Directed by Kai Paynter. Written by Neil Labute. Presented by The Americas theatre company.
A satirical attempt at exposing the egotistical vitriol in Hollywood misses the mark in this Australian Premiere
Reviewed by Justin Clarke
Factory Theatre, Marrickville
Until 1st June, 2025
Tickets: https://www.factorytheatre.com.au/event/the-money-shot/
Type: Premiere, Satirical, Hollywood Expose
If you liked: The Shape of Things, David Mamet
Tony-nominated playwright Neil Labute (The Shape of Things, Mercy Seat) is known for being provocative, pushing the boundaries when it comes to addressing social taboos and exploring the inner bile within humanity. His play The Money Shot – about the Hollywood elite and the egotistical conversations that go on behind closed doors – is only just having its Australian Premiere in Sydney 11 years on from being published. It’s now clear however why many have deemed it not worthy of being staged, perhaps it was best left out of the spotlight.
Nestled in a Los Angeles apartment that overlooks the skyline of the City of Angels, actors Karen (Monisha Inserra) and Steve (Kirk Hastings) are drenched in glamour, their outward appearances covering the stench of desperation at their centre. They’ve called their respective partners together to discuss an all important scene that could put them back on top of their past box-office acclaim; Steve’s wife Missy, an aspiring actor,(Ella Sullivan) and Karen’s girlfriend Bev (Molly Haddon).
Between trays of shrimp appetizers and chit chat that veers from sexist, misogynistic, racist and classist at any moment, the pair reveal their money shot; a sex scene which has been pitched as something much more extreme. So how far will this “talent” go to preserve their standing in Hollywood?
Presented at the inner-west’s Factory Theatre, in the refashioned shipping container The Terminal, you immediately feel claustrophobic as you’re locked in with these characters. Sitting at a table that is so far pushed to the back wall that the actors have to awkwardly squish past each other to get up for their monologues, the only other set piece consists of two live cameras that film the conversation concurrently on either side of the foursome. The screens project a single, locked off shot which doesn’t change (except for when the power saving mode clicks the screens shut). Unfortunately, the cameras and projections aren’t utilised enough to be anything other than a distraction in the space.
Labute’s script is thin and formulaic; the four characters we see feel like caricatures of figures that have well and truly already taken a beating across stage and screen. Director Kai Paynter aims at bursting the vapid bubble surrounding the entertainment-industry culture, but the satirica, slightly dystopian commentary doesn’t quite hit the mark.
It’s not without its moments of humour. Like a machine gun firing rapidly at a target that is doing an egregiously messy dance, some punchlines land, some evoke a chuckle, and others are about as tasteful as the hors devours served by Karen’s elementary cooking skills.
Channeling a scratchy, nasal and high pitched, Nick Kroll-esque voice (think Malibu Barbie meets SNL), Sullivan’s characterisation of Missy sees her holding her hands possessively, her fingers like talons scraping and clutching for scraps of food to feed herself. Her character is simply “young trophy wife”. Her slimy, overbearing partner Steve (Hastings), talks of monitoring her weight so she doesn’t get a bloated figure. Throughout, he spits vitriol – quite literally – his veins popping when threatened with his actual age (48, not 50!) and anything that infringes on his masculinity. He scours the internet using out-of-date search engines to prove that his views and “opinions” are fact – quite similar to a certain President whose orange-stained fingers violently tap away to justify his own withering manhood.
…the depths of Money Shot felt ankle deep at best.
With equal parts egotistical and holier-than-thou, Inserra’s Karen doesn’t do too much to cleanse off the mud slung on the infamous name she carries. Dressed like a Scarlett O’Hara wannabe in a flowing red dress with ruffled shoulder pads that belong in a 1980’s John Hughes movie, her equally bold red lipstick reveals leering smirks of amour propre and lust. Throughout she plays for the camera, popping absurd heel flicks and consistent name drops with a wry smile of vanity.
It’s Haddon’s Bev who Labute chooses to be our anchor to sanity. In comparison to the stereotyped characters surrounding her, Bev is thankfully grounded. A film editor whose life involves splicing together the talent we see through the screen, she is tasked with doing the heavy lifting of making the artists look good. She’s dealing with insufferable divas strutting and flaunting their faux-goodwill and serpentine personalities beneath a smothering of botox, facelifts and brand sponsorships. There’s a saying that pleads one never to debate an idiot, a task which Labute heaps upon Bev’s character, something which Haddon handles well. Despite her showing a metallic backbone, the direction struggles to give Haddon sufficient reason to remain in the room of such poisonous airs.
As the vapid conversations continue, it’s clear that even Labute runs out of interesting ways to make his characters detestable. Repetitive arguments occur, answers for their nonsense are continuously searched, and it all devolves into a literal battle of the sexes.
Perhaps the satire went over my head, but the depths of Money Shot felt ankle deep at best.
Theatre Thought: Do some plays become unnecessary when the worst kept secrets of Hollywood are already hung out to dry? Or can they still hold a message worth sharing?
