zenobia frost

Express Media: John Marsden Prize

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I received some good news this week! A poem of mine, “The Hobby”, was awarded second place in the 18-24 division of the John Marsden Prize for Young Australian Writers. This was my last chance to enter, so I’m pretty stoked! Jeremy Poxon won first place with “The last time I went fishing, it was raining”. (I can’t wait to read it!)

Thank you, Express Media and John Marsden!

I’m fond of this poem. Anatoly Moskvin is such an interesting figure. I have performed “The Hobby” with Richard Grantham accompanying on piano a couple of times — Richard’s music gives it such pathos and humour. Here it is (sans piano, alas):

The Hobby

for Anatoly Moskvin, a cemetery archaeologist arrested in Russia in 2011

I crawl from dust to dust
each Monday morning

I have the teeth of archaeopteryx
and flaking tomes I drew up with the dead

each man must claim one diversion
from corner desk buried
under papers in shrinking faculty

the first dig was the thrill of my career
her skin was perfect, dry as leather
her lips were parted just to whisper
nothings in the words of Cleopatra

I took her home and made her dinner
I seduced her with thirteen ancient tongues
she stayed for breakfast
she stayed forever

the second was more delicate
but her name had struck my linguist’s heart
I dressed her in my mother’s clothes

my bevy, twenty-nine exotic birds
there’s barely room for me against my desk
there’s barely room anymore at home

let me keep the only company I keep
let me have my littlest of rewards
and do not doubt that they will testify

our histories are six foot in all their rot
I’ve exhumed and slept in coffins for this art
I have walked for miles with my chisel
eaten dirt and sipped from graveyard puddles

yet with one bag of much-loved bones
you find me, and you call me mad

REVIEW: The Dark Party

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Judith Wright Centre of Contemporary Arts, 28 Nov. 2013
Words by Zenobia Frost

We settle in for The Dark Party up the back, led by the (unfounded, it turns out) sensation that the front row might be a dangerous place. After all, I’d watched journalist Dan Nancarrow have an apple chainsawed off his face for Brisbane Times — and would prefer not to follow in his footsteps. The Dirty Brothers (Shep Huntly, The Great Gordo Gamsby and Pat Bath), three “hobo clowns”, are already shuffling into the audience, distributing ping-pong balls. No explanation is given; in fact, The Dirty Brothers will remain silent, except for their occasional stifled cries. For the next hour, we will squirm, squeal and laugh as they injure themselves in the name of circus.

If I ask you to imagine three men dancing over dozens of mousetraps, you might picture chaos. But the Brothers’ triumph is in their deftly controlled performance — perfectly dishevelled, these three are masters of clowning. Their distinct characters, in monochrome clown makeup, simultaneously capture melancholy, mischief and horror. There’s choreographed elegance in their drunken shambling, lit by sepia spotlights. I couldn’t help but imagine Martin Martini’s Bone Palace Orchestra providing a live soundtrack.

THE+DARK+PARTY+hero

It’s hard to describe The Dark Party without spoiling all the surprises. The Brothers play with staples, bear traps, electricity and fire with a jaded sense of self-destruction. These acts are for their amusement, yes, but they’re reproachful as well; we feel sympathy for the one being hurt, whether by himself, his brothers or the world at large. They draw the uncanny out of everyday activities — one’s morning ablutions and the act of putting on a coat are made strange, perhaps because they are so irrelevant to the world these ruined clowns occupy. My +1 observes, as well, several well-placed tips of the hat to Waiting for Godot (which I’ve not seen to confirm) — “as if,” she says after the show, “Vladimir and Estragon had finally given up on waiting and instead had resigned themselves to setting each other on fire for entertainment.”

I’m endlessly glad that the Judith Wright Centre, with its adaptable performance spaces, continues to support concise or unusual acts that might otherwise be relegated to sideshows and fringe festivals. Cunning segues ensure that The Dark Party — only an hour long — is more than the sum of its parts; it deserves time to be a headliner in its own right.

The ping-pong balls return in a wonderful gag that relies on the audience to participate in the Brothers’ denigration. Their violence is effective not because they make it look easy, but the opposite: their reluctance, their silence and their pain are intrinsic to the act.

