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One of two plays by Rosalind Blessed, The Delights of Dogs and the Problems of People [Delights] is currently performing at the Old Red Lion Theatre. It is a most unique performance, one with a peculiar charm and one which, alongside Lullabies for the Lost [Lullabies], Blessed’s other play, conveys her very particular and identifiable style as a writer. There remain, however, many areas in this performance to be perfected. I shall start with the structure and content of the writing. For the vast majority of the text, speech remains monologic, with any substantial and lengthy interactions between the two characters being interrupted by asides and mini monologues. In this way, there is little conversation or fluid interaction between the two characters, and so our reading of their relationship, as opposed to their individual personalities and idiosyncrasies, remains rather restricted. On top of this, what we are presented of the characters directly and what the character say of each other during said monologues provide us with very different information. Then, the narrative we are presented remains non-linear, which adds that last further complication when trying to work out James (Duncan Wilkins) and Robin’s (Rosalind Blessed) relationship and how exactly it deteriorated in the way it did. It is clear from the very beginning that James is abusive towards Robin, through both of their monologues, yet this is not evidenced at all in these interactions. A prime example of this is the camping scene where the two seem utterly enamoured with one another. In this scene there is not even the slightest hint of tension, so what happened? At Robin’s dog’s funeral, after their breakup, the two are definitely tense but not in a particularly overt or extreme way. Robin certainly does not act as though she has been victimised; rather, she acts just as uneasy or uncomfortable as expected in the rather banal situation. It feels as though the running thread which draws all of these moments together is missing, and this causes too huge a contrast between the rather normal uneasiness in this scene, for example, and the extreme abuse we see James deal out in the final scenes. It is incredibly difficult to chart this relationship, and, if it was not for the names of the characters, it would be easy to slip into regarding these portrayals as those of multiple relationships with different persons involved. The problem is that there is no progression demonstrated in neither Robin’s side of the story nor the moments that portray their relationship directly. There is, however, a much sharper degree of progression in James’s thinking. Whilst we are still unaware of James’s reasoning and motivations, which, again, definitely takes its toll on our reading of the relationship, we are presented with how James relates to the breakup. With James giving us several red flags about the way he views Robin, as silly, dorky or clumsy, his monologues allow for an allusion to the extreme abuse we will see in the final scenes, but it still is not enough. It is clear that Blessed desired to create an endearing and comedic character in James that would soon be revealed as dark and venomous. This is most successful. By having Wilkins interact with audience members as James, this endearment is forced upon us. We have to enjoy this character, whether we like it or not, and this is very effective, particularly in the club scene wherein James is asking for our empathy and understanding, demonstrating his emotional state and confusion over the situation, and remaining entertaining in subtly flirting with or befriending audience members through direct address. This is a very clever way of inducing us to respect, admire or favour a character, and this leads to an intensification of shock when this adoration is subverted. Robin’s character, on the other hand, remains rather undistinguished. This has not only to do with writing but with characterisation. Whilst Blessed’s portrayal of strong negative emotion is both intense and convincing, Blessed’s transformativity is incredibly lacking, and, as a result of this, Robin’s character profile remains too simple and shallow. In fact, I must say that there is a dissatisfying number of times where it is even debatable as to whether Blessed is still acting or not. She seems to become vague at points, still and indistinct. This is mostly specific to moments wherein Wilkins is delivering his lines. Blessed seems to forget that she is still visible and constantly needs to demonstrate presence and character. In this way, the feelings that we definitely experience during this performance come merely through the raw and uninhibited content of the text itself where Robin is concerned, not through character. The writing deals with some unspoken yet prevalent issues affecting minds today, surrounding sex and consent, self-worth and self-deprecation and agency and autonomy within relationships –– these and many more. The material this text deals with is thus very hard-hitting and relevant. However, there are many times in this play where action, or inaction, for that matter, takes away from the profundity and heaviness of this. There is a lot of stasis and routine in this play: lights change to blue, and the actors step forward to monologue; actors stay still for the most part of a scene and let the text do the work; in the club scene, Wilkins expresses his distress/confusion, then dances, then expresses, then dances, etc.; and so on. This routined action paired with very little use of space and movement makes for a very still and unforgiving piece of theatre. In fact, vitality and essence are so lacking in places that it feels sometimes as though character is simply being used as a tool for soliloquies of the writer’s heart, that the text is the main focal point as opposed to what is represented visually and in action. But this is the role of an audiobook, not a piece of theatre. Contrary to this, there are moments where this is far too much happening visually which subtracts from the text –– a good example of this being the scene between Robin and her Dog played by Wilkins (more on this later). It is thus crucial that this text find a balance between action and speech. This balance must also be found within speech itself, however, with the text constantly juggling reflective, poignant and strong themes with flippancy, vitality and comicalness of character. The main thing I want from this text, beyond what I have already written above, is more of a perspective on James’s psychology. Constant utterance of his confusion over his breakup as well as his desire to get Robin back is really the ultimate extent of what we learn about his character. This becomes quite repetitious and hence unprofound. Having such a persistent focus on James’s character and feelings, this text could be a really great site for exploration into the minds of the abuser, as opposed to the victim. It could explore the difficulties faced in suchlike situations where abuse is unintentional or unrecognised for the abuser, and where abuse seems secondhand and distanced to them, making it difficult for the victim to really gauge the extent of the situation and the severity of their abuse, which usually results in far worse a suffering from both sides later down the line. Beginning and ending with James, perhaps this is, indeed, the intention of this text –– in which case, it is falling short of its aims –– or perhaps this is just for style, presenting the material from the antagonist’s perspective, but I feel this latter is too uninspired a direction for this text. As written above, juggling content and form, i.e. themes/significance and character/drama, is something this play struggles with consistently, and these final scenes, when Robin arrives to collect her dogs, demonstrate more than any other a lack of refinement and organisation of material. This is only the second uninterrupted scene between James and Robin, the first being the camping scene which, again, imagines an entirely different relationship, and the shift between these is severe. Robin, unlike us, seems prepared for this, conditioned to James’s outbursts, irrationality and erraticism, entering, as soon as James starts, a trained and almost catatonic state of defence –– although, from an acting standpoint, this could be minimised, as, again, it sometimes feels as though Blessed is not really in the moment, which is definitely not desired here. However, despite Robin’s readiness, we are not accustomed to these outbursts; again, there has been no buildup to them; they seem to come out of nowhere. It is an issue with context; a lot more is needed to make this scene congruous with the rest of the text. This being said, the text here is focused, poignant and articulate. One certainly feels as though one is witnessing a real and harrowing display of abuse. We see the true colours of James, so to speak, and this is most certainly chilling and effective. The acting here, from both Blessed and Wilkins, is remarkable. The two remain incredibly and incontestably gripping. As a stand-alone scene, it is both excellent and successful. Yet, it still remains utterly disjointed when placed within this text, both in terms of tone and content. What really dampens and destroys the poignancy of this scene for me, however, is Robin’s death. This is far too dramatic and completely incongruous with the rest of the otherwise static and underplayed material of this performance. A most unimaginative and vapid ending, especially given that our trust of James has been shattered and so we cannot really trust that his description of what happened to her is true. Her death is far too abrupt, abstruse and overdramatic. It really feels as though the play just gave up on itself with this ending, selling itself for cheap and common thrill. Aesthetically, this is a rather unimpressive performance. Delights uses the bare minimum design possible to imply location, and whilst this complements the sometimes short and fast-paced scenes, it makes for a dissatisfying visual overall. This is, admittedly, counteracted by the constant use of props, but these approach superfluity and become over-relied upon to generate a sense of location. This over-reliance makes for frictions when props are omitted where they really should not be; for example, in the final scenes, where is the food that James has prepared Robin? It is bizarre to me to have props and food/drink in the beginning of the play and yet nothing upon the plates in these final scenes. I was disappointed to find that the set design echoed that of Lullabies. It feels lazy. The white boxes with harsh black outlines make both setting and the overall world of the play enigmatic and hard to read. Costume, on the other hand, is rather good until the end when Blessed wears a bathrobe throughout. Whilst one could argue that this sharpens our sense of her vulnerability, to me, it just seems as though little effort has gone into realism here, especially given that she is barefoot, too. It seems unnatural that she would travel all the way to James’s house dressed in such a way, no? As with Lullabies, the motif of dogs makes an appearance, but, this time, it is far more substantial and prolific, used across the narrative, and this is promising, fundamentally. Yet, I find the manner in which the dogs are communicated to be far too convoluted. We first have the funeral, the setting of which is conveyed by a mat topped with artificial grass and a small, collared white statuette of a dog. The representation here draws more from our visual imagination. The dog is symbolised by these pieces as dead and we must make our own mental image of what the dog would have been. Next, we have Wilkins wear this collar and perform as a dog, a most surreal and overdramatic representation, painstakingly working our suspension of disbelief. Finally, the sound effect of a group of dogs barking draws from the auditory imagination of audience members. These all require us to work different parts of our minds, of our imaginations, and the physicality, reality and significance of the dogs in this way become skewed. Choose a style of representation and stick with it. Yes, I find Wilkins’s dog portrayal amusing and endearing, but it is highly subtractive. It is a deliberate attempt to enthral the audience, especially with Wilkins interacting with that aforementioned audience member that he had been attempting to woo earlier on. This is really the heart of Robin’s side of the story, and the focus upon her words and thoughts should be far more ultimate and poignant. This extravagant and surreal display distracts entirely from the severity of this scene. Perhaps Blessed’s intention was to demonstrate the pacifying and mollifying power of her dogs, those which helped her through her own personal sufferings in real life; perhaps the intention is to have the dog distract us from the pain in the work in the same way they distracted her. If this is the case, the intention is good, but we are not actually presented with enough information on the dogs and Robin’s restorative relation to them whilst experiencing pain and trauma for this to be as effective and as well communicated in play. The motif of dogs is still but budding so early on in this play, and our lack of understanding of their significance forces us to concentrate even more on Wilkins as a dog as opposed to Robin’s monologue, eradicating poignancy through a knowing silliness. This outlandish treatment of hard-hitting topics also trains audience members to brush over such items later on, to the detriment of the performance. Overall, there is a lot to be worked on in this performance. Scenes alone are good and, for the most part, demonstrate profound and organised thinking, but there remains an extreme stylistic incongruity across these. To consider each scene as a separate entity is to have enjoyed this performance; considering them all as interconnected, however, is something else. Both the aim and the voice of the text feel confused, disorderly and ill-conceived. “A play with a strong and profound premise but one which is compromised by ill communication and disorganisation of material.”

