As the audience enters the downstairs space at Belvoir St Theatre for the premiere of Snakeface, our eyes are immediately drawn to a large, pale rectangular object in the centre of the stage – whispers are exchanged, questioning what exactly it is. There is a black screen at the back of the stage, thin web-like material hangs from the lighting rigs, and a person (who we assume to be the titular Snakeface) is crouched to the right of the screen, shifting every few seconds from left to right.
This new one-person show presented by Fruit Box Theatre (Back to Birdy, Cruise) draws on the legend of Medusa, the famous snake-haired monster figure from Greek mythology, to tell a modern story of self discovery that grapples with overcoming sexual trauma, and the beauty and brutality of moving through white Australia in a queer Black body.
Despite the heavy themes, writer/performer Aliyah Knight and director Bernadette Fam are able to balance elements light and dark well. The audience goes on a journey with Snakeface, a freshly dumped 23-year-old, as she rampages through the queer clubs and art studios of a slightly surreal Sydney, recounting relatably awkward high school experiences, and falling in love with her teenage bestie (an experience that’s all too relatable for those of us who grew up questioning our sexuality).
...beautifully poetic, dancing steadily through the heavy moments as well as the lighter parts of the story
Knight gives an incredibly powerful and emotive performance, engaging the audience with each moment. There is power in their silence, in their movement, and in the delivery of every line.
The writing is beautifully poetic, dancing steadily through the heavy moments as well as the lighter parts of the story. Chuckles are often heard rippling around the room, in equal measure to heavy sighs and shifting bodies, as the audience makes peace with the discomfort of various scenes.
The central prop, which we discover early on to be a large block of white clay, is expertly utilised. Knight begins to tear chunks off the corners as the character processes difficult emotions, and we see the clay manipulated and reformed as the story unfolds – the performer quite literally sculpting the story. As Knight imprints their body into the clay, the dialogue reflects this shape, the mapping of the body and its experiences are artistically demonstrated through the shapes left in the material. Eventually, the clay starts to dry on Knight’s body and clothing, crumbling and being brushed off, the plumes of dust captured mid-air by Rachel Lee’s responsive lighting design – it’s a powerful symbol for the emotional state of the character, her movement through grief, self-destruction, and an eventual step toward healing.
At various moments, there are also literal walls of written prose projected onto the screen behind the actor. Now, as a person with low vision who wears thick glasses, I was not able to read the text – but as the audience around me strained their necks towards the screen, I wondered how many of them were actually able to read it either. This does raise the question of how necessary the additional text is to the overall plot. With so much to take in from the dense and lyrical dialogue, the additional reading seems to be an unnecessary element, which could overwhelm an audience that is already working hard to follow such taking in an already intense, non-linear story.
Elsewhere, Knight performs a moving dance sequence from behind the screen, resulting in a striking illuminated silhouette, a powerful and symbolic image of the body in darkness navigating trauma. Arguably, this particular sequence (overseen by movement director & choreographer Fetu Taku) provides a strong emotional context that renders the text on the screen unnecessary.
Snakeface is a deeply personal work which adds to an important discussion about the lived experience of LGBTQIA+ Bla(c)k, Indigenous and People of Colour in this country (particularly young women). It’s a story that needs to be told. Living at the intersection of multiple marginalised identities is exhausting, scary and traumatising – a reality that needs to be reckoned with by those who don’t live it daily.
However, I do find myself contemplating if Snakeface’s explicit descriptions of sexual and physical violence are entirely necessary to demonstrate this reality. I worry for people attending this show who are survivors of sexual violence, and those who represent the aforementioned communities (BIPOC and LGBTQIA+), as many elements are very close to home for us. As a Blak trans and queer person, I found myself deeply affected after seeing the production, and this continued into the following day. While there is the opportunity for validation and a chance to feel seen, I would strongly urge members of these communities to proceed with caution.
In saying this, it is clear that the company is aware to some extent of the effect this story may have – there are support resources available, and the theatre becomes a “quiet space” upon the conclusion of the show to allow audience members to process and ensure they feel safe before they depart.
While at times obtuse, Snakeface is highly engaging, well acted, and well produced. Overall, it is a promising new work from a talented creative team, and I commend all involved.
Snakeface is presented by Fruit Box Theatre and Belvoir 25a. It is playing downstairs at Belvoir St Theatre, Surry Hills, until April 27, 2025. Find tickets & info over here.
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