Last night's opening of the new Christos Tsiolkas/Spiro Economopoulos/Melbourne Worker's Theatre show Non Parlo di Salo went well off. In the foyer afterwards, the air was electric and had some people's hair standing on end. It was the kind of show that makes other shows look bad. And in tandem with Moira Finucane's Gotharama, now showing too, Melbourne should be feeling pretty lucky.
Better be made of sturdy stuff, though. The show features big black strapons, pretty explicit male-on-male sex (simulated, I think), shit-eating (again, ambiguously simulated), murder, ass-baring, crotch-rubbing, Italian-speaking and semi-polarised sunglasses-wearing (indoors).
All very tastefully done, of course. Lots of faces and I met quite a few new people (which is rare, since I'm such a shadow-lurking sociophobe).
But what I'm really here to write about is...the catering.
A fair amount of champagne, good, no food.
But forgivable, due to quality of show and lack of funding.
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