This is a very comical and relevant performance. Whilst creative institutions like Disney consistently advocate an apparent genuine desire to represent minority groups and to fill our screens with diversity and acceptance, the said process seems to be unforgivingly slow, and there remains very little mainstream entertainment elsewhere with the same popularity, vitality, vision and potency that also allows for LGBT+ content. Happily Ever Poofter provides just that, aiming to create a world where gay fairytale romance is possible, nay imminent, and to celebrate it. The play appropriates Disney’s songs and magic to tell the story of a gay prince who finds himself seeking his happily ever after amidst the gay scene of Soho, London, far away from his magical kingdom. Solo performer and writer Rich Watkins pulls from a wide range of theatrical styles and techniques to devise an outrageous, outlandish and variegated performance, and this makes for a most enjoyable and manifold evening. However, there remains a certain unilateralism to this text which is particularly irksome for me. I shall start with this. Audience members are greeted a while before entering the black box studio, just outside in the pub, by two muscular men in nothing but small, tight underwear — direct inspiration, or so it seems, from gay strip/sex clubs, popularised fetishes, and/or the infamous Pitt Crew from the hit American TV show RuPaul’s Drag Race. Immediately, we are forced to make associations between the world of the play and outrageous, in-your-face sexual provocation. Holding this in mind, we are then presented with direct references to chemsex, unprotected sex, irresponsible and reckless use of drugs such as G and PrEP, excessive alcohol consumption, and many others, and a noticeable pattern emerges. This performance relies heavily on existing stereotypes, ideals and supposed libraries of common knowledge amongst gay men (that of celebrity divas, musical numbers, fashion brands and trends, etc.). Much like the high heels, glitter and overt references to anal sex also prevalent in Watkins’s text, these have become signifiers of liberation through re-appropriation of the secondhand shame towards not only sexuality but femininity [or, rather, “lack of masculinity”] and overall difference that the vast majority homosexual men experience daily. These signifiers, subverting and re-contextualising such shame, have become fundamental to gay culture, primarily, again, due to increased interest in and demand for modern-day drag culture. The problem that this performance faces, relying so blatantly and heavily on these throughout, is that it starts to lose originality and voice. These items become thematic and are wildly overused, making for a unidimensional representation of gay men. As with all sensationalist works, there is a sheer lack of realism and gravity, replaced, instead, with comedy, extravagance and desire. The problem I have with this performance is that it remains incredibly superficial. In doing so, it not only denies realism and regurgitates and reaffirms ideals forced upon the gay community from within, which ultimately become categorising and hence oppressive –– the opposite of what is desired –– but it idealises and glamorises risk and danger. Prince Henry, for example, remains without identity beyond his sexuality and “love of cock”. Any humanness, beyond the search for love, which is actually mispronounced in this performance as desire for sex, is completely omitted. As for celebrating drug use and the possibility of acquiring STIs from unprotected sex, without the necessary satire, this I find most problematic and damaging; such issues should be handled within the LGBT+ community with care –– not severity, seriousness, judgement or denouncement but care. I should note here that it is more that, rather than presenting these subjects with a deliberate and explicit tongue-in-cheek humour or amongst a wider and more cohesive/comprehensive scope of material, these subjects are repetitively presented as completely risk-free standards that “all” gay men encounter; this is not the case. Indeed, there is one moment in this performance where sensationalisation takes a breather and we are hit with harsher material, and that is when Sleepy dies… This, however, seems ineffably out of place, a blip in a storm of extravagant impetuous sexual activity and drama. Not to mention that Sleepy’s death seems to be in vain, with Prince Henry continuing his raves just as normal with no reflection on the incident whatsoever. All of this being said, the blatant subversion of Disney romance, with references to chemsex, Grindr, nudity and even death, certainly defines the comedy and tone of this performance. However, I feel that the significance of Disney in this performance needs to be readdressed. It feels as though a kooky tool for addressing underrepresentation of homosexual characters in the media –– which is good, that is what is desired –– but, omitting the backing tracks and the very beginning and end, what role does Disney actually play in this performance? In fact, Prince Henry is represented later on in the play as just a character from a generic fairyland when he talks to his “writer”. Is this Walt Disney himself? It seems not. All references to Disney seem to drain away, and Prince Henry becomes an unparticularised fairytale prince. With Disney gone, so is our tool for uncovering underrepresentation –– although, perhaps this has already been lost to those sensationalist items addressed above. Perhaps, also, those homosexual individuals not ascribing to such activities will remain without representation for some time to come. Sociopolitical significances aside, this performance, for what it is, despite having very little continuity and specified structure, is a very enjoyable one. Watkins is an energised and astute performer with good comedic timing and topical knowledge. Interactions with audience members, which play an integral role in this play, are organised finely, and Watkins’s witty remarks tailor themselves incredibly well to audience responses. He has clearly conceived these well. I would just be wary of the over-repetitious nature of the general interactions with the audience members as “citizens”, as this becomes rather tiresome, particularly at the beginning. Watkins is an utterly transformative and versatile performer, presenting polished, clear-cut and well-conceived characters. Perhaps not the best of singers –– though this supports his charm, I believe –– but his songwriting abilities demonstrate promise; it is not easy to write to the constraints of pre-written music, and he succeeds not only to do this but to fill songs with topical and hilarious lyrics. I will say, however, that the choreography (by Simone Murphy), where dance sequences are concerned, could be far more zestful and imaginative. However bleak and unidimensional I proclaim them to be, I cannot completely deny that there is truth behind the represented realities of not only the gay scene of Soho but of modern sexual interactions amongst gay men that Watkins cleverly crafts into engaging and riveting comedy, drawing from common mishaps, predicaments and scenarios in relation to hookups, clubs and the suchlike. In this way, Watkins provides his audience with a relatable, reflective and current agenda, allowing for a comedic exposure of topics and happenings still taboo, unspoken of and unshared today in a way which heterosexual affairs rather loudly are. I do think, however, that this text sets itself up for something far different from accounts of promiscuity and libido-driven interactions. Watkins should consider much more carefully how each segment of the text relates to the others: what does the performance set out to do? And is it doing it? My answer would be no. The text seems to acquire multiple focuses, from Disney to love searches, to sex, to STI prevention, to issues with underrepresentation. It feels at times as though an untailored explosion of elements of sensationalist gay culture as opposed to a coherent rollercoaster through the world of a love-seeking fairytale prince. The figure of the prince, like all characters portrayed in this performance, rather than representative/expository of a subtextual cogent argument or the embodiment of a sociopolitical undertone, seems like a simple device to contextualise and accommodate the various, ever-changing [and sometimes extravagant] desires of the text. As for technical components, these complement the material incredibly well. From harsh and dramatic spotlights to an underwhelming [and that is why it is brilliant] bubble machine to reversible backdrop features, the stage is filled lavished with surprising, unique and endearing oddities. Props and costumes definitely make this performance, allowing for a type of humour which asks us to stretch our imaginations, to believe that the dissatisfying and inexpensive is mystical and full of wonder –– my personal favourite being the handheld fan used to dazzle us with an ineffective puff on a [not actually] billowing pride flag. It is silly gags like these, combined with Watkins’s enthralling performativity, that make this performance so undeniably enjoyable. “A performance of comedy gold, hilarity and extravagance but one in need of further care towards structure, originality and sociopolitical significance.”

Visually, this is quite a stunning performance whose unfixed and simplistic set (designed by Rana Fadavi) allows for dynamism and dimension. The motifs of glass and sound waves allow for consistent tension amongst spectators, the feeling that something drastic and transformative is on the brink of passing. The effect of this is accentuated by having the glass on stage constantly throughout the performance, evocative not only of characters Amina (Naima Swaleh) and Rebecca (Josephine Arden), both together and as separate individuals, but of the situation this play presents and reflects. This latter symbolism is of particular importance to me, as I really enjoy that Rebecca herself inscribes her teachings and “facts” onto the glass, as though her “factual” thinking and [mis]education is what causes this escalating tension between the characters. This is a very dark play, and this is translated into music and sound (sound design by Nicola Chang), which remains harrowing in its use of triggers and shrills, as well as in the performance’s design: low lighting (lighting designed by Will Monks), sharp and dramatic visual effects (projections also by Monks), lack of colour in costume, etc. Each of these has their own commendable impact. In fact, costume seems to play quite a role in this performance. I enjoy that the other characters, particularly Amina, wear colour where Rebecca does not, as though they are enlightened or relate to the world differently, this meaning being accentuated by the other characters’ comments on Rebecca’s red necklace. Jamilah (Alma Eno) relates this to a ‘red waterfall’, as though it has some unique significance to her — which we could perhaps infer to connote blood? — and Amina often reminds Rebecca of how pretty she thinks it is, as though ironically, seeking to invalidate her other aspects. Indeed, Amina does just this in stating that Rebecca’s clothing is provocative, that she is sexualising herself through it. This is a particularly poignant item, with clothing being a fundamental difference between cultures and a key signifier of provocative behaviour/intention and licentiousness across many religions. In critiquing Rebecca’s clothing, Amina gains an unusual upper-hand, establishing her own cultural teachings as appropriate and correct over Rebecca’s own, British ones. Here, writer Joe Marsh exposes how oppressive such seemingly “trivial” matters can be for non-British cultures. However, in having Amina act in such a way towards Rebecca, Marsh also “confirms”, less directly, that foreign cultures intend — and succeed — to oppress British traditions, cultural values and overall society, and this brings me to the content of the writing. This is a play with very specific material and intentions, and yet, its text relies too heavily on connotations and inferences insofar as Amina’s true identity and our reading of it is concerned. Amina is consistently represented as viperous and disparaging. She actually seems rather racist in the way she attacks Rebecca for her Whiteness. There is little that exposes why this is so, and our reading of Amina becomes purely guesswork. I imagine that this is because Marsh intends to remain respectful and politically correct as a British writer writing Somali identities –– perhaps he wishes to abstain from misrepresentation in a play which aims to demystify racial/cultural differences in Britain –– but it is almost impossible for any play dealing with race and culture, particularly one like this wherein two are set against one another, to be completely 100% respectful of all sides involved. Appropriateness is not necessarily to do with what material is being presented but 1) the manner in which it is being presented and 2) the content that surrounds this material, which can either complement or discredit it. I shall elaborate on this, but in order to do so, I first need to explicate the overall plot. In The Glass Will Shatter, we follow Rebecca’s trauma resulting from interactions with Somali-British student Amina whilst working as a teacher in a secondary school. It becomes evident to us over time that it is not necessarily Amina herself that Rebecca is traumatised by but the way in which their sociocultural differences are presented by Amina herself or external forces such as leadership and law. Over time, Amina comes to represent the other, a cultural opposite to Rebecca. Rebecca must gauge what behaviour is natural and acceptable by British law and what seems disruptive or anarchist towards British values or British society as a whole. Towards the end of the play, however, especially when Amina divulges that she herself had extensive trouble as a result of her cultural differences, it becomes evident that Rebecca is not a victim; instead, she is feeding into a widespread national scaremongering around non-British nationalities, non-white ethnicities and, ultimately, terrorism and that she is projecting this thinking onto Amina. Actions such as teaching Amina the semantics of Syria vs Islamic State or even taking off her headscarf, or using language such as “You terrorised me” all demonstrate that Rebecca has given into this widespread fear and treats Amina as something to be afraid of, as though her culture is indicative of or equivalent to terrorism, demonstrating an utter lack of respect for her culture and her as a person. Now, back to this lack of specificity. As we follow the story principally through Rebecca’s eyes, having no real explicit detail of Amina’s personality, home life, upbringing or real intentions, what we actually have is an account of British vs non-British through the British perspective. Spectators really have to be aware of the contemporary social realities of non-white, non-Christian members of our society to really benefit from the subtext behind this play which never explicitly gives us a [realistic] reading of Amina’s point of view, of how such individuals are affected by matters such as Brexit, extremism, terrorism, xenophobia and racism. What we see is primarily one-sided, with these social realities scarcely exposing themselves, primarily through Jamilah’s wise advice, who acts as a sort of voice of reason, a realistic [if unwholesome] voice for Somali culture, and through Swaleh’s fragmented, interpretative movements representative of Amina’s distress (more on this later). Whilst Rebecca’s point of view is contradicted regularly by the other characters, we are presented with nothing substantial enough to prove her thinking and perspective as so erroneous or overdramatic. In fact, Amina’s behaviour towards Rebecca is so outlandishly bitter and malicious that it becomes difficult to see her as anything but ill-intentioned, nay evil. What we are left with is a two-against-one scenario of Somali vs British where Rebecca is constantly [and unrealistically] victimised. The lack of information and specificity about Amina and her reasoning leaves us with an incomplete reading of the situation; we are unsure as to what actually happened between these characters and as to who was actually in the right. Conversely, to some degree, it is good that we know nothing of Amina’s actual identity and thinking. It allows for modern British persons amongst the audience to subconsciously refer to what they have been indoctrinated to believe through a rise in scaremongering media and hate speech and thus in systemic racism/xenophobia. However, this is exactly why it is crucial that this play demonstrate the social realities of the real-life people Amina represents. Whilst we are aware from the middle of the play onwards that Amina feels differenced, excluded and inquisitive, not only are we left unaware as to why but, as mentioned above, her actions and demeanour suggest that this is a deceitful front, something of which to be suspicious. As I alluded to earlier, without more explicit components, it could seem as though Marsh is actually intending to represent non-British cultures as disruptive and oppressive to British people and ideals: Amina persistently refers to whiteness and ill-intentioned white culture, yet there is no equivalent so explicit from Rebecca’s side; Jamilah refuses to report Amina’s seemingly political comments and is identified by Rebecca as siding with her; Jamilah speaks of the importance of foreign communities within Britain without detailing why these are important; Amina’s speaking to Rebecca in nothing but Somali later in the play is only presented as disruptive and impertinent, bringing fear and misunderstanding to Rebecca, and the notion of relishing in one’s own language and culture is not presented elsewhere as natural or inoffensive; etc. The effects of all of these features is a confirmation — or, rather, reaffirmation, reinforcement — of current extensive British ideologies against other nationalities and ethnicities but particularly Muslim identities. I hope it is clearer now through all of this what I mean by the importance of more specificity in this play. After all, the aim of this performance is, essentially, to raise awareness of how the plenteous lives of minority groups living in Britain are affected by an ideological nationalist gaze with schools being a site of study for this; yet, the focus remains heavily on how Rebecca is affected, with dilute allusion to Amina’s seemingly slight and unserious discomfort and sorrow. Having worked as a teacher, Marsh wants to expose through this performance how the Counter-Terrorism and Security Act 2015 has implicated not only teachers and the emphasised manner in which they must monitor the behaviours and thinking of students in regards to detection of radicalisation and extremism but the students themselves. The aim of this performance, or so it has been expressed, is to demonstrate how this strategy, associated with the scheme Prevent, is so often ‘misapplied’ by teachers in schools to the detriment of the innocent students it is applied to. This is not exactly what this performance does. The focus remains on Rebecca’s so-called traumatisation. We do not see Rebecca following strategic schemes as teachers must, despite some allusions to reports and laws which make these seem as though tools Rebecca may use to channel her own anxieties towards Amina as opposed to legal procedures she must use as a teacher. This seems very much as though a personal battle. The situation feels repeatable, but we are not in any way informed, or convinced, that this is a widespread issue. In this way, the performance falls far from its aim, which is a shame, as matters like these really need to come to light, and soon. As for the structure and style of the writing itself, scene length becomes increasingly cinematic as the play goes on. By this I mean that scenes for theatre, particularly for amateur theatre or theatres without the facility to develop highly technical works, tends to be lengthier, dealing with more content in one sitting; otherwise, it seems choppy and often becomes physically and humanly impossible for actors to keep up with the speed of the text, particularly if having to move around the stage to assume various positions, etc. This is the case for this performance. Transitions become particularly messy whilst stools and flats are rearranged and actors take to their places, and the energy and dramatic tension permitted by technical components contrast too greatly against the slow disorderly movements. On a rather similar note, dialogue is written in most places as fragmented — episodic, one might say — and this causes a friction when it is performed in a realistic style, especially against the stylised movement that occurs sporadically throughout the performance. I would pay attention to areas spread over the text where this friction is happening. On the topic of style and movement, the overture for this performance is beautiful, crisp and significantly well organised, yet it bears very little relevance to the rest of the performance. The characters are presented as unified through movement, all three of them performing the exact same movements, if at different paces, and this does not reflect the conflict and difference to come. This remains, however, the only sequence where such stylised movements are actually impactful. Sequences where Swaleh performs distressed and fractured movements alone, usually framed within the glass, are both unseemly and unconvincing and feel as though simple fillers in their needlessness, overdramatic and unprogressive. It also seems erroneous to represent Amina’s perspective/trauma/emotions in this interpretive, implicit and almost animalistic way. One particular visual element that stays consistent throughout the entire performance, however, is the subtitling. I find this to be most distracting and unhelpful. The principal danger of having subtitles is that actors might trip up on lines or deliver their lines in a roundabout and inexact way, missing words or failing to stick to pre-established phrasal formulae, which is all simply irksome for spectators. This was definitely the case for these actors, particularly for Eno at the beginning of the performance who consistently added to or omitted elements of her lines and delivered lines too soon, having to repeat them again later. Whilst this did not affect momentum, it most certainly affected both realism and our reading of specific moments. What did affect momentum, however, was when subtitles stopped projecting, only to correct themselves and skip themselves through to catch up with the action on stage. Furthermore, when projected onto two or more flats, the gap between these meant that certain letters were invisible. To write honestly, I cannot really understand what the intention behind these subtitles would be. Perhaps they were intended to imply conflict between the characters, with Rebecca’s lines being projected onto one side of the stage and in one font and Jamilah’s lines being on another side in a different font, yet this is not consistent throughout and so the effect of this is utterly thwarted, and the difference in fonts remains simply unseemly. Perhaps the intention was to literarise the play, drawing our attention to the imagined and fictional aspects of it to moralise the text and to heighten our analytical reading of it, but, again, this is thwarted by the other plenteous fictional elements such as a stringent psychological realism or overly stylised physical movement. More simply, perhaps the subtitles were just that, subtitles, intended for the hard of hearing, in which case I would commend this, as captioning should appear more commonly in theatre, but I would also say that much more attention should be paid to the legibility and speed of these: as mentioned above, letters are often missing, text is sometimes too small, and lagging/skipping occurs far too frequently. So, the significance of these subtitles is highly questionable; they should not just be included for design purposes or for mere impact but should have specific functions. All of this being said, the blurring/bleeding red-white subtitles which echo Amina’s criticisms of Rebecca are most poignant and aid us to comprehend Rebecca’s mentality that little bit better. I would have liked, however, to see a similar thing for those comments/moments that stick in Amina’s head. This is a good performance with very good intentions, but it just needs to realign these with the material it is presenting. At the moment, the dramatic text is presented in a manner far too fictionalised and esoteric to be sufficiently educative and informative, and presenting only the teacher’s side of the situation –– and, at that, an account which still leaves room for speculation and misunderstanding –– further distances us from the hard-hitting truths this play wishes to convey. One could argue that Rebecca’s is the only side Marsh can successfully and genuinely represent, but Marsh is already or has already been in a field of work where such information to bulk up the factuality of this text is readily accessible. It is clear that only his personal worriments and observations are the fabric of this play, and this is far too subjective an account. The only other thing I have left to comment on is, rather aptly, the play’s ending. This was far too abrupt, the content feeling unfinished — and not in an insightful, representative or compelling way — and tech failing to cooperate with action, as consistently the case. I do hope that there was a technical difficulty on the night that I watched the performance, that there was supposed to be a blackout and stop in music, rather than a shift to natural lighting; if not, this ending is even diluter. “A good play with commendable intentions but in need of refinement in its articulacy, both textually and theatrically.”

