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The full title of this play is: Iphigenia Crash Land Falls on the Neon Shell that Was Once Her Heart (A Rave Fable). In reading that this play – written by Caridad Svich, and performed, on this occasion, at The Bread and Roses Theatre – was a Brechtian and surreal investigation into violence towards women and LGBTQIA themes, I was very intrigued. I felt it paradoxical to combine a dream-like, ethereal mode of theatre with a political, alienated and metatheatrical one. The aim was high, I thought. The first notable thing about this performance was the large role that immersion played: constant glances into the audience; Yoli (Rebecca Rahman-González) gesturing that a spectator kiss her hand; popcorn being offered to the front row; even the set leaked into the audience, with the purple glow-stick crosses stuck down by duct tape, all around the floor. This immersion paired with monologues in which characters, chiefly Iphigenia (Jess Rahman-González), spoke of themselves in third-person, and with 'Brechtian' factors such as live costume-changing, multi-roling, and humorous references to the action on stage, to reference an epic theatre style. Then, we move on to the surrealist elements. The only truly surreal feature of this performance were the images projected onto a screen behind the stage. These images were, indeed, visceral, and I was particularly drawn to the static/moving pictures of Iphigenia and her father, General Adolfo (Mickey Shaw) displayed during the opening scene. The combination of storytelling and a visual reference worked effectively and played into the Brechtian theme. This was, however, perhaps the only moment that the surreal and the epic combined well. Whilst there were small surreal symbolisms to be noted – from the floaty Christmas lights wrapped around Iphigenia’s body to her holding two delicate balloons attached to a solid branch, blindfolded – I felt these not enough to have real poignancy. But, I was especially confused by the choice to have all performers, barring Iphigenia and Achilles (Sam Kindon), shoeless. If this was to differentiate these two from the other characters, I felt this too unnoticeably significant. Characterisation was a huge issue for this performance, particularly for Jess Rahman-Gazález. For her characterisation of Iphigenia, everything seemed forcefully poetic and over-performed, and this high energy became, over time, tiresome to watch. Emotions other than joy seemed forced and highly lacklustre. As for the other performers, not a single gestussen was used – something I found particularly odd. With all the multi-roling, it was difficult in many scenes to pinpoint who was who. Shaw, on the other hand, demonstrated differentiation well, making a convincing and humorous General Adolfo. Sara Jewell playing Luz and Virgin Puta (and an understudy for Violeta Imperial on the night I saw the performance) also characterised well – to the extent at which I thought it would have been a better choice for her to play Iphigenia. Having Achilles represented as a libidinous sadomasochist was an interesting and refreshing choice, one which I felt had potential. However, Kindon’s characterisation seemed to be very samey the whole way through, and I was waiting for a real corrupt descent of character, which would have made for a more effective epic theatre. Whilst Brechtian performances are supposed to eliminate psychological realism, there must be at all times a visual scope enabling the audience to understand what is going on at all times. That is to say, even if the audio was completely removed from a true Brechtian piece, the visuals would tell the story. A lot of Brechtian techniques seemed to be overused in this performance, and the simplest, and perhaps what would have been the most effective in this performance – like gestus – were omitted. One example of this is a scene wherein Yoli, Luz and Yvonne sit off stage, commenting on a dialogue between Iphigenia and Achilles. This, whilst funny at a few points, seemed highly unnecessary, having no political or estranging effect. It just seemed to have been a technique employed for the sake of it, taking away from the aims of the play. This was a good opportunity to present the audience with another, darker interpretation of the scene, to distract them from the theatrical artificiality of the dialogue and present them with the underlying corruptions. A good opportunity missed, I think. One moment I did find efficacious, however, was what I’m going to crudely call “The Sex Fest”, towards the end of the play. This was definitely a surreal and poignant scene in its hilarity, and the only scene in which I enjoyed the absence of clear character. This is because it had a more general impact – referring to the common objectifiers of women. However, when the performers started referring to themselves as characters, this impact was slightly lost for me. Another moment was the repeated movements under the stroboscopic lighting. Whilst these movements had been repeated for a long – too long – amount of time a few scenes before, looking at this scene alone, the rhythmic music, lighting, movements and voiceovers layered extremely well and were effective. There were, however, movements throughout the rest of the performance that really frustrated me, and this is particular to moments when simultaneous movements occurred. Little hand gestures or counting aloud, used to stay in time during these movements I mentioned, or at the end before Iphigenia’s last mention – to name a few – were highly distracting and took away from any potential efficacy. Repetition was a problem, and the whole performance towards the end became highly predictable, from Iphigenia’s emotionless, poetic monologues to the performers announcing the next scandalous, almost-identical photographs of Iphigenia to be projected onto the screen. Surrealist theatre focuses on dreams, and dreams should not be predictable. And any Brechtian predictability should have political purpose. Hence, I found this repetitiveness of structure fallible. This was a performance with a clear aim, and its plot was effective in using the canonical character of Iphigenia as a puppet in a quest to explore violence towards women. Issues arise, however, in the performance’s attempt to combine two very different genres of theatre, and its lack of certainty as to why it was using the techniques it was and what the effects of these be lead to the piece's comedown. “A play with a clear and exciting aim but with execution not living up to desire.”

This review will consider Bedlam, a play written and directed by Tom Hodson and staged at the CLF Art Cafe. This is a very good performance, from its thorough and impressive aesthetic to its engaging concept, writing and execution. As the audience come in, they are greeted by complete silence and dim lighting. There is a slight mist in the air. Upstage, to the left and to the right, two square playing areas, each formed of a sofa and a chair (overall design by Ed Saunders). Far Stage Left, two chairs. Barring this, the stage is completely empty, and the audience must bear its heaviness. This is a most chilling and ominous beginning, one which instals a sense of trouble and disconcertion. It is also very brave. Two actors enter, Christopher Roscoe Brown and Peter Stone, playing what I shall call Therapists 1 & 2, and the play begins. I cannot say that I was particularly overwhelmed by the initial acting, starting with the awkward-looking and rather needless mime between the two as they walk into the space, grab a drink and briefly pretend to talk. When Matt Forey (playing George) enters, he and Brown seem rather wooden, and not just because their characters are awkward or cold towards one another. A combination of the writing and acting, this first scene seems to lack fluidity and naturalism. It is rather repetitive and artificial. Its rhythm and tone also grate against the second scene in which Lucy Hilton-Jones (playing Ellie) enters the second playing area where Stone is awaiting her. There is too huge a contrast in energy and character type but also in momentum, and this makes the beginning of the play difficult to digest. Whilst the beginning is rather stodgy, what ensues is utterly engaging. Forey and Hilton-Jones step away from the playing areas and come downstage, right in front of the audience. It is here, Downstage, that their relationship starts to play out, that the story begins to deepen and to unfurl. Slowly littering the Downstage area with props, scattering vignettes of their life together before our eyes, this relationship becomes more and more complex and unique. It was effective to have this so close to us, not only demonstrating an intimacy between the characters in a literal close-up on their lives away from the therapy rooms but also creating an intimacy between the characters and us. I should note here, however, that smoking with such proximity to audience members could be very dangerous should but one spectator suffer from any lung problems; I would recommend a pre-warning for this. The writing makes for a unique relationship between the two, one which demonstrates particularities and patterns of behaviour existing beyond the action we are presented –– an example of this, of course, being Ellie’s mood swing when George reveals he has broken her mug, or the two’s shared interest in music and alcohol. Forey and Hilton-Jones are excellent actors, convincing and articulate. They also demonstrate a successful chemistry and confidence on stage. In terms of Stone and Brown’s acting, I would have liked more. I found Stone to be slightly over-the-top, more energised than the text really allows him to be. I found his lines to be rather short and staccato, and this meant that his high energy was regularly cut short. I feel he could have benefitted from a more natural approach, which would have made his character seem more insidious, overall. This was also an editorial problem, however, as I feel the text was far too blatant in his character’s siding with Ellie, in his egging her on, so to speak. As for Brown, I found the opposite. I feel that he could have been more articulate in his physicality. His demeanour was far too cool and hence rather nonchalant and inert. I would have liked to see him play into his lines more, particularly those that deliberately draw focus to masculinity –– football, drinking, etc. I feel that his character is, though rather poorly, psychoanalysing the basics of George’s personality/pscyhe, and masculinity seems to be a way into this in this text. I would have liked to see slightly more of a caricaturisation in related moments of coercion. As a final note on all actors, I would like to see more during transitional scenes, or during scenes where our focus is on one therapy room, leaving the other dimly lit and silent. These moments start to lack variation in terms of what actors do when they are not in the limelight, and this is particularly the case for the Therapists, being that they sit out of the main action so often. There is only a certain amount of note-taking that is 1) feasible and 2) intriguing to watch. It seems as though the actors are not even acting at points, particularly Brown who often seems to gaze off into space whilst sat to the side of the stage. Whilst I would urge these movements to be minimal, so as to not distract from the main action, if actors are deliberately lit, it needs to be with purpose and significance. Even a slight tapping of the foot, or restlessness from Hiltone-Jones and Forey whilst they are sitting silently in the therapy room would make an image more engaging. Again, movements were still made during all of these moments but not sufficiently. On to the writing itself. One particularly jarring thing about the Therapists, rooted in the structure of the writing, is their need to leave to “confer with their colleagues” at the end of every scene. This becomes way too overused, and scenes seem to end far too prematurely. It feels as though nothing has really happened in some scenes, that they could actually be cut altogether for their brevity and lack of plot progression. Again, I feel that the text could benefit from some more realism and fluidity here. Would the Therapists really need to disappear so often? Surely they do this all the time and so would be prepared for the events that will happen? It also does not feel as though most of the things George says are particularly game-changing for the Therapists. There are also some irregularities in the text. One major irregularity is that it is not made clear as to why Ellie became so fearful of George having cheated on her in the first place. Whilst I understand that his reaction is not particularly reassuring when Ellie finds a group photo of him and the potential other woman in question, this is not enough to clarify how this situation blew out of proportion for the two of them in such an extreme way. The revelation that Ellie and George are, in fact, participants in a TV talk show is very well conceived and, for the most part, is successfully woven into the narrative. Again, whilst I think that Therapist 2’s [Stone] doings are far too blatant, I really enjoy the subtle and surreptitious elements that, only in retrospect, are the fruits of the ‘Therapist’’s clever rigging ––  Therapist 1’s getting George drunk for the show being a very good example of this. However, I feel that this reality does not possess our focus in the way it intends to. It is most certainly a shocking plot twist but it does not make for a particularly impactful ending. With the text giving so much focus to the couple’s relationship, accentuated by the lengthy scenes they share beyond the therapy rooms, and with therapy scenes being so succinct and brief, the talk show becomes of secondary importance. Our interests remain heavily in Ellie and George’s relationship; we want to know what happens to them next and, initially, if they ever benefit from whatever “therapy” it is that they are receiving. Our interest in their physical location is not so great. Furthermore, the ending transpires so hurriedly, and it feels as though the reveal is skimmed over. All of this is accentuated by the fact that the couple’s situation remains cryptic until further on in the performance; we do not find out that George potentially cheated on Ellie until the middle/end of the performance. There is not really very much to ground our attention in the context of a therapist’s office, let alone that of a TV show. More time should be spent on concretising, perfecting and deepening these therapy scenes and the roles and functions of the Therapists themselves if it is desired that the spectators concentrate on the context of the TV show above the characters, that they see the characters as secondary, as pawns in a game. It was made clear that this was felt by many other, if not all, audience members at the end of the performance, being that many were quite vocally unsure whether or not to leave the house, asking around if there was an interval or if the play had, indeed, ended. The story definitely seemed unfinalised, yet I would also say that this is to do with the same silent, dimly lit setting, that which I commended very early in this review, being repeated again. A complete blackout on the stage and house lights up, a very basic and well-known cue for an audience to leave, would have been preferable, perhaps along with the sound of the TV audience or theme tune for the show to leave the impact of the plot twist to settle amongst the audience. I mentioned earlier that I would like to see more variety from the Therapists when they are sitting out of the main action. If our concentration should remain on the context of the story and not so much on its plot, I would recommend, instead of becoming insignificant add-ons, tucked away in the corner, miming, that the Therapists take on a more active role. They should be watching the action, maybe even taking notes of what the characters are doing in realtime vs making other, virtually unrelated notes. They should be ominous figures, constantly in the background, supervising the memories of the characters, worming their way into their story. This, I feel, would have slightly bettered our reading of the play’s location, but I think meticulous editing is required to make this whole, underlying narrative more articulate, readable and hence effective. “An extremely original and highly intriguing performance; just in need of reassessment of overall aims.”

