Topdog/Underdog, at Melbourne’s Southbank Theatre is a blistering portrayal of sibling rivalry that digs into the heart of American mythmaking. Suzan-Lori Parks’ two-hander, which won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, and more recently, a Tony Award for Best Revival, now takes up residence in the more intimate Lawler Theatre. In this new production, directed by Bert LaBonté, the play’s taut dialogue and searing emotional tensions are both its strength and – sometimes – its limitation.
At its core, Topdog/Underdog is a darkly comedic and tragic exploration of two brothers – Lincoln (Damon Manns) and Booth (Ras-Samuel) —named, in a perverse twist, after the infamous presidential assassin and his victim. Lincoln, the elder, works as an Abraham Lincoln impersonator in an arcade, re-enacting the former president’s assassination for good honest cash. Booth, unemployed and restless, fixates on learning the art of three-card monte, the street hustle that once brought Lincoln fame and ruin. He’s a livewire of ambition and resentment, and in the hands of Ras-Samuel – whose frenetic energy never falters – he is dazzling.
“I’m gonna be somebody,” he declares, though his bravado rings hollow against the crummy backdrop of their one-bedroom apartment – a set design (by Sophie Woodward) that perfectly captures their suffocating reality – it’s spare, grimy, and strewn with sticky adult magazines. Comparatively, Manns, as Lincoln, offers a more subdued performance, stoically haunted by past mistakes and inadequacies. His slow-burn approach heightens the sense of impending doom, though at times this approach feels too reserved under the weight of exposition. Still, the chemistry between Manns and Ras-Samuel is electric, particularly in their moments of tenderness, which are fleeting but impactful. In one scene, Booth pleads, “I need you, man,” a rare admission of vulnerability that delivers a sufficient gut-punch.
As the play unfolds, the brothers play out their deep wounds of abandonment and disenfranchisement, while the ever-present Chekhovian gun looms metaphorically over the stage and the game continues. LaBonté directs these elements with an almost hypnotic repetition, evoking the cyclical trap the brothers are caught in—a never-ending game of deception, where the outcome is always rigged. It’s a directorial touch that reinforces Parks’ central metaphor of a rigged system, whether it be the scam on the street corner or the larger societal forces that have trapped Lincoln and Booth in their dead-end lives. Meanwhile, Dan West’s sound design, with its minimalistic beats and ambient noise, gives the play a rhythmic undertone that mirrors the cyclical nature of the brothers' interactions. Rachel Lee’s lighting plays with shadow and illumination, particularly in moments where the brothers’ fortunes seem to shift.
Parks’ script, known for its linguistic funk and biting intellect, adds levity here, blending muscular humour and pathos. The first act is a melange of this, and rife with foreshadowing: a gun casually tucked in Booth’s back pocket, a loaded symbol that carries a different weight for an Australian audience. But, when the play shifts gears into its climax, the execution feels slightly rushed. For example, the final moment, while shocking, lacks the silent pause and subsequent catharsis required. Perhaps the performers and direction needed to sit longer with the weight of the tragedy to let its full impact settle.
Topdog/Underdog, like the three-card monte hustler, distracts and beguiles the audience with hope—inviting us to believe in the possibility of redemption for these men. But, as with the scam, the odds are never in their favour. In the end, Parks' game is rigged—no one wins. Yet, like Booth, we keep hoping, and that’s the true devastation of the play.
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