Wil Greenway: These Trees the Autumn Leaves Alone

Wil Greenway might be reaching the limits of his format. Coming out of These Trees the Autumn Leaves Alone, we are disoriented: back in Edinburgh, no longer in a Melbourne autumn storm, and the spell cast by Greenway’s transportive storytelling has broken on the hard cobbles of reality. But it wasn’t a new spell, nor one that soaked particularly deep into the skin.

Ernie is a down-on-his-luck everyman, living an ordinary yet recognisable life in Melbourne (a “city made for autumn”), before a chance tram encounter with an old flame—and a cat—sparks a change. For a breezy hour, Greenway welcomes us into his tale with a bearded grin and wide, open arms.

The Australian writer has clear talents. Few fabulists can trot out such tight, sensitively crafted prose and still make it sound casual. He spins small observations into disarmingly relatable flights of poetry. And though never trying to appear spontaneous, neither is the piece overwritten. It’s like experiencing a novel, with Greenway taking our hands and marking the way with sprightly characterisation and masterful, often comic analogies (a storm erupts “like a two-year-old kicking off in a supermarket”). Scenes are breathable, drinkable. It might be trite to say so, but it’s like you’re really there.

But being there isn’t all that interesting, in the end. Leaving aside the predictable and heteronormative ‘awkward boy meets girl’ narrative, the net tone is—unfortunately—one of a twee, punchable, indie romcom; a spoken word Garden State. The gentle guitar and lyrical interludes (courtesy of Will Galloway and Kathryn Langshaw on stage) certainly help accentuate the emotional beats, but it’s gilding a daisy: poignant in the right light, but ultimately lacking substance.