For my first review since The Theatre Reviewer's hiatus, I shall examine Dorian: A Rock Musical, plunging first into aesthetics. It is clear that this production had a good budget or, at least, access to good resources, as both set and costume (Belle Mundi) are, on the whole, well designed, sleek and well presented. However, all together, the aesthetic is simply disharmonious and illogical, particularly when it comes to costume: there is a complete lack of sense of time period, and designs are fraught with historical inaccuracies. But I must say, I am afraid that this is as good as it gets… Written and directed by Linnie Reedman, this musical’s dramatic text is most definitely underwhelming. It is easy to feel as though one has been cheated of one’s time watching this performance, and this is mostly due to the sheer lack of detail and specificity in the text. One is left with a huge amount of unanswered questions. We learn hardly anything about Dorian (Bart Lambert), why the other characters are so obsessed with him, and we see no indication that being locked away for his entire life has had any impact on his ability to socialise, on his levels of anxiety or agoraphobia, for instance, making for a most unconvincing and unrealistic character type. We learn hardly anything of the theatre the characters frequent or of the sort of people the characters are, beyond their interest in clubbing and paintings — two very different interests, again leaning into that unstable aesthetic, inspiring the visuals of romantic masterpieces and dingy modern nightclubs. In fact, whatever we do learn about the characters is only through basic disposition (which is also somewhat illegible, given the lack of transformativity amongst the cast) and from what other characters say about them, not through the characters themselves. Indeed, the writing seems to provide us with nothing but a skeletal plot, with development of story and character being overly crude and blatant. The main reason for this, really, is an overuse of song (music and lyrics by Joe Evans). The songs in this musical, very catchy though they are, depend on over-literariness, flamboyant bombast and melodramatic feeling, attempting to deal with deep, mournful and existential themes, such as love, sin and youth, but to the detriment of psychological realism, naturalism and credibility. The songs are simply far too abundant, eating into the time that should be spent allowing us to get to know the characters. What should be momentary ponderings or interactions between characters to progress the story along become lengthy, heartfelt ballads, as is the case with Lady Henry (Johanna Stanton), for instance, when she sings about her husband’s (John Addison) lack of compassion and mutuality. Lady Henry really need not have so much time allotted to her, being a rather negligible character in this story, and this song, like many others, unnecessarily draws out what could be a mere few seconds of stage-time. The problem is that the songs do not teach us anything profound about the characters, their psychologies or their contexts; they are simply meaningless pseudophilosophical attempts to excavate and examine elements of the human experience — which is just as high-flown as it sounds. Having written all of that, however, the music remains very lively and catchy, but there are few motifs or particularities throughout to give the overall catalogue a sense of identity and uniqueness. There also seems to be a confusion of rock and tango… The lyrics, unnecessarily bombastic though they are, do remain thought-provoking and romantic, however, but I just wish more attention had been given to the vocals –– that is their volume and their marriage with the instrumentals, as the two sound far too obviously distinct, having been recorded separately and badly combined together. I mentioned that transformativity was lacking amongst the cast members, and this was the musical’s absolute downfall. Especially during songs, movements are unnaturally brusque and ill-conceived, with characters performing actions with no obvious [or natural] motivation or need (movement direction by Anthony Whiteman) — a good example of this being in the opening scene wherein we see Dorian needlessly picking up various items scattered around Margaret’s dresser: a glove, a pencil, Margaret’s portrait… Lambert simply lifts the item, looks at it, and puts it back down –– pointless. The term Chekhov's gun comes to mind! Direction is incredibly poor when it comes to character intent. On top of this, there is a huge lack of naturalism in general, with actors’ intonation and delivery failing to replicate the patterns of natural speech. Either there is a complete lack of emotionality, passion and conviction, or it is simply melodramatic, as with Sophie Jugé (playing Mrs Leaf) and her out-of-nowhere histrionics for her [inaudible] song during Dorian’s death scene, now resembling an opera performer after hitherto performing completely plainly — a very good example of what I meant when I wrote about the poor and failing marriage of vocals and instrumentals in this performance; Jugé is practically on mute during the entire song! Then, there’s the odd inclusion of the ensemble who make rare appearances and add absolutely nothing to scenes but peculiarity. Why? Just to make the scenes look busier, more interesting? A terrible conception. However, I should note here the shining star and redeeming hope for the profession of acting in this performance: Addison. A wonderfully credible and compelling performer of which others in this performance should take note. Another adequate performer was his onstage counterpart, Stanton, but even she faltered towards the end, for me. A shockingly poor cast, I, unfortunately, have to note. At least, Lambert garnered the strength to perform with a degree of conviction during his scene with Lewis Rae, but perhaps too late… Overall, I really fail to see why this performance was so long and what the writer-director assumed they would achieve in its creation. This is a very underdeveloped, lacklustre and, I must say, boring performance. From illogical costuming to large and vacuous sets to overly harsh lighting and mediocre performativity, this performance was simply negligible. Usually, I do not comment upon cinematography for recorded performances, but I must mention that the terrible compositions and camera angles definitely lean into this performance’s sheer lack of professionalism and order. Terrible framing and blocking often mean that characters are completely obscured and one cannot even see what is going on in a given scene… With a final remark that everything I have written relates to the performance's entirety, I have nothing left to write…and so I end this review. “Poor concept, poor execution.”

Certainly the strongest of the three performances in the Teatro Multilingue triptych, this play is the most structured and coherent. I shall start by considering the first major artistic decision in this performance: the desaturation of all colours barring blue. This effectively contextualises us in the mid-1900s through an intertextual visual reference to pre-Technicolor cinema and, more generally, renders the ‘palette’ bleak and cold. Whilst video editing is not something I usually consider when reviewing virtual performances, I think this is something worth noting, due to the effect it has on the play’s reading, and I believe it to be a good, if a little on-the-nose, decision. Ignoring this, however, what we are first presented with in this play is incredibly confusing. ‘A madame no le gustan los extranjeros’ [‘Madame doesn’t like foreigners’ in English] is María’s (Mavil Georgi) first line of this play. Her next line portrays her concerned for the whereabouts of her cat. The next tells us that “his” cat returned home after a month, whilst subsequent lines confirm that is she who has lost her cat… So, who is Madame? Who is “he”? Georgi delivers one line, then turns, and the camera angle changes, and then she delivers another, turns, etc… The beginning is simply chaotic and illegible. I would recommend, without explanation and for obvious reasons, a complete rewriting of this beginning which should be immediately simple and accessible to an audience, contextualising the action and introducing lucidly us to the characters of the play and the play’s plot. Thus, the beginning is incredibly weak. And this is without mentioning that this all takes place in the stalls, with Georgi sifting through the seats… I fail to understand why this is not performed on the stage, as there is no symbolic reasoning for this to take place here. Because of this lack of legible context and of concrete characters and objectives, naturalism is, as has been the case with the other two performances, very lacking. However, as the play progresses, naturalism certainly increases, with actors proving themselves to be credible and energised, but issues remain with the text itself. Somehow, María manages to bring her cat from Spain to Marseille but loses it now on arrival? Somehow, a spy has been watching her, collecting information on her, completely undetected for some time now and yet casually, unthinkingly reveals that she knows her name? And then reveals her own? I also find it bizarre that María should wait until the end of the Spanish Civil War to flee the country, with the action of the play taking place one day afterwards. Why not flee sooner? More importantly, why María’s sudden change of heart to join the Anarchists? Elements like these compromise the realism of the text. All irregularities aside, however, this play does capture a good amount of vivid detail on the wartimes of France and Spain, with an appropriate amount of time spent detailing María’s backstory and her experience with the Spanish Civil War and her journey to France. I would just recommend either developing François’s (Maxence Dinant) character or removing him completely. He has little effect on this plot; Elena’s (Carolina Gonnelli) character could have been enough, really. I can see that these characters are used more as simple representations of the types of people that may have existed during these times, as opposed to intricate and unique characters who happen to live in the times, and this perhaps justifies the lack of character psychology in lieu of a focus on character history and experience. However, if this is, indeed, the intention, this should be developed further and perhaps this direct method of storytelling should replace the conventions of the traditional play, necessitating the removal of elements like the cat, for example. Related to this, however, I think including the Alberti poem, whilst a little inconsistent stylistically with the rest of the performance, is an attractive and reflective one, with the restoration of colour to the scene — red being both symbolic of bleeding death and, of course, the international symbol of remembrance, the poppy. Overall, this is a good performance, if it does take a while to find its footing. I would just recommend refining pivotal moments of the plot, where plot-altering events are given more time and consideration. “A good evocation of the sufferings of the past but lost to unsteady dramatisation.”

