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The Removalists

The Removalists, undoubtedly Williamson’s bleakest play, revolves around the serious

issues of domestic violence, anti-authoritarianism, limbic emotions, and police brutality.

The seriousness of this subject matter certainly meets the demands of Zola, who pursued

theatre that depicted the individual’s struggle against social convention and even

biological imperatives (Worthen 906). The naturalistic treatment of such material has

been dealt with, in some depth, in Chapter Three. Williamson’s choice of ‘black comedy’

as a genre to present material that is shocking and horrific, is evidence that he is aware

that audiences will be ameliorated by the humour into receiving his disturbing message.

Cuddon says of “black comedy” that it shows “human beings in an ‘absurd’ predicament”

(94). Black comedy treats material that is serious – death, suicide, drug abuse, terrorism –

in a humorous vein. Williamson has used black comedy in several of his plays. The

‘double-demise’ – where a character ‘dies’ twice – is used effectively in The Removalists,

Travelling North and Sanctuary (1994). An attempted suicide (What if You Died

Tomorrow? (1973)), and sexual harassment (Brilliant Lies, 1993) are both given a

comedic overlay that reinforces the satirical impact.

It is deemed valuable here to digress from the thesis’ selected plays to consider the social

commentary underpinning Brilliant Lies, (1993) as further evidence of misreading of the

text on the part of some critics, and their erroneous assumption that the play was

“superficial”. The main issue of the play is sexual harassment, both at home and in the

workplace, with the ancillary concerns of incestuous child-abuse, the inchoate born-again

Christian sibling, the blatant in-your-face sexual harassment, and the dubious
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machinations of the legal system acting as a wellspring for Williamson to accurately

pinpoint some of the social problems of the time.

Williamson’s satirical treatment of the serious subject matter in Brilliant Lies received

adverse criticism for distorting the inherent drama by not only adopting a superficial

approach, but also by the addition of contrived and unnecessary characters, in the form of

an alcoholic father, a lesbian-feminist sister, and a bankrupt, weak, religious zealot

brother. This argument has some validity when the material is looked at as purely

naturalistic, however the various and disparate characters, the numerous complications

and revelations at significant moments in the play, are evidence of Williamson sacrificing

the quest for the psychological truth demanded by naturalism, in favour of biting satire

and irony. There are many ironies in the play: the oxymoronic title, Brilliant Lies; the

fervently holy brother, who ignores the revelations of his father’s sexual abuse of his

sisters, only to reprimand him for taking the Lord’s name in vain; and the pièce de

résistance when Suzy, the sexually-abused protagonist, gives her legal winnings to the

father she is trying to avenge. This ultimate twist has much in common with the irony of

Mrs. Alving in Ghosts using the ill-gotten gains of her husband’s philanthropy to

establish a children’s orphanage. As stated earlier these ironies are lost on critics who,

intent on reading Williamson solely as a naturalist, fail to recognise the deep social

commentary running beneath the superficial banter.

Not so blatantly satirical is The Removalists, which adds a bleak, disturbing element to

Williamson’s normally “feel-good” plays. In correspondence with the researcher

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Williamson reveals his deep belief that “the most satisfying explanations of the enduring

mysteries of human nature are located in our powerful emotions, a legacy of a long

evolutionary past” (Appendix 2). Williamson names these emotions as belonging to the

realm of the “limbic system” and notes the biological universality they present (Interview

Chapter Seven).

It is Williamson’s belief that under the surface patterns of behaviour that have been so

strongly conditioned by our society, are the enduring and universal emotions of love,

hate, aggression, and motivation from our ancient past. The limbic system is present in

the members of societies across temporal shifts and space. Aligning himself with Ibsen,

Williamson contends that this social conditioning is so strong that society operates behind

this ‘mask’ and only occasionally, and in certain circumstances, reveals “the raw power

of our limbic emotions lurking underneath our conditioned social responses and

sometimes breaking through and overwhelming them” (Appendix 2). Margaret Williams

contends that the social ‘mask’ of many Australians, and the effects of social

conditioning, tends to confirm “the image of man in Australian drama is collective and

social rather than individual” (“Mask and Cage” 327). This concept is dealt with in some

depth in Chapter Five. The fracturing of our conditioned social mask, under duress, lies at

the heart of The Removalists.

The Removalists tells the story of a young couple whose combatant marriage is blighted

with domestic violence. The wife Fiona, and her sister Kate, arrive at the local police

station to be met by the authoritarian Sergeant Simmonds and his rookie off-sider,
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Constable Ross. The police officers then embark on a journey that proceeds through a

domestic violence report to humiliation, sexual advances and rebuffs, violated

sensibilities, and ultimately, a death-in-custody. The play is tightly drawn and plot-driven

with the focus on what Williamson asserts is “the authoritarian behaviour and the

processes whereby ordinary individuals are drawn into it” (qtd. in Fitzpatrick, After ‘The

Doll’ 117), and the underlying limbic emotions inherent in all of us.

