Unfortunately, I must start by saying that this is not a strong performance at all. It remains convoluted, chaotic and disorderly, sometimes involuntarily and sometimes through peculiar volition. As the audience enter, they are playfully accosted by an accordionist, the ushers and three babbling scientists, one (Will Stevens) obsessed with his complex machines (two bicycles with one wheel suspended which, when ridden, supposedly powers the fluorescent lights around the stage); another (Stephanie Ocampo) intrusive, ecstatic to welcome us in and see us to our seats; and the last (Antonia Strafford-Taylor)… well, I’m not too sure what function this last scientist has. Whilst the first two performers caricaturise their scientists through clear profiles and idiosyncrasies, resulting in coherent and tailored interactions both with audience members and amongst themselves, Strattford-Taylor remains unparticularised and undefined. Her movements are unexaggerated and rather natural in comparison to the other performers, and this is definitely a problem. However, I must admit that this needed erraticism does certainly — if rather too gradually — get stronger as the play goes on and as the scientists reappear sporadically throughout. These three performers will be our three guides through the text, multi-roling as Coco (Strattford-Taylor) and her friends. As these characters, the actors are all rather good, but, as the play progresses, the problem becomes less about performer transformativity and believability and more about the strength of material itself. To an extent, I feel somewhat unworthy to comment on the dramatic text and its soundness because of one particular issue persisting irksomely throughout the performance’s entirety: inaudibility. Pigfoot Theatre clearly did not consider carefully enough the nature of the space the play is staged in, with The Pit theatre being particularly echoic, and with no counteractions put in place for this. A mixture of issues with over-/projection of voice and lack of technical or architectural aid, volume becomes an issue inherent to this particular staging of this text. For the most part of the play, I could not understand a single thing due to the performers being completely inaudible, their words blending indistinguishably into one another, something commented upon by many other audience members too. So, perhaps I missed some vital informations that would have bettered my understanding of the play and that would have made it more favourable in my eyes, but I remain rather unconvinced. The various materials presented, such as software hacking, environmentalism and advancements in science, are left so disparate and unmarried that only over-analysis could produce intelligent connections between them. I think that Pigfoot Theatre is aware of this, considering the scientists’ insistence upon concretising magical realism as fundamental in this play’s story and its telling. In my opinion, this magical realism can undoubtedly be equated here to but a lack of both creativity and the know-how to create a coherent, articulate and legible piece of theatre. That is not to say that there is no poignancy to be found in this text whatsoever, however. There are certain, very intelligent discourses evoked by this play. One example of such is the notion of data and its seeming as though a viable sustainable, immaterial and infinite resource, where, indeed, there exist data centres that rely on very physical and material machines and sites to store data and process its production and sharing. This, the play exposes, remains just as — if not more — destructive of our environment than other non-digital means… But what does this have to do with saving a polar bear from…Scotland? I imagine that the scientists’ faulty experiments, the breaching of their security systems and their reliance on magical realism, together with environmental/Anthropocenic concerns, is to suggest that science is unworthy to deal with the colossal and unwieldy environmental crisis in the midst of which we find ourselves today…but this is just a mere prediction from what I could gather from the text; the true aim/message/premise of this play remains utterly vague and unclear. One fundamental characteristic of this play is audience participation, something I find to be appropriately consistent yet of little necessity. There is a certain degree of physical exertion required of the audience, from letter-writing to bike riding, to holding tarpaulin high above the head, and all is to little avail. When the audience first enter, they are asked to write down the one thing that they would save if the world was ending tomorrow, and at the end of the performance, the performers run around, asking what each audience member wrote… Why? I have no idea, but I imagine we are supposed to be conscious by that point of a certain conservationist concern that would inspire our choices, which we definitely are not. In fact, because we are told to write this item down at the very beginning of the performance, one finds that the majority of audience members have said things like "My son" or "My wife", which prolongs a certain human focus which I would imagine is not desired of this ending. We wait so long, left for the entire performance to ponder what this letter could be for, and all we do is tell it to the performer, and it is immediately forgotten. Such insignificant and, again, utterly unnecessary moments like this should be completely omitted. Most moments of participation are, in themselves, escapist or rather humorous, yes, but have incredibly little bearing on the story. In fact, this is very typical of this performance which consistently presents us with quirks and oddities, such as the light-powering bicycle, musical numbers and puppetry, items which do not strengthen our understanding of anything and which, frankly, do not have very sufficient hedonistic value, either. In fact, I find the use of the bicycle to be particularly perplexing. Whilst I understand this to be Pigfoot Theatre’s conscious effort to produce a piece of theatre that is totally carbon neutral, I think the significance of this transcends the performance itself; in other words, this is something unreadable by and unimportant to the audience of this play, something evidently integral to the company’s dispositions and predilections but not of use or benefit to this performance. I should note here, however, that these musical numbers (music by Sarah Spencer) that I mention above are very endearing and professionally composed, but nevertheless, they are rather stylistically questionable, especially considering the vast absence of songs for the first half of the performance. These songs are responsible for generating the greatest sense of endearment of the characters, and one of the few things that makes this play watchable is this. The use of the accordion I find, again, to be an issue. It serves such little purpose and only adds greater confusion where style is concerned, however charming and clever, when isolated, certain of its usages are, such as its use in what I shall call ‘the breathing scene’ where no notes are played, just the sound of air as the accordion is expanded and decreased. As for lighting, the simple rods lined with LED strips are definitely very pretty despite their simplicity, and they aid imagination well, particularly in that aforementioned scene involving the data centre. Again, I find the main fluorescent lighting to be less impressive and most subtractive from content and over-intellectualised. In all, this is a most bemusing and disorderly performance. I must admit that until very late into the play, all I could observe from around the room were grimaces, scorns and expressions of utter confoundedness. It is rare to find such an audience where one can, without a single doubt, declare the response of the entirety of the audience. It was clear that I was not the only one bewildered or frustrated. Any palpable trajectories of this play are completely lost to its outlandish happenings, to its irresolute characters and erratic displays which all together remain incoherent and incohesive. There are deliberate ecological motives behind this so-called ‘climate-change musical comedy’, from the use of solar power and totally recycled/-able set to the promotion of environmentalist rallies at the close of the play, and yet any underlying message, beyond a simple “huge environmental issues exist”, remains completely undelivered. Whilst actors are energised throughout, the material itself is just simply lacklustre. Again, perhaps my mind would be radically altered if it were not for the sheer multitude of inaudible scenes, but something rather compels me to doubt so. “A highly inarticulate, unintelligent and questionable piece of theatre.”

For clarity: in this review, Arnstein refers to Katie Arnstein as an artist, and Katie to the persona she assumes on stage. In this review: Summary: It's a Girl! Bicycles and Fish Sexy Lamp Sticky Door It's a Girl! A trilogy by Katie Arnstein This review will consider the three plays, Bicycles and Fish, Sexy Lamp and Sticky Door, which constitute the It’s a Girl! trilogy currently performing at The Vaults Theatre as part of The Vaults Festival. All three are interrelated one-woman shows written and performed by Katie Arnstein, presenting a very clear and cogent, if somewhat specific, argument for modern feminism. The trilogy depicts the ordinary and normalised sexist treatment of women today and the expectations placed upon women both in everyday life, whether social or professional. Whilst Arnstein’s content is heavy and raw, and whilst the sociopolitical undertone of these plays is serious and harrowing, the trilogy remains lighthearted and engaging. Comedy is used articulately throughout these works not as something to negate or discredit the social realities of women presented but to ease the audience into them, to critique and challenge them in an uninvasive manner. It is when we feel most at ease, most intrigued and wrapped up in Arnstein’s material that we find the entrails of misogyny, sexism and sexual violence and prejudices. The overall content of the trilogy is quite extensive, ranging