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.”

To watch this performance for free, click here. This review will consider Έρως / Eros, a collection in celebration of Greek and British poetry, conceived and directed by Anastasia Revi and produced by Theatre Lab Company. This is part of a “poetry marathon” for which poets and enthusiasts can record their own readings of poetry in any language and send them to theatrelabco@gmail.com, along with the poem title, author and publish date, to be considered for inclusion in subsequent collections. Hence, it should be well noted that this review can only consider this specific performance and not the overall series. I shall start first with the manner in which the poems in this performance are presented. The poems, all linked under the theme of Eros — a fact I shall return to later — are delivered adequately by performers, but performativity does vary across the cast, with expressivity, energy and emotion coming naturally to some and not so blatantly to others. The poems’ order of presentation, however, is very good. It was a good decision not to structure the poems by alternating between the two languages (Greek, English, Greek, etc.), as this could have become rather repetitive. Similarly, the editing (Yiannis Costopoulos) allows for varied compositions of the speakers on screen without changing its style with every single poem. This would have become rather too eclectic and chaotic if this was the case; however, as it stands, there is enough variation to keep intrigue yet to maintain overall aesthetic. I would just recommend a few significant things: removing the CGI of lighting discharge across Johan Buckingham’s eyes, as this is too disparate stylistically to the rest of the performance; cleaning up transitions where our view of performers who have just spoken is abruptly stopped and replaced by footage of them with their eyes closed, before the shrinking box has reached its destination — perhaps I would add a fade transition here within this box, if nothing else; and, finally, a reorganisation of the final shot so as to have Denise Moreno looking into the camera as have all of the poets before her. On the topic of Moreno’s performance, I move on to the coherency of the poems in this collection. I fail to see why an extract of a play, namely Crave by Sarah Kane, appeared in this collection. Albeit rather poetic, this extract is not poetry, nor does it profess to be. It is dramatic verse and should not be included in this collection. More significantly, though, the overall theme of love seems far too vague to unite the poems in this performance, given that some poems refer to love as a concept or form whilst others refer to erotic and sensual love, amour-propre and enlightenment, or unrequited admiration of another. There is thus an all-too-extreme diversity in the definition of love provided by this performance, meaning also that the relevance of the specified, titular love type, Eros, becomes rather questionable. I imagine that this is because of the selection process; perhaps more specificity is needed in the requirements of the poems sent in. However, though this is perhaps a coincidence, then, there is a good unity in terms of perspective: the chosen poems all address their objects directly and actively, and it is easy to get a sense that the performers are talking from ‘their own’ heartfelt perspectives, of their own agency — intensified by the view of the other performers functioning as passive listeners, seeming unquestioningly attentive, their eyes closed, their silence unbroken. Additionally, such an inclusion of the other performers helps to create a sense of relaxation yet awareness. This is most effective for a lot of the poems, but, again, becomes questionable for the more ‘aggressive’ or erotic — ‘Sappho 31’, for instance. Nevertheless, I particularly enjoy the inclusion of closeups during Matthew Wade’s performance of ‘In Summer’s Heat’ by Christopher Marlowe. This segment allows for a certain scopophilia, presenting the most decorative of the masks and makeup worn by the performers — upon which I shall elaborate shortly — and forcing us to concentrate intimately on the eyes and the lips, which is certainly in line with the performance’s theme. I would just have chosen a different performer than Eva Simatou in the bottom-left, as her look is not as ornamented as the others in this segment, and so she stands out too distinctly as pedestrian and plain. Furthermore, I would have another performer fill in for one of our views of Helen Bang, for too much attention is drawn to her in having her on screen twice simultaneously, from two different angles. I should note here, however, that Wade’s inelaborate look does not subtract here, for he is the one enabling this scopophilia and performing a poem detailing the beauty of his object. So, this is acceptable, but better attention to detail should be shown to the rest of this composition. Such visuals in this performance are, indeed, striking, but most decisions behind them, if any exist, do not come through, for me. I fail to comprehend the significance, for example, of the Columbine masks. They definitely unite the performers, but under what premise? Besides, the red lipstick on their lips is enough to do this alone. Perhaps the intention was to allude to the coquettishness, passion and seductive prowess characteristic of the Commedia dell’arte’s stock character, Columbina. However, this does not coincide with such poems as Kiki Dimoula’s ‘The Plural Form’ or Ruth Pitter’s ‘The Plain Facts’, to name a few. Another, more contemporary, function of a Columbine mask, of course, is to conceal identity, which serves to destroy that aforementioned direct perspective we are given throughout. The masks are also inconsistent, from the mask-replacing makeup worn by Georgios Iatrou to Evi Sarmi’s torn-up tights, better resembling a balaclava than a mask, to the, frankly, rather ridiculous surgical mask worn by Omiros Poulakis with cut-out eyeholes. I am sure this latter felt very politically inspired at the time of conception, but it simply looks like the unrefined work of a resourceful child. Not only are the masks inconsistent in this way, but they are also all terribly ill-fitting; they simply look uncomfortable, as though the masks must be digging into the performers’ eyes, unwantedly caressing their lashes. In summary, the masks are simply an awful, unnecessary and unthoughtful decision. Overall, this performance has a lot of potential but falls short with its lack of cohesive visuals and lack of a more particularised theme. I would definitely be very interested to see how Revi would organise this on stage as opposed to on screen, as the editing decisions certainly provide a different experience for audiences and are notably heavily relied upon — though, this is not an issue for this current virtual performance. I would urge creatives to better conceive how the poems are presented alongside one another and what visual cues we as an audience receive. I would also ensure that all performers share the same amount of vigour and conviction as one another. “A good performance with good potential but lacking sincere coherency.”

