grief, motherhood and loss in Jada Alberts’ Black Light
- Written by Lauren Swain, Associate Lecturer in Theatre, The University of Melbourne
This story oscillates and swells around a glass outdoor table, on the porch of a family home on Larrakia land. A table almost identical to the one on my porch back home. I point this out to my sis as the bubbling opening night crowd pours into the Merlyn Theatre, in the Malthouse on the unceded lands of the Kulin Nation.
I am a proud Dabee Wiradjuri person and theatre maker. My family’s table is held by cold Ngarigo Country, in the alpine plains where I grew up. A far cry from the salty humid air of Larrakia land where this table and this story are set. I do not know Larrakia Country well, only faint memories of glowing sky, crocs and giant mystical trees from when I visited family as a child.
But this table, I do know.
I wonder who else in this auditorium knows this table? Or what is their version of this table? Where do they and their people gather?
My table back home has held more cups of tea with my family than I can possibly count, summer storm watching, rain bird listening, laughter, tears and silence. If my understanding of this table is even somewhat similar to that of Larrakia mother, writer, director Jada Alberts, then my heart is in for a ride.
Around the Black Light table, we are met by four inimitable First Nations women and actors: Trisha Morton-Thomas (Nan), Rachael Maza (Aunty), Lisa Maza (Mum) and Tahlee Fereday (Bub).
Each of these women is holding the strength of the people and places that have come before and after them. The audience is also there with a lineage that has led us all to this very moment. I wonder how many people will go home and think of all the people and places that have come together in them?
Love and magic
Four women across three generations come together in the wake of an unnamed national crisis. There are allusions to climate disaster with regular power outages, unrest in the city and storms scoring the play. There are resonances of lockdowns from a not-so-distant past, or the possibility this is a crisis in a not-so-distant future.
Following a relationship breakdown, Bub has returned home from the bustle of the city with their children in tow. Nan’s memory is declining; Mum is always working; Aunty, Nan’s main carer, is lonely.
This is the first time in a long time they have all been together – and possibly the first time they have been forced to speak the unspeakable.
Morton-Thomas as Nan has us in the palm of her hand. When she giggles, we giggle. When she cries, we weep. She so beautifully carries us between worlds, dipping in and out of lucidity, the liminal, the here, the past and into a dreamscape of a beyond. We follow her as our guide through both the surreal and domestic non-linear form this play traversed.
“This is magic and magic is love,” Nan says. Tonight, there is a whole lot of love and undeniable magic.
On the topic of magic, the Maza sisters are a force to be reckoned with. Returning to the stage together for the first time in 17 years, the synergy of these real-life sisters playing fictional sisters is truly palpable. As they began to bicker for the first time, you can feel an energy spill across the audience: a collective strapping in.
The head-to-head, sarcastic side eyes from Aunty and deathly glares from Mum have the audience cackling. The comedy lulls us into a false sense of security, momentarily forgetting the ecological and familial crisis on the horizon.
Tahlee Fereday’s Bub embodies the state of being on the precipice of crisis. Bub is lost and needs to find their way back home. Nan repeats, “Just reach out bub” – Country is waiting.
I have the immense privilege of calling Tahlee a friend and colleague. In the real world, she is a laugh a minute. Here as Bub, Tahlee is grounded, authentic and captivating. Her delivery of the final monologue flaws me in its vulnerability.
Melbourne-based actor Tahlee Fereday plays Bub, teetering on the precipice of crisis, with compassion, depth and humour.
Pia Johnson/Malthouse Theatre
Country speaks loudly
I cried before, during and after the show.
Before, reading Albert’s writer and director’s note honouring their grandmothers and generously inviting us to listen to Nan’s words:
I hope her words remind you of your own humanity, your interconnectedness, to every living thing and the Country that holds you.
During, between the laughs, as I experienced the brave truth telling and poetic reclamation of grief, trauma, love, loss and survival in the colonial project. Country speaks loudly: no words, but we heard her.
After, remembering – just like Albert’s – my own grandmother turns 90 this year. The staunch matriarch and pillar of my family. So much of her is in me, her love, her magic (which Nan says is the same thing).
I can’t wait to call my grandma and tell her all about this play.
This will be one of those plays that stays with us another 17 years from now.
Pia Johnson/Malthouse Theatre
As I write this now, I still feel as though my heart is on the outside of my body – “good ways”.
Thank you Jada, for sharing the story of your motherhood and the mothers who came before you. Thank you Malthouse for programming this work to open the 2026 season.
I know this will be one of those plays that stays with us another 17 years from now.
Black Light is at Malthouse Theatre, Melbourne, until March 7.
Authors: Lauren Swain, Associate Lecturer in Theatre, The University of Melbourne
