REVIEW: Dance Nation - THAT Production Company

Presented by: THAT Production Company at Metro Arts

Written by: Clare Barron

Directed by: Timothy Wynn

Choreography & AD: Jennifer B. Ashley

Photography: Kenn Santos, Stage Shots

Walking into Metro Arts for THAT Production Company’s Dance Nation, I had absolutely no clue what to expect, which honestly is the best way to experience a show this wildly unpredictable. Even before it began, the theatre was pulsing with Gaga, Chappell Roan, and the unmistakable rhythm of a hundred dressing rooms I’ve known. All that was missing was the smell of hairspray and someone crying over fake eyelashes... HUGE thanks to THAT Production Company for the last-minute ticket, because within five minutes I realised this was going to be a new favourite!

Written by Clare Barron, Dance Nation follows a troupe of tween dancers on the blood-sweat-and-tears road to national glory, all while navigating the messy metamorphosis of puberty. It’s the unhinged chaos of Dance Moms meets the piercing tenderness of A Chorus Line, filtered through the hormonal haze of Euphoria. It’s the kind of show where you never quite know what’s coming next...

The twist? Every “child” in the show is played by an adult actor. But they didn’t mock or parody adolescence; they inhabited it. Grown adults remembering what it actually felt like to be thirteen: dramatic, envious, messy, naïve, embarrassed, and full of dreams too big for their own good.

The production affectionately poked fun at the things that often defines growing up in the arts: competition culture, social cliques, bizarre warm-ups, the “visionary” teacher with a God complex, and the endless hunt for validation. If you grew up in dance classes with your best friend (or like me, in theatre and choir) practically living at your rehearsal studio, you would appreciate every bit of this satire.

The seven leads carried the story like an imperfect troupe: Carla Haynes as Zuzu, Jeanda St James as Amina, Janaki Gerard as Connie, Thea Raveanu as Ashlee, Jessica Veurman as Maeve, Johanna Lyon as Sophia, and Morgan Francis as Luke. Each brought a distinct personality that felt instantly recognisable, not just as a character, but as an archetype of someone we once knew, or perhaps even were...

Carla Haynes led the pack as Zuzu, all nervous energy and internalised self-doubt, opposite Jeanda St James as her more naturally gifted best friend, Amina. Their dynamic was beautifully complex: that uncomfortable friendship where one person shines a little brighter, a fact both know but never dare to say aloud. You could feel the sting of comparison between them, that strange mix of love and envy that comes from growing side by side but at different speeds. One reaching, the other already glowing.

Carla embodied the girl who works diligently but always feels a step behind, while Jeanda radiated that golden aura tinged with loneliness, the quiet guilt of someone who knows her light casts shadows on her friends. Their scenes felt so real it made me squirm in my seat with that familiar “I’m so happy for you, but also… why not me?” energy. Jeanda's monologue about “riding the wave along” was raw and rippling with pride, exhaustion, hope, isolation, and that deeply human ache to succeed. While Carla as Zuzu mused innocently on love and her imagined future life as a dancer-slash-astrophysicist widow, and it was both wistful and profound. Her line, “I think falling in love is like remembering,” carried such simple grace. She found a quiet clarity about what truly brings her joy, and I was completely absorbed in her delivery.

Janaki Gerard landed the funniest blunt lines in the show while also being the cutest character. Her fierce “prayer” for the solo was pure theatre kid energy, the kind of desperate, hopeful plea to the universe we’ve all made at least once, right? Thea Raveanu delivered one of the night’s most jaw-dropping moments: a spiralling, explicit monologue about beauty, brains, desire, and the baffling mystery of why people don’t just try harder at maths! It was raw, fearless, and unexpectedly funny in its confession. Johanna Lyon channelled the hormonal hurricane of girlhood with a wild, relatable monologue of rage and confusion. Meanwhile, Morgan Francis portrayed Luke with all the awkwardness and vulnerability of a young teen trying to find his place in a sea of leotards, glitter, and girls.

One of the moments that really got me was Maeve’s monologue, beautifully delivered by Jessica Veurman, about her ability to float in the air. Her younger self, Charlie Cliff, drifted through the space beside her, and suddenly I was a kid again. I remembered being that child who thought flying and breathing underwater were entirely possible. The show kept uncovering those secret childhood beliefs we bury as adults, holding them up to the light through movement and words that seemed to slow time down... letting them shimmer briefly before dissolving again.

