Rather than inundating a potential readership with a set of six one episode volumes or, presumably, the one mega volume, the publishers have decided to provide a representative release containing the screenplay of one episode – three, Ambrose – which the writers considered to be the most likely to translate effectively onto the page. The result is a quick enjoyable read which, although unlikely to lay siege to any bestseller’s list, would certainly prove a flavoursome and challenging text for study.

There are a number of informative prologues, giving the reader ample background material for a fuller understanding of the text. And, since we are offered only a one-sixth portion of an ongoing narrative, a synopsis of the other five episodes is supplied and proves sufficient. We are provided interesting behind-the-scenes glimpses of the writing of a mini-series – and learn that of the possible plot formations available to the writers what was chosen for Brides of Christ was one in which each of the six episodes concentrated on the personal story of a particular character – in this case Sister Ambrose, a senior nun in charge of the Order’s Mother House.

These are the sixties and the winds of change are sweeping through the dark dusty cloisters of the Catholic Church. The aggiornamento is a package of papal dictates designed to bring the church back into line with the source of its basic teachings – the Bible – and  Ambrose’s task is to implement these new policies. In a purge reminiscent of the Cultural Revolution (which happens to be going on at pretty much the same time), the nuns remove from display treasured but now disapproved of artworks, pine over politically-motivated withdrawals from the registrar of saints, and argue over the anglicising of the Latin Mass. Present in the convent are both traditionalists and the supporters of change and Sister Ambrose, though loved by all, becomes everyone’s ogre in her efforts to please all sides. Add to the stresses of her position the approach of her father’s death and the dutiful but frustrating suppression of her own opinions – and Ambrose becomes a character rich in conflict and depth, whom the writers, Alsop and Smith, exploit admirably – successfully forging an attractive, well-rounded personality whose journey is truly engaging.

The screenplay has a number of notable qualities that include an accomplished portrayal of the camaraderie existing between the nuns, revealing a genuine affection that is naturally pleasing to the reader. It is also commendable for the depth and accuracy of its research that evokes moments of nostalgia with its description of the hubbub surrounding the change to decimal currency, the far-right politics of the OLP, and details such as the ‘AMDG’ at the head of the blackboard.

Now to another work – a stage play this time – which examines the effect of outside influence on an ancient and insular society. Just as change opened old wounds and exposed incipient conflict in Brides of Christ, so it does in Tom Petsinis’s The Drought. The play tells a simple tale of Vangel, a young Macedonian, who left his native village for Australia in search of another life, only to return twenty years later – conspicuously penurious – with the intention of reclaiming his past. What he achieves, however, is the equivalent of overturning a rock that has long lain undisturbed in a garden. His brother’s family fears disinheritance, his father seeks redemption; his mother and – apparently – most of the women in the village pray for marriage and his prospective partner agonises over her decision. Vangel’s arrival provides the catalyst for change in this sleepy drought-stricken village and sets in motion a tragic series of events. A number of issues are raised and examined against the background of the plot: the meaning of home and the experience of migration; what the author calls ‘guilt and expiation’, and the value of the past as embodied by tradition versus the vitality of ongoing change – which was similarly approached in Brides of Christ.

The Drought is a stage play which was produced last year by La Mama at the Napier Street theatre in Melbourne. It won the Wal Cherry award in 1993 and it is not too hard to see why. The prize is given not for a play’s production, but for the text itself and The Drought is definitely an enjoyable read. Though the story is far from breathtakingly original, it is tried and true and a solid vehicle for the writer’s poetic vision which is what gives the work its individuality. The play is permeated by a bright, mature poetic sense – which is not surprising given that Petsinis has several poetry publications to his credit. Not only is each act of standard dialogue separated by lyrical passages of clarity and charm, much of the writer’s imagery and generally what he chooses to describe is poetic in its nature:

If you want Vangel to show interest, you've got to get some soil with his footprint in it. You then place the soil in a pot and plant a marigold. Before you know it, Vangel will be yours.

The play is full of such ritual and where, in Brides of Christ, it is represented as part of doomed and fading tradition, in this forsaken Macedonian village it is a source of strength, drawn from memories of a better past in the hope of revitalising the present. The Drought makes much undisguised reference to other works – but it is done subtly and serves to enrich rather than undermine the work: there is an errant gypsy not unlike Melquiades in One Hundred Years of Solitude, who spouts mystifying prophecy in lyrical quatrains – and a coven of chanting women predicting the future in animistic ceremonies, who are not unlike the witches of Macbeth. The plot is a loud echo of the Prodigal Son, but this biblical allusion is apt given the older tone of the piece. In parts it is also redolent of Greek theatre – particularly in its sheared-down universal moral sense and its symbolism of wind, stones, leaves and urns. Perhaps theatre naturally regards ritual as more powerful and essential because it is a ritual itself – at least more so than a mini­series – and it is this play’s awareness of ritual and poetry that saves it from being little more than a minor work.