In 2019, the Sydney University Dramatic Society’s (SUDS) show 1984! The Musical was a hit. During its wildly successful stint, crowds were wowed with an original soundtrack, spoofy songs and knee-slapping quips. It was so successful that it broke free from its Cellar Theatre source to become a fully-fledged production at the New Theatre in January 2020.
Historians trace the first origins of StuJo! The Musical to 2021 (directed by Isla Mowbray, Marlow Hurst and Ariana Haghighi) to the Honi Soit office. During a layup of the paper, the 2021 editors suggested (in jest) that the very modish trope of sticking ‘the musical’ at the end of any given word or phrase, and turning it into a show, had its roots in 1984! The Musical. The natural consequence of this hypothesis was the suggestion of a musical about student journalism.
The wheels of fate really began turning in late 2022 when a group of editors and writers (collectively known as ‘StuJos’ and who, coincidentally, are the writers of the piece you are currently reading) united to bring this vision to reality in a jukebox show — a musical that riffs off premade hits. For the performers and the theatregoers, these musicals provide the joy of musical familiarity. For the lyric writers, they provide the convenience of already-made music, and the legal comfort of the parody protections.
And so the plot was born. By way of a magical printing press, a group of Honi Soit editors from the 1960s are transported to the then-futuristic 2024: forced to work with the a 21st century ticket to traverse the political machinations of a fractious student-body politic, traipse through snap-actions, and trawl through rules and regulations to quash the caprice of a callous student council.
We set out to make a musical which reflected the thrills and struggles of being a University student, with student journalism at the forefront of campus life. Working with such a skilled cast inspired the writers to adapt and refine the script throughout the rehearsal process in response to their boundless talents and offers.
Any time-warping, red-bull downing, pastizzi-pushing musical was bound to be a pastiche of tunes from across the ages. The opening number, Buddy Holiday’s ‘Everyday (we’re editing Honi)’ was written to be lithe but antiquated; we are in the ‘60s, and the tune jingles along to the click of typewriter keys.
This song set up a false expectation of a tranquil (if not glacial) variety-special type family show. In the next scene, this expectation crumbles – if not explodes – under the immense weight of the salacious next number: ‘Let’s Write’ a la Charlie XCX’s ‘Vroom Vroom.’ The number introduces us to the Honi office of the 21st century with verve and nitrous oxide.
As the ‘60s editors time-travel, with the stage lights down to cover the actors and crew magicking the set from 1968 to 2024, an incredible sequence by sound designer Milly Kynaston ensues. A collage of temporal change, from swing to the pop (Ke$ha’s ‘TiK-ToK’ a self-evident reminder of the unravelling time warp) provided the auditory pivot between the play’s two worlds.
The ten songs were born in a range of circumstances: some were written on trains, some on planes, and others were written insubordinately while on the clock. Many songs (such as ‘Lay All Your Spreads Honi’ – an ABBA riff-off) were written before the plot was entirely fleshed out. As such, the role of the show’s writers vacillated between songwriting, dialogue drafting, and red-string-on-the-cork-board level plot scheming.
Some songs were written after the actors were cast. This was not due to poor organisation, but inspiration: Violet Hull (aka VOH), for example, the pop star with a musical range which would make Kelly Clarkson cry, inspired ‘Rain on My Tirade’ with her incomparable vocals. Likewise, ‘I Dreamed of Academe’ — a Les Mis’ lament of the glory days of student life — was made possible by Belinda Thomas’ operatic finesse.
In breaking from SUDS tradition, the show was designed to be short (that is to say, no longer than 90 minutes). Instead of an intermission, which is usually reserved for productions greater than two hours, the audience was given a chance to stretch their legs and participate in a simulated student protest.
Some audience members were flabbergasted when they realised they were being asked to participate in a protest against course cuts. The Student Representative Council President, played by the inimitable Dani Saplad, burst onto the stage and encouraged the audience to leave their seats and chant alongside the actor activists. Audience members relished the opportunity to hold ‘SHAME’ signs and march to Fisher Library (the foyer of the Cellar Theatre) while others refused to participate. In this way, the protest interaction became a moment that generated its own lore and made the audience active participants (a microcosm of campus in the Cellar Theatre).
While the play was certainly an ode to the whimsy and abject lunacy of the student life, the ‘60s/‘20s juxtaposition provides an opportunity to reflect on the progresses, and regresses, of Australian culture and the university system (think HECs, lock-out laws, department mergers, the commodification of tertiary study, the inaccessibility of student housing). Since StuJo! was performed in early 2023, a time characterised by industrial action across the country’s tertiary institutions, and student advocacy has only continued to be the central determinant in the fight to preserve a university system that is accessible, research-centred and equitable.
StuJo! captured a slice of time. This production wouldn’t have been what it was without the wonderful ensemble of people who dedicated themselves to its creation.