In order to get the best understanding out of this review, I would recommend readers watch excerpts of Speak Bitterness by Forced Entertainment, as I feel this is a very good example of the kind of performance style this dramatic text would benefit from using, instead, as its mode of expression. Not only this, but the raw and neutral (undramatised) manner in which material is organised in this performance is something from which Rosalind Blessed’s own writing here could and should take inspiration, not necessarily by incorporating the same tone or subject matter but purely by studying its organisation and structuring of material and its deliberate lack of fictionalisation and psychological realism. On to the review. This dramatic text struggles immensely to marry its content with its mode of expression. It makes use of a traditional dramatic and hedonistic style of theatre, comprising character, plot and setting. This, I believe is a huge flaw for this performance. The classical unities of time, action and place subtract from the raw authenticity and relatability of the material at hand. The so-called ‘self-made limbo’ in which the characters find themselves stuck fictionalises their sufferings to such an extent that the aim of the performance is skewed: is this an expository and demonstrative performance whose sociopolitical focus intends to educate, inform or challenge the understanding of its audience? Or is this simply a self-contained, hedonistic piece of drama intending simply to entertain its audience by using suffering as its overall theme and driving force? To elucidate, I mean that the overall focus of this performance remains on the plot which is as follows: the characters are stuck in an otherworldly and punitive space; they need to come to terms with their subjective sufferings in order to escape it. These sufferings are presented, in this way, as secondary, as items that progress the overall, overbearing plot. This focus, I believe, needs to be realigned so as to have these sufferings function as the primary feature of this performance, instead. It simply feels as though Blessed was unsure about how to get her subject matter onto the stage, how to organise these monologues/duologues in a way that would make sense visually and theatrically. To fictionalise the content and to have its voicers be fictional characters, it seems, was the easy [and most common] way out for Blessed. It is what she is clearly used to. However, the dramatic and plot-centred style she chooses does not complement her aims and the messages she wishes to convey. Lullabies for the Lost professes to communicate and tackle real, authentic and raw human experiences of mental illnesses and disorders, traumas, struggles and sufferings, with Blessed claiming firsthand experience of these. The aim, then, is clearly to voice and represent such real and hard-hitting subjects in a considerate, cogent and perhaps eye-opening manner. However, our guides through these subjects are characters, characters who have goals, and these goals are simply to express their feelings/traumas/emotions/mindsets simply in order to escape the room, nothing else. Our focus, then, is directed towards the dramatic purposes of these monologues, how they progress the plot along: will they convince the room to let them pass? Will these characters succeed? Our interest remains firmly secured in the fiction, in the story; the sufferings are merely tools for its progression. Aiming to marry this content with the constraints of psychological realism and the classical unities of place, time and action means that the content no longer seems realistic or poignant. It simply seems thematic and useful, and these sufferings become rudimentary appropriations for simple entertainment purposes. This, I should imagine, is not the aim or purpose of this writing. Here is where I shall compare this performance against Speak Bitterness. In Speak Bitterness, there is a lack of fictional character, of illusory setting, and time is authentic and durational. The performers speak in both singular and plural first-person and direct their lines to the audience, and thus seem to present us with nothing but themselves. They are simply either altered personae, versions of themselves, or voices for / representative of human experiences, actions and thought. They do not interact with one another or break an extremely rigid, tailored and specific structure. On top of this, visual elements simply complement the aims of the text; they do not adorn or fictionalise it to an unnecessary degree. All of these features really force us to focus on the content alone, and the material is organised in a most poignant and meaningful way. Back to Lullabies for the Lost. As stated above, the performers are portraying characters. These have altercations, discords and disagreements and express their frustrations or worries about being trapped in the room. These emotions and expressions could certainly exist without any of the sufferings, and this is evidenced by how the characters go on for so long, bickering or sometimes encouraging each other, without any actual allusions to their sufferings whatsoever. These interactions are fictive and supplementary. Then, we have some overdramatic features such as the characters running towards the door in the hope to open it, or Larry’s (Chris Porter) initial freak-out when he first arrives in the room (which is then completely forgotten about — I imagine because Blessed does actually understand that, if continuous, this would distract from the material at hand). These moments are fleeting and unprogressive. Beyond how the characters interact with the room, we have the room itself, its appearance and its geography. Blocks are constantly moved around by the actors, and, again, this is just a very strange decision to me, as it serves no other purpose than to set up for the projection later on (I shall get to this later), or perhaps to refresh/reinvigorate the stage every now and then — another technique tiresomely intended for nothing but hedonistic purposes. The set is cartoon-like, white all over with harsh black lines outlining the boxes and bevels of the doorframe. It is overly unnatural. Less about how the sufferings are presented [or discredited] and on to what these sufferings actually are. Blessed claims to have firsthand experience with all of the sufferings communicated by this performance, yet there lacks a considerable degree of realism and care in the ‘solutions’ presented. This pertains primarily to the content of the projected video. This projection is an utterly incongruous element of this performance, destroying the stasis that this performance works so hard to construct throughout and adding an oddly readily accepted and even admired Big Brother-esque character into the mix, an absolutely random woman from whom we are supposed to take wisdom and guidance. The material expressed through this video is also utterly uneducated, objective and vapid. “Forget about your problems, love each other and live in the moment” serves only as a vapid everyday encouragement that we find in the modern day as, for example, with inspirational quotes and daily uplifts online; this is not a progressive message tailored to the often extremes of mental illness and mental disorders. Bulimia cannot be resolved by thinking positive, nor can post-miscarriage depression, neither can any of these be resolved by buying a dog. I will mention here as well that, yet again, the content is, supposedly, raw, didactic, encouraging and inspiring, and then enter the character of Andy in the projection who utterly fictionalises the message we have just received. In fact, having all of the characters sit down to watch and listen to Ma (Hildegard Neil) as if some kind of guru or goddess means that all of this information remains intended for the characters only and is hence limited in its a-/effect on the minds of the actual audience. Our focus becomes: “Aww, isn't that sweet that all the characters feel better about and within themselves?” as opposed to “This is inspiring and has changed the way I think about my own mental illness or those of other, real people.” Blessed makes a very dubious decision in choosing to combine the types of sufferings she does. Breakups, bulimia, eating disorders, miscarriages, loneliness, anxiety, depression, hoarding and finally rat infestations have no place amongst one another. It is highly erroneous to place such heavy and difficult topics side by side and expect them to retain their desired integrity, accuracy and vigilance. Even if, for example, Ash’s (Duncan Wilkin) monologue was an utterly eye-opening, thought-provoking and, above all, realistic representation of the traumatic nature of eating disorders and sectioning/institutionalisation, to place this beside other experiences of trauma and struggle initiates a discourse of dis-/similarity; we start to see this sequence of monologues as an insensitive “Who can make me feel the most pity?” We naturally start to weigh these against each other, judging their validity through comparison, and this is all accentuated by the fact that Andy (Chris Pybus) is allowed to progress to ‘the next stage’. We become under the impression that there is something about his illness and the way in which he is dealing with it that forces us to see him as superior to the other individuals. In fact, I find it incredibly patronising that the characters’ goal is to ‘come to terms with their sufferings’ just by voicing them, as though merely understanding one’s own disorder equates to a magic wand that will fix everything. This is an utterly unrealistic expression of harrowing mental conditions. Just because Blessed has firsthand experience with these does not make her qualified to educate others on how they should deal with their illness, nor is she best equipped with the knowledge to do so. I imagine that some of these features were intended as metaphors and symbols, such as, indeed, the imagery of rats making their nests around a childless woman or the lonely man and his dog. Yet, they are nowhere near powerful enough, if this is the case. These remain just as that: images and metaphors, passing and weightless. They do not aid comprehension or intensify meaning; instead, they are simply mere literary devices. In fact, these images are highly devaluing when considering the outlandish manner in which Kate Tydman (playing Nerys) interacts with the doll, cuddling and singing to it, after confessing to her miscarriage, then stating “Imagine if I was actually like that!”. I imagine that this is inspired by and wishing to counteract stereotypes of hysterical, crazed women attached with miscarriages, yet if this true, this is a most counterproductive decision. This melodramatises and misappropriates the sufferings of women who would, indeed, react in this way, belittling and invalidating their emotions as ridiculous, laughable or “crazy”. Such a performance aims inextricably to present the “truth” behind mental illness, and so one must be incredibly conscious of the exact messages one is conveying. Everything that one presents to the audience in such a performance is a critique or analysis of mental illness itself, not on our understanding of it. Our thinking is only challenged or exposed by extension of what we are presented. It seems here that Blessed has deemed her own experiences as objective. Similarly, on the topic of dog imagery, I understand that possessing a dog is crucial to Rosalind Blessed’s story of overcoming her own mental struggles, as her dog was a great help in getting her through them, but whatever truths and meanings are hidden beneath the text, whatever subtexts and personal significances there are within this play, I can only consider what is presented to the audience through the performance only. I can only comment on what the performance itself, without any external aid, is communicating. If this significance can only be understood by asking the play’s creators about it, the performance clearly has not been informative enough alone. Inspiration and execution are different things. I do think that there is a good degree of potential in the concept of this performance, but the actual content and the way it is presented simply do not match up. It is clear that Blessed wanted to make both an uplifting and engaging performance, but this is not what the text is allowing for, especially given that there is nothing uplifting or positive whatsoever until the very last five/ten minutes of the performance when we receive that vacuous speech from an all-knowing Ma. I would advise Blessed look into theories surrounding artists using performance as a grounds of therapy, whose work aims not to produce message-based theatre or performances to lighten the mood on the dark and painful matters — these objectives often resulting in vapid and generic pieces of theatre — but simply to express their own story in a way that brings both healing and closure to them as well as understanding or relatability to their audiences. If Blessed still wants to retain this dramatic quality in her work, however, she should consider other structures and designs that complement the messages and aims of her work. For this, a good example of an artist to look into would be Bryony Kimmings whose work remains fictional, uplifting and entertaining whilst successfully and realistically communicating personal experiences of trauma and suffering. Using so many characters to voice her thinking, Blessed also finds herself in a trap of needing dynamism and variety in her text. This exposes itself in the way in which she organises the monologues, some presented as though stories with beginnings, middles and ends, others as improvised thought tracks; some presented as duologues to ‘shake things up a bit’, so to speak, and bring a new energy into a structure I would imagine to have been deemed samey and boring, and, finally, the last monologue, Ash’s, being the most theatrical of all, presented through a certain theatrical performativity involving role-plays and broad gesticulations. Again, it seems as though the deeper into harrowing material we go, the more theatricalised and fictional the performance style becomes. I have deliberately refrained from writing too much about characterisation and acting abilities in this review. I think that such abilities were, overall, rather good across the actors. I just found them to be too melodramatic in places, with Helen Bang’s (playing Sarah) exaggerative nervousness or Wilkin’s rather loud disinterest in everything. I hope it is clear here, however, that this is rooted more in conceptualisation and editorial/directorial misguidance, as opposed to any fault of the actors themselves. I will say, however, and I could be very wrong, but it did appear as though Pybus fell asleep at some point during another actor’s monologue, whilst leant against the wall; either he needs to train himself to stay awake whilst on stage, or he needs to find a way of staying animated in a way that does not draw too much attention but that still suggests he is engaged in and part of the action. “An inarticulate and ill-conceived performance, convoluted and falling far from its aims.” Photography Credit: Adam Trigg.