Before starting this review, I shall note that this performance is a work in progress and is hence subject to change. In this zany and kooky play, Courtney McMahon uses beige walls and navy sofas as a synecdoche for her childhood memories as the daughter of a foster carer. She relates a bitter nostalgia where sweet reminiscence becomes tinged by the negative or by the confused and limited understanding of a child. Prepping her audience with memories of her childhood dog and its sudden passing, McMahon recounts the incomplete relationships she had formed with her foster siblings. The set design (by Niamh Parker-Whitehead) for this performance is particularly playful. With its secret hatches and ability to rotate, the set's dynamism and (positive) low-quality/arts-and-crafts feel really is evocative of a child's imagination at home, especially with the main centrepiece being a stack of those all-too-familiar cardboard boxes. There is a sense of playfulness and discovery, as we learn that there is yet another piece on the other side of the cardboard tower or another item to be found in the navy boxes. However, this endless supply of props becomes rather subtractive after a while. Every single story seems to superfluously coincide with an item of some sort. This disallows the stories to breathe in the spectators’ imagination by limiting them to yet another synecdoche. Not only were some stories stifled in this way but also by the stories which preceded or succeeded them. The performance's structure became somewhat bipartite: happy memory turns to sad memory turns to happy memory, etc. This became predictable but also led to some unoriginal stylistic choices, primarily with tech. The sound of white noise, another popular and hence overused motif, featured quite heavily in this performance, and practically all gleeful songs and moments would take a turn for the worst and become muffled and consumed by it. Tech also coincided with the problem of pacing which I shall elaborate on later. Moments like the ‘You’ve Been Framed’ theme tune and a recording of Ant and Dec were tautological when sided with McMahon’s description of watching the two shows. Other songs were cut much too prematurely and others lasted too long. The best use of tech for pacing but also for that happy-to-sad breakdown was the end of the ‘Last Christmas’ sequence. This is exemplary of a dramatic transformation from one emotional mode to another. Its drawn-out nature made for an unignorable change in atmosphere, aided by the change in lighting state, as opposed to the other mood changes which were far too quick and unimpactful. The words ‘overuse’ and synecdoche' do become characteristics of this, but that is not to say that the performance is predictable. The stories are interesting and engaging, but I am not too sure if they are informative enough. There is a propensity in this performance to tend towards over-informing the audience on the more insignificant things and under-informing on the more important. For example, a good portion of the performance is dedicated to the dog and to karaoke, but their bearing on the rest of the content is not so immediate. Karaoke scenes were particularly impertinent and omittable for me. This is mainly due to the performance's tendency towards audience interaction. If it is not utterly indispensable to the performance, or if the performance can survive without it, audience interaction should not be a feature and is a surefire and needless way to make for a stylistic disconnect. For instance, McMahon's whispering to an audience member in the front row, asking her to look after a box for her: who is this benefitting? The back row cannot hear it, it is not carrying the performance forward nor establishing a mode of audience address. As for the karaoke scenes, McMahon’s coercing the audience to join in with her so as to not, embarrassedly, sing alone felt less like a warranted and progressive interaction but a moment of unwanted fragility and tension, however successful her coercions were. Certain images, such as her riding a child-sized bike, much too small for her, which was a playful and disjointed visualisation of her childhood, were squandered by random outbursts, like attempting to shock, yet again, a front-row audience member by riding the child’s bike in front of her and barking abruptly in her face. These are all unnecessary moments that simply dampen the efficacy of an otherwise quite fruitful script. This brings me on to characterisation. McMahon provides her audience with a very lovable persona. She is witty, energised and pensive. However, there lacks a sense of fixedness. With the memories being so fragmented and achronological, it is crucial to have a persona whose personality, character, traits and motives are immediately, directly and quickly comprehensible. Only presenting perceptions and experiences of the external world means that there is little personality to go off of for their narrator. This causes a problem