The second of Teatro Multilingue’s triptych, Mrs Green, is a twenty-minute play focusing on the lives and relationship of two foreign lovers living in Britain during the times of Brexit. It is an enjoyable play, I must say, and is, for the most part, coherent and accessible. However, as the play progresses, theatrical and stylistic techniques become obscure, and story is compromised by an obvious obsession with needless dramatic tension. I shall start with story. The first issue I have is with the very title of the play. With our focus being on the two lovers, I find it difficult to comprehend why Mrs Green (Shenagh Gallivan), being a secondary and merely facilitative character, is presented as titular here, as if of primary importance. I perhaps understand the intention to use Mrs Green as a symbolic representation of the British ‘Anti-Brexiteers’ during the times of Brexit, but her influence is simply too minimal. Right from the start, then, focus is not where it should be. Brexit itself is introduced gradually into the characters’ lives, with a sense of dramatic irony growing with us as each ‘Chapter’ presents us with a quote on the subject by a British prime minister. This is strong in that Brexit is allowed to become an insidious danger in the text, ultimately ending in the lovers’ ‘fallout’ — more on the efficacy of this later. With the situation of Brexit being something most European — and particularly bi-/multilingual — audience members will recognise and know, any further descriptions of Brexit would be somewhat needless here, and so we are given a sufficient amount of information on the subject. This is good. Equally, the cyclicality of the play, with the motif of Isabel’s (Altea Hernández) abandoned suitcase, successfully foreshadows the symbolic significance of Brexit and also the pain the characters will endure. Multilingual theatre is always a treat, and I must say that the language use in this performance, for the most part, is decisive and well conceived. Having the characters perform monologues and soliloquies to the audience in their own language vs speaking English amongst each other is a clever way to create intimacy between character and audience member and unity between characters. In this way, languages are organised well. On the same line of story structure, I must say that focus in this dramatic text needs quite a bit of work. For instance, back on to the topic of Mrs Green, Gallivan is seen throughout the lovers’ interactions placing her handmade political posters upon the wall, upstage. Perhaps a directorial decision, this is incredibly distracting, moving our focus away from the lovers — where it should be — and towards her needless pottering about in the background. Less significantly, we could also consider the attention to detail given in the description of the lovers’ landladies, Mrs Green, again, and Mrs Brown, a character we never actually meet, and could compare this to the time and detail given to the lovers’ first encounter, which is most brief and lacking, though an event of extreme significance in the plot. I should also note here the deliberate code-switching when Jacques (Maxence Dinant) proceeds to describe Mrs Brown to the audience in English after having explained everything else in French. Consistency is key. Attention to detail is also rather lacking where characterisation is concerned, and, especially, attention to naturalism. For example, considering this very first encounter again, Hernández speaks incredibly quickly, again minimising the readability of the significance of this scene — such a quick and fleeting meeting would hardly garner interest in a second between strangers — and, of course, comprises the naturalism of speech. Then, Jacques informs us that English people often mistake him for a Londoner, which is most unrealistic considering Dinant’s strong French accent. Either the text should be altered here, or Dinant should have extra accent training to match the role he plays. After the lovers’ second interaction, Hernández turns to ‘the audience’ and describes Jacques to ‘us’ — note here the apostrophisations, as Hernández does not face the camera but stares off to the side. Who is she talking to here? This needs to be far clearer. Similarly to this latter issue, when Mrs Green details her experience of her former French lodger and then apologises for her lack of care in the swiftly-following subsequent scene, we are made to imagine Hernández’s responses as Gallivan mimes that she is interacting with her. This is a terrible decision. Hernández plays a principal character; she should be present in such scenes, not imagined. This is a stylistic inconsistency. Lastly, we have moments like the one in the texting scene where Jacques’s ‘boss was coming’, yet all Dinant presents us with a mere momentary glance to the side, not even attempting to conceal his phone — most unnaturalistic. It is elements like these that make a good amount of scenes either totally unwatchable or seem simply amateurish, and what is worse is this aforementioned insistence on dramatic tension. Theatremakers should not rely solely upon technical and spectacular elements to create dramatic tension; instead, these should be used to intensify the dramatic tension already present in the text. I say this, of course, in consideration of the final scenes of the play. Three major and notable things happen towards the end: the lovers have their first and final argument, Mrs Green recites some poetry, and then, we have the final scene seeing Mrs Green posing stiffly over Isabel’s abandoned suitcase. The first of the three, the argument, is…pathetic, for a lack of better words. From the ill-timed and jarring interruptions to the awkward repetition of “Why are you doing all this?!”, this entire argument scene needs to be completely rewritten. This scene seems to come out of nowhere, with no clear tension having been building between the two characters beforehand, and the level of characterisation and credibility is simply horrendous. The long and hardly visible shots of the two leaving the stage and auditorium lend too much focus to the characters’ exits as opposed to what caused them to exit in the first place. Oh, and then Mrs Green drops her poster! As if this has some terrific, dramatic significance. This scene is simply awful. Then, we have Mrs Green’s recitation. This is both inconsistent with style, given that poetry has not featured in this performance thus far and that a mere verse is not enough to ground it in the text now, but also awkward in Gallivan’s over-performativity and the previous lack of solemnity in the text to make this scene meaningful and serious. Lastly, the final scene. Much like Mrs Green, I too remained speechless for one minute and forty-two seconds while she rigidly poses with a suitcase, the camera being walked further and further away, ever so slowly, until she is a mere blob on the screen. I cannot comprehend in the slightest why this was believed to have been an effective and powerful ending. It is, quite honestly, ridiculous. As I said above, Mrs Green is not a principal character, despite her titular name; she is merely an eccentric, jittery and homely landlady who happens to be swallowed up by the Anti-Brexit movement. We are simply not made to care enough for her or to view her character with enough seriousness or critical thought to be able to be affected or impacted by this unthoughtful ending and the effects that Brexit have supposedly [indirectly] had on her. Moving my focus away from the writing and towards the acting. Whilst naturalism is lacking in many places, as said before — though this is principally an editorial issue — all performers demonstrate some degree of credibility in this play, with an emphasis here on Gallivan’s characterisation. Energy is also high across all three performers. Chemistry between Jacques and Isabel definitely comes across; Dinant and Hernández portray intimacy believably and extremely well. This is commendable. To conclude, this is quite a weak performance, but until the oddities in the final scenes, it is rather enjoyable, and this is mostly because of this aforementioned energy the actors each possess. The dramatic text needs a severe amount of editing, with better concentration on story structure and the articulation of political messages, and not to mention consistency of character thought, with Jacques’s relationship with Brexit being completely unclear and changing, for example. Editing is needed even where lighting is concerned, which is far too harsh and expansive throughout. Overall, I would replace washes with focused spotlights and, for example, light the couple harshly from in front in the Brighton beach scene to fill the frame with a mere silhouette of the characters and to leave the creation of the beach to our imagination [which I believe was perhaps the desired effect, but it simply was not achieved]. A cleaner lighting design would make the use of space in this performance slightly more legible. “A dramatic text with huge potential but obliterated by an excess of needless dramatic techniques.”

This review will consider one of three performances by Teatro Multilingue, Goodbye, Papà, written by Francesco Baj and directed by Flavio Marigliani, and I should start by stating that given that this is a very short play, of only fourteen minutes’ length, my review will be accordingly brief. I shall begin by considering the use of space in this performance. Figlio (also Francesco Baj) and Hija (Ineska Dabrowski) are separated by the coffin of their Father (voiced by Douglas Dean), and, whilst a minimalist set, this works very well, providing simple but effective symbolism in parallelism and unity, as well as clarity and a pleasing symmetry. However, the incongruous breach of this separation, halfway into the performance, when Dabrowski sits next to Baj, is most questionable. There is no reason for the characters to be so close together, let alone to interact with each other as they then do. Whilst I enjoy the concept of a shared identity between the characters, placing the performers side-by-side and writing their interactions like this warrants greater marking and introduction. A back-and-forth of English grammar rules is not enough to unite these characters that have been distinctly separate for the entire performance thus far — noting that having Baj suddenly sitting on Dabrowski’s side of the coffin is [incorrectly] made equally as insignificant. Use of space is quite a permanent issue in this performance, and this comes hand-in-hand with another issue I should address: I emphasise that both characters should be on stage with one another at all times, with the coffin between them being enough to convey their distinction, and, most importantly, that both performers should each have specific activities to occupy their time whilst audience focus remains veered to the other — NB: activities that are coherent with the text. The reason for this becomes clear when we observe moments when one character is speaking and the other is silent. In these moments, we see the silent performer sat absent-mindedly in the background, staring off into the distance, doing nothing; this needs to be addressed. If a performer is on stage [or on screen, in this instance], there should be a clear reason for it. More awkwardly here, though, are moments of fast dialogue, where this lack of activity, action and motion in silent performers creates two tensions: firstly, the speed of the one, talking performer is compromised by the lack of vigour in the other; and secondly, all naturalism is compromised because of the dead, frozen visage of the other performer which suddenly reanimates when they finally speak. Other than this, it simply looks like you’re attentively awaiting your cue. I must say, however, that this last point is mostly an issue with Dabrowski, as Baj seems to find something to do quite frequently. On the topic of naturalism, expressivity is quite lacking in this performance, particularly for Baj. Directed speech seems far too deliberate, and overall performativity is rather wooden and bland. Energy, however, is consistent throughout. I would just recommend a variation of physicality and voice to deliver quotations of the characters’ mothers. Furthermore, all of this is not aided by the lack of realism in the text. From the awkward and jarring [and gratingly deliberately slow] delivery of the line ‘history repeating itself’ to the inclusion of the “Shakespearean” quote that’s is not actually Shakespeare [or even delivered in iambic pentameter], realism is lacking in this dramatic text. The identical childhoods of the two characters in itself does not really scream realism, especially with the inclusion of Mrs Brown, and particularly given that they are both in different countries [presumably, as I do not believe there is any indication as to where the two characters are]. Most notably, however, is the inclusion of the Father’s voice, both unnecessary and bizarre, used for a simply ridiculous and irrelevant ending with the revelation that his corpse has been cut into two halves, one for each of his children — suggesting that they would still not know each other after his death and would be both estranged and separated geographically, making their sitting next to each other halfway in all the more questionable. In terms of the writing, which is somewhat bipartite and predictable in its form and structure. I find moments that deliberately attempt to connect the stories, such as the ‘Instagram/Facebook’ lines aggravating, clunky and needless. I find it difficult to understand why this text is conveyed through these two characters when its content is so heavily focused on their mothers’ experiences. In fact, I think this performance would have benefited from replacing these characters with the characters of their mothers, altogether, to ‘cut out the middle people’, as it were. This would have made for a more direct and, I believe, a more interesting watch, overall. I should probably note here the discontinuity with Hija’s mother suddenly deciding it would, indeed, be a good idea to form a ‘woman’s support group’ with the ‘Italian woman’ straight after deciding not to do this. To conclude, this is not a particularly strong play. Overall performance style seems to be indecisive and inconsistent, and content is rather repetitive, especially with characters, as I mentioned above, sharing the exact same [back]story, and it seems as though the theme of English language learning and speaking is simply thrown in as an unnecessary means of including a third language in this multilingual performance. In fact, I would completely cut the entire scene where the two characters discuss English grammar, tenses and sentence structures; it is unneeded, odd and boring, not progressing the plot in any meaningful way at all. “A performance requiring a lot more focus and thought towards meaning.”

