24/03/2026
A Few Good Men.
POINT BREAK DRAMA Acting School. Star Of The Sea Theatre, Manly. 6.30pm, Friday, March 20, 2026.
My God. A stage production of Aaron Sorkinâs 1989 play, turned screenplay within just a few years, & rendered monumentalâiconic--in the collective consciousness by the late, lamented Rob Reiner.
For many, if not most of us, exposition of the plot is almost utterly redundant. No spoiler alerts required.
Like vintage Python, Seinfeld, Fawlty Towers, get Smart, or a grab-bag of other touchpoint in Western âpopâ culture, anyone whoâs seen the film will almost certainly be waiting to relive key moments, & lines.
For the producers, this is a double-edged sword. To clumsily intermingle metaphors, itâs akin to walking a theatrical tightrope. Without a net.
So, what do I mean by that? Well, from a commercial standpoint, itâs a known quantity, with a pedigree; provenance; a track-record. In a middle-of-the-road, theatrical backwater, like Manly, this can only be good, for ticket sales. Edgy, or adventuresome, let alone radical, arenât drawcards for the early-to-bed, overwhelmingly well-heeled residents of the northern beaches.
Yet, paradoxically, itâs this very pedigree that makes any recapitulation exceedingly dangerous. Who stands in, for the chiselled, if diminutive, wholesale appeal of a Tom Cruise, as the inexperienced, but audacious, JAG Corps Lieutenant Daniel Kaffee, who brings down the awe-inspiringly fearsome Colonel Nathan Jessep?
Well, in fact, a lanky, gangly Bailey Parker brings a surprising quantum of compulsory charisma, in his reading of the character.
Itâs only when called upon to be physically demonstrative that he seems awkward, & self-conscious; then again, in that department, one could mount a credible argument that the redoubtably box-office blockbusting Mr Cruise can also be a bit of a stiff.
In other words, muchâor mostâof the time, he drew me into the narrative, & drew the crucially dichotomous, contradictory picture of Kaffeeâs brashness being a courageous cover for boyish insecurity, & rampant self-doubt.
Kaffeeâs sidekick, brother-from-another-mother, mentor, confidante, & life coach, Sam Weinberg, played by Michael Haratzis, made for a square peg, in a square hole, complementing Kaffeeâs outlandishness with reason, temperance, patience, diligence, & sorely-needed humour. I struggled, just a little, to look past his incongruous, distracting ponytail, but, that aside, heâs a believable fit, if not a slam-dunk shoe-in.
Along with the large-framed, heavyweight, donât-f**k-with-me demeanour of David Allsopp, as the tyrannical Jessep, these key actors stood out, for their relative comfort on stage, clear diction, & projection.
On this point, forgive my digression, for a moment.
The opening minutes of the play (first night jitters are granted) were a muddle of indistinct murmurings, as a result of which the dialogue was ostensiblyâ& regrettablyâforfeited.
Notes, peeps.
Though imbued with nasality, for mine, my (wo)man of the âmatchâ might just be Julia Grace, as Lieutenant-Commander Joanne Galloway, who completed the unlikely jigsaw that became the legal powerhouse emancipating the wrongly accused, low-in-the-pecking-order pawns, Dawson, & Downey, & deftly hoisting the corrupt, arrogant Jessep on his own institutional petard.
All the above players are bolstered by the sympathetic pen of Sorkin, who draws all his characters with confounding complexity, discernible just below the surface sheen of their professional briefs.
Also worthy of acknowledgment, & credit, are Liam Dewar, & Jacob Gardner, as the aforementioned death-row candidates.
To be brutally honest, there were one or two also-rans under lights.
I shall refrain from the discouragement, or devastation, of naming, & shaming.
In any event, there are doubtless now-famous actors who have triumphed over poor early outings.
Lee Sarich was both credible, & creditable, as Captain Matthew Markinson, torn between duty, deference, & integrity; so often, such incompatible, mutually exclusive bedfellows.
Likewise, Alex Wright, as Lieutenant Jonathan James Kendrick, a consummate narcissist, poisoned by slimy ambition. Though, even in him, a hint of humanity; though we might have to scratch pretty vigorously to discover it.
Bron Calcraft makes for a suitably dry judge, while Ale Feudal, as the lone prosecutor, Lieutenant Jack Ross, served as a memento of Shakespearean-era freedoms in gender-blind casting (well, ok, it was mainly males who were recruited, in the troupe, back in that day), rendering an indignant, surefooted stance, & sober foil to the antics of her rambunctious, esteemed colleague, Kaffee.
Paul Wi******er produced, & shared directorial duties with Blair Cutting.
Itâs arguable a few scenes mightâve been better left on Cuttingâs roomâs floor, potentially eliminating the need for a few on-stage also-rans & lending clarity, & brevity; which is to say, things mightâve been a little tighter, even at the expense of fidelity to the text. Pragmatism over purity.
Similarly, a production design philosophy even more aligned with a âblack boxâ approach mightâve thrown more focus onto dialogue, exposition, & intensity, insofar as it pertained. I couldâve easily lived without the literalism of a door, & window frames, which only servedâfor me, anywayâas annoyances, & almost comical distractions.
Most of what was achieved in terms of drama, beyond performance, was via Michael Arnottâs laudable lighting; though Marisa Newnes, & Lisa Miller, seem to have done their darnedest, in the costume department, on what I can only assume was a threadbare budget.
All things considered, this production showcased a few good men, & women, &, letâs face it, any theatre ventures on Sydneyâs northern beaches is scant brain food for otherwise near-starving culture vultures.
SIDEBARS.
The genesis of Sorkinâs screenplay is particularly piquant, with regard to the nascent, raw energy community theatre draws upon.
Just as many of these actors & crew doubtless have full-time jobs that must take precedence over passion projects, Sorkin was working as a barman, at the Palace Theatre, on Broadway.
He had a relative milieu as inspiration, but wrote much of the first draft on napkins, between mixing Cosmopolitans, & Long Island Teas.
And although Reinerâs film (for whatever reason may be left to conspiracists) demurs from declaiming âbased on a true storyâ, it was. Ironically, it probably included more actuality than many films that have asserted relationship to truth.
Sorkinâs sister, Deborah, was recruited to Guantanamo Bay to defend a group of marines implicated in a âhazingâ incident (Code Red), ordered by a superior officer. Truth is stranger than fiction. And, too often, scarier.