Aesthetically, this performance is incredibly promising. It has an astute and definitive palette of blacks, whites and dark greens, with objects rarely falling out of this scheme. This is most visually pleasing. As an extension of this, the organisation of the space, for the most part, is also satisfactory, proving symmetrical, clean and neither under- or overwhelming. Costume adds vigour and also refinement to this performance, complementing character profiles and characterisations as well as quirk and humour (the sonic quality of Gwendolen’s (Pinar Ogun) leather boots, for example) and, again, the overall aesthetic. My only issue here, however, is the lack of coherency across the costumes, comparing satin dress-shirts, rhinestoned cardigans and skirts to coquettish and gothic lace dresses, platform boots and leather jackets, for example. There lacks in these costumes a sense of time and collective profile, in this way. Visuals are intrinsic to this performance, yet what they communicate is often dubious. The first most blatant visual element that I will write about is the figure of the maid (Nea Cornér). Director Aylin Bozok makes a bold decision in having Cornér present constantly throughout the performance, tucked away in the corner, eavesdropping on if not watching the action that occurs. We are made to think of Cornér not as a character or person but as a mystical bystander, a powerful, nay magical, and influential figure, rearranging the space and moving the other characters across the stage without their knowing, all through a kind of telekinesis. This is a very deliberate and particular decision, and it is one that complicates our reading of the dramatic text. My question is, quite simply: why? What is she adding to the performance if not visual appeal? How is this sorcery moving the performance along in a way in which its absence would squander it? In fact, the deliberateness of having Cornér always on stage means that our readings of scenes in which she is not present becomes complicated. As I wrote, she is primarily presented as a kind of otherworldly and inhuman entity, controlling the fates of all of the characters, and yet her significance is overlooked in certain scenes, primarily those involving Cecily (Glykeria Dimou). Why is such an integral figure absented here? Is she not in control of the entire plot, only aspects of it? Only certain characters? It seems as though the aim here was just to add some mysticism and intrigue rather than anything thoughtful, meaningful and texturised. When characters are magnetised or teleported, for lack of a better term, onto the stage, a pattern emerges: actors intend to appear weightless, floaty or puppet-like, assuming their positions in the space, and when the teleportation is finished, the characters all scream, in shock of their new surroundings or of the sudden realisation of a new presence in the space. Yet, this pattern seems superfluous and simply for humour. The characters immediately move on from their shock, and the scene resumes as though nothing has happened. I am not looking for an explanation here — repetition is enough to add tone and texture, and so I am not concerned necessarily with why this could be a reasonable style for this performance — my concern remains, instead, directed towards why this particular manner of expression was decided upon for this performance. The mysticism here is incomplete, faltering and inconsistent. What is more, it is fruitless, resulting in nothing and projected from nowhere. And all this coming from the figure of the maid is a decision connoting a very specific, unexpectable subversion of power, and this connotation is far too particularised to be ignored by the plot in the way it is. Such patterns and routines compose another element integral to this performance. As with the routine outlined above, there are two others I would like to draw attention to surrounding the character of Gwendolen that add absolutely nothing but quick-fire humour: one involves overdramatic, sexual interactions between her and John (Louis Pottier), most notably in Lady Bracknell’s (Ece Ozdemiroglu) presence; the other concerns the rigid pattern of behaviour she demonstrates when sitting down on the sofa, taking her time to decide, rather pointlessly and deliberately, on which part of the sofa to sit before sticking one leg out and adjusting the position of her glasses upon her face. Routines such as these are particularly distractive from the dramatic text because they are nothing but tonal, concerned with the overall mood and feel of scenes as opposed to the development of plot and character. The sheer volume of such routines, these two being prime examples, means that this subtraction from plot, in particular, is severe. It is incredibly difficult throughout the entire performance to really focus on the actual action of the play, and events start to lose their integrity. Rather than being used to complement the plot, to add texture and tone to an articulate and clear dramatic text, these moments of humour, much like with the mysticism mentioned above, are used as the very material itself. The plot becomes supplementary, nay superfluous, almost. This first example of Gwendolen’s routines is a prime example of this, as rather important information is subtracted from due to her and John’s loud and outlandish interactions. However, these routines also start to lose their integrity as they are overplayed, this being particularly true to this latter example of Gwendolen’s routines which starts out as endearing and timely but which becomes more of a rule that Ogun must follow, one which fades into the background of busy scenes and which becomes time-consuming laborious and tiresome. With the comedic quality of these declining, there is little else on stage to propel the performance along. This is this performance’s weakest point by far. In fact, the performance starts to become incredibly predictable, and even this persistent comedy seems to give up on itself until the performance is nothing but humdrum motions. What is more, momentum is consistently and deliberately thwarted throughout this performance, with utterly unnecessary moments such as one metatheatrical scenario, again repeated far too often, where we find the maid obstructing the movements of the other characters, sprawling out on the sofa on which they are going to sit, for example. Here, the scene comes to a halt, and the actors look at her expectantly until she moves, and the last line is repeated and the scene continues as before. These moments are needless and ineffably subtractive, as are others where characters mispronounce something and are corrected in difficulty by the rest of the cast or start delivering their lines in what is presumably their own language, only to be stopped by another to restart in English. This brings me on to the discourse [supposedly] surrounding the play. The cast consisting ‘purposefully’ of immigrants, this production professes to comment on the difficulty immigrants face in their integration into British culture, and I imagine that Pan Productions believe these moments of interruption, distraction, fallibility and correction to be successfully evocative of this discourse…they are not. There is absolutely nothing which links this performance to the social realities of immigration, beyond a few intentional mispronunciations and the use of other languages. I can definitely see how these elements have been inspired –– for example, delivering lines in one’s own language being representative of a faltering code-switching, an unintentional and unrealised slip of the mother tongue, so to speak — but the intended message behind or inspiration behind such elements does not equate what the messages actually are or what is actually being communicated. Until these moments arise, in fact, it is incredibly easy to forget that this performance has anything to do with immigration whatsoever. Even if these moments were more articulate, what exactly are the focal aspects here of immigration and integration into British society? It remains unclear. As explained above, this text is adapted primarily for comedy, not for discursiveness. Perhaps the additions made should not be these comical [and vapid] routines and interactions but additions that complement the motives behind this performance. Otherwise, we are left with a very peculiar image of immigrants, that they are mystical entities with telekinetic powers or overly sexual persons, that their main issues in settling into British culture revolve around dated British ideals of suitability for marriage. This performance lacks an incredible amount of focus and drive. Its intentions do not come through in any way shape or form, and it remains simply a wacky and peculiar staging of a well-known play, comical and endearing turned repetitive and lacklustre. It would be better to use the playtext as a skeletal frame for exploration into immigrant realities. This does not necessarily have to be serious and weighty; it could also be rather satirical. There are so many features of this play which would make for marvellous exposure of immigrant life in Britain or for critiques on British culture’s inflexibility towards immigrants: John’s countryman/city-dweller could be used to critique the binarism of native/foreigner; Lady Bracknell’s obsession with marriage could expose how immigrants relate to one another, socially as well as romantically, and to suchlike British institutions; John’s being born in a handbag could lead to discourses on the importance attributed in social ideology to birthplace and resulting xenophobia. Again, I am not asking for a profound exploration into this but for clarity. There is a massive friction between aim and execution. It seems as though this narrative of immigration is an artistic overthought, more significant and seemly in the minds of the performance’s creators than anything materialised on stage. There is a lot of fictionality in this performance which dampens its readability as a poignant piece of theatre. Characters are far too caricaturistic, the text is ill-tailored and simply whimsical, and the focus on the dated life of the upper-class exacerbates the lack of contemporary study. Moving on to characterisation, actors are, on the whole, engaging and cogent performers. Engagingness is more a problem concerning the text and its content, rather than performer capability. However, when routines are not relied on, and especially when the stage consists only of a few actors, energy is enabled to fall considerably. Performers are definitely in need of more vitality in places. The use of space is alright, but I would pay attention to how often Cornér faces away from the audience. If her presence really is so negligible and pointless that she should have her back to us throughout the entirety of some scenes, it would be better to omit her completely from them. Another note I have for Cornér is that I had absolutely no idea she played two characters, Lane and Merriman. Again, a lack of articulacy and conceptualisation; Cornér is simply representative throughout of a ghostly maid and nothing else. Some final notes on tech. Music (composed by Andrea Boccadoro), though highly simple –– yet, this is not necessarily a bad thing –– retains clarity and theme. Despite its lack of significance and its irrelevance to the text, I must admit that I do really enjoy the motif conceived for this production, but this is obviously subjective. Lighting (designed by Morgan Richards) could be far more focused and articulate but, on the whole, is satisfactory. I will say that it would be far more visually pleasing for this particular performance, however, to have lighting rise from a blackout or deeply coloured wash than from a lower intensity to a higher one in natural lighting states. The use of sound (designed by Neil Mckeown) is utterly incoherent. Why all the characters are represented by a particular sound, such as a bell strike for Lady Bracknell and a cawing crow for Cecily, I have not the slightest idea. An ill-conceived and fruitless addition, not to mention only used twice or thrice in the performance. However, I imagine this is more of a directorial issue. Sound also failed to coincide with action on stage successfully very frequently. “A rather enjoyable performance but one whose superficiality and repetitiveness becomes hard to stomach.”

John O’Connor performs Charles Dickens’s original text of A Christmas Carol in a touring one-man show directed by Peter Craze. This review will consider the performance of the 23rd at the Greenwich Theatre. This is not a particularly captivating performance, though it does certainly have its areas of interest. I shall start with these. Though I might call these the bare minimum, this performance provides us with a solid basis for our own imaginations to run wild. This is captured not only through O’Connor’s multi-roling and various mimes and voices but through the use of lighting, sound and projected images. Mimed gestures and sound effects produced by O’Connor himself are most certainly evocative, providing not only a sense of transportation but a certain comedy and quirk as well — although, all of this remains truer of the middle-end of the play, as I shall detail later. The use of space is, for the most part, adequate, and the multi-function of certain set pieces makes for rather dynamic visuals, bringing life into the components of the stage and the stage itself. Projections in particular, though simple, echo location sufficiently and transport us from an otherwise static and unimaginative set. Now, on to the not-so-positives. The set (designed by Tom Paris) consists of two large cases which are opened to reveal their innards as fake bookshelves, and a projection screen that sits between them. There is also a high table, a chair and the only prop, a book. The problem here is that the set, rigid and unmoving, provides the actor with little possibility for interaction, and hence, any interactions with the set that are to be had become repetitive, predictable and bland. If the actor/performer and the action presented are both captivating enough, this stasis does not necessarily become an issue. In this performance, however, an issue it most definitely was. Disappearing behind the set, simply to return in front of the projection screen — oftentimes with very little change in persona, physicality or character, or none whatsoever, even — the opening/closing and readings of the book and, most irritatingly, the disassembling and reassembling of the high table and its topper; all of these actions are too banal and bland to be effective, nay enjoyable, in their repetition, and this performance begins, erroneously, to rely on them. My very first confusion with set, however, was actually the titling projected onto the screen at the overture and during the interval. The screen reads, ‘Written & Performed by Charles Dickens’. I am aware that Dickens may have performed this play himself, but the suggestion here is that we are to consider the current performer, O’Connor, as Dickens himself. There is nothing else beyond this title to concretise or evidence this, and it seems most unnecessary and incongruous with the text. O’Connor functions as nothing but a simple narrator; he is not caricaturising or even vaguely representing Dickens’s figure. So, why the subtitle reads, ‘Performed by Charles Dickens’ is beyond my comprehension. Perhaps I have missed a symbolism somewhere, or I have completely missed the point…I doubt it. All features must be deliberate, coherent and meaningful, especially at the very beginning of a performance. When O’Connor finally enters, I find his performance to be most dissatisfying. Again, O’Connor seems to do the bare minimum to be classed as performing, his voices for different characters being far too indistinct and unchanging, and his physicality being, for the vast majority of his performance, negligible and weak. Even his very first action — which entails him entering the stage and present himself head-on to the audience before raising a hand but in a jerk of memory to turn and open the bookcases behind him — demonstrates both lack of energy and of originality. I find this beginning to be incredibly unfortunate, dilute and boring. This gesture is needless, just a weak and awkward display of incongruous metatheatre, and the bookcase is so uninspiring that the slight build-up permitted here is anticlimactic: “What could he have forgotten? What is he doing? What is in the case? …Oh.” Having O'Connor organise his set in this way adds nothing but outmoded comedy, and the bookcases should be open to start with. In fact, to keep to the topic of O’Connor’s gestures, I find issues with many of these throughout the beginning–middle of the performance. For the most part, O’Connor performs with clasped hands, making short-lived and irregular gestures every now and then which supposedly intend to complement his lines. These are far too infrequent, however, and seem as though after-thoughts, unimpactful and ill-conceived. As alluded to before, when he is portraying varying characters, there is certainly a change in physicality and expression, yet this is very, very slight for most characters besides the character of Scrooge. For these reasons, I would have liked to see more dynamism in O’Connor’s performance, more vitality but, more importantly, a more embracive assumption of characters. This does gradually change throughout the performance, and our actor does become more and more physical, gesticulative and active. This is almost what I would like to see throughout, yet energy is still very much lacking. Also, this shift/development in energy just means that the very former part of the performance seems simply disjointed from the latter, visually and emphatically imbalanced if placed side by side. Another issue I have with O’Connor’s performance concerns a danger I associate closely with solo performances: oftentimes, when portraying multiple characters alone, a performer will look from side to side, and this incessant back-and-forth motion becomes utterly jarring and irritating to watch. This danger certainly bared itself in this performance. Usually, if this were a shorter production or a minor feature of this performance, I would recommend drawing attention to this peculiarity through a self-conscious melodrama or something of that calibre, but for this performance, I recommend performing deliberately and clearly straight out to the audience, head-on, rather than from side to side. This would have also limited the amount of time O’Connor spent with his back turned to front-row audience members, primarily Stage Right but, indeed, also Stage Left. Perhaps this would not have been so jarring, however, if characters were much better articulated through demeanour, physicality and voice as opposed to movement. The text does allow for quite an amount of monotony if there is not enough variation in performance, and this needs to be better understood for this performance to be more successful. However, as I have mentioned, energy and momentum did improve as the play went on, but it was rather too late, for me. When O’Connor’s portrayal of female characters is wilder and louder than his portrayal of the Christmas Ghosts, it is clear that there is definitely a problem. There is certainly, in this way, a failure to understand which aspects of characters, which gestures and which tones to stress, caricaturise and draw attention to. On this site, I frequently include, where appropriate, audience reactions or feedback/comments to reflect receptions of a performance that are beyond my personal experience. It is without bias, then, that I must admit here that the audience seemed to enjoy this performance a lot more than I did, demonstrating this with stillness, laughter and an utterly roaring applause. Whilst four audience members did noticeably leave during the interval, to not return, this number does not compare to the vast majority who seemed to bear a very positive response. “A most underwhelming performance, stagnant and lacking depth.”