for feeling emotion for other characters as well as for Courtney, which I will also elaborate on in a while, but it also means that our guide through the stories is opaque and so it is difficult to see how these things are affecting her and hence how we should be feeling as an audience. This lack of fixedness is also present in both McMahon’s speech types and physicality. Her speech type meanders through vernacular and colloquial to poetic to standardised, and this makes for an unstable reading of her. Her physicalIty is just as vulnerable in this way: McMahon is quite stiff and motionless through most of the performance, letting the objects and narrative do the descriptions for her. This is then met with a certain volatility where she is suddenly dancing all over the place or randomly turning away from the audience and screaming. She becomes erratic in these moments. This volatility is hard to digest. As for the writing, this text has some very successful and funny elements, but these were not allowed to be fully digested in places. This was due mostly to pacing but also because of the rapid and haphazard succession of scenes and scene types. I would recommend noting what certain areas and features are trying to accomplish. If it is lightheartedness or comedy, allow for time for this to be digested as such before shooting off to the next feature. Ironically, for a performance supposedly about McMahon’s experiences with being the daughter of a foster carer, this was only one, supplementary theme scattered through the performance. It seemed as though this narrative was lost to an abundance of other types of loss, settings, childhood memories and those unyielding karaoke scenes. The lack of clear-cut focus meant that one particularly political passage was not so hard-hitting or convincing, but this is a combination of the content and the writing itself. Not much was being said, and the way it was being said was not particularly moving, either. Similarly, the audience were not given enough information about Jess, which is important as McMahon decides to end her performance with an ominous supposition about her. This suspense, mystery and strong empathy are not earned, as Jess has not been significant enough in the narrative, and so the ending’s impact is extremely slight and dissatisfying. It would be more fitting, as the performance stands, to have a conclusion of McMahon’s memories, to see how these affect her presently or how she has grown or regressed because of them. That is the correct ending this performance leans towards, which I am quite sure is not the desired. “Not a performance that does what it sets out to do, but an endearing, enjoyable and unique performance, nevertheless.”

To view this performance for free, click here. Natters of Life & Death is a charming short one-woman play written and performed by Ann Hirst and directed by Paul Andrew Goldsmith. The play provides its audience with lighthearted humour, nostalgia, and even comic relief from deeper topics such as ageing bodies, issues surrounding labour, fears about parenting, and shamed female anatomy, but all of this without compromising the endearing comedy it offers throughout. The performance could, indeed, benefit from a few minor adjustments to the script and video editing decisions, but, nevertheless, a lovable watch. Hirst’s comedic timing is brilliant. She is wonderfully expressive and portrays her middle-aged mum character, Davina, with vigour and credibility. Hirst’s movements around the kitchen and her vivified use of the space makes for a constant sense of happening and intrigue, and her actions seem calculated and natural. In terms of characterisation, I would just pay more attention to moments when the character is remembering things [or trying to], but this is mainly earlier on in the performance. The issue here is one of timing; Hirst struggles with her pacing quite regularly in these more serious moments. As I wrote above, her comedic timing is wonderful, but it often feels as though we have moved on far too quickly from other, either neutral or deeper thoughts. It seems unnatural. Structurally, this is a very strong dramatic text. Content flows well from one topic to another, and it is easy to forget the stasis of the kitchen setting that is presented as homely and lived-in. The speech is, in fact, incredibly naturalistic on the whole, which is indicative of definite talent, and comedy definitely seems to come easily to writer Hirst who is able to make light of a very good range of topics. A few scenes, such as Davina imagining herself as the host of a TV show, do seem underseasoned and awkward, and there does seem to be some overreliance upon phone calls to break up the text, but these are hardly worth noting. Nonetheless, I was very impressed by the writing of the telephone conversations as well. It is common for writers to over-inform audiences with these, with characters’ speech often unnecessarily filling in the gaps of what is said