This review will consider an immersive audio experience, SAFE, written by Alexandra Barker and directed by Barker and Andrew Rutland. To listen to this performance, download the Wiretapper app on your mobile device. I should start by explaining that this performance is 15 minutes long, meaning that this review is notably shorter than it otherwise would be, and this will be my first consideration. As I shall detail below, this is a very good, articulate and engaging performance, offering a transportive and, indeed, very immersive experience, but its main downfall is its short duration. Whilst it succeeds in generating the exact atmosphere it intends to, and whilst the dramatic text is efficacious and communicates itself well, I believe it could benefit from being at least 25-30 minutes long, instead. The main reason I believe its length to be an issue is due to its somewhat unipartite and repetitive structure: building, tense, dramatic crescendo of sounds…silence, a singular sound that intensifies, joined by others…and the crescendo begins again. Whilst very clear and distinct structures provide shorter pieces with a well-needed backbone, I believe this structure renders the experience somewhat predictable and slightly weaker than it otherwise might be. A longer performance could allow for a tension that grows gradually throughout, perhaps allowing for an entire ten minutes of this eclecticism desired by the intenser moments of this text. Another issue I have with the crescendoes has to do with volume. The volume is simply too loud in these moments, and not in an effective, anxiety-invoking way. This should be addressed. And this brings me on to the overall sound design (also by Barker and Rutland). Sound is extremely well designed, with the layering of multiple tracks being very well managed so as not to be too chaotic. In terms of the audio selected, all sound effects are pertinent, reminiscent, indeed, of the types of sounds and settings one would experience when spending long periods of time at home. Effects applied to these — to muffle or distance, for example — are also effective and slick. Overall, an extremely clean and crisp design, allowing for a compelling and successful escapist experience. The main voice we hear throughout, Barker’s, functions very well as a guide through this performance, providing us with the necessary details of our own function in the given context of the dramatic text. The inclusion of this voice is very effective in this way, not only enabling us to understand what we should imagine ourselves to be doing and feeling but also allowing for a lack of agency and a sense of powerlessness as someone else dictates what we should do and feel. Barker also provides us with more esoteric and abstract quotes, however, not directly relevant to what is happening in the text, and these provide a deeper reading, invoking awareness of more existential fears and distress. It was a good idea not to introduce this character, considering this, as this remains someone with whom we are supposed to feel comfortable but also someone of whom we perhaps remain cautious throughout. In these ways, this voice is most articulate and well conceived. I would just perhaps provide listeners with a tad more context in places, as an over-focus on our actions can sometimes be alienating as to where specifically we are in the home or what we are performing these actions for. Lastly, I shall note that perhaps the creatives’ description of this performance is slightly off-kilter. An investigation into the safety of our homes and its fragility would imply an exploration into the physical security that homes provide, into the permeability of the walls, the possibility of burglary or trespassing, the dangers that could penetrate our houses to feast on our vulnerability, etc. However, this text is not so much an investigation into such a compromise of our physical safety but quite the opposite: our over-reliance upon it, the intense hope that our homes are as secure as we believe them to be. As we sink relievedly into the safety of our homes, we become more and more aware of the dangers of the outside world, in the neighbouring houses, in the streets, and we develop habitudes, rituals and routines that reflect this, such as those typified in the text, making use of the materials and resources available to us only in our homes: muting all technology, locking the windows and doors, pulling the curtains, hiding from the window by lying upon the floor. In this way, the focus is not on the fragility of the apparent safety offered by the home but the fragility of our own mentalities as we so heavily rely upon its fabric, a direct result of a certain developing agoraphobia. There is nothing in this text — unless we consider the inclusion of the trespassing fly alone — that suggests that the safety that our homes offer is actually fragile. I am afraid, then, the creatives’ understanding of the work is just ever so slightly misaligned and needs to be adjusted in this way — but this is by no means a severe subtraction from the excellence of this work. Overall, this is an extremely refined and visceral performance. I would certainly recommend it. “A wonderful evocation of the anxieties felt within the home from the awareness of the Other outside.”

This review shall consider Gloria J Browne-Marshall’s Dreams of Emmett Till, directed by Bobby Field. It is a play with very honourable, palpable and important objectives, but its execution means that it simply falls short of its aims. At the very beginning of this performance, we are given an introduction to the play by Browne-Marshall. She terms her form of writing ‘spiritual realism’, claiming that the dramatic text aims to imagine a surreal world where perpetrators get their just desserts and the victim(s) and their relatives get justice. Objectively, noting only these claims, I completely understand the link between the philosophy of spiritual realism and its literature and Browne-Marshall’s ideas behind this play. A surreal world of growth and omniscience where lost or suffering souls should meet with peace, rectify the wrongs done unto them in the living life, and reach some sort of enlightenment in the guilty recognition of perpetrators — this is a wonderful premise for this text…but the writing simply does not match up. One would expect in this ‘surreal’ world a sense of…surreality. Instead, the only thing surreal about this play is the presence of Emmett Till (Jaiden Kwiseka) himself at the kitchen table. Neither are we in a different [or spiritual] realm nor in a [re-]imagined context; in fact, for the most part, the action is purely factual. Really, this is a history play, with its action imagining [note: not re-imagining] Carolyn Bryant’s (Jayne Taini) mindset, experience and thought processes after telling reporters that she recants her description of events. What develops from this is an imagining [note again: not re-imagining] of Till and Bryant’s exchange at her store as well as his murder. We are not presented with the so-called spiritual realism we are prepared for. This is both disappointing and ineffective. Browne-Marshall’s introduction makes use of a very clever, one could say Epic, technique. In this introduction, the events of the play to come are contextualised, historicised and politicised. We are asked from the very start to consider whilst watching the play both the current and historical contexts of the forms of racial discrimination against black people, and this is a fantastic way to force the audience to consider the action from a critical distance from the start, to learn from it, and, ultimately, to imagine and actuate radical social change inspired by it. This is a powerful and educated decision. However, given that we are prepared for a spiritual realist play, not one that simply regurgitates and re-enacts real historical events of the past, it becomes difficult to find the right critical lens through which to regard the material of the play, the right angle from which to approach its contents in conflict with the particularised critical thinking we have prepared ourselves to do. From the very beginning, the play remains heavily fictionalised and over-relies upon [generic] realism, providing additional and unnecessary information, such as the inclusion and descriptions of the character Meline, Bryant’s son’s (Peter Breitmayer) wife, and her actions. In choosing to use Bryant and her son to open the play’s dialogue to Till’s murder, our focus is automatically placed on their relationship and the troubles they face together after each having been involved, to some extent, in Till’s murder, as opposed to Bryant and Till’s relationship and the significance of this. The inclusion of Bryant’s son’s character has a more devastating impact on the play, however. For instance, in the climax at the end, Till relives his brutal murder — a wonderful and what could be called blood-curdling performance from Kwiseka — and, in the background, we have Bryant’s son shouting, “Go upstairs!” and “Mother, go!” Our focus here should be solely on the horror of Till’s lynching, and Bryant’s speech intensifies this with her lack of compassion, her continuous lies, and her general manner that Till ‘deserved’ what happened to him. Bryant’s son, however, forces us to disengage with the historical context and concentrate on the effects that Till’s murder is having on the plot of the play in itself and, particularly, on Bryant’s son. Whilst I can understand the inclination to present the white-supremacist, egocentric, self-compassionate position that Bryant’s son harbours in lieu of respect, guilt and compassion, this can be manifested through Bryant’s character alone. Ultimately, I believe it would have been better to remove the character of Bryant’s son, altogether. He is simply subtractive from the messages of the play and our reading of them. Any attempt to politicise the material, to make it feel authentic and important, or to engage us critically, is squandered by his constant fictionalisations — e.g. the telephone call he receives from his wife, his standing at the door in fear of the reporters’ arrival, his descriptions of how the ‘incident’ has affected his life. This is needless information that, ultimately, attempts to make content resemble better a traditional play, especially with the climactic anticipation of the approaching reporters. I would urge Browne-Marshall to be more daring with her approach, to understand that sticking to traditional storytelling techniques is not what is important here; the specific sociocultural and political messages of this dramatic text should remain a priority and should be able to act freely upon audience members, unhindered by a demand for psychological realism. Bryant’s son remains throughout a driver of the fictional — or, rather, the plot- and narrative-based — elements of the play, whilst Bryant herself remains the driver of the underlying political messages. They seem to be in direct conflict with one another throughout the play because of this. It is for this reason that I write that the character of Bryant’s son should be deleted from this text. We do not care about his worries or about how this all is affecting him; we care about Bryant and Till’s perspectives and relationship and the truths we can extract from them. However, I believe that Browne-Marshall knew, at least subconsciously, that these two driving forces were in conflict with one another, as Bryant soon shuts off from her son completely, ignoring his demands and continuing her speech, especially towards the end. But this just means that the unheard utterances her son makes become an aggravating and subtractive, and hence deletable, background noise. Even in the fact that Till’s ghostly presence is only known to Bryant and not her son, it is clear that Till’s character and presence have nothing to do with him. In fact, this latter becomes rather jarring when, suddenly, Bryant’s son and Till are sharing the same screen; the two should be distinctly separate, and Bryant’s son’s corporeality should be distinguished in this way from Till’s immateriality. If anyone should share the screen with Till, it should be Bryant herself. Furthermore, I should note here that any white privilege holding high white dignity, etiquette and fragility could come, again, come through Bryant’s character alone, and so nothing would be lost in this respect if Bryant’s son’s character was removed. After removing Bryant’s son, I would consider a dialogue solely between Bryant and Till, which would have two main effects: firstly, it would focus the text a lot more on what is the heart of this story, the relationship between Bryant and Till and the ‘truth’ behind their interaction; and secondly, it would place the two characters into the exact same context of their historical counterparts, which could also benefit Browne-Marshall’s notion of spiritual realism, as the characters could relive and undo the harm that was done, within this symbolic one-on-one context. Personally, however, I would also completely scrap the unnecessary concept/explanation of spiritual realism; this is a mere attempt at genrefication, and there are no elements in this text — beyond, again, the presence of Emmett Till’s ‘ghost’ or ‘soul’ — to evidence Browne-Marshall’s claims that this is, in fact, a piece of spiritual realist literature. An audience does not need to be told, nay reminded, that the material is imagined, unless there is a strong and specific reason