Written by Niamh de Valera, The Christmas Quest is a delightful performance for families and children. It is currently performing at the Blue Elephant Theatre. This performance really works the imagination of its young audience, from the usual Christmas tales to magical devices, talking teddies and enchanted worlds. Not only is the content very fruitful in this way, but there is also an interactivity to this performance. Children are able to post letters, which they have completed prior to the performance, with sentences to finish and a drawing of Santa to colour, and play a vital role in securing that the Christmas Quest be successful, forming bridges over chasms and encouraging the characters with a Christmassy rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’ and, of course, reindeer dancing. However, the danger with encouraging such interaction from an audience of children is, of course, that excitement may overcome them and cause them to lose focus and calm. This definitely proves to be somewhat problematic in this performance for two reasons. The first is that there are no real cues or implemented tactics to calm the children. One quick solution to this is to fascinate or mesmerise the children. Overstimulating visuals or sounds tend to both magnetise and stupefy young children, and this makes for a more receptive spectation. This could be achieved through lighting or through set, the letter machine being a perfect site for both of these, or slow music also tends to do this, but I do not think that would be particularly congruous stylistically with this performance, nor would that complement time — the performance’s duration only being one hour. The second reason concerns energy and style. Energy remains incredibly high, particularly in the very beginning of the performance, which is wonderful, but it does mean that it is difficult to come down from the high, as it were. The shift between interactive and self-contained scenes is unmarked and hence relatively unrecognisable, and, furthermore, there are many mixed signals as to whether the children are allowed to interact or not. Popping up again and again in various locations around the stage before darting back behind the curtains, Ruby the Reindeer (Amelia Parillon) waves cheekily and furtively at the children as they settle in the space. Meanwhile, Elliot the Elf (Santiago Del Fosco) interacts with audience members, even asking one child to ‘look after’ the Elf Phone which is placed beneath them. This setup is, of course, emphasising the interactive quality of this performance. When Ruby finally enters for good and converses with the Elf — for a period of time I would deem far too long to hold a child’s attention successfully — it is intended that the children listen to their conversation intently. Besides a few initial smiles out to the audience, this scene is completely self-contained. This beginning has permitted energy to build considerably amongst the children…yet, where does this energy go? When the children are intended to remain passive spectators during this conversation, they are obviously most likely to become restless and disruptive. Restlessness was definitely true of the young audience that I witnessed. I would definitely recommend a revision of style for this performance. Scenes should progress from interactive to self-contained and vice versa fluidly and clearly and should not leave an audience second-guessing or unsure of their function. I would recommend that scenes in this particular performance always retain a sense of interactivity yet through asides, glances to the audience, and a third-person narrative. Whilst moments such as Ruby’s introduction should be delivered to the children directly, conversations and other longer pieces of speech should be self-contained yet delivered as if direct audience address. This would entail angling oneself to be always facing the audience and reacting overdramatically and self-referentially, all whilst speaking to one another in the third person (think pantomime but without the extravagance). For the most part, it was clear that Parillon and Del Fosco were deliberately trying to face the audience. In a more naturalistic and adult-oriented performance, facing away would not be too great an issue, but for a performance like this, such traditional rules of theatre apply strictly. In the very beginning, there is definitely an attempt to calm the audience. Elliot remarks how wonderfully the children are organising themselves and how attentive and quiet they are being, a condition and tone they are very well accustomed to in education institutions and so will respond to more readily over other techniques. On the morning I saw this performance, this was somewhat effective…initially. Ruby’s appearances soon caught the attention of the children, and an indirect game of ‘It’s behind you’ ensues, shortly after which Elliot demands their attention once more. Not only is Del Fosco’s control of the environment compromised by the added excitement of spotting Ruby, but there is, again, mixed messages: are the children supposed to be listening attentively to Elliot or screaming for having seen Ruby? This latter is seemingly made acceptable by an enabling Elliot. So, omitted tactics to help maintain order, calm and focus potentially make this performance rather thorny. Yet, this thorniness is met with a comprehensive plot and very endearing characters. Through a magical, Christmassy lens, the plot successfully presents a clear story structure: context, problem, solution, conclusion. Simplicity is good here for a children’s production, and the linear, progressive structure followed is one a child at this age can recognise very well. The two characters, Elliot and Ruby, start off as distinctly different: Elliot is organised, meticulous and intelligent; Ruby is bubbly, lighthearted and somewhat dopy. Not the seemliest pair, these two characters end up joining forces and saving the magical crystal together, along with their sidekick, Teddy. This trio are very lovable and consistently remind the audience that friendship pervades all with the initial exclusion and final integration of Teddy. Such narrative developments, however, are not communicated in the best way. There seem to be core messages that the play is trying to convey, such as this one which teaches the children to never exclude one another despite their differences, yet these are given little stage time and are not made to be anywhere near prominent enough. I mentioned that the plot was easy to follow, and this is true on a fundamental and conceptual level, yet even this is rather complicated in its overall expression. The main thing that would complicate a reading of this performance for a young audience is the script’s language register. Words like ‘translated’, ‘process’, ‘excluded’, and, later, the deliberate addition of ‘suitable projectile’, are used much too frequently in this performance. What is more, when they are used — usually by Elliot — there is no change in persona or tone. When Elliot explains that the two will need a ‘suitable projectile’ to get the crystal down from a height, for example, despite his relatively pedestrian pacing, there is no change in his persona, nor is any attention drawn to the fact that he is utilising such complex vocabulary; this is just naturalised in the dramatic text. This joke falls especially flat, given that Elliot speaks this way regularly, anyway, and so any such change in register is utterly undetectable. Ruby follows this particular example with “Did anyone understand any of that?”, to which the children on the morning I attended the performance quite confidently replied, “No!” Despite the fact that the desired effect would not be the same amongst such a young audience, this was, evidently, intentional. Yet, this does not speak for the rest of the performance where this sort of language is used. Standing up tall, one finger in the air, talking more pronouncedly, all whilst looking at the audience — or some other dramatic physical shift of this nature — would enable children to understand, rather paradoxically, that they are not meant to understand, and this would have been better in this example. Personally, I would have simply stayed away from any such language altogether. Tone and diction are far more important than language, especially for children. All of this being said, the two performers were very good, and their energies and physicalities were equally as fruitful. When crucial for safety, these performers are admittedly rather good at managing the children and stopping them from running down the stairs in excitement to join the bridge-building team, for example. It is more with the preemption of behaviours that this dramatic text struggles, at the conceptualisation stage. The performers use space very well, making for both dimension and an immersive feel. I will say, however, that Del Fosco lends far too much time to the front row in his interactions, particularly the front row to his right, for some reason. ‘Silliness’ is a strongpoint for these performers (the squatting and the puffing of the cheeks when trying to reassemble the crystal, the hopscotching and side-dancing, the run-jumping, the break-dancing, etc.), yet I would have liked to see more of this — again, far too much time was given to dialogue. This performance makes for some captivating and transportive imagery, and this needs to be further accentuated. This brings me on to set (designed by Stuart Glover). The letter machine was an absolutely wonderful, if somewhat utilitarian, feature. Its usability and functionality were positively awe-inspiring, and its quirky features, most namely the ball and ramps, were equally endearing. I would just have liked to see more prominence and articulacy in its design. I could perhaps make out a bird’s nest, but there was no clear and distinct ornamentation which I felt limited the appeal and magic of the machine beyond its title and concept. For such a large contraption there was relatively little spectacularity. Maybe some Christmas ornaments or figurines, even some extra tinsel and ribbons or some rainbow glitter, could have heightened the visual effect amongst the children. However, this set requires utility over beauty, and so this is less of an issue. Its function as a collection point for letters to Santa is most magical alone. I will say, though, that the machine is very ill-communicated to the audience, especially the nature of the antennae on top of it — just what thoughts, and whose thoughts, for that matter, are translated into letters? As for lighting (also designed by Stuart Glover), this could be a lot more dynamic and a lot sharper in its focus but was sufficient. The blue wash was evocative alone to transport us to an icy cave, if a little too simplistic. Costume (designed by Jacqui Livingston), however, was just right. One final note on music. I found music to be extremely incongruous with this performance. Not only did it lack a sense of coherency and theme, but it also made use of far too many genres, from pop music to techno club music. This was not in any way befitting of a performance for children, nor was it very Christmassy. Overall, this performance is definitely very enjoyable. It demonstrates successful imagination and contains some excitable features. It is definitely strong in both its concept and design. However, a lot more thought needs to go into tailoring the script for the minds of the very young. Not only does the performance need to do this to make for a more orderly spectatorship but mainly for comprehensibility. Similarly, performers could also be better equipped with tactics to manage a young audience’s focus. “Conceptually, a wonderful, intriguing and pretty performance for young children; just in need of more tailoring insofar as communication.”