on the other side of the line inaudibly to audience members, and hence comprising the scene’s naturalism. However, Hirst’s text surrounding these phone calls is very well tailored and adequately esoteric so as to retain the required naturalism without distancing/confusing the audience. I would just change the text in the phone call with Adam, as the repetitions of what Adam is saying become too regular and structured, leaning into this aforementioned common issue. Still, this esotericism paints a vivid picture of Davina’s life beyond the play, and characters remain informed by our awakened imagination. Remaining on this topic of naturalism, another issue I have pertains to what the phone itself displays — or, rather, fails to display — and how the mobile is handled. The sound of the phone ringing is non-diegetic, and this is most distinct and obnoxiously unnatural. The screen is entirely black, and Hirst uses the middle button of the phone to mime turning it off, which is not how iPhones operate. To solve this, I would have the phone ring in real time, perhaps with the aid of a timer on the phone set to sound like a ringtone and to go off accordingly, or, more preferably, I would simply have Goldsmith ring it on time. If no way can be found to light and darken the screen as though a phone call is incoming or finished, I would make sure to keep the phone out of view — say, keep it on that high shelf, or change camera angles when accepting the call. The lack of naturalism here is easily avoidable and should be a priority to secure, being that telephone conversations recur regularly throughout. It would also be preferable for Davina to excuse herself before each phone call, as we as the audience are led throughout to feel as though we are in the kitchen with her, having a one-way chat, and, as it stands, an audience is made to feel momentarily unimportant, sidelined, forgotten or ignored when Hirst answers the phone. I must admit that this performance does suffer from quite a few technical issues. Indeed, editing is quite harsh in places, but the main issues arise in sound effects and music and in the cutaways. The principal issue with these former items is volume. Music is far too loud and should be lowered significantly. Sound effects are also, as mentioned above, non-diegetic, which creates a sense of unnaturalism — I have mentioned the issue of Davina’s ringtone, but there is also the radio whose volume is, in fact, satisfactory but whose music suddenly disappears once Davina thinks about exploring the possibility of Jason having a Facebook profile. Nevertheless, I should affirm here that the comedy of this scene is splendid: the dramatic, melancholic classical music as Hirst clasps a firm watermelon in her hand and, depressed, informs us of her sad and sagging breasts. It becomes a most refreshingly facetious and hilarious speech. As for the cutaways, it is not until halfway into the performance that their purpose really becomes clear. Initially, for example, we have the inexplicable image of an armadillo rolling into a ball, and there is no explanation as to what relevance this has; there is nothing to ground it in the dramatic text. However, it soon becomes clear, especially after the cutaways to an image of a Vagina Monologues poster or to the “Swearoplane”, that these cutaways serve to dramatise or reflect the absurdity of Davina’s actions or the content of her soliloquies. The armadillo, then, is most likely supposed to be read as a quirky stylisation of Davina bopping briefly below the counter. In the end, these become quite a quirky feature of the play, but they do certainly need to be better introduced. Perhaps Davina mentions at the beginning, before any images at all are presented to us, that random vignettes and visions pop into her head, or something similar. Such an introduction as to what function these cutaways have for both her and us as spectators would better contextualise them within the dramatic text. However, I do think including video footage instead of still images is preferable — Patrick Star’s exploding head, for instance, versus the stubborn image of an unmoving stir fry. I would also make sure that sound accompanies them all, just as it does these two — though, again, at a much lower volume than they are currently — and that they are snappy, quick flashes that inform the text, rather than lengthy stills that subtract from it, like the image of the dishevelled sofa or those of the jute rug or the TV. In fact, these latter images are superfluous; instead, the images that are seemingly irrelevant but related thematically are those which should be included. Technically, then, this is certainly not a perfect performance, but, again, Hirst’s charming characterisation and vitality throughout certainly outweigh any pedantic cons. Overall, an endearing and simply loveable performance from beginning to end. Certainly worth a watch to uplift you on an afternoon in lockdown. “A delightful, wholesome treat.”

