Taking off the Birdsuit, brainchild of Christine Brooks, has a pretty simple premise.  Get a whole bunch of women together in a room, and see what they improvise together.  Then let them share with an audience. 

Jen O’Sullivan is our MC, and she sets out the ground rules early.  She shames/ cajoles/ enjoins us to be the best audience ever.  Given some of the offers during the ask-fors (Sex Addicts Anonymous?  For real?), it is a well-placed reminder.  Her intro situates the production goals front and centre:  give more women a chance to play larger roles and a wider range of characters than they might opt for in a co-ed group, and to give some beginner improvisers a chance to play with an audience.  

The evening alternates between structured short-form games and open scene work.  It’s a clever choice that supports players at many levels of experience: everyone joins in the crowd games, beginners splash around in the short-form games, and experienced improvisers take off in the open scenes.  For example, one of the opening games – an interview in which all the cast must answer interview questions in unison – lets us see the group syncing up in front of us. 

As a word nerd, I’m fascinated by the group’s tendency in the unison game to fall back on drawn-out ‘s’ sounds at the point of making a decision in the sentence. It is a stalling tactic as they negotiate the next phoneme.  It’s weirdly intriguing to see the work of co-operation broken down to the level of sounds within the words, and exciting to see how the group decides what to say next. 

A personal favourite moment involves Gabby Anderson, Josephine Byrnes and Alayne Dick as a wise three-headed owl, answering questions one word at a time.  The questions themselves are drawn from both the audience and from social media, which opens up the show to supporters not there in person.  And the answers range from the baffling to the adorable. For example, when an audience member asks what gender God is, the answer comes back, “Gender is fluid and an individual touch.” 

The open scene is set in a laundry room (“Really busting down those stereotypes,” as O’Sullivan points out).  The whole cast paints the scene, endowing it with details such as a broken power cord and bottles of energy drinks and booze everywhere.  The individual players then populate this world. 

And, oh, how they shine.  Clare Kerrison subverts expectations and creates opportunities for her scene partners. Dianne Pulham is quick to make a first offer, though it sometimes pulls focus in a larger group.  Maria Williams takes each new piece of information and immediately applies it.  When she learns that her character – the family cat, Possum – is sick, Williams immediately keels over in one of the biggest laughs of the night. 

However, there is a super-awkward moment in the open scene in which the collective dots join up to paint a portrait of a cheating, alcoholic family blagging off the dole. The scene demonstrates what perspectives are missing from the birds and that makes the intersectional feminist in me uncomfortable. 

Birdsuit is a show all about including female perspectives.  I’m totally aware that it is a bunch of white, middle class women painting this picture, and the stereotyped, shallow presentation of women in poverty rubs against the show’s mission.  It points out how leaving out those voices – here and elsewhere – limit the ability to tell a wide range of truthful stories. 

At the same time, the fact that this is my response to a show with a social justice mission also shows me just how freaking necessary Birdsuit’s mission is.  If this is the furthest that makers working at the co-op level are pushing representation, that’s not just the responsibility of Birdsuit.  But who is on stage and how do we tell our/their stories are questions that are avoided unless specifically addressed in a singular show’s aims. So it is the shows that are already addressing inequality that get called out for not going far enough, instead of every show that reinforces the status quo getting called out for not doing anything. 

And I think the cast senses that the social positioning in their first scene is weird. When the scene comes back, the focus shifts from poverty to complications of sharing parenting duties.  Kerrigan clears the way for a new scene partner by phoning in as the now-overworked, often-absent Mum.  Kate Wilson sets up a strong contrasting character as uber-tidy, anti-cat and allergic-to-everything Auntie. 

Auntie’s death by non-hypo-allergenic laundry detergent sets up a reunion between mother and daughter.  In a slightly off-key but gutsily sung power ballad, they proclaim their mutual love for each other, accompanied by a chorus of mewling cats.  It is weird, but creating the cats opens up the scene to all the players in an outstanding act of generosity.  And the plot development fits in with the best improv.  It only makes sense with all the previous pieces in place, but makes perfect sense with all the given offers.  And it actually has some pathos under the humour.  At the scene’s resolution, I love how ridiculous the form is, while the stakes feel completely real to me. 

So, all in all, there’s a lot to love about Taking Off the Birdsuit.  I love its mission.  I love the structures that allow Birdsuit to free up new players; it’s generous and I love seeing the way the different players are still figuring each other out in a way you don’t always see with more established troupes. 

I love how this show is encouraging me to think about the theatre ecosystem in which I swim.  It is fun and funny.  And I want this work to go so much further. 

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