to do so; this is a play, after all. Evidently, the dramatic text could benefit from a few edits, and I shall now address some more areas that need to be reconsidered. There are a few notable misinformations in this text, such as how it is explained that Till’s mother was the one that dragged him out of the river, which are important to correct, though these do not impact the readability of the overall performance. However, more significantly, it is in places confusing as to what Bryant’s motivations and objectives are. The premise is that she no longer wants to lie, that she wants the truth out about ‘the incident’, and yet Till has to correct her many times, specifically telling her, “That’s a lie.” She states in the end that she’s “truly sorry,” after saying that Till deserved “some” of what happened to him. Does she feel guilty? Or does she think his murder was her justice? It is not clear, either, what exactly her reaction was to Till’s supposed flirtation. She states that she was the most beautiful woman in the city and that he looked at her as though she were nothing. Perhaps this was her way of saying that she felt dirtied or depreciated, which would make more sense, and so maybe a rewording of the text is better here to elucidate this reaction; as it stands, however, it is not very clear and simply seems as though a contradiction — the difference between the two narratives: “I’m a beautiful white woman, and this black boy has cheapened me” vs “I’m a beautiful white woman, and this black boy should recognise that and treat me accordingly.” I should note here that Bryant’s remark, “He was a handsome boy,” is one that makes this all the more confusing. These inconsistencies aside, there are quite a few areas wherein this performance is very successful. After noting the fruitful introduction from Browne-Marshall, we are presented throughout the performance with real pictures of the era and of Till and his family. This is very effective in contextualising the events of the play and in hitting “close to home”, so to speak. It becomes easier to identify and relate intimately with Till and his relatives in this way. Some images could be a tad more congruous, though, and the image of Till’s corpse, in particular, should be introduced with more care to timing, but, overall, images are very powerful. Also notable is the manner in which Till is represented in the dramatic text and portrayed by Kwiseka. In this play, Till is not represented in a sensationalist manner as children are in general — particularly children victimised by abuse, murder, etc. Instead, he is presented naturally. He has sarcasm, jokiness, anger, and so on. He is humanised, and this is a very good decision, allowing for a relatable humanity in his character. His remarks are clever and carry a good amount of subtext, such as in the line, ‘Poor whites, couldn’t afford liquorice’, alluding to an all-compromising white pride over civility and care. His character has clearly been well though-out. I would just edit his representation in the final scene wherein he demands Bryant get him a lemonade, as this compromises our notion that it would have been against Till’s nature to demand her goods at the store, initiating her racist response and leading to his murder, and also emulates the same dictation and lack of civility that was shown to him, that to which he should be sensitised and opposed. Lastly, I would also note that his introduction is simply nonexistent; his appearance should be a lot more marked — this play is about him, after all. Though the beginning is rather weak and repetitive — and particularly esoteric, with Bryant’s son’s constant repetition of “You recanted!” — the play reveals itself to be quite thought-provoking. Unfortunately, though, whilst there are certainly successful elements to this performance, I must mark it down simply because of this very compromising over-fictionalisation and the fact that the performance falls far from its aims and leaves its audience with mixed and incomplete messages. I am afraid this performance fails to reflect the justice we are promised in Browne-Marshall’s introduction — a simple apology is not enough, and Bryant’s growth both seems to come out of nowhere and simply is not enough to excuse her of her doing and to give Till and his family ‘justice’; he is not even treated to the lemonade. “A play whose faltering execution fails to reflect its very honourable objectives.”

Weight/Wait is a very enjoyable performance, offering in its particularity both lighthearted comedy and a certain soreness. Depicting an individual’s struggles with anxiety, this play provides a sense of respite and solidarity but also a unique depiction of a widespread yet vastly misunderstood mental disorder. Babbling and uttering nonsensical phrases, incessantly shadowing Karen (Katharine Richardson), drawing attention to the trivial, the strange and the inanimate, anxiety is in this performance a personified figure (represented by Caldonia Walton). This figure of anxiety remains in its ludicrousness dehumanised, disembodied. Both voice work and choreography produce this effect, causing the figure to seem otherworldly, estranged, fluid and weightless. This is highly effective for many reasons, one in particular being that real anxiety itself is so flitting, multifaceted, subjective and temporary that it is difficult to pinpoint, describe and define. It is the fear of the possible, the potential and often roots itself in the imaginary, in overthought, in an unreality. Characterising it as Karen’s shadow, however unoriginal this dramatic technique seems on paper, really is successful in this performance, for it enables us to project our understanding onto something tangible, physical and concrete and not just theoretical, something beyond our control and fixed intellect, and this autonomy of sorts inherent to the personified figure makes it possible for our views and our reason to be challenged and altered. Oftentimes, Walton’s portrayal of anxiety is juvenile, endearing and fearful. It is as though a cute child, hugging onto Karen’s legs, following closely behind her, hesitant towards the world beyond Karen’s care. It seems oddly full of creativity and wonder, its mind racing from thought to idea to situation to fear, making gestures into dance, sounds into soundscapes and, of course, puppets out of coats. A world complemented by anxiety seems laughable and entertaining…until this is turned upside down. As movements become more frantic, more menacing, as anxiety physically forces Karen to the ground or throws her in the air, holding her hostage to its threatening and draining grasp, entrapping her arms, weighing her down, our view of anxiety starts to change. There is a notable shift from a stereotypical general anxiety — that which our culture is most exposed to yet most unaware of — to a deeper, rawer and unendurable anxiety that sufferers face every day. In fact, there are many disquieting, unnerving and frightful images conjured by the choreography in this performance, one particularly shocking image being Karen’s choking with the figure of anxiety wrapped around her waist. This image, being lengthily and effectively sustained, was most successful in its demonstration of the suffocative and overwhelming nature of anxiety. However, this is not to say that the choreography cannot improve. This image in particular could definitely have been ameliorated. I would have liked to have seen more movement from Walton who just seemed to be hugging Richardson rather stiffly. Walton should have used her weight against Richardson, applying a mimic pressure to her waist to enable us to further visualise this constriction. The overall choreography is also in slight (though, only slight) danger of becoming too repetitive with Walton’s lifts, her standing behind Richardson and wrapping her arms around her, or the synchronised dancing which often sees the two dancing from side to side with weighted swaying arms. All of this being said, choreography was very good, providing a versatile repertoire that accommodated the content of the performance very finely. There is a vast sense of danger and risk in the movements that not only represent anxiety but that would naturally cause anxiety or unsettledness in any human audience: Richardson positioned precariously on Walton's shoulders, high in the air; Walton lying twisted on the floor, her feet lifted up to form a perfect yet paradoxical seat for Richardson; the forceful pushes to the ground; etc. Throughout every action and movement, there is a story, a sense of development, of mental regression or progress, of change. This leads me to consider the story itself and the way it is communicated. The dramatic text offers very little speech, barring that which is utterly necessary to progress the narrative, and this is most successful because, as I mentioned before, this renders an ineffable and visceral disorder expressible and hence comprehensible. Eliminating verbal language means that the language remains fastidiously and intellectually rooted in the physical, eliminating any univocality in the performance — in other words, the material becomes multi-interpretational and is not limited to the definitiveness of words and the clearcut categories they impose. To chart Karen’s experience of anxiety through movement is hence a very intelligent and powerful decision, referencing also the psychophysical effects of the disorder. There is, however, a vast lack of subjectivity in this performance, which is both a positive and a negative thing. A lack of subjectivity is positive because it sheds light on the fundaments of the disorder alone which a large number of people would not be familiar with, but negative because it limits the performance to only a general introduction into a very complex and, above all, personal experience. More complicatedly, we are provided with a character, Karen, which then fictionalises both the disorder and its symptoms. We find it easy after watching this performance, then, to leave the disorder in the world of the play and to not apply anything to the real world we then quit it for, merely projecting any newfound understanding of the condition onto our understanding of a fictional character. So, not only does the performance limit its applicability through a good amount of generalisations but also through fictionalisation. I find the character of Karen to be rather unnecessary, ironically. There is nothing particularly unique about her character; we do not learn anything about her at all besides the fact that she is a sufferer of anxiety. Why, then, not name her [Anxiety] Sufferer? This would rework the way we consider Karen, de-fictionalising her so as not to consider her as a character but as a potential real person with a title we can recognise as an attribute of others in the real world beyond the play. Especially with the exercise of writing the letter (which I shall detail later), it is clear that this performance intends to represent a personal experience, with intimacy, yet there is very little to connect us with Karen as a character. Either this performance should remain as a thought-provoking, characterless introduction to anxiety or, in order to remain more dramatic instead of didactic, it should concentrate more on personality, on this subjectivity. What is more, I felt that more research could have been done into the treatments of anxiety, in order to explore more coping, corrective, palliative or reversal techniques. Breathing calmly is really the only thing presented as a way out for Karen, and it seems that as soon as she starts to do that, all of her anxiety disappears, the figure of anxiety itself becoming weaker, desperate, moribund. This is a most inaccurate and dilute representation, dampening the otherwise rich material we are presented with throughout the dramatic text. In fact, I must admit that many elements of the ending were rather disappointing to me, the biggest feeling of dissatisfaction coming from Karen outwardly asking her anxiety to dance with her. Whilst I understand that the intention was to show that Karen was now in control of her anxiety, nurturing it to meet her own needs and newfound logic, I cannot ignore this utter shift in style and content. Again, ignorant of the true hardship of challenging one’s own anxiety beyond breathing techniques, this scene felt much too melodramatic, transforming the figure of anxiety into a palpable and sentient character with feelings and a [rather metatheatrical] yearning to dance[?]