from particularised focus on the sexual objectification within the arts, of actresses in auditions, to a more generalised focus on everyday sexism, either confined to dialogues within friendship groups or amongst colleagues, or outreaching acceptedly into the public sphere. Although the texts of these plays allude to certain aspects and contents of one another, they could largely be seen as distinct and separate plays. I will say, however, that Bicycles and Fish would stand out to me as the only one of these three plays whose content would seem too disparate, incomplete and introductory if it were to be staged as a stand-alone play, for reasons I shall elaborate upon later. Furthermore, even though there are definite similarities between these plays, with structure, style and technique being virtually identical, the coverage and content each of them provides are most unique and varied from play to play. I would like to see even more of an interrelationship between these plays, however, if they are truly to qualify as a trilogy. A few reappearances of characters and allusions to content discussed elsewhere is not sufficient to contextualise these plays alongside one another, nor is the mere theme of feminism. As Sticky Door emphasises, this trilogy should not be seen as a product of message-based theatre. Instead, the trilogy devises a safe space for the exploration of feminist concerns. It is a type of therapy, both for Katie and for those audience members who have unfortunately experienced the same, common injustices. With direct audience address, website links, catchy slogans repeated in collective chant (such as ‘Time’s up’), frequent cultural references and simply Katie’s overall manner of delivering the material, a definitive sense of communality and community is produced. There is a certain emotional response to this work evidenced by the roaring full-house ovations each of Arnstein’s works receives. In this way, the trilogy is required socially; it is cathartic, replenishing and, above all, encouraging. This being said, I am not sure that communal therapy is the principal intention of this trilogy but, rather, a by-product, especially in regards to the first two plays in the series. The overall focus does, unfortunately, remain rather inconstant and throughout, making for an inconsistent rhetoric. This friction is located in many aspects of the work, such as in the subjectivity vs the applicability of the content, in the triviality vs the congruity of certain material, or in the didactic vs the expressionist modes this performance alternates between, and so on. The friction here lies in the structure of each play that initially present themselves as didactic expressions of feminist concerns, as articulations of the social realities of women, intending, supposedly, to divulge these to an unknowing public; we are provided with quotes, speeches, rhetorics and thinkings, all intending to demonstrate the ubiquity and danger of sexism and, with references to President Donald Trump, how this is accepted nay encouraged systemically, but, most importantly, to educate audience members. Yet, the content that follows is otherwise story-based and hence fictitious and histrionic but also self-contained and simply expository, undemanding and unchallenging. What starts off as a direct challenge to our culture and politics ends up as storytelling and catharsis. Both are equally valid modes of theatre, but one certainly compromises the other in this trilogy. As indicative of a lot of postmodernist theatre, there are the classic Brechtian influences: placards, estranging musical numbers, episode titles, and a presentation of the self as actor playing character. These are used to engender more of a comedic effect as opposed to anything didactic or confrontational, and whilst this is a misuse of the technique, for escapist dramatic effect, this nevertheless adds character and quirk to the performance; it just means that some features, such as the episode titles, are used superfluously and to little benefit. In other words, Katie appropriates the techniques to her advantage, but sometimes they are rather overused. The ukulele songs, however, I think are a perfectly articulate and vastly endearing feature, helping to maintain that lightheartedness that characterises this performance and which this performance definitely requires. Overall, a touching and empowering trilogy that depicts aspects of the female struggle with clarity and precision. Whilst all plays have their own unique trajectories, all together, these plays provide their audiences with detailed and manifold content. I would just be wary of the disparity between the first play and its two descendants. “An intelligent, compelling and thought-provoking trilogy, presenting heavy content in a digestible nay flavoursome way.” Bicycles and Fish I find the content of this play to be particularly inarticulate and incomplete in relation to the other two of the trilogy. I imagine this is because it was the first play to be written, before a trilogy was even on Arnstein’s mind, and so there was