Dear Son opens on a familiar Australian setting. A soft sandy beach with a fire pit ready to burn, a beer-garden-like area with benches and a soothing sunset. Already there’s a sense of quiet reverence, and we’re ready to lean into the intimacy of shared stories.
Adapted from Thomas Mayo’s book Dear Son, Belvoir St Theatre’s co-production, presented as part of Sydney Festival, brings together letters written by First Nations men to their sons and fathers.
The letters, written by prominent Australian figures such as Stan Grant, Charlie King and Joe Williams, speak about life, masculinity, love, culture and grief, and the impact of racism across generations. What starts as a casual chat becomes a deeply moving reflection on fatherhood, lineage and the power of connection.
From the outset, the design draws us into this quiet, reflective space. Kevin O’Brien’s set is simple and earthy, inviting the audience into a remote meeting place for Indigenous men somewhere in Australia, a “place we can gather.”
Straight away, we’re invited into a space that lends itself to storytelling and vulnerability. With the staging and lighting, together with Isaac Drandic’s gentle direction, this becomes a space where we’re invited to let down our guards.
David Walters’ lighting paints the set with subtle shifts that reflect different times of day, emotional states and historical moments. The changes add emotional weight without disrupting the flow of the performances. Lighting, set design, video projection and sound move together in a fluid way, evoking mood while allowing the actors to remain the focus.
The visual design by Craig Wilkinson is particularly effective. At times, racial slurs are projected across the back screen and over the actors’ bodies – words such as “primitive” and “savage.” For me, as a privileged white audience member, this simple device hits hard. It takes you into the experience of an indigenous Australian man growing up in an unjust, racist society.
Seeing these words imposed on bodies, while the performers claim the power of retaining their native dialects, is emotionally arresting. The words echo from painful histories and serve as a stark reminder that words do have impact. Words can wound, shape identity, and ripple out across generations. This idea is heartbreakingly woven through the narrative.
Director Isaac Drandic gently nudges the actors to unravel their masculine facades and allow vulnerability to surface. The men are guided to let go of the actor mask and stand without the protective veneer we all carry in society. The effect is an unfolding of something almost childlike in its innocence and purity. The actors speak about the love for the men in their lives, their regrets and grief.
The ensemble work is a real strength. Waangenga Blanco, who is both a cast member and movement director, choreographs the group in a way that balances grounded stillness with moments of playful energy. The bike-riding sequence, where two actors jump on stationary bikes and mimic riding flat-out across the Aussie outback, is genuinely entertaining. It is delivered with an almost musical-style physicality, complete with synchronised head turns and leg swings.
There’s a bond between the ensemble that feels both warrior-like and tender. They talk about their fathers, about growing up as sons, raising their own children, and caring for ageing parents. One line, spoken as an actor reflects on looking after his father: “I’m scared I’m not man enough yet to live in this world without you,” is deeply poignant and something many of us will recognise.
The performances are endearingly playful and raw, deliberately unpolished in the best sense. There’s an organic quality to the acting, where the intention is not perfection but presence. This approach is especially effective with Tibian Wyles and Waangenga Blanco, bringing a freshness and sincerity to the show. Wyles is playful and expressive, making him immediately engaging and relatable.
TV and film veteran, Aaron Pedersen (Water Rats, Mystery Road), brings his warm, cheeky charisma to the stories. Pederson performed in the Brisbane and Adelaide runs and currently replaces Luke Carroll in the Sydney season. He carries many of the longer monologues with a strong energy and relatability, while bringing a grounding presence to the stories.
Kirk Page (Redfern Now), who’s also a movement and theatre director, is a true triple threat. He has a great command of his physicality and a buoyant playfulness that’s engaging. Page’s narration of a letter about a man coming out as gay to his sons is especially touching.
Jimi Bani, who played land rights activist Eddie Mabo in the 2012 telemovie Mabo, brings a grounded presence and a natural gift for storytelling. When he speaks as a grandfather, we listen.
The play offers an ideal model of inclusive representation. It spans a wide spectrum of the male experience, covering fathers, sons, grandfathers, women, romance, love gained and lost, failure, the gay experience and alcoholism.
We see that, beyond the bravado, banter, stoicism and self-sufficiency, there’s a whole lot more to being a man. These stories applaud the tenderness and softness in men, too.
Dear Son also weaves personal stories with reflections on key moments in Indigenous Australian history. References to the Mabo decision sit alongside reminders of how damaging representation can be, such as the 2016 Bill Leak cartoon depicting an Aboriginal father who doesn’t know his son’s name, “a single image shifting the blame.” This comes from Joel Bayliss’s letter in the book. His response was to fight back with love, posting an image on Twitter as a proud Australian Aboriginal Dad.
The play speaks to deeply human and universal truths: the struggle to be better fathers, sons and men, or simply better people. Who are we when we disappoint ourselves or others, and when we lose those we love?
No matter the colour of your skin, where you’re from, or your sexuality or gender, these are stories that hit home. They bring us back to the rawness of our humanity. These are conversations we need now. Conversations that help us heal and connect beyond our screens, in shared spaces.
Dear Son invites us into what First Nations peoples have to teach us: a wisdom that is grounded and deeply human, rooted in respect for the land we walk on, the seas we fish from, and the earth that sustains us. There is also a deep respect for lineage, for the binding threads of family and the legacy we leave behind.
As Jimi Bani states, “We are fathers and sons of the longest surviving culture on earth.” That alone is enough to inspire reverence, to make you want to listen and learn.
Dear Son is produced by Belvoir St Theatre, Queensland Theatre and State Theatre Company South Australia. It is co-presented by 2026 Sydney Festival and runs to 25 January. Upstairs Theatre, Belvoir St Theatre, Surry Hills NSW 2010.
Tickets: https://belvoir.com.au/productions/dear-son/
Website: http://sydneyfestival.org.au/events/dear-son
Socials: https://www.instagram.com/belvoirst/ and https://www.instagram.com/sydney_festival/
Photo credits: Stephen Wilson Barker