. Suddenly, the movements are over-joyous and loud, paired with a one-off jazz number and disconnected from the entire choreography of the rest of the performance until then. I fail to see why Karen and her anxiety would be so gleeful together, why they would be partnered in synchronicity and rhythm, as opposed to Karen being in control and blocking out her anxiety altogether. It just felt far too comedic, as though Walton and Richardson felt that the performance would benefit from — or, rather, was in need of — a cathartic happy ending where all the characters were united and where it felt as though nothing bad had ever happened. There is another element of this performance I have not discussed: audience interaction (or, indeed, participation). As the audience members enter the house, they are each accosted by Walton, who, amongst her skittish utterances and malfunctioning dancing, urges them to take a pen because “You'll need it!” It is only in retrospect, after having worked out what Walton’s persona represents, that one can recognise how clever this initially off-putting and harrying opening is. It is difficult to ignore Walton as she jumps in front of you, but it is also difficult to ignore other people’s reactions as they enter the space and are accosted in the same way. On the night I attended the performance, spectators started to enjoy watching other people squirm as they entered, laughing and commenting on them. This is a wonderful set-up for this performance: it immediately instals anxiety in the spectator, however shortlived (“What's going on? This is embarrassing.” “Do I actually need this pen or is this just a skit?”), and then we are exposed to the onlooker’s rather judgemental and self-serving reactions and remarks. In this dynamic, the performance has successfully created, nay unearthed, a social reality, exposing our own anxiety and the way in which we view the anxiety of others. Then, on each seat is a blank letter entitled ‘Dear Karen’ that the audience members are later invited to fill out with anything they would like to say to Karen, and to read this back to her. This is a clever way of making the audience rethink the way they address anxiety, to force them to offer compassion and directly interact with the action they have seen. This is accentuated in the middle of the performance when Walton sits as part of the audience, now assuming the role as Karen’s therapist: disturbing our territory and assuming such a role within it causes us to subliminally assume this role ourselves, as well; there is a strong sense of ‘us’ and ’them’. There is also a sense of cyclicality, the only audience interactions being during these moments where we are made to deal with anxiety, and all of this subtly affects the way we acknowledge, relate to and engage with the performance. However, I feel that these moments, whilst being heartwarming, insightful and somewhat cathartic, are much too mild and short-lived. There is not enough focus on us as spectators to give us such a demanding role and poignancy. In fact, there was one other –– slight –– interaction with a spectator where Karen threw an imaginary ball at him, inciting no reaction whatsoever. This, I believe, is because the action seemed so self-contained, limited to only the performers; any active engagement from the audience in this way seems unnecessary and improbable. I would be careful as to what position this performance leaves its audience in between these two major interactions, the accost at the beginning and the letter-writing at the end, paying close attention to the potential stagnancy of the audience and how they might be enlivened more regularly and structurally as active participants or witnesses, etc., throughout the performance. A final note on theatrical components. Lighting (designed by Sam Thomas) was used rather scarcely, and I think this is a good decision, noting the continuity of the dramatic text (having very few transitions). It effectively drew the eye’s focus, particularly at some point after the therapist scene in a scene wherein Karen and her anxiety fight for the limelight, so to speak, the lights bouncing between the two of them in succession as they speak one at a time. Music (Alex Paton) was most appropriate, adding texture and tone, yet, again, the use of jazz music in this final sequence was most disconnected and displeasing. Costume was most effective in demonstrating a connection between Karen and her anxiety. Any dissimilarity between the two, in this respect, would have been erroneous in this performance — which is why I am rather confused as to why Walton’s hair was styled differently to Richardson’s, despite this being more than possible and everything else being so utterly identical. Other than this small dissimilarity, the two were perfectly visually united. The minimal use of props served this performance well, as the choreography was very strong, yet when props are employed, it is not with the best of care. The glasses used to transform Walton into the therapist, for example, are simple yet effective, a needed prop, I think. Yet, the way they are discarded, thrown across the stage, seems much too brusque and thoughtless. As for the coat, I feel that there is a slight misalignment in the way it is used. The coat seems to embody the figure of anxiety itself, becoming animate and disparaging Karen directly, commenting on her appearance amongst other things. I feel it would be more effective and coherent to have the coat serve as more of a motif of items that cause anxiety, rather than anxiety itself acting through these items, the ultimate message being: “Something might happen if you do [not] wear me!” or “Remember what happened last time you did[n’t] wear me?”. A good example of what I mean here is when Karen is reminded of the toaster that might still be left on. In this example, there is something triggering her to think about the toaster; it is not the toaster demeaning or undermining her, demonstrating its own intellect and analytical skillset. Anxiety resulting from suchlike stimuli should be what is dealt with here. Coats having inherent relationships with the outside, the potential trauma the outside world could bring Karen could be the focus, for instance. This would further contextualise the use of the coat as a constant onstage presence and as something so regularly forced into Karen’s awareness by the figure of anxiety who swoops it around her regularly whilst dancing with it. As one last note on this, I would invest in some non-slip coat-hangers so as to avoid the coat falling onto the floor unwantedly as it did during this particular performance. Overall, an extremely endearing performance that serves as a good introduction to anxiety and the life of its sufferers. This is an engaging, entertaining and thought-provoking performance; it is just in need of a few tweaks here and there, notably where style or overall message are concerned. “A very entertaining and considerate performance.” Photography credit: Mickael Marso Riviere.

To view this performance for free, click here. This review will consider the third play in the Talking Gods series, Pygmalion, written and directed by Ross McGregor and produced by Chris Tester. Notwithstanding my confusion about Pygmalion being included in this series as a titular character, given that he is not an Ancient Greek god, despite his dealings with Aphrodite, I was very eager to watch this play. I must admit that the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea is one of my personal favourites, and so the thought of an entire play dedicated to Pygmalion was quite exciting… I was disappointed. Considering how utterly repetitive and monotonous this performance is, my notes on this particular performance are very few and equally as repetitious, but I shall start by saying bluntly that if I had not been asked to review this performance, I would have closed the video and turned my computer off way before the halfway mark. Put even more directly, this is a truly lifeless, unenergised and, frankly, boring play. Yet, its fundamental concept is so frustratingly clever. The notion of Pygmalion (Edward Spence) as a video game designer whose creation comes to life, I thought, was a very smart and even somewhat original way of retelling this myth with a modern tongue. A video game! The imaginative possibilities that that opens up for, and the sombre understanding throughout that, at some point, the game will have to be turned off and Galatea (Gabrielle Nellis-Pain) will be killed in the process; it is definitely a very good premise, even if a little deviate from the original myth. Its execution, however, is incredibly poor, hence my aforementioned frustration. We are first presented with an acerbic and self-important Pygmalion locked in the dark of his room, refusing calls, not wanting to go to the door, even for his own food delivery, with his only interaction being with a virtual assistant. This is a good start, despite the lack of richness in the actual text here. But then, we have the introduction of Emily (also Nellis-Pain) and Aphrodite (Benjamin Garrison). Shown running alongside Pygmalion in some superimposed footage, our initial introduction to Emily’s character would not have been so particularly weak in itself, if she became more integral to the text and plot later on. Instead, we are presented with similar cutaways that see the two interacting with one another, the memories they share, etc. But there’s absolutely nothing to contextualise this footage, no mention of her until the very end, no explanation as to who she is, and no apparent effect on Pygmalion other than a forlorn look of pain and despair. Her character is completely dispensable, not to mention subtractive from Pygmalion’s growing love for Galatea. As an audience, we can obviously work out that she is a past lover, a painful memory; this is not the issue. The issue is that if we are going to be so heavily bombarded with her image, with her character, we need a reason to care. Pygmalion is already a rather depressing character, with his nonchalant sarcasm and aloof demeanour, so why would we even care for him, let alone his lover?! In fact, this lack of personality has the same effect at the end, when his condition is revealed. The revelation that Pygmalion has been suffering from ALI not only feels like an overly specific sob-story afterthought, but we simply do not care. Why would we? What is there in the text — and not in the concepts behind it — that invoke empathy in us? Nothing. The inclusion of other characters and the reasoning behind this seem to be a recurring problem in this text, from this underrepresented character of Emily to the inclusion of Aphrodite, whose eyes are the only feature we see, and to the fleeting characters of the video game — although, I should note that this latter, alone, is not an issue but becomes one in combination with this theme. His reason for visiting Aphrodite in the first place? We do not even know. Aphrodite’s reasoning for creating Galatea? We are not informed. These are crucial elements of the plot that need to be presented and should not remain subtextual, hoping for the audience to sedulously piece everything together in their own time. Especially frustrating is the fact that the character of Galatea, the most important element of this myth, has such a low significance in this play. Not only is she created by accident, she is a virus that Pygmalion wishes to get rid of. This could make for an interesting context — and I believe this might have been the intention, in fact — for an ‘unfeeling’ Pygmalion to develop a love for something that is first a hindrance and source of distress, a good premise to see him come out of his shell and learn to love again in the face of suffering, as it were. However, he simply spends the entire performance having flashbacks of a woman we do not know and being infuriated with Galatea. He knows that to get her out of the game and out of his hair, the game needs to be played — which is confusing for me, seeing as the game is not finished yet, but somehow Pygmalion knows what is on the next level, and the game is still worked-out and completable — and yet he displays such a great disinterest in helping her get through it. Surely, he would not want to waste time trying to pretend she does not exist? Yet, suddenly, over halfway into the performance, after one singular in-game fight, which lasts a matter of seconds, he is head-over-heels in love with her. Where is the development? And then, after begging Aphrodite to give her back after her deletion, he simply forgets about her, and Emily, and moves on to another woman, Ariadne (Lucy Ioannou). So, what are his true objectives, his desires, his feelings? And, more importantly, what is the actual point of this play? I simply cannot understand these decisions. Furthermore, Pygmalion’s recurring baseline behavioural pattern is simply exhausting for an audience member when repeated so often as it is: distant and bitter; then excited and invested; and then dismissive, regaining his composure with a “Huh?” or an “Oh. Well. Yes.” or a similar utterance and acting as though he was never interested in the first place. The character development here — or lack thereof — is simply shocking. Moments where we should be given more information — like more clues as to what Aphrodite is actually saying on the telephone — are completely lacking and, conversely, under-informative, and moments where we ought to have less information — like the entire repetitious montage from 49:00 or any of those including Emily — are simply far too overcooked and wrongly become essential elements of the play. Enough about the shambolic text, and on to acting. Spence’s performance is adequate, considering the insipid role he has been given. For the most part, especially in the footage he shares with Nellis-Pain, he is credible and expressive. A good performance. As for Nellis-Pain herself, again, a good performance, but her inability to portray fear in a credible fashion [when Pygmalion faints] is rather irksome. Garrison’s delivery is far too slow, and I understand that this is most likely a directorial decision, but it is simply exhausting to listen to, particularly given that Aphrodite’s monotonous sarcasm and sassiness were written far too dryly and without humour. There is an incredible amount of expressivity available in the human eyes alone, and so I was frustrated to see hardly anything come from Garrison’s. As for Richard Baker’s performance, I had not even checked the cast list yet but could instantly tell that he was providing the voices of additional characters…and this sums it up, really. I am honestly shocked at the sheer absence of transformativity here. Whilst Baker’s chosen dialect or enunciation generally change from voice to voice, his baseline tone and pitch remain exactly the same, meaning that voices simply sound like the same character who has but aged or taken up a daily smoke. Raspiness and the addition of idiomatic phrases and vernacular terminology do not constitute alone a change in voice or persona. This needs to be addressed. Unfortunately, whilst performers were adequate, and whilst the added theatrical elements of lighting and sound really added a layer of intrigue to otherwise bland scenes, this was not enough to pull this text up and out of its murky depths. Its content is lacking and far too repetitive; it is clear that no real thought has been given to character and plot; and there is a frustrating over-reliance upon elements that have such little bearing on the text — again, like the footage of Emily. A few recurring allusions to his past experience of love with her, culminating in ONE montage at the end, would have been enough to ground her character in the text in a structured and, above all, effective and feeling manner. As it stands, her significance is nonexistent until the end — if anyone makes it that far. This dramatic text requires a heavy amount of editing. In fact, the entire play could have been cut down to a length of forty minutes — maximum. The story is simply not elaborate enough to last nearly two hours[!]. “Underdeveloped, overly eclectic, and boring.”