I have seen quite a few shows produced by Theatre Peckham and its young actor-training programme, and I must admit that this performance was rather disappointing, knowing what is usually achieved. I shall start with what is first presented to the audience: set. Set was definitely very wild in its design, and this was not necessarily a negative thing. It had a bright and vibrant colour scheme, met with various patterns and geometries, and this was definitely eye-catching and otherworldly. The addition of blacklight patterns –– invisible painted plant and vine designs which illuminate under blacklight to signify what I shall call the "Upper World" –– was definitely awe-inspiring and magical and of just the right amount so as not to be under-/overwhelming. The main issue I have with this set, however, is that it remained far too stationary. There was an extreme lack of workability, meaning that interactions with it were either impossible or unseemly. There was an overuse of curtains across gaps through which props and articles were passed, and these were far too rigid, meaning that hands on the other side were often visible. On that note, certain sections of the stage were far too translucent. The overall height of the set was also considerably short, and these two facts together meant that it was oftentimes the case that actors or stagehands could be seen backstage, passing across from wing to wing or readying items for the next scene. This is all highly destructive of illusion and must be avoided. Unless about to enter the stage, performers should keep well distanced from the set and, most obviously, well out of sight. The first character to enter the stage is Mrs Trott (Michael Bertenshaw). Bertenshaw enters slowly and nonchalantly, only to sit to the side of the stage and softly play a ukulele. A small "Oh, I didn't see you there!", and the performance beings. This is a most dissatisfying beginning. The Pantomime Dame continues to be a vital and, above all, self-mockingly gaudy and ostentatious feature of a pantomime. They are ludicrous in both their attire and attitude. In this opening, Bertenshaw does not seem, unfortunately, to fit the bill. I imagine that the comedic value of this opening was supposed to be rooted in this nonchalance, that we would find the severity and self-accepting nature of Mrs Trott’s entrance to be hilarious enough. Timing, I am afraid, is what made this so displeasing. To start with this particular stock character is a bold decision in itself, particularly as, especially even in this performance, she is by no means a main character, be it a narrator or other, but a comic character. I would recommend something extra to really draw attention to her character’s ridiculousness, with thought to comedic timing but, more importantly, to the element of surprise. Perhaps dramatic fairytale music, melodious and dainty to contrast with her butch appearance. Perhaps she comes out backwards, adjusts the curtain primly and turns to reveal her subversive manly features. In all circumstances imaginable, the ludicrousness of this stock character must be emphasised in a most ostentatious way; she should only be accepted into the narrative once this farcical and dramatic introduction has been carried out. As for the ukulele, this must also subvert expectations in order to be seen as comical. It should be whipped out from nowhere once Mrs Trott is seated, and Mrs Trott should ready herself for a complex and intricate musical rendition, all but for the sound of a tinny string. The song that follows is much too slow, not in terms of rhythm but in terms of the time it consumes. The pace of this beginning is rather dreadful, I must say, and there is very little to give us an idea of who Mrs Trott actually is, besides a title and a few not-particularly-impressive jokes. However, this improves significantly as the performance goes on, and Mrs Trott becomes a much more cogent feature of the performance. Jokes become much better tailored, and comedic timing improves considerably. I should emphasise here that my issue is not with Bertenshaw’s performance, per se, as I found him to be a most convincing and talented performer; my issue is more with what is being asked of him by the writing (Paul Sirett) itself. I found the writing to be doing the bare minimum to qualify as a pantomime. It expects its audience to understand the key features of pantomimes, to participate as and where necessary, and this ignores that the bulk of the audience will be children, and, very likely, children who have not yet seen any pantomimes. Classic callings, such as boos and awws are just expected of the audience in this performance, and there are no appropriate cues. For example, typical phrases such as "Oh, yes we are!" are worked into dialogue ambiguously and unemphatically, and it is simply expected that audience members will just catch on and join in in the usual pantomimic way; there are no gestures, no preparation, nothing. This pantomime omits classic components such as ghost scenes, slosh scenes, chase scenes, etc. and actually starts to become more like a self-contained play with semi-frequent audience interaction. Audience participation is a story unto itself. Getting audience members to come up onto the stage is generally extremely laborious to set up, anyway, not to mention time-consuming. The result must therefore be qualitative and productive. It was not. Late in the performance, audience members are gathered for a line-up and are quickly dismissed one by one. And that pretty much sums that up. Again, there is no extraneous effort, just the bare minimum. The last two interactions are particularly lacklustre, as Biz (Michael Gonsalves) simply states that those audience members are too big and begs Buzz not to choose them. The use of innuendoes and adult humour is fruitful, and the text makes for a clever repertoire of wordplay. Also effective are jokes which subvert expectation, such as the line "I've lost the buzz, Biz" or Mrs Trott’s "three-point turn", as are satirical jokes with a sociopolitical nature, such as Mrs Trott’s comment on the absence and promise of police. However, I must say that some of these became somewhat overused. There are definitely moments of hilarity in this performance, one personal favourite being Henrietta’s (Tamara McKoy-Patterson) rather explosive and glorious egg-laying, and actors definitely make this otherwise thorny text as enjoyable as possible. Yet, again, issues do often arise with comedic timing, one good example of this being Dizzy’s (Luis Gustavo Silva Navarro) final entrance, where characters before him are greeted and hugged by Mrs Trott and he, being invisible to them, is ignored and hence dejected. This gag is permitted to fade into the background, just as equally unmarked others. Why Jack has an imaginary friend in the first place, however, is rather questionable, as is the presence of a few other characters. Dizzy even disappears for a huge part of the text, and the narrative of his disappearance because Jack is “too old now” — despite there being relatively no real passing of time — is just entirely irrelevant and unnecessary. A similar fate takes the Young Detective who, really, does no detecting whatsoever and whose only ultimate function seems to be to act as the love interest of Jack — not a particularly progressive message for young audiences: a young female character carrying the illusion of liberty, empowerment and adventure yet who succumbs to being a damsel in distress, then, finally, a reward/trophy of sorts and simultaneously an object of desire… In fact, the way many characters are introduced into and attached to the plot is something I find particularly irksome in this performance. Shaun the Poet’s character, for example –– played by a wonderful and estimable young actor –– seems to just appear into the narrative without any real pertinence. Given that he appears so frequently and that he possesses the magic beans which, of course, are later traded for Jack’s cow, one would assume that his character would be better worked into the story and made to be more fundamental. He seems to take on the role of a narrator but comments on the less important features of the story, appears irregularly, and is only introduced towards the middle of the first half. It even takes a while for Biz and Buzz to really concretise themselves as the villains of this performance, their actions definitely speaking louder than their words. With these characters, we find a similar problem as mentioned earlier in this review when considering Mrs Trott’s entrance. There is no sense of drama in their entrances and exits, and especially no time allotted for calling. How these characters relate to the text is furthermore complicated by Biz’s yearning to be good, to stop her evildoings and open a B&B by the beach. This yearning is completely unspoken of again until the very end of the performance, and Biz continues to be evil without any sincere hesitation. Again, a remarkable young performer — in fact, one of the best for her age — but whose character remains an incoherent and unconvincing element to this struggling and, frankly, extremely poor text. On the topic of actors, acting abilities are good in this performance, and it is the sheer energy and vitality that these actors possess that make it watchable. I was delighted to see the children play an integral role, as seldom the case, with children even having leading roles. This programme is certainly composed of great, talented and endearing young performers, and all are delightful to watch. A few final notes on props, costume and tech. Props certainly could have been more ridiculous in this performance and composed a spectrum from effective to awful, awful being the use of the quilt as a sheet of pastry to wrap up Mrs Fleece (Yinka Williams), for example, or, in that same scene, the practically invisible hand-ties around the Cow and the Young Detective. As for costume, I found this to be particularly mismatched, with costumes such as Mrs Trott’s second frock or Mrs Fleece’s dress and wig, being especially elaborate and well-tailored, contrasting against Harpo’s (Kitty Hollingsworth) eyesore of a dress or the Young Detective’s particularly pedestrian top and skirt. Headpieces and other articles also persisted to fall off, signalling a poor consideration of assemblage. I did find, however, the ogre suit to be quirky and original. An editorial issue again, and a rather negligible comment, but I do fail to see why there is an ogre and not a giant as in the original tale. At first, I thought this a rather clever way of getting around presenting a giant on stage; I thought that the ogre would be a great, human-sized replacement, but then, enter the GIGANTIC ogre, and I find myself rather bemused as to why the tale was changed in the first place (or not changed back). Leading me on to tech, I do have a comment as well on the ogre’s microphone, on a prominent stand and pressed against the ogre’s face. This was most unseemly and could have been avoided by an out-of-sight microphone with an increased gain, if setting up a bodyworn microphone really was that difficult. On this topic, microphones were not attached/positioned correctly, and this made for persistent rustlings throughout the performance. Volume also presented its issues, particularly over the loud music. Music was very well composed (by Wayne Nunes and Perry Melius), yet songs were particularly unmemorable, especially those unrepeated and practically irrelevant. This is also due to the consistent issue with volume levels, however, with the music being much too loud and vocals being far too quiet. Regarding irrelevant songs, I am completely confounded as to why Harpo, a rather negligible character up until this point at the very end of the performance, completely commandeers the stage for the show’s finale, with her ‘Scene Queen’ song [which could have benefited from better diction from Hollingsworth]. Why this song was not about Jack, and why Harpo so acceptably nominates herself as the queen of the scene, I have absolutely no idea. I will say, however, that this is the best choreographed scene. Otherwise, on the whole, choreography was rather good, but scenes lacking specific choreographed movement for the background ensemble, in particular, suffered because of it. One particularly mesmerising use of sound was during the transitional scene involving the growing beanstalk. This was most transportive, particularly with the use of lighting. In this scene, as with a few others, lights spin into the audience, and this makes for a most immersive experience. The stroboscopic lighting [which SHOULD come with a pre-warning for those with epilepsy and suchlike conditions, particularly with an audience of children], also taking to the audience when the beanstalk is cut and the ogre killed, is very effective, too; it is just worrying that the only efficacy in this scene came from the lighting alone and nothing else. Sound did not add up with action whilst Jack axes the beanstalk down, and plot-wise, nothing really happens in this scene; were are just to accept that the ogre is dead, with very little information other than a simple declaration of this fact to go off of. Then, cue the show-stealing Scene Queen… This was an ending most lacking in impact. “Capable performers and effective visuals make this performance watchable; otherwise, an unfortunate car crash.”

I will start by saying that I have mixed views on this performance, primarily because the first half, before the interval, is so enjoyable, and yet the second is utterly shambolic. Where characters and plot are concerned, this is a good performance, but the way these are communicated is fallible and irksome. Momentum is compromised by relentless repetition, and, despite the actors’ unfaltering energies, climax and intrigue decline drastically as the play goes on. All positives that I write later in this review will hence pertain to this first half. I shall start with the one obvious thing that differentiates this play from many others: the use of rules. This definitely provides the play with a unique tone, permitting the audience to understand any subtext quickly and without shattering too steadfastly the theatrical and self-contained quality of the performance. Yet, my issue with these is not so much the idea of such an additional tone but with how this tone complements or aligns with the performance. From very early on in the play, there is a theme of regulation, of order and procedure, communicated both through the theme of a family Christmas gathering but most emphatically through allusions to how Edith (Rosanna Preston) runs Christmas as though a “military camp”. Though very loosely, this does contextualise the use of rules. Beyond this, there is very little to continue to do so. The major problem I have with the use of rules here is in my imagining of the play without them…it would be exactly the same. These rules are more vigorous character traits than restrictions/orders/regulations. They do not add complications to the narrative or to the world of the play, nor do they challenge the way characters interact with each other or the way we understand the characters and their intentions/emotions. Normally, rules are used in performance to guide actors through a performance, to command certain acts or behaviours out of them. In other words, they are the very text of the performance itself. With Rules for Living, however, they feel as though a simple [omittable] overlay which should remain in the conceptualisation stage as but a guide into plot-making and character creations for writer Sam Holcroft. These would lay the groundwork for the text, disguised within it, and forming –– not supplementing –– the material. As mentioned before, the only benefit of having these rules is that they slightly further our understanding of subtext, but this, unfortunately, remains rather limited to Matthew’s character (Adam Hampton Matthews) and the rule that he must sit down [and, later, also eat] in order to lie. Yet, is this not something we could work out without the rules? It seems a bit extreme to communicate something that would be otherwise comprehensible, in this very specific way. There is also no sense of risk, of what might happen if these rules were to be broken, and this remains evident until the very end of the play when the characters oppose the behaviours that have been enforced upon them. In fact, I cannot particularly fathom what we are meant to achieve from this ending. I feel that there is a subtextual meaning to this only clear to its creators, not in any way clarified for spectators. Similar to this is the 'Anarchy Rules' sequence with which I have many issues, but before I move on to this, I would just like to mention two more final issues I have. In terms of presentation, whilst the layout of the rules is slick and clear, the fifth and final rule pertaining to Edith’s character omits a colon and makes no use of colour like the others. This makes for a slight disjointedness in the visual. Then, there is the siren-like sound which occurs alongside the appearance of the rules. This needs to be constant, being that we naturally start to rely on the sound as a signal to the modification of an existing rule or the addition of a new one. Without the sounds, it is simply too easy to miss these amongst the overbearing action on stage. The extra texture and personality they bring to the performance suffer too. As pedantic as all of this seems, it is concerns like these that separate articulate and cogent performances from their opposites. Now, on to this 'Anarchy Rules' sequence. Tensions between the family have been building for some time, and when they reach their maximum, the sequence begins. Images of the maddened characters taking their rules to the extreme, running riot and going crazy, appear on the screen, and, on stage, all hell breaks loose…for perhaps the fifth time. The screen consistently presents a version of the characters which we are not presented on stage, a sort of avatar profile, as if the characters are in a game or a structured altered reality. Why this is exactly is not clear, and this is obviously a problem. That which is presented on stage, however, is quite frankly incredibly tiresome… It is clear