It is of benefit to note that the published script of The Removalists is preceded by three

essays: “Reflections on Violence” by Ian Turner, “Authority and Punishment: The

Australian Inheritance” and “Police: Authority and Privilege” both by Frank Galbally and

Kerry Milte. These essays, by way of introduction to the play, offer serious reflections

and raise grave issues concerning the subject matter of the play. Turner sees the play

raising three questions, “one, socio-cultural (is Australian society violent of its essence?);

one, political (do the forces of ‘law and order’ rest on violence?); one, psychological (do

all of us have the kinds of aggressive instincts or behaviour patterns which Williamson

depicts?)” (7). The second, archival essay, which recounts, in case histories, the grim

circumstances and harsh brutality afforded the early convicts, concludes with: “The

beginning of the twentieth century and the federation of the Commonwealth found

inequity, inhumanity and privilege still well entrenched in Australian society” (19).

The final essay by Galbally and Milte opens with:

Many complaints of assault have been made against the police, but few actual

charges have been laid. Most of the assaults have taken place within the confines
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of the police stations and have been witnessed only by police; not surprisingly, we

have never yet heard of one policeman giving evidence against another in these

circumstances. Victims are reluctant to complain or take legal action, because

they fear reprisals of one sort or another”. (20)

It is rare, perhaps even singular, for such serious allegations to be made in preparatory

readings for an Australian play, and the profundity of the essays foreshadow, it would

seem, a serious play. The whole premise of the text rests on the gravest of indictments of

society, however Williamson chooses to juxtapose the foul language, abusive behaviour,

and physical violence involved with comedic devices. This surely is testimony to

Williamson’s adroitness in providing accurate contemporary manifestations of Australian

society through the use of irony, satire, and farce. It is also testament to his predilection

for shaping material for entertainment and audience appeasement, or as Fitzpatrick would

have it, distributing “sugared placebos” (“Styles of Love” 413) to humour his audience,

the while making biting satirical comment. In this sense, he is constantly positioning the

audience to distance them from the subjectivity of the brutality of the work.

There is no doubting the significance of The Removalists and its place as one of the great

Australian plays. The play succeeds on many levels. On the surface level it is a

naturalistic play with serious subject matter, yet it is also peppered with humour and

comical, even farcical, incidents. However the juxtaposition of these humorous scenes

within their contexts (Sargeant Simmonds chatting up a victim in the safe confines of the

police station and the police officers beating up Kenny in his own home), and the
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incongruity of actions and results (the removalist doggedly stripping the place bare while

police brutality takes place) makes for biting satire that fuels the irony.

The serious issues are foregrounded by some significant scenes: Ross, reporting for duty,

squeaky-clean, on his first morning; Kenny wondering what will happen to his daughter

and his pleading for help from the only objective person around, the removalist; and,

finally, the truly appalling effect of the two policemen abandoning their duty-of-care as

law-enforcers, and starting to violently beat each other up. This is serious theatre. The

casual remark, the fake bravado, the laid-back attitude suddenly accumulate and with

relentless momentum the action descends into chaos. The positioning of these scenes

within the gravity of the context strengthens their irony rather than the naturalism of the

text. The incongruity of the humour within the context of the play is an indication of the

sophistication of Williamson’s satirical treatment of the material. If an audience takes one

moment to look beneath the surface and reflect on the hopes and aspirations of the new

officer Ross – his pride in his appointment, his nervousness on the first morning, his

intent to “get it right”, his willingness to subordinate himself to Simmonds’ intimidation

– then certainly Williamson is dealing in universal truths. Everyone has “been there” or

knows someone who has. Even within a postmodern reading, these universalities are

easily recognisable and identifiable. It is this placing of local truths within their context

that enables them to become iconic and universally true. This universality constitutes a

depth of psychological meaning that manifests itself across times and places and secures

Williamson’s position as a major Australian playwright.

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Williamson uses humour in the opening scene of the play with easy laughs at the expense

of the tough cop and his disingenuous partner. Ross, eager to learn on his first morning

“on the job” is advised by the senior policeman “stuff the rule book up your arse. That’s

the first thing you’ve got to learn. Get me? Life’s got its own rules” (37). Later he quizzes

Ross on his ranking in his training class:

Simmonds: Where’d you come in your class, Ross?

Ross: I did reasonably well.

Simmonds: Isn’t he sweet? Where’d you come, Ross?

Ross: Ninth.

