so unexpected that I’m still recovering from it; he pinched my arm and said in his angelic voice, “You lose so much elasticity at your age”. I looked down to see folds of skin hanging loosely, like a deflated party balloon, steadfastly refusing to snap back into place. Funnily enough, I think that was the last time I managed an erection - without the help of a little blue pill.

I now look longingly but I stress, not lustfully, at the perfectly unlined, lightly tanned nape of young men’s necks. At the gym I stare off into the distance as well toned, high butted Adonis’s, strut from bench press to bicep curl their eyes bright with enthusiasm for all that life has to offer.

I’m not bitter, resentful or just another “grumpy old queen”. I’m happy that, against all odds, I’m the age that I am. I’m a survivor in so many ways and I’ve absolutely no desire whatsoever to go back and do any of it again. But I do so miss “the age of elasticity”.

Star Trek

I freely admit to it - I am a ‘trekker’ and proud of it. I have been since the first time Captain James Tiberius Kirk invited me to “boldly go where no man has gone before”. I was there for “The Enemy Within” and I was there for “The Trouble with Tribbles”. I watched religiously through Jean Luke’s captaincy and then the stern neo-modernism of Kathryn Janeway as she nursed her crew back home on Voyager, and even laboured through Captain Archer’s ‘Enterprise’. I saw all movies – I am a ‘trekker’ with street ‘cred’.

I have been looking forward to this next exciting instalment of what can only be described as the best franchise since the bible. Was I disappointed? Not for one minute. This is the Kirk for the next generation; he’s sexy, sassy and seriously good looking.

Star Trek, version 09, is directed by J.J. Abrams and stars Chris Pine as James T Kirk with Zachary Quinto as Spock, the head villain is Australia’s own Romulan, Eric Bana and of course a guest appearance by Ambassador Spock, Leonard Nimoy.

Here’s the set up - James T is a hell-raising, thrill seeking Iowan farm boy. Kirk is taken under the wing of Capt. Pike a friend of Kirk’s deceased father. Pike recognises the conflicts in the boy and challenges him to join Starfleet and be one tenth the man his father was.

Our favourite pointy eared Vulcan, Spock, is another misfit on another planet who has little too much human in him for the Vulcans and little too much Vulcan for the humans. So it’s off to Starfleet with him as well.

Lurking out there in an altered timeline is the villain, the beast, of the movie Australia’s newest favourite son, Eric Bana who wants revenge for the destruction of his home world, Romulous.

Let’s not worry too much about plot; there are all the usual bells and whistles, black holes, space/time continuums, singularities and enough photon torpedos to save a planet. Let’s just kick back and go for the ride with Uhura, Bones, Scotty, Mr. Sulu and an incredibly cute Chekov.

And what a ride it is. If you have no memory of the previous incarnations it doesn’t matter this version takes you in and gives you everything you need to know. Sure some of the effects are a little stretched and some of the dialogue is a bit hokey, but this is a boy’s own adventure story with more than enough eye candy and CGI to keep everyone happy.

I freely admit that at places there were tears in my eyes as the characters I grew up with met for the first time and their friendships were forged. How sad is that?

Star Trek is alive and well and this new crew will be around to live long and prosper for a few years yet.

Star Trek is happening at a cinema near you. Peace, out.

Thoughts From the Bed Pan

‘As we that are left grow old’, there’s a phrase to strike terror into an aging ‘homosexualist’. As I approach my dotage and this recession/depression takes huge chunks out of my superannuation which was never enough anyway, I’m left wondering ‘what the …?’ My entire financial forward planning is now based on a Lotto win.

Was it just two years ago that I sat back thinking, “well if all else fails at least when I turn sixty five I’ll have a small income supplemented by a smaller pension to keep me in lattes and Polident”. Now I’m facing a future of Nescafe` and unstable dentures.
I had my chances; I recklessly spent one large windfall on airfares and cocaine in 1988, and reluctantly spent another on surgeons in 2003. I could’ve bought a house but somehow New York seemed like a much better proposition. I thought that if you’re going to NYC then naturally you fly first class. There was a joke often told by my friends, “How do you make a small fortune?” answer, “Give Peter a large one and wait six months”. We all laughed, some of us louder than others.

