Art House

Art House tells the tale of a superlative artist who, in true maverick fashion, fakes her own death so that she may reap the posthumous acclaim guaranteed by her demise. Her sister focusses her energy on selling the work produced by the sibling-in-hiding, while attempting to assure the tabloids as to the validity of her grief. A conflict arises between the pair's artistic righteousness and pragmatism  and events soon escalate beyond control, culminating in tragedy.

It's clear that all involved in the play, one of the four Tangram Theatre productions staged at this year's Fringe, have impeccable taste. Flashes of Sunset Boulevard and eventually Whatever Happened to Baby Jane can be witnessed on stage as a power struggle unfolds between the two characters, the whole piece striving for what one may describe as a tone of 'Lynchian darkness'.

What renders Art House less than the sum of its rather admirable parts is the ever-present sense of teenage angst blighting the piece's script and direction. Lines such as “you wake up in the morning and the first thing you do is shed a tear for another fucking day” and “what if I elope with my lover Death?” likely sound profound to the ears of Rachael Coopes, allegedly 'Australia's brightest new playwright' – to others, I dare say, they ring a bit flat.

One cannot help but hope that her work grows out of its current attention-seeking affectations which, as it stands, include clumsy treatment of homoeroticism, incest, suicide and self-loathing. The less said about the play's 'daring' on-stage depiction of masturbation, the better.