As many theatres turn to representing the stories of marginalised people (as they rightly should!), white men are left in this interesting minefield of sorts – any sincere dip into tragedy is soured by this air of privilege and sarcastic cry of “oh no, the poor white man and his white man struggles 🙁 “. Since this minefield has been placed, I had never seen an attempt to find any serious dialogue or nuance with this phenomenon, not until I watched White Sun.
White Sun is a one-man show by English actor Will Dickie depicting a grappling with his colonial lineage and the men before him who paved the way to where he is now, despite their unsavoury means to do so. It is an incredibly personal tale, which covers his struggles with how readily he accepted his privilege in the past, his various forays into addiction in its many forms, and the inescapable, bloodied history that is tied in everything around and within him. Dickie covers a lot of ground throughout the show, which makes the show being so well-written nothing short of a miracle. The seemingly disparate, humourous tirades about his high school and the Shakespearean actor David Garrick all start to make sense in a grander political context that emerges over the length of the show.
White Sun. Photography by Simon Murphy.
Dickie’s performance of this work is show-stopping. He is agile and quick with his whole body, moving his large, lanky limbs with the grace and intention of a monkey swinging through vines. You can tell that every single action in this 50-minute show has been carefully crafted with each finger and face muscle in mind, and it! Does! Not! Stop! I think in part, this is due to Will’s incredible stamina, but it’s also so carefully choreographed – a routine using his whole body will be followed by a more careful and slow section, as to get his energy back. And, most mind-boggling of all, he’s talking through the damn whole thing, and somehow does not show his exhaustion from jumping around in his voice unless he means to, which is, by all accounts, witchcraft. And a brief side note because it’s only a selling point to a specific few, and I’m not sure if it’s just the British-ness, but there is an Andrew Scott affectation in his voice which really drew me in.
Like every one-man show, it is not a one-man operation, though each role someone else plays in White Sun never distracts you from the leading man. The sound by Ethan Hudson is at times so subtle but so effective, my favourite was a soft electric hum that stayed in the background so everyone’s ear acclimatised to it, before being abruptly and dramatically dropped, creating this sense of true silence. The lighting was similarly quite subtle, but the palette of red and white (shared by Dickie’s costuming) led to some perfectly dramatic moments.
White Sun. Photography by Simon Murphy.
It is not an entirely comfortable watch, an aspect that Dickie satisfyingly addresses at several points throughout the show. Not only are the politics at times confrontational (it is not without purpose that White Sun has only been performed in England and Australia), but the movement shares a lot of DNA with contemporary dance, a polarising artform to those who aren’t enchanted by it. I’m quite familiar with contemporary dance, but even I was put back by some of the more grandiose and avant-garde movements throughout the show, especially in the front half. I quite enjoy this component of the show; using the social expectation and attitude of the discipline itself to further the message of art is both rare and quite effective.
I strongly urge you to watch White Sun, it is a phenomenal, interesting, and endearing work of art in all aspects. It is an incredibly personal piece of art not only for Will Dickie, but for everyone and anyone who is, in some way or another, the product of the English colonial efforts. No matter your relationship to your lineage, something from this show will stick with you, and I think that’s one of the clearest signs to not miss this production.
White Sun is on at The Blue Room Theatre from Jan 25-Feb 1.