Totem

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I am the cloaked detective
the silent choir
top of the slush pile

I am sleeping in your pocket
a gatherer of secrets
in my nest of old headlines

I am Icarus, scaling the maze
before flight, and Houdini
with supple spine

I am a mathematician
I multiply

I am looking to master
mischief’s map, wherever
X might mark the spot

(Previously published in Frame Lines, 2008. Revised, 2013.)

Moving

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In January, we made the big move over the hill from, er, Toowong to Bardon. Our home had been a huge sharehouse we established with friends; three years later, it was a mould mansion we were ready to leave. Still, the day the real estate put up the sign, we felt a bit like our house had turned around and told us she was planning to dump us anyway. Fair enough, I suppose.

Today I set up a facebook page to divide up my public poeting and private grumpy-cat-posting (in so far as those two things can be separated). Now I’ve cross-posted that news everywhere, I’ll shut up about it. Exciting chapbook news coming soon. Thank you for following. :)

Moving

In the end,
it’s like clearing a hotel room:

the twice-over sweep of bare cupboards,
claiming the shower’s last piece of soap
and counting keys, you drive
away with your last look.

You will line up
your toothbrushes
in the habit of a new bathroom.

But when your nose follows
its old tricks, driving you back,
and you see the sign gone
from the fence post, you realise
you scrubbed yourself out
of that ghosting house.

And it just moved on without you.

It Never Rains — It Purrs

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1.

the sky conjures
luminous catastrophe
never delivers

poinciana lit up
like a cabaret stage

the spitting rain comes and goes
doesn’t even bother the cat

raindrops waver in clouds
lips inches from first kiss

2.

The storm plays with us,
rain falling and falling back
into the safety of clouds.

Wind bats at windows
we forgot to close. Hung-up
washing tries to flee.

Lightning eyes glint
and narrow, and unhurried
thunder purrs after, grey clouds

all puffed up, just watching
with one eye half-open,
not stirring, not yet.

Legally Blonde: The Musical

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You won’t hear me say this often — but Oh. My. God, you guys! Legally Blonde, the stage musical adaptation of the film of the same name, is as bouncy, bright and shiny as Elle’s blonde locks. In case you missed the 2001 film, Legally Blonde follows Elle Woods — a ditzy, rich Malibu girl in search of a husband — along her journey to discover her own intelligence, drive, and inner beauty.

It may be that we’re coming to expect musical extravagance from anything John Frost (no relation, as far as I know) has a hand in producing. But Legally Blonde goes above and beyond. Its staging, choreography (Jerry Mitchell) and design (David Rockwell) are pretty close to flawless, from Elle’s towering Barbie-pink Delta Nu sorority house onwards. This is as glossy as musical theatre gets.

Mitchell’s choreography, in particular, has a way of drawing the eye towards detail — in costume, body language, or lyric — without losing sight of the bigger picture. Musically, Legally Blonde’s score (Laurence O’Keefe and Nell Benjamin) is no classic. The opening number, “Omigod You Guys”, is an instant earworm and “Chip on My Shoulder” is a resonant study-anthem, but beyond that the songs only really serve to carry us along through the plot. That’s not to say there aren’t lots of laughs — there are. The dialogue (Heather Hach) is sharp and sassy, if not terribly self-aware.

Lucy Durack (WICKED’s Glinda the Good Witch) is an exceptionally strong singer. She plays an endearing Elle more reminiscent of Clueless’s Cher (Alicia Silverstone) than Reese Witherspoon. Along with her shrill-voiced “Greek Chorus” of Deltu Nu sorority girls, her energy and optimism is infectious. When Elle arrives dressed as a Playboy bunny to a stuffy academic do, her confidence in the face of humiliation deserves the cheer it gets.

Rob Mills rose to fame on Australian Idol, and he’s in his element as the smooth, douchey Warner. David Harris channels dorky-but-charming Joss Whedon leads for his Emmett, the TA who encourages Elle to prove Harvard — and Warner — wrong. Helen Dallimore is a real standout as Paulette, a down-on-her-luck manicurist. But let’s not forget little Bruiser — Elle’s Chihuahua pup — who incites choruses of “aww!” from the audience (and never misses a cue or poops on anything!).