I don’t blame anyone for my decisions and god knows I had a blast making them but on reflection they may not have been altogether wise.

I have a much older friend who now lives in a private nursing home, which luckily for him is in the Eastern Suburbs. His main fear when he moved was that he would be forgotten out there in the ‘burbs’, because we Sydney queens are notorious for never travelling far from our comfort zone. You know the old saying, ‘out of sight, where’s what’s his name again?’ Luckily he has enough money to get by rather well. With global warming I’ll be lucky if there is an Ice Flow left to leave me on. I’ll be thrown into some institution in Tempe, possibly the Tip.

So I’ve been pondering my future and what’s to become of me. I’ve always been, as one of my harshest critics described, ‘a survivor’ and I’m sure I’ll get by but I want to more than just survive, I still want to have a ‘life’. I don’t see myself lining up at Mathew Talbot hoping for a bed at night but …

Is this just a problem for us ‘gay folk’? Does our lifestyle promote instant gratification and, pardon the pun, bugger the consequences? Maybe it’s just my generation; a generation that through the eighties wasn’t expected to live much into the nineties so some of us had a tendency to squander our ‘dosh’ and now we’re rather surprised at how old we’ve become.

I worry that the ‘gaylings’ of today seem destined to head down this same path to penury. Perhaps now might be the right time to revisit the wise words of one learned gent by the name of Micawber, “… annual income twenty shillings, annual expenditure twenty one shillings, result misery’.

Old age creeps up on you alarmingly fast. If I was to offer any advice, which is never a good idea because it always has a way of coming back and biting you on the bum, it would be to somehow find the means to occasionally deny yourself that next ‘NEW’ thing and put a little aside because hopefully you will lead a long, long FABULOUS life.

The Devil Made Me Do It

There is a Devil loose in Salem and she is perverting all the citizenry, at least that’s what Abigail Williams would have us believe.
‘The Crucible’, by Arthur Miller, was first performed in 1953 at the Martin Beck Theatre in New York. Mr. Miller wrote this as an allegory for the ‘witch’ hunts happening at the time under the auspices of ‘The House Committee on Un-American Activities’ hearings. Mr. Miller had been questioned by the Committee and had been found in contempt because he refused to ‘name the names’ of people who were suspected Communists. This play was Mr. Miller’s response to that sad period in American history and it has become one of the ‘stand out’ pieces of American Theatre.

‘The Crucible’ has become one of those plays that has a reputation. Most of us have seen good, bad, or indifferent productions; we have been driven to distraction by too much ‘acting’, bad sets and too many words. If the show we saw was good we have high expectations, if it was bad we’re prepared for a long, torturous night. This production will go a long way in restoring your faith; it may not be the best production ever but it is a very good one.

This abridged version is directed by Ms. Tanya Goldberg and designed by Ms. Simone Romaniuk for The Sydney Theatre Company.

This is a production that hits all the right buttons, it’s staged simply and it evokes all the right images from farmhouse to prison, from Hillsong to Abu Ghraib. The Director wisely lets the actors and the words work their magic. The cast for the most part are very good. Some of the performances are standout; special mention must go to Mr. Peter Carroll and Ms. Lynnette Curran, even when she is playing a ‘little’ out of her age range. These actors bring a maturity and sense of solidness that anchor the show. Mr. Joe Manning, as John Proctor, and Ms. Marta Dusseldorp, as his wife Elizabeth, hit their marks from the moment they step on the stage and in the second half their final scene together is electrifying.
The play has lost none of its power or impact, it still serves to remind us that those same fears that were so effectively used by Senator McCarthy are still able to win elections and sway the modern populous, think Bill O’Reilly, or closer to home, Alan Jones. In today’s world the Devil may wear a burkha, or a yarmulke or may be gay or a fundamentalist Christian, but in fact the Devil is anyone who does not believe as we do. The one thing that is certain is just how easily we, the public, can be led into dark places where fear, suspicion and paranoia are king. The message is simple; bad things happen when good men do nothing.

Is it better to live with a lie or die for the truth? The answer to this question gives measure to the character of man.

While the STC have aimed this production squarely at the school’s market, it is well worth a visit by us adults as well.

‘The Crucible’ plays at the STC, Wharf 2, from May 4 until May 30, schools performances day time at 10.30am, evening performances at 7.00pm.