A review of Hannie Rayson’s Two Brothers, first performed by the Melbourne Theatre Company in April 2005. The Sydney Theatre Company is presenting the same production at the Drama Theatre, Sydney Opera House, until July 2. It then moves to Canberra’s Playhouse (July 14 to 23).

Not so long ago, Melbourne theatre-goers would say of Sydney audiences, ‘If it moves, they’ll clap it.’ These days, it would seem, Melbourne is the new Sydney. No snobbish snipes at the northerners’ perceived lack of sophistication will wash any longer; such parochial bigotries have been found out. No extensive cultural investigation was required to expose the hypocrisy. A visit to the Melbourne Theatre Company’s recent production of Hannie Rayson’s latest play, Two Brothers, would do. As dud joke followed dud joke, the evidence mounted. As one preposterous scenario begat another in a genre-jumble of farce (though not intended to be farce, I fear) and political thriller (or lame attempt at it), Sydney took on a cultural loftiness I’d never noticed before – and I grew up there and admit to lowbrow parentage. When, at the end of Two Brothers, the audience cheered and applauded, there could be no doubt: the play moved, and they clapped it.

Patrick White had rather more success than Henry James with his plays – though that is not saying much. James’s attempt in the 1890s to conquer the London stage was a theatrical and personal disaster, but has, remarkably, provoked two recent novels, Colm Tóibín’s The Master and David Lodge’s Author, Author. The plays were no great loss, and it was to our ultimate benefit that James returned his creative energy to the novel.

What should an Australian museum collect? How should permanent collections affect exhibition policy? Who should decide what to buy? These are three provocative questions raised by the current survey of English art over several centuries at the Art Gallery of South Australia, an exhibition drawn exclusively from its permanent collection.

Art is a strange posing of discoveries, a display of what was no more possible. For it is the task of the creative artist to come up with ideas which are ours, but which we haven’t thought yet. In some cases, it is also the artist’s role to slice Australia open and show it bizarrely different, quite new in its antiquity.

Half a century ago, Sidney Nolan did just this with his desert paintings and those of drought animal carcasses. I recall seeing some of these at the Peter Bray Gallery in 1953 and being bewildered by their aridity: a cruel dryness which made the familiar Ned Kelly paintings seem quite pastoral. Nor could I get a grip on his Durack Range, which the NGV had bought three years earlier. Its lack of human signs affronted my responses.

The furthest our littoral imaginations had gone toward what used to be called the Dead Heart was then to be found in Russell Drysdale’s inland New South Wales, Hans Heysen’s Flinders Ranges, and Albert Namatjira’s delicately picturesque MacDonnells. Nolan’s own vision was vastly different: different and vast. It offered new meanings and posed big new questions.

In Sydney last month, Barry Kosky’s production of Verdi’s Nabucco was booed by a section of its first-night audience, a unique occurrence, this, at the Australian Opera, but one that Kosky took in good part as an extension of the ‘playful’ side of the evening’s events.