Tell Me Something

There’s a certain magic in theatre that resurrects places long gone. In Tell Me Something, written and directed by Sophia Davidson Gluyas, that magic is poured lovingly into the ghost of Sydney’s Hopetoun Hotel (affectionately known as “the Hoey”). Gluyas first brought it back to life in a ten-minute invisible theatre piece for the Surry Hills Festival a decade ago, and now, as a full production, that seed of nostalgia has grown into a funny, heartfelt, and beautifully messy ode to friendship and queer identity in the mid-2000s.

“At its heart, Tell Me Something is a love letter to friendship: and the romance of friendship,” Gluyas writes in the director’s notes. “Because our greatest love stories aren’t always with our sexual partners—they’re with the friends who hold us, challenge us, and remind us of who we are.”

That sentiment pulses through the show like basslines from a beloved indie track of the era. Speaking of which, the soundtrack is packed with late-1990s hits that bring back vivid core memories of the time in which the play is set.

The set design by Genevieve Morrow Ganner deserves its own standing ovation. The share-house world she has built is an immaculate time capsule, think milk crates, the classic share-house kitchen, piles of unwashed dishes, bad furniture and all. For anyone who’s ever survived on two-minute noodles and intense emotional entanglements, it’s a pang of memory so vivid you can almost smell the cheap wine and stale incense. The design, paired with Ben Vlasich’s warm and evocative lighting and Peter Crees’ stellar sound design, wraps the audience in a fully realised world that feels lived-in and loved. Every ambient hum, track cue, and acoustic texture deepens the immersion without drawing focus.

The ensemble cast capture that liminal period between youth and adulthood with affection and truth. Axielle Doddridge delivers a nuanced, quietly powerful performance that’s thoughtful and emotionally grounded, with excellent rapport across the cast. Jacob Edward brings charisma and physicality, walking a fine line between humour and vulnerability that keeps the audience leaning in. Shaun Casey nails the confident swagger of the narcissist who breadcrumbs affection just enough to keep someone hooked, a performance full of charm and subtle cruelty. Anna Wavrant, in her professional independent debut, brings lovely emotional texture and restraint, proving that less can be very much more.

While Tell Me Something shines with authenticity, humour, and heart, it could benefit from some tightening. At over two hours, the play’s habit of breaking the fourth wall to explain emotions feels unnecessary when the performances and direction already communicate so much. These moments slightly dilute the impact of what is otherwise an incredibly empathetic piece of storytelling.

There are laugh-out-loud moments scattered throughout Tell Me Something, and they’re not cheap laughs. They spring from the truth of character and situation. It’s a play that wears its heart proudly on its sleeve, unashamedly queer but also unflinchingly human. The show’s emotional truths land hard, the ache of loving someone more than they love you, the nostalgia for friendships that define a moment in your life, the bittersweet beauty of youth when everything still feels urgent and infinite. Regardless of your own sexuality, these are universally relatable pangs, and Gluyas captures them with sincerity and humour.

For those who came of age in the early 2000s, it’s a mirror held up to the era of flip phones and mix CDs, when love is intense, friendship is everything, and social media hasn’t yet stolen our attention spans. For younger audiences, it’s an introduction to a world just before theirs, one that feels both distant and familiar.

Tell Me Something’s emotional honesty, superb design, and engaging performances make it deeply memorable. Like a night spent talking in a share-house kitchen at 3am, it’s messy, heartfelt, and full of laughter and longing, the kind of theatre that leaves you nostalgic for your own coming-of-age chaos.

Kitty Goodall

Photography by Claudio Kirac