The Anarchy (1138-53)

Time Out

29-05-2025

Enter the KXT on Broadway theatre, which has been transformed into a brutal and deadly jousting arena. Choose a side, and sit on that side. DO NOT CROSS THE STAGE! THERE ARE SPIKES AND MIRRORS THAT YOU CANNOT STEP ON! Now wait. You're here for The Anarchy (1138-53). You will be overwhelmed for 2 hours and 15 minutes. You might like it, or you might hate it, or you might choose to leave. None of that's up to me, but once you've seen it, you might like to read something to help you make sense of it. Here is my attempt to write something about it for that purpose, with the caveat that all criticism is somewhat subjective, and nothing is a substitute for going outside and buying a ticket and taking a risk on a brilliant (or awful!) experience.
Presented by UK/Australian experimental theatre company Doppelgangster in association with bAKEHOUSE THEATRE COMPANY, and performed by sibling duo Kerith and Tobias Manderson-Galvin, The Anarchy (1138-53) is Part 1 of an odyssey set in the fictional medieval town of Cross Roads. Doppelgangster boasts that their previous works have generated walkouts, physical fights and cancellations, along with cult followings and critical acclaim – and this new presentation proudly channels that rebellious spirit.
The Anarchy (1138-53) is something like a DIY punk/garage gig, a role playing game, a Brechtian nightmare, a couple of clowns finding meaning, or a cabaret. But it's really none of those things either. It repeats and loops in on itself, with nothing certain but a number of grisly ways to die, to perform, to attempt to communicate. For the most part, it is two people yelling into the void and hoping something might happen.
precisely orchestrated to never let you rest... it's strangely meditative
On opening night, a number of things did happen. We, the audience, stood up, dutifully followed directions, one person walked out, and we stared at each other, the performers and the mirrors lining the stage and walls in confusion (or awe, or something else entirely). Herein lies the postmodern genius of The Anarchy. This is not a narrative or something you can sit back and place judgement upon from afar – you are embroiled in it, whatever it is and whatever you think about it. For me, it is a constant act of construction, destruction and reconstruction: Tobias says something, you listen, then Tobias starts throwing up. Kerith quickly takes over with another barrage of information. Then, there is an extended stretch of dialogue for you to wade through. While it may seem crass or overly simplistic, it is precisely orchestrated to never let you rest. It's an endurance test of sorts, for you and the performers, and it's strangely meditative.
This unrelenting effort is heightened by bold production design, with textile art by Chelsea Hickman, sound composition by Pat Fielding, and lighting design by the Manderson-Galvins. Lights go from dank darkness to blinding brightness at varying intervals, obscuring and revealing a mass of seemingly-irrelevant props on either side of the stage. Tapestries on either side of the mirrored walls declare various slogans. Slow, electric bass is intercut with noisy electric guitars. Something like a bird chirps in the background. It's noise, noise and more noise. It all builds into a symphony of horrors.
Nothing I've ever experienced has even come close to preparing me for what it is to be alive right now, surrounded by constant noise and distractions from the terrors of late stage capitalism and our rapidly devolving society. If you're game, The Anarchy is the sort of art that might just help you process the horrors.
Wherever we turn, there is violence: genocide, homelessness, growth, profit, whatever you want to call it. We can choose to ignore it. That is our privilege. Or, we can choose to find our way through, together. Because nothing changes without us.
Buy a ticket, and then buy another, and sit through it all again. See what happens if you say something back. There might be something in it. In any case, you mustn't forget to sing.