very early on in the performance that direction (John Chapman) has been given and taken very well. During the first outburst, all actors have something to do, and there is a veritable variety of things to spectate. This is most commendable, as it is difficult to capture and sustain such vitality and energy in turbulent scenes like this. However, such outbursts, though admittedly not as explosive, occur again and again [and again] in this performance, and as their frequency increases, this spectacularity declines. Energy levels become extremely low, and these outbursts start to find themselves composed of very little. In their sheer abundance, they start to become wildly anti-climactic, as though the text is indefatigably milking every joke it has till the very last droplet. This can be said of many elements to the performance, most notably Matthew’s incessant lying and Carrie’s (Kasia Chodurek) dancing, or, which I shall elaborate on later, exposures of Sheena (Hattie Hahn) and Adam (Dickon Farmar)’s dysfunctional relationship. There is a lot of material that repeats itself, some of which is not especially impactful to begin with, and this makes for a dilute text, referencing that famous saying, less is sometimes more. With this specific sequence, there is not a sufficient amount of information as to what this so-called anarchy signifies. Again, it feels as though a game, but one on which the audience are not made knowledgeable, that a level has been reached and that we are expected to know what this means. Once more, the use of rules becomes obsolete, and we arrive at a point which we could have certainly reached without them. There is no need for an announcement of the anarchy, and the fact that this is deemed necessary signals for me that there is another objective that this performance is attempting to reach but is failing to. A similar thing occurs before this sequence when the rules become 'Live'. The characters seem to be gaining points as the word 'Live', appearing next to their names/rules, is accompanied by a number corresponding to the number of times these rules have been followed. What purpose these scores serve, or what the ambiguous and grammatically questionable 'Live 2' actually means, is again emphatically unclear. I imagine that, given the title, Live symbolises something far greater in the eyes of the play’s creators. Rules also remain Live for ages on end, and yet the characters are dotted around the stage, inactive and silent, failing to follow them. This fact is most true of Sheena’s character. By the time of this final outburst, I personally had lost all interest in the so-called drama of it all. Instead, I found myself rather sad in the consideration of all of the food and drink that this performance must waste on a nightly basis and with such little effect. On that matter, I would emphatically recommend more control in these scenes. However chaotic the action must seem, this should be organised chaos from the actors’ position, and pieces of chicken flying directly into the audience is not particularly organised. Furthermore, having such pieces landing on a spectator is not necessarily a spectator’s idea of a nice evening out at the theatre. On to the acting. Whilst I would have liked to see, where appropriate, more realism from the cast, from all actors besides Preston who remained cogent and convincing as well as capable in her comedy, all actors were true to the exaggerative and particularised language of the text. It is clear that they each understand their characters and their intentions and emotions. As I mentioned before, early on in the performance, each actor has clear activities: Sheena setting the table, Carrie making towers out of chopped carrots, Edith cleaning, etc. There is always something to watch. Towards the end, however, actors are just sat down around the stage, often motionless, waiting for their next cue. If there is really nothing to do in these scenes, and if these do not progress the play or its plot in any way whatsoever, then they should be cut entirely. Speech does seem irregular at times, which is both due to the unnatural patterns in the writing as well as the acting. I do think the text could benefit from some more realism in this respect. There are also little traits that the actors perform frequently which cause friction in the reading of their characters, a prime example of this being that Matthews regularly looks out to the audience after delivering a comical line, almost as though he is delivering it to them in a self-referential sitcom. This breaks illusion and should be avoided. That being said, these actors were certainly hilarious and, for the most part, had comedic timing, something which only suffered due to the lack of timeliness in the chaos of the outbursts. On to the writing –– rules aside, as I think I have elucidated well my opinions on those. Gags and jokes were very successful in this performance. Holfcroft has a very good understanding of comedy and a cogent writing style. However, the writing struggles to find a balance between comical features that add endearment and tone to the text, and crucial features that progress the plot. The actual plot of this play can really be summarised in forty-five minutes’ worth of text, yet all of the action manages to stretch over two hours. There is simply not enough material to make this a sufficiently complex and intricate text for such a duration, and this is evidenced by the text’s speedy resort to underhand and unthoughtful themes. When dealing with particularly sensitive issues, whether pertaining to race or culture, gender or sexuality, mental illness or disability, physical or verbal abuse or any other sensitive issue, dramatic and performance artists retain a particular duty to their public to represent these issues with appropriacy, intellect and consideration. As such, we express, of course, our own social realities, and we must do so with subjectivity and purpose, not with an objective, ignorant gaze which appropriates the suffering of people for humour — or, more ultimately, for commercial gain or notoriety. There is a time and a place for dark comedy, and this should not be used haphazardly or in spite of stylistic incongruity. Performing disability, just for comedic purposes, is inappropriate in this way. For this reason, I find the character of Francis (Tom Tillery) to be insensitive. This character is later used as a site for further [needless] inappropriate themes, most notably sexual abuse when he is revealed as a serial groper. This is not in keeping at all with the rest of the humour in this performance. The main problem here is that Francis has little to no personality. He is reduced to physical inability, to a caricature of illness, and hence lacks identity and personality. This is why, in comedy theory, it is so ‘funny’ to discover that he is a serial sexual abuser, for our expectations are subverted. These jokes are used in passing and are naturalised within the dramatic text, and this is most abhorrent. Themes of sex or themes which disparage minorities or the abject are those which amateur comedians resort to when they have run out of or cannot produce any material, and this is what has clearly happened towards the middle-end of this performance. Other darker themes are used throughout the performance as part of its material, such as Edith’s OCD and resorting to self-medication or Sheena and Adam’s abusive relationship, yet these characters are represented as people with personalities, motives and intents. However caricaturistic, the fact that they have depth to them means that the effects of this humour become less insolent as with Francis and more satirical. However, that is not to say that I found Sheena and Adam’s interactions particularly enjoyable. I think that Adam’s attempts to coerce Sheena to drink retain too much severity, not only in their consistent recurrence in the text but in the way they are portrayed by Farmar. I fail to understand why Adam is attempting to do this in the first place, and so forcefully and persistently. The idea and its execution just seem unpolished and rudimentary. All of this negativity aside, this play is undeniably very comical. Holcroft has successfully engineered a fruitful collection of characters, each with their own redeeming qualities. How these characters’ personality traits cause for frictions between them is most entertaining and well-conceived. Characters are ridiculous and silly, and I mean this in the most positive way. Actors have a remarkable chemistry with one another, and jokes are well articulated and land appropriately. Their energies are definitely commendable and unfaltering, and I will say that this can be said of the second half too; it is the content I find irritating, rather than the way it is expressed. As said before, actors remain true to the language and tone of the text; they are sure of their roles and functions in this way. I would just note that when characterisations become more extreme (dancing wildly, highly intoxicated, raging mad, etc.), these could be much more slick and refined. Actually going mad, without controlled or articulate physicality, is not particularly desirable. The set for this performance is very elaborate and detailed. It is very strong in both its usability and aesthetic intricacy. Complete with cupboards, chairs, fridges, a window and even a dishwasher, this set makes for a great and realistic sense of habitability, allowing for a dynamic range of interactivity with actors. I would just recommend that actors refrain from standing too close to the perimeters of the stage, as this blocks the view of spectators in the front row. Beyond the screen at the back of the stage, tech is used rather sparingly in this performance, and I think this is sensible. When blackouts are finally used, for comedic effect, they are timely and well placed. Music, only utilised during the overture, is pertinent to the mood of the performance, and this is most agreeable. “An enjoyable and comical performance but one whose content turns monotonous, overplayed and lacklustre.” Photography Credit: David Sprecher.

Written and directed by Bijan Sheibani, The Arrival is currently performing at the Bush Theatre. This is a very powerful play that typifies the sentiments of rejection, loss, heartbreak and trauma. It addresses the [ideological] importance of family, of togetherness and compassion, but, more importantly, of identity and of knowing and appreciating oneself. It is not immediately clear to the audience as to what the premise of Tom (Scott Karim) and Samad’s (Irfan Shamji) relationship is, and this is something I find both admirable and irksome about this play. This fact adds, of course, an intrigue and uniqueness to the text, forcing the audience to apply themselves to the narrative to work out what exactly is transpiring between these characters before them. However, there is a danger with this particular text that the absence of context may make the text too esoteric. Whilst characters are attempting to bond with one another, our lack of context means that we overlook a lot of important first interactions, seeing items such as Tom’s white strand of hair, for example, as quirky and ignorable. This limits our initial reading of the characters and causes us to lose out on quite a lot of the plot’s development. When we find that Tom is slowly being distanced from Samad, the impact is then less powerful, for we do not feel too strong a sense of loss, having not built an especially strong sense of their relationship and the particularity of their intimacy. I found the writing to be particularly repetitive at first, with the dominant structure being as follows: one character asks a brief question, the other says, "Yeah," and this repeats again and again. This follows a specific and overplayed current trend in contemporary writing and lacks both flavour and originality. This structure is repeated far too often, dampening the text considerably. There is also a lack of specificity in some areas; for example, Tom’s fixation on genetics seems rather more like a projection from the views of an outsider on adoption as opposed to an adopted individual. It is also not particularly evidenced, and hence rather unclear, as to why Samad and Tom become distanced in such an extreme way. One could imagine that Tom became rather obsessive and overwhelmed Samad and his family, and yet it seems that they are all so fond of him, Samad even worrying about what Tom’s parents thought of him. This transition needs to be clearer; otherwise, it goes from training in the park together, Tom massaging Samad’s legs, and the two meeting each other’s families, to the two beating each other up outside of Samad’s wedding from which Tom was essentially excluded, and this seems a rather extreme shift. There is, of course, an element to this absence of information regarding Samad distancing Tom that allows us to see all of this from Tom’s perspective, which is quite effective. We are as shocked and bewildered as him. However, I feel that this said implication is too minimal to justify this. Elsewhere, the absence of certain items does seem to benefit this play, such as the absence of other characters and set pieces, drawing extreme focus onto nothing but the two characters themselves. This restriction of what we are presented beyond Tom and Samad is translated into all aspects of the performance, including music, costume, props and movement. Props are only utilised when essential –– when it is impossible to mime [without being laughable] riding a bicycle, for example –– and this makes for a stylistic consistency, where mime is integral and props are a last resort. With a simple addition of club music and a gesture suggestive, for instance, of holding a glass, this performance is successful in casting our imagination to various locations. Movement becomes integral to this performance, and the space itself soon bares its own kinetosphere, with physicality becoming particularly energised and with movements extending off stage and out towards the audience. The characters exercise upon the stage and run and bike-ride around its perimeters. This gives us a sense of motion, rhythm and dimension. Despite being such a large and vacuous space, there is still a sense of containment and hence intimacy. This is emphasised when one character is left alone, or when the two stand or sit close to one another, creating their own, narrow interstices within such an expansive space. Another manner in which this sense of intimacy is created is through the actors’ mirroring of one another. This, however, I find to be most tiresome. Of course, this communicates a sense of familiarity, connecting the two individuals not only in their feelings during the discovery of one another but also in the fact that they are family, as we see that the two share behaviours and articulate their emotions in identical ways, especially in the scene wherein the two demonstrate their anger, take off their shirts and throw them to the ground, all in a boisterous rage. Yet, all of this is not particularly a unique method of storytelling, and with the text being so evocative of that aforementioned contemporary writing trend, the dramatic text, again, loses a sense of uniqueness and personality. In a similar way, movements (directed by Aline David) become very repetitive and lacklustre. It soon becomes evident that there is a limited amount of positions and arrangements that the two can assume, of activities that the two can perform. Shamji’s go-to action seems to become to tie his shoelaces, and acts like these become monotonous to watch. It is rather conspicuous that Sheibani is aware of this sense of repetition and stagnancy in the movement and is attempting to work some variation into it, particularly during the scene involving the bicycle, where Shamji walks around the perimeters of the circular platform, with Karim walking beside him but upon the rotating stage. The two regularly swap places, jumping around each other, swapping directions. It looks…messy. There is a lack of topography as Karim cuts through the diameter of the platform to meet again with a running Shamji or when the two have been going around in circles incessantly for around ten minutes. I would urge Sheibani not to be afraid of stillness, for this can add a particularity and unique articulacy to a text when the text is composed of but nothing else. If the scene if boring, it is not because there is not enough spectacularity but because of the quality and intrigue of the writing. In this scene, I would have preferred the stage to rotate at just the right speed so that the two characters end up walking beside each other considerably fast yet end up covering very little distance. A sort of treadmill effect. Ideally, this treadmill-ing would cease at the end of the scene, when the two will have completed a full circle. Finally, the design of the set (by Samal Blak). Simplistic to the eye yet very technically intricate, this set design is a very brave one. As alluded to earlier, the stage consists essentially of a rotating platform, leaving a rather tight portion of the floor below around its circumference. The vast majority of the action takes place upon this platform. This is particularly effective in demonstrating a fragility between the two characters, having their relationship play out upon, visually speaking, unbalanced ground, seemingly high up from our perspective as seated spectators. It also, of course, creates a sense of a change in location in its movements but also a change in mood, implied by the speed at which the platform rotates. A most dynamic and intelligent design. To conclude, this is a very enjoyable performance, but it follows far too many trends in modern theatre, from structures in text to storytelling techniques in performance, and thus becomes somewhat bland and uninspired, despite material being resonant and powerful. I would urge Sheibani to reconsider not only this but the fluidity and congruity of his text as well, how the plot progresses from one major event to another and how this is portrayed. Overall, communication is not this performance's strongpoint. “A performance with fresh and intelligent content but one presenting this in sometimes unoriginal and lacklustre ways.”

