In the aftermath, Lumb begins to reimagine her body as part-machine, “a post-human, fembot future”, as the show’s description promises. Unfortunately, that’s not quite what the audience ends up experiencing. Sure, the idea gets mentioned, but most of the show's time is spent elsewhere: on her painkiller dependency, surreal dreams featuring Patrick Swayze, and a newfound hobby of learning guitar. These detours dilute what could have been a sharp, provocative exploration of transformation and identity.
If this were a piece about recovering from a traumatic injury - a circus performer suddenly unable to rely on her body - that would be one thing. But that’s not what Queen Machine claims to be. What might the body become if we could truly replace parts of ourselves with titanium? How would that change our sense of humanity, our vulnerability, our art? Would it liberate us or alienate us? Seeing those questions interrogated through circus and performance would have been fascinating, but here, they remain just out of reach.
There are instances of this though, including playing the theme to the 1985 film Weird Science and Lumb discussing robots in TV and film, but it doesn't lead to anything of significance. It's more a passing nod than a fully realised concept. A muddled final act also doesn’t leave much of an impact, ending on an oddly flat note after such an energetic start.
Queen Machine feels like it's caught between two ideas: a raw, personal story of recovery and a futuristic reflection on the body as machine. Both are compelling on their own, but without committing to either, the results are unfocused. Lumb’s charisma and talent are undeniable - you just wish the show had the same precision and strength as the titanium now holding her together.
Queen Machine was performed at Trades Hall between 15 - 19 October as part of the Melbourne Fringe Festival.
Image credit: Theresa Harrison
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