MEGA is enchanting. Created by Alex Milne and performed at the Tristan Bates Theatre, its lovable characters and twists make it an absolute treat to watch. All actresses clearly understood the text and portrayed their characters incredibly well. They were all fabulously engaging and convincing, and their physicalities and voices made their characters believable. There were only a few minor slip-ups on lines or moments where the text could have been handled better, and these did not subtract at all from the readability or intrigue of the performance. Overall, all actresses were absolutely outstanding. For a performance with a very minimal set, actors were incredibly captivating, though I do think there was an over-reliance on certain items in places, though this becomes more of an editorial or directorial issue. For example, as soon as the tablets were first introduced, they started to frequent the stage quite regularly in consecutive scenes. These should have been allowed to enter the space in an uninvasive way so that the audience consider it as just a simple, everyday household medication that Angela uses. As the plot starts to thicken, as it were, then would be a good time to reintroduce them with another character, though it becomes a nuisance to see all characters have a turn at the tablets which became rather irksome. Bird also handled her stones far too much which muted her otherwise very idiosyncratic and rich performance. I should also note that all other props, such as the ‘Ribena’, were used authentically, whereas Angela's bowl of food in the first scene, where all characters first meet in the play, is empty. Moments like these destroy realism and should be avoided. A simple piece of apple crumble, as stated to be the food she was eating, would have corrected this. Conversely, whilst turned-off phones or visibly inactive ones usually nullify phone calls on stage, I think this fact should have been stressed for Brandy's telephone conversations and juxtaposed with the real telephone conversation she has with, whom I presume to be, her mother, to texturise even more her delusion. As for the dramatic text itself, the writing blended these three utterly different characters into one setting so violently well. However, it could do with some editing, and some scenes could be cut either for their unnecessariness, for the way they slow the momentum of the performance, or for the way they offset its style. In certain moments, speech seems too unrealistic, and not in its typical quirky way; it seems robotic, staged and as if implanted as a ‘buffer’ or ‘filler’ until better things are able to surface. For example, moments like when Tabatha (Casey Bird) and Brandy (Alex Milne) gossip about Angela (Kirsty King) to the side of the stage. Here, the speech is particularly robotic and elaborate, yet we do not seem to learn anything new about Tabatha, and the style has also changed from dialogues to removed asides. I felt that there could have been more complications in the plot, particularly for Angela's character. It is not until the very end that we only get a hint of the truth behind her psychosis, but it is still unclear as to whether she is, in fact, a princess or not, which means the truth has not been at all disclosed. Whilst I understand that the particular nature of these characters’ illnesses mean that they are locked in a certain perception of the world, that there is rarely any change in their realities, the outside world still exists, and so moments where regurgitation and repetition of material, which did occur towards the middle of the play, should have been replaced with allusive and questionable complications like those towards the end of the play where we start to realise the truth behind Brandy's delusion. More subtlety and insidiousness is key to the betterment of this performance, I believe. There are also a few moments of discontinuity that make it difficult to place the mentality of the characters. For example, it is weird that Brandy should say that her mother really liked her songs but then that she was showing disapproval off to her mentality. Moreover, it is too literal for her to list all the giveaway comments that her mother had made (comments like “When are you going to stop all of this?” which demonstrate the contradictory opinions/thoughts of an outsider); these should have been fewer and more insidious. It is good that we do not find out where the characters really are, but it is unclear if the characters themselves understand their setting. Whilst Brandy and Angela supposedly understand the reality of what I shall call the Institution, which is made clear in their critiques of Brandy’s understanding of it, they are still institutionalised themselves, and so their understandings cannot be completely accurate. It is unclear what the characters think of the Institution, how they place themselves within it, especially for Angela who makes little to no comments on it. Finally, tech. Lighting was very simple, using only fades and blackouts until the very end of the performance where multicoloured washes engulfed the stage as though a disco. This last state, combined with the decelerating audio, was most peculiar. It would have been effective if this sort of technical breakdown was staggered throughout the performance — in transitions, for instance, which were, instead, silent — but alone it had no real pertinence. It was also a moment that went on for much too long; the audio should have started at the lyrics: a simple decelerated ‘Disco-dancing with the lights down low’, and blackout. Transitions could have perhaps been a little quicker, and sound should start at the same volume it intends to drop down to when the actresses are speaking. To conclude, a very, very good performance but in need of more subtleties and textures. There is a lot of mystery already, and intrigue is not the problem, it is more about how this mystery is constructed and represented throughout the entirety of the play rather than sporadically, in certain scenes. Some content is too blunt and literal and other content is not allowed to breathe and mature quite enough. “A captivating and rich must-see performance.”

