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POSTED: 12 APRIL 2009

The Distance from Here, by Neil LaBute

(Griffin Independent | Stables Theatre, Darlinghurst, Sydney | Until 25 April)

If I had to use one word to summarise this production of Neil LaBute’s The Distance from Here, it would be “discomfort”. And this discomfort encompasses both physical and emotional aspects.

I’ll get the physical out of the way quickly. I had a problem with the excessive smoking of real cigarettes by the actors. In a similarly small venue recently, herbal cigarettes were used to good effect with less unpleasantness to the non-smoker. It was freezing in the theatre, probably because the air-conditioning was trying so hard to counteract the smoke. And the Stables seating is not the most luxurious at the best of times.

Okay — enough grumpiness. The remaining discomfort associated with The Distance from Here is brilliantly crafted by director John Sheedy, delivering a glimpse into the nastier side of American suburbia.

The actors pitch themselves into their largely hostile personas with frenetic power. While all display scraps of humanity at times, what is largely witnessed is a systemic, generational degree of disregard, apathy, aggression and contempt for each other and the world.

As the production starts, two teenage boys hurl abuse at the inhabitants of a monkey cage. The stage indeed divides the audience from actors by way of perspex screens similar to those seen in a zoo. They are exhibits. Roll up and see the chain-smoking harridan (Jeanette Cronin)! Recoil in disgust at the cheating partner (Andy Rodoreda)! Marvel at the ungrateful, indolent young mother (Sophie Hessner)!

Watching The Distance from Here feels like one is witnessing some sort of catastrophe; revulsion, horror and curiosity mix with a definite feeling of thankfulness for one’s own less messy life. The relationships are dysfunctional; ends justify any means; hurtful words are tossed as carelessly as cigarette butts.

Yet buried beneath the grimy surface there does seem to be a love of sorts — but distorted, brutal and ferocious.

Anthony Gee’s character suffers most from the neglect and maltreatment  — this is an angry, confused and violent young man. His fury seems random and all encompassing, his reason lost. Fiercely funny at times, this young man seems destined for disaster from the start.

Benn Welford plays his friend and is perhaps the most compassion of all the characters, evoking a palpable sense of fear and apprehension at his mate’s capabilities. In a lovely cameo as a petshop employee, Brent Hill briefly releases the tension through humour before dropping a bombshell that starts the story spiralling out of control.

While this is set in small-town America, it could easily have been suburban Australia. Accents are largely maintained, but added an extra challenge to what are already demanding roles.

Adding to the constant barrage to the senses was the sound — a screaming baby, traffic, television — all slightly louder than is comfortable. Many lines were shouted or screamed. It provided another dimension of irritation that convincingly evoked the chaos of their lives.

After a draining hour-and-a-half (give or take), the sense of relief at leaving the theatre was enormous. The lungs cleared. The body warmed. The muscles stretched.

But the emotional discomfort lingered on long afterwards. People really do live like this — and the distance from here to such a life is not really so far.