REVIEW: Grand Horizons - New Farm Nash Theatre

Now Playing at New Farm Nash Theatre until May 31

By Bess Wohl | Directed by Phil Carney

"I do realise that's what marriage is; A contract to be tied to each other's stupidity."

It’s a quiet evening in a cookie-cutter retirement village. Bill and Nancy set the dinner table to the sound of a string version of Lewis Capaldi’s Someone You Loved. It’s quiet, tense, and oddly poetic—like watching a couple perform a routine they've perfected over decades, with no warmth left between the movements. Nancy is glaring at Bill like a flatmate who’s had it up to here with someone setting the table wrong for 50 years. And then—boom—first line of the play: “I want a divorce.” Bill doesn’t even flinch. Just nods and mutters, “Alright.” And thus begins Grand Horizons, a sharp, cheeky, and unexpectedly emotional comedy about long-term marriage, family dysfunction, and the glorious chaos that follows when older adults stop pretending and start telling the truth.

This show suits the small stage at Nash Theatre perfectly—intimate, focused, and grounded in reality. The set feels depressingly accurate: neutral-toned furniture, bland kitchen decor, and that eerie sameness of independent living communities. Phil Carney’s direction and set design capture that suburban staleness beautifully. The world may look orderly, but beneath it, things are gloriously messy.

Linda Morgan (Nancy) and Eddie Bruce (Bill) own the stage. Their dynamic is dry, biting, and utterly hilarious. Linda’s delivery is pure gold—dry as toast, but with a wicked aftertaste. Eddie plays the deadpan, borderline oblivious husband to perfection. You absolutely believe these two have tolerated each other’s quirks and silences for half a century. These characters, now in their 70s, come from a generation where marriage was the expected path—often chosen too young, too fast, and maintained out of duty more than joy.

Linda lands a line that had me in absolute stitches: “I’ll make you a sandwich before you go,” as she kicks Bill out of their home. That sums this whole show up perfectly—cutting humour layered with years of resentment, tenderness, and unspoken care. And then there's Bill’s ill-fated stand-up comedy—offensive, outdated, completely tone-deaf—and somehow, still hilarious. Eddie leans into it with such conviction, it’s hard not to laugh… even when you know you shouldn’t.

When their adult sons crash in to “fix things,” things spiral beautifully. Erik de Wit as the older brother Ben is an odd mix of uptight, overwhelmed lawyer and bumbling buffoon. Tyson Hargreaves as the younger brother Brian, a flamboyant, slightly neurotic gay drama teacher, is his polar opposite. Their sibling dynamic is painfully real—who’s more successful, who helps out more, who is the favourite son? Their squabbles echo through the theatre like the sound of every family argument ever. As Ben states while crashing out: "Start a family... That sounds stupid. How stupid does that sound right now?"

There’s also Jess, Ben’s wife and a psychologist—played with understated brilliance (and absolute girl boss energy) by Catherine Sturk. She’s the only one who seems remotely capable of handling this chaos, until she too breaks down in frustration and rage. Her Act II monologue is a feminist mic drop: a rally cry for every woman who has ever felt erased by the titles of wife or mother.

And then there’s Tommy—Brian’s one-night stand turned reluctant therapist—played with sparkle and sass by Matthew Ginman. He’s barely in the show, but steals every second he’s on stage. Their brief scene is one of the funniest of the night: all miscommunication, sexual tension, and total mismatched energy. I loved it.

The Act Two scene between Nancy and Carla (played by Gillian Simpson) is a masterclass in tonal shifts—starting with awkward small talk about scarves, moving into existential rage about aging, and then sliding into hilariously inappropriate 'girl talk'. It’s whiplash in the best way, and a reminder that older women are still bold, brilliant, and not to be underestimated.

Bess Wohl’s writing is sharp, insightful, and deeply human. Yes, some of the acting is a little clunky here and there—but honestly? It works. This isn’t Shakespeare. It’s real, uncomfortable, hilariously familiar Aussie family chaos. The imperfections make it all the more relatable. In fact, there are so many little moments in this show that feel scarily real. Like Nancy’s random late-night confession to Brian about a secret she’s held for decades—while he’s curled in a blanket fort trying desperately not to hear her cringy oversharing.

There’s a brilliant moment in Act One that ends in a gasp-worthy special effect (no spoilers, but… damn), and Act Two escalates things with more surprises, more yelling, more painful truths, and somehow… more laughs. The audience on the night I attended was absolutely with the show—laughing, gasping, and groaning at the sheer accuracy of the family dysfunction on display.

The final scene between Bill and Nancy is stunning. It’s chaotic, humorous, poignant, and utterly genuine. This play resonates deeply. My mum was my guest, and she cackled through it, recognising aspects from her own life—then offered the perfect summary: “Children often struggle to see their parents as real people, and parents are often oblivious to the effect they have on their kids." I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Grand Horizons is funny, moving, and brimming with uncomfortable truths. If you haven’t seen it before, go. You’ll laugh, you’ll cringe, you might even see your own family in the mess of it all. Go for the aching reminder that love, in all its messiness, still has room to grow—even after fifty years. It’s never too late to speak the truth, or to finally feel seen.