Golden Soil and Wealth For Toil

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https://www.theatreworks.org.au/2025/national-drama-school

Date Reviewed: 30/11/2025

Is Australia still the “Lucky Country”? The National Drama School’s graduating class wrestles with the question in this ferocious, bouffon-styled satire at the Explosives Factory. Under Fabio Motta’s direction, Golden Soil and Wealth for Toil savages corporate greed, political cowardice, the mining industry’s complexities, and the myth of egalitarianism — not with a wagged finger but with a full-throated, grotesque roar; a provocation far more effective than a Swanston Street protest.

Delivered with chemistry and confidence, the young cast achieve a level of mastery far beyond their years.

Set in the fictional mining town of Bendiwagga, the show opens with a warped, nauseating rendition of Advance Australia Fair, scrapping “young and free” for “one and free” after a perfectly timed comedic pause. The actors sing the anthem as they slither in with chalk-white faces, bloated silhouettes, and clownish prosthetics. The actors' grotesque physiognomy is not merely clownish; it functions as a literal visualisation of moral decay. This is what unchecked corporate gluttony looks like: a community warped and inflated by the very wealth that poisons it. The ghoulish yet hilarious aesthetic instantly signals that this will not be a gentle night at the theatre.

The story riffs on Friedrich Dürrenmatt’s The Visit: mining billionaire Va-Gina Coalheart, an unmistakable caricature of Australia’s resource moguls, returns to the hollowed-out town she once abandoned. Siem Putland’s Coalheart mesmerises, part demon, part diva, part wounded child beneath layers of monstrosity, always teetering on the edge of vulnerability. Her proposal is irresistible: billions of dollars for the Afterpay-struck town, if they agree to murder her ex-lover Barry who is not married to Belinda.

The next stretch of the show pulses with ensemble electricity. This cohort knows each other intimately; the trust is palpable in every glance and every chaotic tumble. They throw themselves into the material with fearless generosity, creating a stage-world that feels alive, unpredictable, and dangerously funny. Their group sequences feel less like choreography and more like the fevered dreams of a town losing its moral compass: part dance, part physical theatre, part communal breakdown. Despite the apparent disorder, the stage images they craft are precise and unexpectedly controlled.

Interaction is the show’s beating heart. Actors descend into the audience, conduct mini-interviews, thrust microphones under noses, and lead a vote on whether Barry should die. The laughter curdles. This move is not just a theatrical device; it’s an act of civic aggression. By forcing us to vote on Barry's fate, the director abolishes the safe distance of the fourth wall, making us feel the 'moral rot' not as a spectator, but as an unwilling accomplice. The moment lands like a slap and leaves us uncomfortably responsible as Barry dies in the dark. The resulting laughter is not relief; it's the sound of our own principles collapsing under the weight of a hypothetical billion-dollar bribe.

The soundscape flips from absurd to iconic, a cheeky blast of Men at Work, kookaburra cackles, before spiralling into orchestrated chaos. The finale brings us full circle: another national anthem, this time rewritten as a corporate jingle. A prophecy, a punchline, and a warning: capitalism will swallow us whole, and we’ll probably clap along.

The satire hits harder than any slogan could. The show skewers Australia’s addiction to mining wealth, the “fair go” fantasy, ballooning household debt, and the way communities rationalise trading principles for survival. Corporate greenwashing, billionaire “charity,” political timidity, all get their turn under the bouffon scalpel. And the work forces audiences to think about where we are heading as a nation.

Not every moment shines:

• Some lines get lost to muffled diction or the venue’s acoustics.
  
• A handful of scenes tip so fully into chaos that the satire blurs.
  

But these are minor blemishes in a fearless, fiercely original work that is critical of Australia’s current trajectory without descending into cynicism. Instead, it offers a deeply patriotic provocation, one that respects its audience enough to let them decide for themselves.

Its pace is razor-sharp, and its philosophy rooted in timeless Aristophanic technique. Like ancient Athenian Old Comedy, it blends grotesque bodies, political mockery, choral movement, and public participation to expose societal fault lines. This modern bouffon revival echoes the democratic spirit of classical theatre: confronting the polis with its own absurdities. And, just as Aristophanes used laughter as a civic tool, Motta and his cast wield satire not to shame but to awaken, preparing the ground perfectly for the blistering crescendo that follows.

What Motta has shaped here is an un-Australian act of devastating loyalty. This is a blisteringly confident theatrical provocation that respects our nation enough to tear it apart, offering us the truth in a grotesque mirror. The cast proves itself versatile, daring, technically assured, and, most importantly, utterly committed. It is a triumph of political theatre because it makes us feel that the dirtiest money is the kind we're most desperate to take.

Golden Soil & Wealth for Toil holds up a cracked mirror to Australia, inviting us to laugh, wince, and squirm at our own reflection. If this is what the next generation of theatre-makers can do, the future of Australian theatre is in dangerously good hands.

Highlights

• A fearless ensemble with magnetic chemistry
  
• Inventive bouffon physicality rooted in ancient comedic traditions
  
• Brilliant audience integration that turns spectators into unwilling accomplices
  
• Siem Putland’s standout performance as Va-Gina Coalheart
  
• Striking visual design: grotesque make-up, distorted bodies, and sculptural stage images that visualize moral decay
  
• A finale that lands like a punch to the national psyche
  

Who’s it for

• Lovers of satire, political theatre, and bouffon
  
• Audiences hungry for theatre that bites and makes them think
  
• Fans of Aristophanes, Dürrenmatt, and contemporary physical theatre
  
• Anyone willing to laugh at Australia (and then question why they’re laughing)
  

Reviewed by Mary Sinanidis