REVIEW: The Elocution of Benjamin Franklin

Opening night on Thursday saw a packed theatre gather for the return of The Elocution of Benjamin Franklin, a work that once scandalised 1970s audiences and, half a century later, still feels strikingly relevant. We may like to think we have come a long way, but this razor- edged tragicomedy quietly suggests otherwise.

Before a word is spoken, the world is fully realised. Set and costume designer Isabel Hudson has created a mid-century apartment that feels both intimate and suffocating, a carefully curated shrine to theatrical aspiration and suburban respectability. Green wallpaper cocoons the space. A faded swivel armchair sits beside an upright piano crowned with a metronome. Framed photographs of Dame Maggie Smith and Laurence Olivier hang with earnest reverence, while a bust of Shakespeare presides over it all. A taxidermy bird hovers mid-flight. ceramic ducks sweep across the walls. A folding room divider promises swift transformations. Sheer green curtains conceal a glowing light panel that later becomes a window, and eventually something far more clinical. And then, of course, a pair of tidy whiteys draped casually over a footstool. Intriguing.

Hudson does not simply design a set, she builds a world. It reflects Robert’s longing, repression and flair for drama. It is theatrical, slightly faded and deeply personal. Crucially, it transforms with chilling efficiency as the story darkens.

We brace for a Professor Higgins figure when the lights fall. Instead, they snap up to reveal Simon Burke’s bare bottom wiggling enthusiastically to rock and roll. The audience squeals. Lipstick on, feather boa in hand, Burke dances stark naked before a giant black and white poster of Mick Jagger, luxuriating in fantasy. It is brazen, joyful and deliciously uninhibited.

Then, with a flick of his foot, the tidy whiteys are on. The phone rings. The music cuts. A clipped, polished voice answers, “Shakespeare Speech and Drama.” In seconds, we understand Robert O’Brien’s duality. The private self and the performed self.

Simon Burke, under the incisive direction of Declan Greene, is extraordinary. The script’s 1970s origins are unmistakable. Words like “transvestite” land heavily now. Rather than dating the work, they transport us to a time when wearing women’s clothing was criminalised and homosexuality was treated as pathology. How fitting that this revival opens on Mardi Gras weekend. Celebration outside the theatre, persecution within it. When Mrs Franklin calls about her twelve-year-old son Benjamin, a stuttering prodigy, Robert reluctantly suits up in brown upon brown upon brown. Shirt, vest, tie, trousers. A uniform of conformity. Camouflage.

The lessons begin and it quickly becomes clear Benjamin is no ordinary twelve-year-old. He asks Robert for cigarettes. He speaks candidly about his entanglement with a hairdresser’s apprentice, gossip too delicious for Robert not to immediately relay to Bruce, his stockbroker friend and secret confidant. Bruce, married with children, adores frocks and wigs. The pair rendezvous for “ladies’ tea,” living double lives in a society that would destroy them if exposed. At the time, cross dressing was illegal. It is sobering to remember how recently such persecution was codified.

One-person shows live or die by precision, and Greene’s direction makes the mechanics seamless. Burke conjures entire phone conversations out of thin air, switching dialects and accents with manic clarity and astonishing control. A cheque materialises. Characters appear and vanish. The illusion never falters.

There are dazzling theatrical highlights throughout. A blistering montage of Robert giving lessons, tongue twisters, vocal warm ups and a thunderous Shakespearean monologue delivered with thrilling muscularity. Lights snap up mid contortion, catching Burke in hilariously undignified poses. His comic timing is impeccable. His vocal dexterity astonishing.

Then the mood fractures completely.

An angry mob storms his Double Bay apartment, having uncovered his late night dress up escapades. In a moment both absurd and tragic, Robert grabs the shotgun mounted on the wall and fires. The fall is swift. Arrest. The discovery of burnt Polaroids in his rubbish bin. Charges laid. He is institutionalised because, at the time, cross dressing and homosexuality were considered signs of mental instability.

Hudson’s set once again proves masterful. The sweeping green curtain draws across the apartment, transforming the warm, cluttered studio into a sterile mental hospital with chilling simplicity. The same space that once held fantasy and freedom becomes a site of erasure. Eight years pass. We watch Robert decline. Bruce visits. The flamboyance drains. The voice that once filled the room with Shakespearean bravado grows thin.

This is a full, muscular production that feels technically precise, emotionally resonant and politically sharp. At its centre, Simon Burke delivers what may well be his finest work. Transformative. Vulnerable. Technically virtuosic. We laugh, often. But the laughter catches in the throat.

Fifty years on, The Elocution of Benjamin Franklin reminds us how quickly fear turns into persecution, and how fragile performance can be when the world refuses to let you live authentically.

A true highlight of Sydney theatre. Go and see it.

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5 out of 5 Stars