Pramkicker
There’s a particular brand of rage that lives just beneath the surface of being a woman in the 21st century. MO Theatre’s Pramkicker, written by Sadie Hasler, grabs that simmering fury by the almond mum ponytail and drags it out into the open—with hilarious, devastating, and unflinching effect. Equal parts gut punch and belly laugh, this blisteringly funny two-hander doesn’t hold anything back, and frankly, thank Goddess for that!
The experience starts before the play even begins, thanks to Set and Costume Designer Ada Lukin, who transforms the theatre entrance into a faux community centre hallway, complete with passive-aggressive signage, prams, and toddler finger paintings. It’s both immersive and tongue-in-cheek, ushering the audience into the world of mandatory anger management before we’ve even found our seats. The costumes and set inside the theatre is saturated in pinks and reds— a jab at the infantilisation of all things ‘feminine’.
The gag continues as the audience is welcomed to the space as if we’re fellow anger management attendees. Jude and Susie—the sisters at the centre of the chaos—interact with us like we’ve all been court-ordered to confront our rage. It’s funny, awkward, and strangely cathartic. Co-directors Amy Ingram and Nerida Matthaei lean all the way into this conceit, and throughout the play they find endless ways to mine the material for comedy without ever losing the thread of authenticity.
Sarah Ann McLeod is magnetic as Jude—the titular pramkicker. Her performance is fierce yet grounded, managing to portray explosive anger with precision rather than histrionics. It’s wonderful to watch her juxtapose Jude’s strength with her vulnerability. There’s an enchanting physicality to her portrayal, she is captivating even in stillness, but when she moves, it’s with purpose and punch.
Sarah Ogden’s Susie is a delightful counterbalance—warm, vibrant, and a little unhinged in all the best ways. She handles the rapid-fire dialogue with ease, switching vocal registers and character impressions with dexterity. Her comedic instincts are razor-sharp, but she never loses the emotional weight of the character. Her performance is full of heart, and her expressive face does half the storytelling before she even opens her mouth.
Together, the two Sarahs are dynamite. Their chemistry is effortless, their sisterly banter and connection believable to the point of nostalgia. They finish each other’s sentences, cut each other off, jab, tickle and slap each other for emphasis, and throw insults and compliments in equal measure. But when the real stakes emerge—sexual assault, abortion, drug addiction, grief, trauma—the comedy doesn’t disappear. It deepens. This is gallows humour at its finest: uncomfortable, brave, and illuminating.
Speaking of illuminating, Christine Felmingham’s lighting design shifts seamlessly between moments of surreal comedy and raw truth, with chosen hues supporting the mood. The lighting doesn’t just illuminate—it punctuates and contributes to the comedy.
Brady Watkins’ sound design is pitch-perfect, particularly in choosing female-led Melbourne punk band Amyl and the Sniffers for the soundtrack. Opening the play proper with a choreographed dance to their track Jerkin sets a tone of anarchic feminine rage so deliciously apt it deserves a standing ovation of its own. Nerida Matthaei’s choreography injects bursts of kinetic energy and strength, underscoring both the fury and the freedom these characters are fighting for.
The writing is whip-smart and filthy in the best way. Hasler’s script is a triumph of unfiltered female perspective, giving voice to the complexities and contradictions of womanhood without apology. It speaks to the double standards around motherhood, the societal policing of female bodies, and the enduring stigma around choosing not to procreate. Most beautifully of all, it does so while being laugh-out-loud funny. It’s profane, poetic, and profound.
Pramkicker is the kind of theatre that has the power to change society for the better. But be warned: this isn’t for the faint-hearted or the pearl-clutching. It contains extra-strong language and challenging themes. Yet in the hands of Amy Ingram and Nerida Matthaei’s clever direction, none of it feels gratuitous or mishandled. It’s bold, necessary storytelling with its heart in the right place—and its middle finger raised high to the patriarchy.
This show is a defiant, dazzling, dirty love letter to the women who have been told they feel too much, say too much, and aren’t ladylike. If you’re in Brisbane, don’t walk—run to get a ticket – but try not to kick any prams in your rush to do so.
Kitty Goodall
Photography by Morgan Roberts
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