To view this performance for free, click here. Orpheus, the second play in the Talking Gods series, is a play with songs focusing not directly on Orpheus (Christopher Neels) himself but on his [initial] lover, Eurydice’s (Charlie Ryall) perspective of their relationship. Though its originality is somewhat lacking in a longevous era wherein abusive musicians and their lovers seem to be in vogue, its underlying story remains poignant and relatable, interrogating a particular inexplicable quality of love: why do we stay with people who do not treat us well? Perhaps an obvious decision, but contemporising Orpheus as a famous musician is a fun premise, allowing for a good connection between the fandoms of the modern period and the swooners of the ancient Olympian god. However, the execution is…highly disappointing, to say the least. We are told that Orpheus is from the band Jason and the Argonauts, an amusing thought, and he spends the entire play making songs and thinking up lyrics — on theme so far, even if opening up for a rather unvarying and repetitive plot structure. But then we have the songs. I must admit that both Neels and Ryall have wonderful singing voices, and the problem does not lie here. The problem lies in the music choices. I fail to understand why the theatre company did not develop their own songs, clearly having talented singers and, from what I can tell, the facility to produce their own backing tracks. The sheer volume of covers in this play is simply disappointing, particularly given that they are so similar in time signatures and theme, being all from the same or very similar genres. There is a complete lack of variation in this way, and there is not a single musical number that could not be replaced by another; the songs have no individual relevance or poignancy. In fact, the music video cutaways become incredibly subtractive and repetitive, if anything, predictably disturbing the momentum of the plot. I emphasise, we can get an understanding of Eurydice’s humdrum, music-filled life with Orpheus without having to experience it first-handedly ourselves. Visually –– and acoustically, given how almost all songs are slow and get blander with each instalment –– there is just not enough going on for these scenes to be so oft-repeated as they are. Almost all of them simply involve a spotlighted Neels rocking to and fro, mic in hand, and, occasionally, Eurydice joins the feeble party and moves in the same way, both of them back-to-back or aimlessly swaying independently in a spotlight. OK. We get it now. He likes music. Furthermore, where character realism is concerned, there is a complete and utter lack of precision and attention to detail. For example, one would expect that Orpheus, someone so obsessed with music that he explains an entire tuning system, equal temperament, to Eurydice on their first night, someone who writes music and lyrics all day long, would certainly know which key on his keyboard is which… When sitting at his keyboard, Orpheus first details that the standard A key ‘fires’ [an interesting word choice] at 440 Hz. This measurement is, indeed, accurate, pedantic terminology aside; what is not so accurate is the fact that Neels hits the D key, instead of the A. He then talks about the lower A, hitting D again, and this is repeated until he hits what is written in the text as the lowest C but what is actually the lowest F on Neels’s keyboard, and he then compares it to the highest C, which is, again, an F [at least, we are consistently bad at this], and states that these are seven octaves apart…well, those two keys are actually six octaves apart. The lack of care towards realism in this scene, and the blatant inability to tailor the script to the performance or vice versa, is really very distancing, as now we are supposed to be bombarded with real pop and indie rock songs and suspend our disbelief in thinking that they are all his and we’re supposed to watch him play the wrong notes and pretend that he is the best and most talented musician across the divine and mortal worlds. This inattentiveness certainly recurs in this performance, from Neel’s lacking miming as he passes his hand straight through the imaginary grab handle he had been holding on the tube train, to Ryall messing up her line, ‘It was better when we got inside, almost back to how it used to be’. I fail to see why director McGregor did not pick up on moments like these, and why it was not decided to refine and reshoot such scenes? Then, we have the decision to shake the camera (videography by Andrew Flynn) from side to side at the beginning of the performance as if we, the audience, are replying, “No,” when Eurydice asks us if we have heard of Orpheus’s band…yet, we do not have a single other suchlike interaction with Eurydice throughout the rest of the play; in fact, her interactions with us become completely sterile and distanced as she starts to talk at us, with narrations or inner monologues, as though we can suddenly no longer respond, where her interactions were so conversational and immersive at the beginning. Then, the extremely questionable moment when, without relevance or explanation, Ryall is handed her coat by the disembodied arm of a stagehand or yelled at by an off-screen crowd in the chip shop scene. Why?! What possible purpose could moments like this have other than to obliterate the logic of the world of the play and utterly confuse its fabric? Moments like these entirely decimate any potential psychological realism and separate the thoughtful and attentive dramatic artists from the lesser-than, and they should thus be carefully observed. Attention to detail in the dramatic text itself, however, is a different story, altogether. Especially in Eurydice’s opening monologue, we are given far too much detail. Her speeches regularly deviate from their main cause in order to give an intricate and overly articulate description of things we would otherwise very easily understand. Once or twice, this is quirky, evoking scenarios we are all familiar with and creating a sense of relatability in the text. However, when repeated over and over again throughout, these descriptions become incredibly laborious and overworked. Take, for instance, this passage from the very first moments we see Eurydice talking to us: “They said I was a shadow of my former self. And when someone says that, they usually mean that you look tired or thin or that you've had a haircut that doesn't suit you. Whatever they're referring to, they mean it negatively. Like, it's something that your mother might say on a Sunday when she's microwaving the carrots whilst your father struts and frets over the sudoku. It's something your ex-boyfriend might think when you bump into him at The King's Head when you're watching a two-handed Cherry Orchard.” How incredibly exhausting is that to look at, nay read? It is ridiculously long, and to think that a similar thing happens regularly throughout the text! It is simply far too subtractive. There is far too much speech and far too little action in these scenes. A similar problem involving Eurydice’s speech is perhaps the greatest weakness of this text which renders it so utterly lethargic and cumbersome. It seems, considering the environmentalist and sociopolitical theories present in Persephone, that writer McGregor uses the playtext as a means of expressing his political beliefs and ideological thinking — which is perfectly acceptable, and the issues and ideas raised in both Persephone and Orpheus are very poignant and resonant. However, the manner in which they manifest themselves is far too blunt. Characters in these plays are frequently used as mere spokespeople, as the mouthpiece for McGregor to express his thinkings, and self-contained and narrative-based scenes slowly become lectures on how to save the planet. When presented in this way content becomes rudimentary and crude, either a matter of “preaching to the converted” or simply losing the attention of those who do not care. Such didactic work using character and plot as its means of education should, instead, aim to teach in an engaging and practical “show; don’t tell” manner. Figuratively speaking, the characters should take us by the hand and lead us through their worlds, and show us our own experiences through their eyes, and we should learn something from the journey. Lecturing an audience on something they either already know or do not want to hear is never a good idea, especially when it comes to something so suffocative and harrowing as the global impact of human activity. I emphasise: a speech at a length of eleven minutes and a half about the environment is no longer a character talking to an audience but a scolding disguised as a monologue. I refer, of course, to Eurydice’s speech towards the middle of the performance. Starting out on the right path and slowly declining into its politicisations, this speech is our time to understand Eurydice’s psychology, her emotional responses to what has happened to her and the stress she is under. Really, she should be traumatised at this time, unable to think of anything else, devastated, not thinking about farmers and their relationships with their livelihoods. It is our time to really connect with Eurydice, and it is easy, with how the text currently stands, to feel completely cheated out of any emotional investments we have made and simply reprimanded, instead. I should mention as a side-note the odd intertextuality present in this speech as well, as Eurydice explains she is working for Demeter. I do hope that this is all to some effect later in the series, for, currently, it just seems like a quirky feature included for the fun of it and to no avail at all. After all, the point of this series is that we are meant to believe that the gods are living and working amongst us, not amongst themselves. Less about the text and more about the performers themselves. Overall, both performers portrayed their characters well, with particular emphasis on Ryall’s capabilities above Neels’s. However, moments of extreme emotion were incredibly lacking. The two portray funny quirks, sarcasm and coquettishness well, but scenes of more extreme emotions, anger and sorrow, expose the performers as wooden and unnaturalistic in their approach. In such scenes, they are simply unconvincing, lacklustre and, actually, completely inexpressive sometimes. I should note, though, that this is partially [only partially] due to the dramatic text itself, whose emotionality dwindles to vapidity as the play goes on. A last few notes. Theatrical components like props, lighting and sound really do add visual intrigue to this performance, with props especially salvaging that all-important realism so devastatingly lost elsewhere. These all are well-thought-out and effective. Video editing — minus the odd interferences that keep cropping up in these plays — also make for a lively and engaging watch. Overall, what starts out as quite a strong performance with an engaging plot and characters simply becomes an insipid display of humdrum politics and vapid music videos — oh, and then our main character is bitten by a snake and dies? Out of nowhere?! A complete lack of character to psychological realism, emotional investment, and character and plot development. I have no idea why the creatives would think this piece as lengthy it is could succeed in keeping an audience’s attention. This entire play could have been chopped in half. And, again, as last week, this entire story could be told with the absence of ancient deities. More specificity true to the series’s theme is needed. We need more than Orpheus’s ability to move rocks or the inclusion of sirens in this play to ground the series in the theme it professes to provide. “A repetitive and crude play with a great lack of focus.”

