The large stage of the mighty Civic stood open and bare (you see what they’ve done there), save for a single dining room chair under a centre spotlight. Running to a record-length late start figure of almost twenty minutes, no-one seemed at all bothered given the quality of entertainment we anticipated. Not to spoil the ending, we were not disappointed.

Originally written as a two-hander, for one male and one female to play the seventeen characters between them, the charitable company has stretched Bare to allot one actor per role. In one way it’s the definition of a guilty pleasure to be so grateful to have witnessed this historic event. If this were a professional production it would cost a hundred bucks in the cheap seats just to pay all those names. 

It’s a difficult enough task as it is to attempt to comprehensively critique the epic ensemble of whom this one-off gala event consists, let alone comprehensively critique the different levels upon which the momentous memoir impacts. Earthquake appeals aside, the real pleasure as a regular theatregoer is observing the sheer artistry of this large ensemble of actors (and a few contact sportsmen plus Stacey Morrison from Maitime), making a delectable meal of their roles. 

Director Ian Hughes, the original male half of the incipient production, made a hilarious on-stage appearance as the wasted stoner navigating the challenging course of ordering a Burger King meal. 

In fact, most people in the play appear only once, apart from three central characters: physical perfectionist gym bunny Venus played with audacious charm by Morgana O’Reilly; limitedly ambitious cinema worker Dave played with some other kind of more laid-back yet long-suffering charm by Curtis Vowell; and Dave Fane’s sadly dignified ‘Shakespeare Guy’, the elderly Fijian retired fisherman whose real name I don’t recall being spoken. Most of the remaining dramatis personae connect directly or indirectly with Venus. 

Performance-wise the actors clearly had a mountain of fun, for our appreciative benefit, from Anthony Starr’s tryhard ageing homeboy tagger Smokie, to Lucy Lawless’s drunken street-pissing feminist. 

One particularly remarkable turn came from Rhys Darby, departing from his comedic niche as the innocuous bumbler to deliver an understatedly shocking life story of increasing despair and tragedy. The audience kept laughing nervously well past the point where we knew we shouldn’t. 

Some of the older guard also stretched themselves beyond what they’re known for – Sam Neill, as I’d never seen him before with his vitriolic aging alcoholic queer bigot. Others beautifully delivered what they do best – Ian Mune’s gruffly eloquent traffic-warden laureate. Wherever Annie Whittle’s teaching-cultural-history-as-a-means-to-vent-her-political-frustrations history teacher fits in, it was a winner. 

There were no sound effects, although every player was mic’d to allow clear audibility in the expansive auditorium. On that point, extra ups are due to Bronwyn Turei whose mic failed during her exuberant portrayal of the Burger King’s harrowed, driven middle-manager Rachael but who I believe was nonetheless heard and endeared to by all present.  

Nor were there visual effects or props of any kind, with the exception of the scene where Dave half-heartedly joins Venus’s gym, augmented by the presence of Warriors’ Logan Swann, Awen Guttenbeil and Wairangi Koopu, and boxer Monty Betham putting in their miles on excercycles. Nice touch. 

The ultimate testament of this experience (besides the jaw-dropping inspirational solidarity of a community of artisans and the generous support of their followers, loyal and fickle alike) is the sheer originality and strength of the written work that is Bare.  

This is not a normal play. It defies structural convention; save for the three characters whose journeys unfold throughout the play, to whom all the other incidental cameos are connected. It doesn’t necessarily rely on up-to-the minute culture, but it helps – for instance having Titanic from 1998’s Silo premiere swapped out for this year’s best picture, The King’s Speech. 

The historic evening’s effort concluded with Don McGlashan and his ‘Sons of the Seven Sisters’ performing Hollie Smith’s iconic soul masterpiece ‘Bathe In The River’ backed by the thirty-strong Jubilation Choir and trumped by the surprise appearance of the divine Ms Smith herself wailing out the finale until there wasn’t a dry seat left in the house. The resultant standing ovation all but caused another earthquake. 

[Note: Nik was a paying member of the audience and volunteered this review by way of putting the event on the historical record – ed]
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