This review will consider Girls with Jokes, a night of stand up comedy recently performed at the King’s Head Theatre in London. Comedians included, in set order: Sarah Tattersall, Kat Ronson, Katerina Robinson and Victoria Garofalides. Perhaps the most important thing after jokes and punchlines in standup comedy is persona: the little idiosyncrasies, the personality, the habits and speech patterns that we so regularly associate with our favourite comedians. This is important because it gives the audience an understanding of who this person is or what they might say next – especially useful when alternative interpretations or character POVs are at play – and permits the comedian to earn engagement, respectability and charisma. In other words, a persona makes people want to listen. There is a difference, however, between persona and character. Not all comedians must have a character but all must have a persona. I write all of this because this crucial element was severely absent from all of these comedians’ work, with the short exception of Garofalides. Garofalides presents her audience with a licentious, abusive and drug addict-esque persona, veering closer towards an outrageous character. She uses this persona to generate a semantic field, something which was hit-and-miss for other comedians, which an audience can instantly acknowledge and easily comprehend. This enables the audience to focus solely on the humour, rather than on trying to work out what she’s about, so to speak. Garofalides should be used as an exemplar of how persona can and should be used as a grounding touchstone from which humour can be successfully and coherently generated. It is important to note here that I am not suggesting the other comedians need be as caricatural or as debase, but that they focus on their delivery style: not necessarily what the jokes are but how the jokes are conveyed. As for Robinson, whilst persona was still rather lacking, her jokes were very good. She was aware of the sociopolitical context of her stories and of how the majority of the audience would interpret them and was able to use this knowledge to form a relatable and identifiable comedic palette. Ronson’s humour was slightly less refined and her material seemed to extend to many different areas of thinking, making her overall work confused. I will say, however, that her blunt and hard-hitting introduction to her set was excellent. Tattersall’s material, unfortunately, was all over the place, and there was not a clearcut thread running through it all to tie it together. This was met with a nervous and introverted stage presence and a range of jokes which did not quite hit the mark. All comedians decided to use – what is presented as – autobiographical material, primarily [ex-]boyfriends and sexuality. Even this warrants, again, a persona. It is impossible to present one’s “true” self (especially on stage), and so appropriate personae are needed to extract anecdotes and experiences from one’s life. No-one wants to hear someone prattle on about their ex (something even acknowledged by the comedians themselves several times) unless it is felt that there is something to gain from it, e.g. the way this comedian gesticulates or articulates this story makes it worth listening to. When one is dealing with personal material, it must be seen to come from a person, someone who reacts to things in a certain, specified way, and this way becomes humorous. This was almost achieved by Tattersall when she demonstrates that her techniques for getting over the loss of her ex are really techniques to get him back. This denotes an obsessive/needy person who has not gotten over their ex and whose ridiculous actions the audience can laugh about, and this is effective. Not only was personality lacking for the comedians but for the night itself. There was clearly a theme of sex and body, freedom and youth, yet these failed to come together as one coherent performance. There was a lack of structure, and the beginning and end seemed much too abrupt and ungiving. An audience wants to feel as though they have gained something from the performance, that the performance was for them and them only; as it stood, this lack of ceremony, which would have surfaced in a proper intro and outro, made it feel as though there was little given to the audience to appreciate their time. It was much too rushed, clamorous and disorganised. I would recommend a main comedian who hosts the night or just a clearer introduction of what is to come. This would have added personality to the night. It did feel as though this night was some sort of rehearsal simply experimenting on its audience, benefitting in its rapidness its performers more than its spectators, and this was accentuated by having the performers sit off stage, watching the performance from within the audience. I would recommend that the comedians leave the performance space completely or, at least, sit on a bench on stage together. Sitting in the audience makes for both awkward entrances and exits but also for a seeming disengagement on the performers’ behalf. All comedians had good energy and, on the whole, a good sense of timing, but I must admit that there are many minor faux pas in this performance which all add up to create a hectic sense of unpreparedness and bad quality. For example: checking watches; writing prompts on wrists; saying, “What else can I say?”. There was also a massive problem with projection and diction, unaided by the quiet and tetchy microphone. I suppose this was down to nerves, for which I highly suggest some group calming techniques before going on stage, but these became quite impedimentary and dampened what could otherwise have been snappy, potent punchlines. “Unfortunately, quite unmemorable, if humorous in places.”