To view this performance for free, click here. Written and directed by Ross McGregor and produced by Chris Tester, the Talking Gods series reimagines the deities of Ancient Greek mythology as living in the current era, placing them in contemporary contexts such as nightclubs, social media profiles and call centres. But, above all, as the deities have lived among us for so long, they are presented as having absorbed — to some extent — our values and emotions, our passions and interests, and our fears and concerns. This is a wonderful and engaging premise; there remain, however, some irregularities in this particular dramatic text. The first of five plays in the series, Persephone, sees Nicolle Smart multi-rolling as Hestia, Demeter and, of course, Persephone herself. I shall start with Smart’s performance. Smart is a wonderfully transformative actress. Though some gestures, mannerisms or subtleties of voice do sometimes merge together between her characters, overall, Smart defines her characters extremely well and distinctly. Her characterisations — if a little caricaturistic — are refined and decisive. Smart is without a doubt an incredibly talented performer. I would just recommend that she pace herself a lot more in Demeter’s scenes, particularly towards the beginning of the performance. When replying to the interviewers’ questions — something upon which I shall later elaborate — Smart is especially overhasty. Nevertheless, a wonderful performance from Smart. What is questionable, however — and this may be a directorial, or even editorial, decision — is the choice to have such specific and distinctly disparate profiles for Smart’s characters, given that they are all such close family members. I fail to understand how dress sense, dialect and general poise are so different, allowing for a posh, graceful and worrisome Hestia but a common, arrogant and casual Demeter. Indeed, mythologically speaking, the two certainly have very disparate personalities and propensities, but such demeanours should not affect the goddesses’ idiolects, particularly given that we are supposed to believe that they have been living together among us for all this time, sharing their life experiences alongside one another. In fact, there are quite a few loose ends that need to be better examined in this dramatic text; for example, there are certain Judaeo-Christian references that pop up now and again, used casually by the characters to no effect and with no real significance. Demeter says, “Praise be, for a child be born unto them,” a [misquoted] biblical reference to Isaiah 9:6. The Book of Revelations is also mentioned later. It seems odd to me that Ancient Greek goddesses would allude to such things in passing, as though general parlance. And, if these are just ‘funny’ and absurd allusions to the old religions vs the new, which they justifiably may be, why not include other contemporary religions, such as Buddhism or Islam? This lack of realism is not only in Demeter’s speech but in Hestia’s too. We find quite a few notable syntactical/lexical errors in Hestia’s speech that seem unnatural. Some sentences simply do not make any grammatical sense but are written as though simply to sound nice and to get across the fanciness of Hestia’s character. I write about such phrases as: “If he checks in the second bedroom, he’ll find some subsidence which he’ll no doubt appreciate retaining the funds for its remedy.” Perhaps Smart misremembered her lines? Or, indeed, it was thus incorrectly written. Either way, sentences like this one here need to be examined. Such bombastic language should not be relied upon so heavily to manifest a character’s traits and nature; it can overly alienate an audience in its unnaturalism, just as I believe it does regularly in this text with Hestia’s character. Hestia’s speech also reveals other inconsistencies, but, this time, inconsistencies concerning the plot. She informs us that forgotten deities weaken and weaken until they lose their powers, and, essentially, fade into oblivion. Then, she remarks that everyone has forgotten her. So…why is she not weakened in the same way, fading away from memory? She also demonstrates in the very opening that deities are omniscient, that they can oversee all, and yet Hestia and Demeter have no idea where Persephone is when she runs away…? The most significant issue I have with Hestia’s scenes, however, is that Hestia’s relation to the court scene is completely lost in the text. Her reason for being there and why the court is in motion in the first place needs to be far better expressed. One could infer that perhaps Zeus is being prosecuted for all he has done to the sisters, but to end on this is, in itself, insignificant and underwhelming, given that our focus has been entirely on the sisters and Persephone throughout; Zeus’s effects on them are secondary to their characters and to the plot we are presented. These irregularities need to be carefully reconsidered, as realism and overall intrigue are really weakened by things like this. The dramatic text should succeed in presenting us with a clear, thoughtful and functioning world both relative to our own and one into which we can escape. I should probably note here as well, as a sidenote, the vulgarity of Persephone’s sex scene, given that we are led to believe she is a late teenager. I would urgently recommend removing this scenelet entirely; it is unnecessary and obscene and could be communicated in verbal reference, instead… What could distance an audience the most in this text, however, is the manner in which Smart interacts with them. It is left unclear as to what our function is as audience members. Hestia seems to be simply recounting things to us, whilst it seems undecided as to whether Demeter is talking to us or a group of interviewers — upon which I shall elaborate shortly. Furthermore, Persephone is either addressing us directly or is portrayed as [re]living the events of the plot. These different audience functions, from listener to passive participant to witness, need be addressed and rectified, especially in Demeter’s scenes. Demeter speaks to the interviewers directly, sometimes glancing at us as though we are also an interviewer, asking questions and ‘responding’ as though the interviewers have answered her: “My role was always meant to be giving. [Pauses. Looks over at an off-screen interviewer.] Giving what? Well, shit, buddy, […] if it’s green, I gave it to you.” Thus, the interviewers are mimed characters whose presence and responses exist only in our imagination. And yet, Demeter is then told by a disembodied, off-screen voice, “You can’t [smoke] in here.” Are these imagined or real characters? This needs to be decided, particularly as this is a recurring issue in this performance. As for video editing decisions (videography by Andrew Flynn), I have a few comments. Firstly, the CGI flames that appear on Smart’s hands [when playing Hestia] should be removed. They are stylistically inconsistent with the rest of the film’s visuals, and with the chosen depth of field being so shallow, Smart’s hands are out of focus, meaning that the flames — which are, actually, well designed and quite realistic — look simply out of place. Quick-paced cutaways during Persephone’s scenes, successfully evocative of the edited footage of a modern vlogger, funny as they may be, quickly become repetitive and overly deliberate. They do not feel organic or credible because of this, meaning, again, that we become distanced from any naturalism. The addition of emojis are a subtler touch but, yet again, are somewhat needless, with the happy emoji that replaces Persephone’s final words towards the end of the play opening the ending up for a sense of anticlimax or lack of catharsis, in that our final moments with this character do not feel natural or personal enough. Finally, the music, as well-composed as it may be, is completely incongruous with this performance. The mood of the music simply does not match the mood of the text, from the upbeat music during Hestia’s sad soliloquies to the weird inclusion of the sounds of an orchestra tuning their instruments as we are inundated with Apollo’s (voiced by Owen Burley) tweets. Simply odd. The inclusion of music throughout, however, in theory, is a good idea, removing any unwanted sense of background silence as characters are talking. Lighting, on the other hand, is well designed and facilitative. Simplicity is key for performances like this, and lighting fulfilled its purpose well. Overall, the dramatic text and the extra artistic decisions accompanying it are not the best… There are a lot of elements that need reworking. I would ask, what makes these goddesses indispensable to the story? It seems as though we have a normal, generic plot that could be applied to mortal humans, and another sub-plot that describes the characters’ godly actions and relationships of the past, and there is very little crossover — which is a huge problem, given that this crossover, where contemporary context and deities of the past are meant to meet, is the whole point of this series! I would urge that more care be taken in the conception of this text. I should elucidate here, however, that it is not that the text, all things considered, is terrible; it is simply just at war with itself, having not found a way to join these two plots together. The story remains enjoyable, but it takes its godly characters utterly for granted. This considered, Smart’s performing capabilities really do outshine this text, and I believe it is her outstanding characterisations and true skill that make this just-above-mediocre play so enjoyable and worth watching, hence the rating I give it. “An unsure and incomplete dramatic text rendered enjoyable by a brilliant and talented performer.”