Cameron Hurry’s dance teacher Pat was a mix of delusion, self-importance, and committed conviction. His “inspirational” pep talks were spectacularly unhelpful, and his grand artistic epiphany for the troupe's next masterpiece, World on Fire, involved casting a soloist as Gandhi (AND as the Spirit of Gandhi) to express world peace through dance. Naturally, what he considered revolutionary genius turned out to be a hilariously camp sequence (complete with vampire fangs?) choreographed by Jennifer B. Ashley to Buttons by The Pussycat Dolls, if I recall correctly. Cameron captured exactly how young artists absorb every bizarre adult pronouncement and idea like it’s gospel.

The incomparable Aurelie Roque played every one of the dancers’ mums, switching between characters with lightning precision, each so distinct I kept forgetting it was the same person. She also appeared as young Vanessa in the opening tap number, the star student who promptly got injured in Scene One. Her “small child at an Eisteddfod” acting was so perfect that I immediately clocked what was happening: oh, these adults are playing the kids. Brilliant.

Speaking of the tweens, the BG Performing Arts contingent added a gorgeous layer of memory meeting the present. Holly Anderson (young Amina), Charlie Cliff (young Maeve), Milo White (young Luke), Chelsea Howard (young Connie), and Chloe Mortimer (young Ashlee) all featured throughout, plus the fabulous tap ensemble to kick things off! The moment where Luke and his mum are travelling home after dance class, sharing few words while Milo drifts through a lyrical solo, was simple and beautiful. Later, Chloe and Chelsea’s duet was heartfelt in capturing friendship in motion. The inclusion of these young performers blurred time itself, as the adults watched their younger selves, and the dreamers they once were, dancing in the same light.

There were so many times I didn’t know whether to laugh, cringe, or cry. The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy bit had dancers using just their faces to perform under a single spotlight, like a ridiculous drama class warm-up. Competition day arrived with the exact last-minute chaos that any performer will recognise. Someone got their period for the first time and panicked. Someone else spiralled because the rival schools had more boys in their troupe. Lucky toys went missing. Teacher Pat tried to be inspirational and somehow made everything worse.

When the troupe finally performed World on Fire and Janaki Gerard appeared as Gandhi with a moustache and tiny glasses, I was gone. Sorry to the folks sitting in front of me, but her resemblance to the Lorax had me cackling. And when the number pivoted to Like a Prayer (Club Mix), I have no idea how the cast kept a straight face. The concentration, the over-grinning, the dancer walk, the simplified choreography, and the way a tiny mistake feels like the end of the world when you’re thirteen… it was gold!

Under all the laughter, the show kept pulling the rug out from under us. It didn’t shy away from the big topics: puberty, body image, sexual awakening, the cult-like devotion to teachers, and the relentless pressure to be perfect. There was a brief but pointed nod to the way grown men look at young girls. There was fake blood and frank confessions that felt almost too intimate to witness. One powerful split-stage moment showed Johanna Lyon’s Sophia raging on her period in one area, Janaki Gerard’s Connie playing peacefully with her toy horses in another, and Jeanda St James’ Amina quietly exploring herself in the third. Three versions of girlhood.

Director Timothy Wynn guided these moments with a steady, gentle hand. Each performer delivered a monologue that opened a window into their inner world until the stage felt like one big, collective diary. Themes of ambition and identity wove through their pieces with honesty and bite. It was confronting, and it reminded us just how weird and wonderfully hard growing up actually is.

Visually, the production was both simple and stunning. Production designer Eva Fritz placed five large mirrors across the back of the stage, instantly evoking the endless repetition of a dance studio. But these weren’t ordinary mirrors. They turned transparent, revealing what lay behind them: photo walls of past cohorts, private conversations, bathroom secrets... It was clever and layered, a reminder that what we see in the mirror is never the full story.

Wes Bluff’s dazzling lighting sculpted the space beautifully, shifting from harsh rehearsal brightness to dreamlike haze to kaleidoscopic patterns. Brady Watkins’ sound design roared and whispered by turns, filling every transition with life and keeping the energy electric throughout. The show raced by at 105 minutes with no interval, but I never once felt the urge to check my watch.

Dance Nation wasn’t about winning a competition. It was a dramedy about surviving the ugly, beautiful chaos of adolescence and finding your own rhythm within it. The audience laughed knowingly at every dance-mum cliché, every hormonal meltdown, every brutal teacher comment. I came in expecting jazz hands and tap shoes (and yep, got them), but left thinking about who I was at thirteen and how far I’ve come. THAT Production Company delivered a show that refused to dance “right”; it danced real. And it was awesome.