Created by Carolyn Defrin and Abigail Boucher, Kissing Rebellion is currently performing at the Ovalhouse in Kennington, London, as part of the Demolition Party 2019. As a purely exploratory piece of theatre, investigating the relativity, contextuality, viscerality and many subjective significances of kissing, this performance is rather rich and extensive. It encapsulates rather well the multifunction as well as the emotional experience of a kiss, and, in this respect, it is rather holistic and relatable. However, it is the manner in which it does this and the friction between desired effect and actual product that complicates my reading of this performance. Kissing Rebellion is essentially a performance consisting of storytelling, composed of narratives, anecdotes, opinions and memories that relate to one another only through theme [kissing] and the human condition. And it is most effective in the sheer range of experiences it details, from platonic kisses to romantic, from tender and intimate to superficial and ceremonial, from profound and visceral to naturalised and superfluous. It does this primarily through verbatim theatre, presenting to its audience a vast series of recordings in which interviewees elaborate on a very personal or general/social experiences of kissing, or upon the ideals they have associated with kisses themselves, explaining how sexuality, for example, interferes with the want or need to kiss. These recordings serve as either inspiration for or an overlay to the action presented on stage. My issue here, however, is not with these narratives but by whom exactly they are produced. It seems bizarre to me to pair the actors voicing what is apparently ‘their own’ experiences of kissing, with those of the interviewees. This complicates and mystifies the voice of the performance, not only from an auditory perspective, where our ears are unsure as to whether to listen out for a recording or a real voice, but from a dramatic perspective. It becomes difficult to understand what relation the performers bear to the performance: Are they [a version of] themselves, presenting their own anecdotes and additions to the narrative? Or are they representative of those of others, the interviewees? Are they fictional characters with fictional emotions and narratives? Or are they just neutral figures, bodies in a space, embodying the generic and relatable? They cannot –– or, at least, should not –– be all three, as this makes for an overall confused or disparate voice. There is one moment in this performance where these two voices seem to come together, and that is when we are presented a recording of one of the performers themselves with others laughing in the background. This moment finally makes for an alignment between the auditory and the visual, as the performer in question stands on stage with the rest of the ensemble who are, indeed, laughing, all facing away. We are able to cast what we acquire from the recordings onto the action on stage, onto the performers’ otherwise depersonalised bodies. Yet, we are immediately thrown out of this when music starts, accompanied by sexual moaning, and the performers start to undress. Distorting their bodies and moving unnaturally, something very ‘real’ and relatable becomes sensational, stylised and dramatic. This performance continually struggles to find not only its voice but its means of expression, and this is most evidenced, and complicated, by two scenes in particular, one in which one performer details his love for Tom Daley, imagining a kiss with him beside a swimming pool, and another wherein a different performer performs a guitar solo of Leonard Cohen’s ‘I'm Your Man’. In this former scene, there is a plethora of differing theatrical features: direct audience address, use of character, metatheatre and, for the first time in the performance, physical movement. We also see the first and only instrument, a guitar, in this latter scene as the performer sings a seemingly completely unrelated song, performing it in a husky, sexual and deliberately masculine voice. Not only seeming irrelevant and/or exaggerative, these scenes pull from sources beyond the realm of the performance, extending to references to media and culture. This dilutes the material of the performance, and the dramatic text loses, yet again, any specificity and individuality in terms of voice. This performance makes use of a lot of interdisciplinarity, from character representation to singing, to physical movement, to documentary theatre, to dance, to metatheatre, to mime and to the use of verbatim. For a “dance performance”, it is surprising how little dancing there actually is. Dance certainly features in this performance, yet it is just that: a feature. Much more characteristic of this performance is, actually, its [over]use of stillness, tableaux and physical movement. Hence, from the off, there is a thorniness in the way that this performance identifies itself. It fails to organise itself in a stable, clear, coherent and, above all, strategic manner. Having no plot or message and being, for the most part, amoralistic and apolitical, this performance remains purely investigatory, but what is actually being investigated, beyond just the mere concept of kissing, is very limited. Struggling to find its own, unique mode of expression, the dramatic text is littered with language upon language. There are much too many layers to this performance, and it is difficult to some degree to grasp the aim of it through the sheer vastness of its material. All of this being said, there still remain some very poignant images and discourses evoked by this performance, with sexuality and its absence seemingly being of primary concern. Kisses between friends, between males and between females, kisses between imagined lovers and between strangers, sexuality and platonic love appear again and again as key themes until one performer admits that, in fact, he feels no need to kiss due to his asexuality. This is a most progressive and encouraging performance in this respect, making use of a diverse cast of varying nationalities, ethnicities and ages to decode love and its expression amongst humanity. This is definitely a mellowing, endearing and charming performance, but this feeling is mostly generated by the consideration of each scene as stand-alone and separate; when put side by side, all of the scenes seem far too disjointed or depthless. As the performance goes on, content definitely starts to become sillier, and representation becomes too blunt and literal. An example of this is a split-scene in which two performers share a kiss whilst cooking; another pair share a kiss after brushing their teeth beside one another; and another kiss follows a couple watching TV together, with one falling asleep. Again, alone, these are endearing and adorable moments, yet it just feels as though this performance is trying to include every possible context of kissing, saying very little else about these contexts beyond their presentation. This is more the case for short scenes like these, however. Longer scenes, usually consisting of dance, resonate much more and have time to settle, seeming less fruitless and haphazard. Whilst some dances remain rather questionably esoteric against simpler, story-based ones, all dancing is fluid, articulate and seemly, though I would prefer to see more synchronicity in dances that require it. When considering acting, there is a notable imbalance of ability across the ensemble. In the first scene –– which I initially found to be a rather strong opening until seeing the rest of the performance and noting its stylistic incongruity –– there are a few performers who are extremely credible and cogent actors, but the majority remain rather wooden and awkward to watch. There is an utter lack of realism in this performance, which could be acceptable if this first scene did not set the rest up to be so character-based. On to the set. Being part of the Demolition Party, it is required that the set be demolished in some way. For this performance, there is a huge, sandy pit in the middle of the stage. It starts to seem as though this pit exists merely to gain entrance into the festival, being that very little action actually takes place here; in fact, the entire performance could exist without it. Considering this, the aesthetic of this performance is wildly underthought. The industrial look of this performance, with some vine leaves and a few draped curtains, does not do anything in particular to complement this performance. I could make links between flowers and love/passion/beauty, or between the sandy, dilapidated brickwork and a breakdown of memory/associations/narratives, but this just seems 1) too much of a stretch and 2) severely bombastic. Whilst the topography of this performance covers a large amount of the space, this does not feel intelligent or symbolic; it just feels as though this is all simply to avoid the untouched gaping pit, especially in the beginning when the performers are gathered around a long table, cramped in the corner of the room. As for tech, lighting in this production was impeccable, focusing the eye and adding texture to the performance. The use of a blinding light, a row of intense lanterns positioned Upstage and aimed towards the audience, was an interesting choice. It added cyclicality to the performance and gave the feeling of entering into a new, fictive space, though I am not sure how necessary this actually was. Sound was pertinent but regularly ended much too prematurely, most notably just after one performer expresses her desire for the so-called “Kiss of Success”. Cutting short the sound effect of an applauding audience, a rather forceful sound by nature, is much too disruptive. Music, I must say, proved this performance once more to be unsure of itself. I mentioned early on in this review one performer’s rendition of ‘I'm Your Man’, but there are also many other songs, predominantly in other languages, which cause a sense of dissimilitude in this performance. French singer Camille’s song ‘Ta douleur’, for example, used at the end of the performance, is a very particular song with a peculiar artistic vision; its employment in this performance seems unintelligent, as though used just for its rhythm and vaguely for its lyrics. Each element of a performance must have a clear, progressive reasoning, and the only thing these songs add to is a confused style. Perhaps these songs came up in the devising process as songs listened to during kisses, and this is what ‘contextualises’ them. This is the only substantial reason I can think of for the use of these songs, and even this is far too indirect; we as spectators are not made aware of the significance or relevancy of the songs. Overall, there are certainly some powerful and intriguing elements to this performance, but its voice and style remain generally confused and incoherent. This performance still desperately needs to find its feet, still being unsure of itself, its aims and its premise. It envisions itself to be both expository and fictive, to both show and to tell, and, in doing so, it loses its grounding and essence. Is this a relation of real events? Or is this storytelling? Is this meaningful and evocative? Or is it to be taken as simple, endearing entertainment? Containing even elements of didacticism, this performance really needs to expand on its message, to stop using kissing as a simple stimulus for meaningless dramatic snippets but as the clear cause or product of a theatrical investigation. As it stands, there is definitely an exploration unfurling in this performance, and it is perfectly acceptable to present a mere exploration on stage, but there must be something to take away from this as an audience member, something thought-provoking, some sort of conclusion, whether open-ended or not. In this performance, the material is so vast and confused that absolutely no conclusion can be drawn whatsoever other than the fact that kissing exists in many forms. This is not particularly enlightening. From the very beginning, the performance roots itself in both personal and social histories, and this is clearly deliberate, with synopses focusing on the Paris attacks of 2015 and how these apparently inspired the performance, yet, surprisingly, this has absolutely nothing to do with the performance’s content which becomes a mere slideshow of imagined, intimate scenarios, existing perfectly without any reference to these attacks, barring in the overture. This performance starts to lose depth rapidly as it goes on. I would urge Carolyn Defrin and Abigail Boucher to consider more carefully the contents of their performance and how these co-exist rather than any self-proclaimed and esoteric significance beyond the dramatic text. “A performance with some touching and thought-provoking moments, yet one which loses itself to inarticulacy and lack of cohesion.”

This is a truly splendid play, not only an entertaining and highly engaging performance but compelling and powerful in its themes and the discourse that it evokes. Its articulation of sexual abuse amongst teenagers and of the dangers of technology in their social spheres is not only astute but definitely eye-opening. I will start this review by considering the set (designed by Verity Johnson). Both beautiful in its design and efficient in its usability, this set is slick, dynamic and very creative. The inclusion of artificial grass is a quirky yet effective feature; it not only aids our imagination to leave the stage and be transported to The Pond, a principal location in the story, but it also maintains the theme of millennial disconnection, by which I mean the propensity to see the world indirectly through technology, to have very little kinetic interaction with the physical world. Likewise, props are cleverly scattered around this set to evoke a sense of location — towels and toiletries, blankets and pillows, rucksacks and notebooks — and seem to work themselves in seamlessly to the narrative, each in a designated area of the set left untouched until revealed as the bathroom, a bed, a school desk or the ground in a park. But these props also serve as endearing souvenirs of Alice’s (Robyn Wilson) narrative, features of her story which are then locked away, evoking that sense of shame, of moving forward from the past but through suppression rather than closure. I should note here, however, that having Wilson open these lockers, symbolic of Alice’s opening up about all of her ‘shameful’ secrets, is good in theory but is far too robotic in practice. It becomes rather corny as Wilson opens one locker per line, gazing out to the audience. It is perfectly acceptable to have her back turned to us as she opens these and would look much better if these were opened either more fluidly –– or perhaps frantically, if she stood staring at the now open lockers, her back to us, detailing all the things she told her university flatmate. I still appreciate the symbolism of this act, however. It is impossible to critique this set without also considering its interrelationship with tech. Whilst the chosen lighting (designed by Dan Saggars) does not necessarily correspond with traditional emotion-colour associations, this does not take away from the efficacy of the square panels which share the back wall with the locker spaces. Lighting states change alongside event and mood and, in their multiplicity, generate a sense of movement, development and transformation. Most impressive is the raised lit box representative of the leaked video and the phones it was either taken on or spread through themselves. This is a most dramatic and harrowing use of tech, the rest of the stage darkening as the box becomes a large and consumptive presence Centerstage. Whilst synchronicity with the action on stage could be improved in places, though only in a few, sound (designed by Anna Clock) also adds a wonderful texture to this performance, complementing the action well. The sounds of notifications, received and sent messages, etc. not only generate a technical language for the performance, amplified by Wilson’s simple yet effective accompanying gestures, but they also make for an easier comprehension of the material on our part. I would also like to point out the effective use of a high frequency, something often rather overused in theatre dealing with trauma, pain or [primarily mental] struggles, becoming cliché and dilute. The singular use of this in this performance was timely, effective and striking. Overall, sound was very well designed and congruous with the material of the play. On to the writing by Amy Blakelock. The dramatic text captures Alice’s experience with a certain heaviness. It is a very clear and readable text. Its representation is most precise, accurate and appropriate, and its material is visceral, potent and memorable, making use of sensory as well as descriptive elements, i.e. the smells, sights, tastes and sounds that Alice associates with her memories. The way in which it deals with this type of trauma, affecting a shockingly large (and increasing) number of youths today, demonstrates a clear understanding of the complexity of situations of common sexual abuse amongst teenagers. It cleverly details the effects of toxic masculinity on young girls, the common desire to be loved by the uncaring, and the common seduction by what now even has its own term, a ‘fuck boy’. The text also makes a conscious effort to stay away from a monotonous demonisation of the modern male, both referencing her abusers’ traumas and emotions but also coming to terms with the fact that just hating men in general, as sometimes forced upon women by other women, does not do anything productive for the victim her-/himself. It is clear that a lot of reading has gone into this performance to make for a both convincing and clearcut representation. The text also manages to detail in a most legible and real way the raw anxieties of young teenage girls who are constantly bombarded with oppressive and patriarchal ideals of feminine beauty. We are taken through stages of common thought, most specifically when Alice is preparing for her seeming date the following day, as she turns her attention to her own body in relation to fellow young girls or grown female celebrities, as well as how it will be received not only by others but primarily male others. Nothing is held back, from the often spoken to the unspoken, from cellulite to vaginal tightness and orgasming. These are taboo topics regularly suppressed in our society, especially amongst females and our youth, and the unforgiving naturalisation of these themes and issues is a wonderful, important and impactful element of this performance. On to characterisation. Wilson is a very gripping solo performer who is believable and confident in her characterisation. With her maintaining such a high and unfaltering energy throughout, it is an utter delight to watch her perform. There is, however, a shift in her acting style towards the middle of the performance in her portrayal of secondary characters. Throughout the performance, Wilson uses different, specific gestures to indicate these — a hair flick, a hand on chest or an overly suggestive smoulder — and this is more than enough for us to identify a character change. However, from the moment Wilson portrays the policewoman that questions her on what happened by The Pond, portrayals become very caricaturistic. It is no longer a simple gesture and a change in language use or slight shift in voice but an entirely different accent and a full bodily characterisation. This is much too abrupt and drastic a change and makes for a disjointed characterisation style. It would be better to stick with one, keeping in mind that both are equally effective but different in the effects they produce. I would like to note, however, that this first, subtler characterisation type is in danger of becoming rather repetitive. The quirkiness of the gesture-led multi-roling becomes somewhat predictable in its pattern and hence slowly loses its initial effect. I cannot brush over this scene involving the policewoman. In this scene, there is a huge shift in the performance. As she delivers the policewoman’s lines, Wilson’s movements become robotic, fragmented and suggestive, rather than fluid and realistic, projecting from a contemporary strand of dance. Such use of movement is not repeated anywhere else in this performance, making this singular use completely incongruous stylistically. It feels as if this movement was a rash decision, that the effect it would have or the emotion it was expressing was considered as impactful and necessary but that how this style of movement coincides with the rest of the performance was not so carefully considered. Despite these very few notes, there are very few negatives to take from this performance. It is so articulate, reasoned and intellectual that any further remarks I do have remain simply pedantic, such as keep the action to the parameters of the stage (when a stage is so clearly outlined, it is bizarre to have the body exit it at any point like Wilson’s legs often did when she was sat far downstage). Honestly, a very thought-provoking and intelligent piece of theatre. “A truly impeccable and profound performance; enjoyable, engrossing and possessing a raw significance.”