Crisis Actor review

The performance space for Crisis Actor would be pitch black if not for dozens of phones lighting up the room. A cardinal sin in theatre etiquette: a glowing smartphone in the dark. Except here, it’s the point. In this interactive work, audience members are not just permitted, but encouraged to participate and engage with their devices, using them to swipe, click and scroll deeper into the unfolding chaos.

The show begins with the audience gathered around a large, ominously illuminated flower sculpture. Events leading up to a disaster impacting the world are recounted by an anonymous narrator and displayed on four screens surrounding the sculpture. Periodically, the narrator pauses mid-sentence, and options appear on our phones for us to select. These selections then pop up on the screens. They don’t change the story about this Flower Attack, but they help build the illusion of a communal experience, where we feel involved even if we’re not steering the narrative.

Then we move into the next room, the Crisis Haus, a Big Brother–esque house where two actors compete to become the audience’s favourite victim. Performers Jess Nyanda Moyle and Jean Bachoura go through a series of challenges focused on face, body, and voice, all to win the public vote.

Meanwhile, a live “crisis chat” is available on our phones and projected onto screens on the stage. We are free to post whatever we like, but when seemingly everyone is furiously texting to be seen, it becomes impossible to keep track of what’s being said. It’s also challenging to simultaneously read the conversatio and watch the performances, so I end up ditching the chat.

Perhaps that’s my mistake, because the conceit of this reality-TV competition quickly wears thin, leaving me largely unmoved. There are two instance where each performer shares a memory from their past that is intensely affecting, but it doesn’t sit well against the absurdity and frenzy of how we got there and where we’re headed. Crisis Actor also unfolds as live 3D avatars, another diversion that pulls our focus. The idea - that we’re so busy being keyboard warriors that we miss the reality of what's actually happening around us - ends up undercutting itself. The show proves its point a little too well, but without much beyond the surface of what it critiques, it can’t sustain interest for the full hour.

The third act drags us back to the starting point, but it registers as an afterthought, fragmented and unfocused. There’s no clarity about what it wants from the audience or how it plans to conclude, making the finale frustratingly disjointed. Crisis Actor seems to be attempting an exploration of how suffering has transformed personal vulnerability into a form of engagement and currency, but this conceptual ambition stumbles, as the hubbub of the chat and the spectacle of the competition dilute any meaningful reflection.

This is an ambitious and visually striking production, full of clever ideas about audience participation and our obsession with digital immersion when it comes to the trauma caused by real-world tragedies. Yet, despite its innovative use of technology and immersive elements, Crisis Actor struggles to connect emotionally or narratively. Moments of genuine connection are lost amid distraction, farcicality, and a lack of clear direction. It's a provocative experiment that leaves me more overwhelmed than moved.

SHOW DETAILS

Venue: Arts House, North Melbourne Town Hall, 521 Queensberry St, North Melbourne
Season: until 31 August | Sat 1pm and 7:30pm, Sun 5pm
Duration: 60 - 75 minutes
Tickets: $40 Full | $25 Conc
Bookings: Arts House

Image credit: Jesse Vogelaar, Sam Mcgilp and Quinn Franks