Legally Blonde: The Musical

Despite all this, Legally Blonde: The Musical is sparkly, shiny, feminist fool’s gold. (Oh come on, you knew this was coming from me.) Run the Bechdel Test past the play and you come up with one scene in which two women talk about something other than men — despite the major theme of Women Discovering Their Worth Through Study.

[SPOILER WARNING: highlight to read the next paragraph]

From here, it’s easy to follow the progression: Elle enrols at Harvard to pursue Warner; she gets into Harvard not because she passes her LSAT (she does) but because Admissions likes her headshot; she threatens to give up because Warner and friends belittle her; she gets back on the horse after a pep ballad from Emmett; Elle helps Paulette face down her ex — but Emmett supervises; and she gives up again because her professor sexually harasses her. Then, at last, we have the Bechdel-passing scene — followed by Emmett-supervised success and an engagement. (Elle’s endgame proposal feels something like a concession — as if that’s the fight for equality done with.)

[END SPOILER WARNING]

Some might accuse me of nit-picking. Sure, any of those instances in isolation are fine, and there’s nothing wrong with a male mentor. But, viewed overall, Legally Blonde’s final message isn’t “girls can do anything!” It’s really: “girls can do anything — with guidance from a man!”

There are other problematic elements. The scene that gets the biggest laugh is when Elle’s lesbian classmate responds enthusiastically to the “bend and snap”, Elle’s signature attention-grabbing move. It’s a joke that relies on the idea that lesbian desire is inherently funny. I could go on.

We should also mention, while we’re on serious matters, the totally unfortunate-looking shiny potato sack of a suit Elle pours Emmett into as she makes him over. Elle, I thought you had a Bachelor in Fashion Design!

In short: Legally Blonde is exceptionally well staged, wonderfully performed, and fabulous fun. Mad props! Go see it — and enjoy it. But take your critical eyes with you. Elle Woods wouldn’t expect anything less.

Legally Blonde runs at the Lyric Theatre, QPAC, until 21 April 2013.

P.S. Apologies for the late review! I saw Legally Blonde on opening night, 15 March, and then lost my review notebook. But here we are!

Whispers: At Sea

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Stories speak to us; they whisper, cajole, and, on occasion, shout out to be heard. Join British Fantasy Award winner, Angela Slatter (The Girl with No Hands, Sourdough & Other Stories, Midnight and Moonshine), alongside special guests novelist, Jessica White (Entitlement, A Curious Intimacy), poet Zenobia Frost, and short fiction writers, Samuel Maguire and James Butler, as they share their stories at sea.

When: Saturday 9 March 2013, 3pm
Where: State Library Cafe, SLQ

Dear Stilts

/ Zenobia Frost / 1 Comment

On Sunday night, a friend prodded me with a link. “Have you seen this? You have fanmail.” I thought it best to reply to Aimee Lindorff in kind.

Dear Aimee,

I’m glad you made it to Riverbend, despite the rain. My reasons are selfish: I really needed your letter this week.

When the page first loaded on my phone and I could see my name at the top, it was a strange thing indeed. What was I in for? My first thought was that I was, in the abstract sense, In Trouble. Perhaps it’s a full name thing. (I don’t have a string of middle names for a parent to invoke.)

At the time your letter arrived, I was making pizza with my boyfriend. We stopped to read and I absent-mindedly worried a hole in the wrong end of the packet of pizza bases. Maybe I shouldn’t make a big deal out of it. But it’s not every day someone I don’t know writes me a review-letter and publishes it in a literary journal (read: never), so blast it. I’ll make a big deal.

Earlier this week I sat down with my manuscript with the aim of making revisions before sending it to the next publisher. I may have had a tiny tantrum. Pages may have found their way, haphazardly, all over the room. There were plenty of factors at work leading to this little game of 72-poem pick-up, sure, but above all it was one of those moments where this whole art thing seemed pretty pointless.

I’m not saying that writing is really a lofty spiritual calling — it isn’t — but damn it was good, great, brilliant to hear that my poems had brought someone such pleasure. Even better, it was a privilege to read your eloquent reaction and your memories of Toowong and its cemetery. Every time I reread the address, it’s a warm, fuzzy shock.

I am going to print it out and stick it near my desk. Possibly also on the fridge. Thank you.

Zenobia

P.S. I am glad you liked my cat-lady dress.