Machinal - 4.5 out of 5 stars
Red Phoenix Theatre Inc.
TICKETS: https://www.trybooking.com/events/landing/1419884
Machinal is based on the story of Ruth Snyder who, with her lover, murdered her husband in 1927 and found herself in the electric chair in 1928. Leading playwright and journalist Sophie Treadwell attended the Snyder–Gray trial, but instead of writing standard newspaper copy on it, she transformed the case into the expressionist drama Machinal. Within her play, the Young Woman is not a literal portrait of Snyder, but an “everywoman” shaped by economic pressure, marital coercion, and gendered expectations, reframing the sensationalized image the tabloids constructed.
The Office. At
Home. The Honeymoon. Being Maternal. Prohibition. Intimate. Domestic. The Law.
A Machine. These nine episodes roughly trace a young woman’s life cycle as
defined by early 20th‑century norms. Across the nine sections, Treadwell uses
fragmentation, repetition, and non‑naturalistic staging to critique how modern
industrial and patriarchal systems turn relationships and bodies into
components of a larger “machinal” order.
As the show
opens, director Michael Eustice, along with his movement director, Lisa Lanzi,
has nailed the opening moments with varying roles within an office being
operated by the ensemble in a smooth, single organism‑like state. While each
actor is operating individually, they are collectively moving in a manner
reflective of a machinal world. This scene wholeheartedly sets the
expressionist world for the rest of the play.
Kate van der
Horst shoulders the Young Woman with finely calibrated precision, charting a
clear physical and vocal arc. She handles Treadwell’s language with clarity and
emotional risk, sitting fully inside the expressionist frame while keeping the
character painfully human and disarmingly contemporary.
Matt Houston
makes Jones exactly the kind of man the machine would choose as its willing
cog. He resists caricature, offering a recognisably banal, socially successful
businessman. His measured charm and oblivious entitlement render each domestic
scene as another small, chilling act of violence.
Sharon Malujlo’s
Mother is sharply etched, her economic pragmatism delivered with a breezy
matter‑of‑factness that lands like a slap. She allows fatigue and buried fear
to flicker through her character. Additionally, as Waiter and Reporter she
shifts cleanly, showing how ordinary workers help keep the machine running and
the story sensational.
Steve Marvanek’s
Doctor, Judge and Priest each have a distinct rhythm while maintaining a
through‑line of impersonal authority. His figures diagnose, sentence and
console with practiced detachment, embodying institutions more than
individuals.
Nic Betts, as
First Man, crackles with charisma, convincingly embodying the intoxicating
promise of escape and desire while quietly seeding an edge of amorality. He
captures the allure of someone who feels like freedom but carries fatal
implications.
Trevor Anderson’s
Prosecutor embodies the state’s moral certainty. His courtroom work is clean,
with escalating beats that press the Young Woman into rhetorical corners with
unnervingly calm precision.
Stuart Pearce
offers a thoughtful, restrained Defense counsel, clearly intelligent yet
quietly aware he is arguing inside a foregone conclusion. His attempts to
reframe the Young Woman’s narrative feel sincere but circumscribed by the very
system he serves. As Man at Table 2 he adds understated texture, an ordinary
onlooker reminding us this story could belong to anyone.
Laura Antoniazzi
brings spark and specificity to the Telephone Girl in the opening scene,
carving out a distinct presence within the office “machine.” Her bright
physicality feeds the ensemble’s choreography. She keeps the early episodes
buoyant without undercutting the darker currents pulsing through Treadwell’s
text.
James Grosser’s
Bellboy, Bailiff and Jailer form a quiet but vital spine of everyday authority.
He locates their power in simple tasks well executed: doors opened, cases
called, locks turned, with no hint of melodrama.
Lisa Lanzi’s
Nurse, Clerk and Matron are drawn with an acute awareness of how bodies inhabit
institutional roles. She handles patients, paperwork and prisoners with practiced
efficiency; her precise gestures and tempo choices mirror the production’s
broader physical language.
Sophie
Livingstone‑Pearce’s Barber and Guard bring unexpected texture to the later
episodes. As Barber, she portrays professional urgency in the intimate,
practical tasks before execution. As Guard, she offers a watchful, contained
presence, helping to build a prison world that feels concretely inhabited
rather than abstractly symbolic.
Leighton Vogt
ties several thematic threads together as Reporter, Barber and Guard. His
Reporter is quick and hungry for a headline that will turn suffering into copy.
In the prison roles, his measured, ritualized movements contribute strongly to
the final episode’s horrifying calm, embodying the machine’s last, efficient
motions.
Within the
program, there are 47 “character” roles assigned among 10 actors, alongside
Houston and van der Horst, including clerks, voices, reporters, speakeasy
attendees, as well as court and prison personnel. Those mentioned above are
just a small range of what these adept actors are accomplishing in Treadwell’s
work.
The set design,
by Kate Prescott and Eustice, involves several black stage blocks of various
sizes used in ways to express the various set pieces throughout the nine
episodes: workspaces, tables, bed, sofa, sink, jail cell bars… even outlining a
window. Alongside these blocks, minimal props are used, ensuring mime is a
prominent tool used to enhance the style.
Sean Smith’s
sound design is evident throughout, with background noise or music suitably
chosen for each episode. The soundscape used during each episode change prompts
thoughts of a machine in action to give us the next piece – it works so well.
Furthermore, the set changes add to the action rather than the traditional “get
it done as quick as possible”, thanks to Richard Parkhill’s lighting design
(however blinding it may be).
Bringing all
these elements together, Red Phoenix’s Machinal becomes a tightly wound, deeply
considered expressionist nightmare that never loses sight of the woman at its
centre. It is an ensemble‑driven, visually rich production that honours
Treadwell’s intent while speaking directly to their present audience.
- Andrew Broadbent
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