Theatre Works Presents - MARA

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https://www.theatreworks.org.au/2026/mara

Date Reviewed: 23/04/2026

Mara, reframes the Cinderella story as a prequel, turning its gaze toward the woman who will become the stepmother. Written by Hanna Pyliotis, it trades romance and fairytale gloss for something more brittle—class, motherhood, and a slow, inward unravelling.

Showing at Theatre Works, Acland Street St Kilda, This is a one-woman show in structure, but it never feels empty. Aurora Kurth holds the centre, while Ania Reynolds—present onstage under a festival style tent, anchors the narrative with live keys and a finely detailed soundscape. The music accompanies the production but let's it breathe. A teacup clinks, a note lingers, a phrase hums underneath the action. At its best, the sound feels like Mara’s inner life made audible—fragile, romantic, and slightly off-kilter. Occasionally, performance and score drift apart, but when they align, they’re quietly arresting.

Under Megan Jones’s direction and set design the stage is divided into distinct zones—a hint of circus, a desk, a spiral staircase crowned with a chandelier. It’s evocative without being overworked. The space feels intentional, almost ritualistic, as though each corner holds a different fragment of Mara’s psyche.

The lighting, by Jason Bovaird, is a standout. It shapes the work moment to moment—sharp angles, soft washes, sudden isolations. The sheer curtain at the back catches and refracts light beautifully, creating depth and a sense of distance that mirrors Mara’s own detachment. It’s theatrical in the best sense—heightened and deliberate.

Jacques Cooney Adlard’s projections layer in another dimension. Monochrome images bleed into colour, stillness shifts into motion. The effect is hallucinatory, particularly as the narrative begins to fracture. Combined with the set—carousel horses, dollhouse touches—it builds a world that’s both whimsical and faintly menacing. Every visual choice feels considered, from the palette of Mara’s costumes to the smallest onstage detail.

Costume, too, does quiet narrative work. A black slip, a plain working dress, a floating green piece, a rich red gown—each marks a shift in status, mood, or identity. The empty dresses that stand in for her daughters are especially effective: hollow, suspended, and strangely moving. They suggest not just absence, but a failure of connection that sits at the heart of the piece.

Kurth’s performance is strongest when it settles. In stillness, in restraint, she’s deeply compelling. Vocally, she’s impressive—clear, controlled, and expressive. She moves between characters with confidence, though the transitions don’t always land cleanly, and the constant shifting can create a sense of distance. The songs, while often beautiful, sometimes feel like interruptions rather than extensions of the narrative.

Tonally, it wavers. There are flashes of humour that don’t quite belong, pulling focus from a character who isn’t especially suited to lightness. The production is far more confident in its darkness—when it leans fully into the macabre, it’s striking. 

Mara doesn’t ask you to forgive its central character, rather it offers context. A woman shaped by pressure, loneliness, and a need for security that curdles into something harsher. 

It’s not a seamless piece—rhythm falters, elements occasionally pull in different directions—but its design is its backbone. The lighting, the sound, the visual language: these are the threads that hold it together. And in those moments where everything aligns it’s quietly haunting.

Reviewed by Vivien Lynch