Simmonds: Out of how many?

Ross: Eighty.

Simmonds: Top ten percent. (Recalculating) Almost. Pity you didn’t

come eighth, Ross. (49)

The easy-going tone of this scene, with the senior officer having a joke at the expense of

the young newcomer, sets the scene for the appalling irony that underpins the entire play,

and lulls the audience into enjoying the camaraderie. There is no hint of the horror to

come.

The crucial scene supporting the claim of domestic violence is given a comic turn, when

the crusty old Sergeant shows an unexpected carnal interest in the young women: he

unnecessarily inspects the evidence of Fiona’s physical abuse, prodding her naked hips

and back: “Tender?” ... more prodding… “There”. It is interesting to note here the neatly
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constructed build-up to this significant moment, that is, the young woman’s domestic

dilemma, the trauma of reporting to the police, her humiliation at having to expose

herself in front of the police officers, and finally, the degradation of Simmonds

lasciviously touching her. Here we have a situation where a most serious community

issue is being confronted. The audience is primed; slightly uncomfortable at the intimacy

of the scene, they anticipate Simmonds’ weighty verdict. He takes his time, looks the

victim all over and quips, “You one of these braless birds, eh?” (55). Simmonds’

response is so obscene that it is shocking, the irony jolts the audience into a serious

awareness of something that should not be happening. The laughter that accompanies this

line is slightly uneasy as the audience begins to have a sense of foreboding of the darker

scenes to follow.

Later, when Simmonds is trying to impress Kate and Fiona, he denigrates the legal

profession and talks up the police force. He looks to Ross to prove his point, “Wouldn’t

you say Ross, that the whole emphasis of a policeman’s training these days is to enable

him to handle human problems?”. Ross answers, “Yes…well…we did do a subject called

practical psychology for policemen”. Simmonds is pleased, “Exactly. Did you find it

helped your understanding of the human mind, Ross?”. Ross innocently replies: “I was

sick that week” (51). Here Williamson’s deliberate construction of a context is effective

in seducing an audience with humorous banality, the better to have them reel at the horror

of the impending brutality.

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Fitzpatrick (Williamson 42) comments on the topicality of the police brutality in The

Removalists. On 26 March 1971, Neil Collingburn was intercepted by two Victorian

Police constables. He later died in St. Vincent’s Hospital on 28 March, 1971. Controversy

surrounds what happened in the intervening days. The constables maintained that

Collingburn had provoked them with an iron bar, while Collingburn told the hospital staff

that he had been severely beaten by the constables. Medical evidence showed that

Collingburn had suffered severe injury to his abdomen, bruising, and bleeding from the

nose and mouth. The constables involved denied accusations of police brutality in

custody and, though they were brought to trial, they were found “not guilty” by a jury in

March 1972 (Victorian Office of Police Integrity 45). The case incited public

demonstrations against the police force and raised various issues concerning the police

brutality and deaths in custody. Given the seriousness of the allegations, the ripple effect

it caused, and the close proximity of the creation of the play, it is interesting to note

Williamson’s confidence in satirising the subject matter. He assuredly balances the

seriousness of the matter, with both poignant moments and absurdities, to create an iconic

play on the recognition of the repressed aggression inherent in all of us.

It is interesting to note also, that although Kenny goads his captors and makes outrageous

threats he, in fact, does not act upon them. The brutality is left, ironically, to the police

officers, who seem as if their uniforms have desensitised their sensibilities. When the

seemingly innocuous Ross goes berserk and punches into Kenny, Simmonds seems quite

nonplussed:

Simmonds: Did you let him get away?

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Ross: (frightened. Softly, hoarse) I’ve killed the bastard, Serg.

Simmonds: (amused) Come on, Ross. Haven’t you ever knocked a man

out before?

Ross: (frightened) I think I’ve killed him.

Simmonds: You better not have bruised him, boy. I hope it was a nice

clean punch

Ross: (frightened) No, look I really think I killed him.

Simmonds: Yes, well I’m afraid I’m going to have to report this

incident to cover myself in case anything does blow up, but

if you hit him on the chin you should be right. (110)

