In Matthew Whittet’s Seventeen, five teens spend the night in a park after their last day of high school, celebrating the end of adolescence. Among the wooden playground equipment (monuments to that unreclaimable era) they drink from a communal bench, keep an eye out for the ranger, and flicker in that twilight limbo between what they’ve lived, and what’s to come – who they were, and who they hope to be. Perhaps for the last time together, they stand on the sheer cliff of a vast unknown. Their whole lives are ahead of them – only their secrets hold them back.
The 17-year-olds (and one kid sister) are played by Di Smith, Katrina Foster, Di Adams, Noel Hodda, Peter Kowitz and Colin Moody. These veterans of the stage are definitely not 17 though, not even close. Assuming AI doesn’t crack the mortality problem any time soon, most of their lives are behind them. Faces seamed and voices hoary, they perform the gaucheness of youth.
First staged almost ten years ago by Belvoir St Theatre before it went on to garner critical acclaim in the UK, this is Seventeen’s first major Sydney revival.
Who were you when you were seventeen? Do you recognise that person? Would they recognise you?
I confess that, before even seeing this play, I had felt a great, anticipatory, existential sob bubbling up in me. I break down at the chorus of London Grammar’s ‘Wasting My Young Years’. Every morning, I smear a home-made mask of flaxseed, honey and turmeric on my face because a TikTok charlatan told me to. I also, in many ways, feel, act and dress younger now than I did a decade ago. In other words, I am the kind of person whose relationship to ageing swings between desperate denial, aching optimism, and howling dread. I really expected to leave the Seymour Centre in floods.
Yet, I remained dismayingly composed. A simple story with a love polygon at its heart, the age-bending rang tinnily as a gimmick that failed to provoke pathos during the somewhat uneven opening night performance.
Seventeen’s summary could also be: a bunch of white, predominantly privileged kids quaff liquid courage to spill their secrets as a rite of passage to their future, and then pair off in unexpected ways, with class and sexuality the mechanism for two last-act climaxes.
So many creative decisions in this staging from WildThingProduction were somewhat baffling, too. Firstly, did the costume department experience a fire or flood? Because no teen would be seen dead in the naff button-up shirts, ill-fitting jeans and hippy vests in which our characters are shod, all looking like they’ve raided the local Vinnies for a pokies pub meet. (It’s hip attire, according to your nan.)
The song choices also have a Steve Buscemi-esque “fellow kids” vibe. The diegetic music comes from a boombox slung over a slide, blasted by Mikey (Kowitz), the foul-mouthed asshole of the group, and bad-boy boyfriend to Sue. At various times we see old bodies boogie to his despotic demands. These extended dance sequences on the leaf-littered grass might have provoked humour or pathos or something similar – but since none of these songs are bangers (or even recognisable tunes) it’s just awkward. Didn’t the producers have the rights to play a few seconds of Bryan Adams or Shania Twain, or the song of the summer from whatever year we’re in (because that’s also unclear)? Hodda’s Tom wobbles through a solo rendition of Missy Higgins’ ‘Special Two’ as well – and I couldn’t tell whether he was pretending to sing badly, or actually singing badly. I *think* the former.
I have enjoyed many of these actors in other roles – but the ensemble’s performances here can come across more like immature old people than naive pre-adults. Do they not remember how it was? Is being young that alien to them now? Is that not a terrifying prospect that undermines one of the play’s main messages?
However, there are a few exceptions to mention. Katrina Foster is a wonderful class “goody goody” and shy romantic who loses all dignity when drunk, and Di Smith delivers as a precocious and surprisingly bendy 14-year-old, bolder and wiser than the rest. Colin Moody is another standout with his stunned mullet expressions and gangly sweetness, playing the unpopular grubby kid from a rough household who is grateful for whatever scrap of kindness the world throws at him.
Who were you when you were seventeen? Do you recognise that person? Would they recognise you? Do you still want the same things, fear the same things? This production of Seventeen opens up such questions, but without the requisite tenderness or emotional depth to really cut through.
Seventeen is playing at the Seymour Centre, Chippendale, until October 19. Tickets range from $36-$54, and you can snap them up over here.
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