This interaction, quite humorous in performance, underscores the subtle conspiracy that

pervades institutions when trouble arises. Kenny’s ultimate death, finds Simmonds still

thinking how to exonerate himself from the debacle. When Ross laments that they should

have taken Kenny to hospital, Simmonds responds: “…get into casualty with a body on

your hands? I’m not crazy, Ross. I’m not callous, but then again I’m not stupid and

there’s an important distinction there” (127). It is noted that an incident of police brutality

in 2005, reported and discussed in Chapter Six (“Police Brutality Inquiry to Open) also

discloses that police lied in court and had turned away an ambulance that arrived to treat

the victim’s injuries. This is case of life imitating art. Simmonds and Ross are drawn

naturalistically, and however limited their character-constructs may be, they have become

symbolic representations of police corruption and the police culture that protects them.
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The scene continues with the officers accusing each other and humorous one-liners

following in rapid-fire succession. The characterisations of the out-of-control officers

become caricatures, and the scene descends into farce. Fitzpatrick, commenting on the

transition from “jokey camaraderie” to horrific reality says “when Kenny suddenly dies

in front of us, we are caught, like Simmonds in mid-laugh” (48) and goes on to ponder

“why do we laugh?” (49). Audiences often laugh as a release-mechanism from the

tensions of the play (Praities 2) and this appears to be the response to much of the

brutality of the second act of The Removalists. They also laugh because they are

positioned, by the playwright’s structuring of the play, and the comically heightened

dialogue and antics, to receive the play at some distance from the horror of the situation.

This distancing, or emotional detachment, allows an audience to laugh, and at the same

time satirises Australian male detachment from empathy.

In the last scene of the play, the audience, finally, becomes aware that they are

experiencing an horrific act of violence. Ross, distraught at his actions in killing Kenny,

panics and suggests a number of alibis: “We could make it look like a suicide” and “we

could hang him” and “[to Simmonds] I’ll say that you did it” and “let’s blast his head off

with a shot gun” (115). While the officers bicker and yell, and grapple with each other in

a true frenzy, Kenny, dying, slowly crawls into the room. This unexpected reprise is

greeted with a variety of responses by the audience, from abhorrent gasps, to nervous

shrieks, to full-blown comedic laughter. Kenny says: “Did you two pricks think you did

me?” (116). The officers, saving their own heads, refuse to get Kenny a doctor, but try to

placate him, with Simmonds offering to set him up with some prostitutes and Ross
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getting him a cold can of beer. While the three are drinking, and Simmonds is

pontificating on how Ross can best address the flaws in his character, Kenny dies, again,

and this time for real. And, again, the audience responds with shock, horror, and laughter.

Irony pervades the scene when the officers, while lamenting Kenny’s injuries, and

exonerating themselves, actually succeed in killing him.

The double demise in The Removalists is a favourite farcical ploy of Williamson’s. He

uses it again in Travelling North (and yet again in Sanctuary, 1994). The utter seriousness

of the moment when Frank dies in Travelling North is truncated by his farcical death.

With Frank sitting upright in his armchair and Frances “tear-stained but resolute” (248),

toasting his life with a bottle of champagne, the foot-rest of Frank’s chair suddenly alters

and he collapses, to die again! The group “jump with shock” (249). This farcical ploy of

Williamson’s works well with an audience. In both The Removalists and Travelling

North, the deaths occur unexpectedly after a strong narrative build-up. The effect is one

of disbelief and horror. With barely seconds with which to digest the enormity of the

demise, the character, presumably lifeless, either comes to life again, as in The

Removalists, or in the case of Travelling North, Frank’s chair alters position, with his

corpse appearing to sit up. The audience is positioned to receive this action with relief on

one level, and with side-splitting humour on a broader level. Either way, the response

marks the irony and the horror of recognition of an audience that is being wrenched from

its comfort zone. This “pulling back from pain”, the failure to explore deeper into

difficult emotional moments, is almost Brechtian in its effect of distancing the spectators

from the emotional impact of the text. However, Williamson does not allow the same
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degree of objectivity as Brecht’s alienation effect, as the audience is shocked into

confrontation with a reality it would rather not know.

The serious, topical issues of a society so enmeshed in itself that it ignores a victim’s cry

for help; the dehumanising effects of domestic violence and the ubiquitous police

brutality to a man in custody, are introduced and given a satirical treatment aimed at

confronting the audience on several levels. There is no doubting the powerful effect of

The Removalists and it deserves the iconic status it has attained in Australian theatre.

Travelling North, Face to Face and Birthrights deal with subject matter that is not only

serious in content but exposes the conflicts and deliberations which are ubiquitous within

familial relationships. These plays have the potential for naturalistic treatment, with its

accompanying examination of the convoluted perplexities and serious issues that lie at

the heart of most conflict.

Travelling North

Possibly the most intimate of Williamson’s plays, Travelling North deals not only with

mature-age love, but the insecurities, responsibilities and expectations of the families

involved. Katharine Brisbane in her Introduction to Williamson’s Collected Plays Volume

II likened the introspective themes of this play to King Lear with his personal conflicts

and the tragic consequences of his daughters’ ingratitude (xi). The play is recognised as

one of Williamson’s finest, with Fitzpatrick, proclaiming it “the best” (1987 164).