little thought as to what would be communicated overall in the plays’ combination. This is an issue with an easy solution, however: editing. There is definitely a rockiness to this play, accentuated in the overuse of placards and in excessive movement. Sometimes, Katie seems to be all over the place, covering every section of the stage and titling every location with a placard. With the placard comes the written text, then there are the songs, the seated storytelling, the re-enactments; there are simply too many techniques used in too quick a succession. Bicycles and Fish starts with a rather hesitant definition of feminism and its applications from an overly PC Katie. This is actually rather clever, as, by doing so, Katie closes herself off to hyper-criticisms by getting there first, so to speak, but also clears her text of any over-intellectualisations or wildly extensive discourses, reminding us of the fundamental core of feminism, and this acts as a precursive lens through which we are to view the rest of the performance. However, the content slightly loses its way when it teeters towards childhood sweetheart Danny or crippling cystitis, and too much time and information starts to be given to and about rather trivial or negligible items like these. Whilst this does allow us to develop a greater sense of Katie’s identity, this could be achieved through far fewer details, not to mention that this sense of her identity is completely obliterated if spectators only watch one of these plays and not the full trilogy, in which case they would have to start all over again. The content regains its focus, however, towards the end, when Katie starts to tell the audience of her personal experiences of sexual harassment. In these ways, focus is a huge issue for this performance, and I would be very careful when considering how all of the material presented combines to form one all-encompassing message. On the other hand, when considered as part of a trilogy, this performance is a good introduction, preparing us for the materials that will be expressed in the following plays. Yet, it still needs to have a trajectory of its own, and it feels as though, whilst Sexy Lamp focuses distinctly on sexism in the acting industry and Sticky Door on personal sexual encounters and stigmas surrounding female promiscuity, this play seems to have a very obscured premise, ranging from sex education in schools to first kisses, to the absence of laws against inequality, to sexual harassment/violence. Conversely, this play retains a lot more character than the others as we follow Katie growing up, through education, her first job, etc. It is just in need of finding that perfect balance between personality and significance: when does demonstrating character/persona complement the aims of the performance, and when does it add mere inessential texture and subtract from the content at hand? “A great performance but still in need of a firmer groundwork and focus.” Sexy Lamp In this play, Katie uses Kelly Sue DeConnick’s recognised Sexy Lamp Test as the perfect analogy of her encounters with sexism within the acting industry, demonstrating how the sexual objectification of women replaces any integrity and personality of female characters in theatre and film. This is communicated literally by Katie’s dressing as a lamp, in a matching leopard-print, satin dressing gown as the audience enter, deconstructing the very notion of the sexy lamp when she reveals herself as a human, a sentient being with an identity beyond corporeal form, and tells us her story. This play is a lot more focused than its older sister, Bicycles and Fish and charts the role the arts have played in Katie’s life clearly and efficiently. Katie conveys to us her internalised ideal of the character of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, using her as an archetype of the empowered female she yearns to be. This together with other items on her dreams bucket list constitute a thread that will run throughout the entire play, contextualising and supporting the material presented. This gives us a good ground for reading the material, as we see how dreaming to be a big star like Judy Garland motivates young actresses to expose themselves to difficult and dangerous situations within the industry and, more importantly, how this dreaming is exploited by working professionals. Using acting as a premise, Katie explores the different roles we assume in society, from fragrance-shop sales assistants doubling as escorts –– unknowingly and unwillingly, that is –– to heroes against sexual harassment on public transport, and this is an intelligent way of exposing how women are groomed in our society to assume certain roles to the benefit of men and to the detriment of themselves, and just how surprisingly easily this can be subverted. “A clear and thorough play, eye-opening and uplifting.” Sticky Door There is something significant about Sticky Door that differentiates it from the other plays. In this play, we feel as though we really uncover the true Katie Arnstein as she tells us that her storytellings have been inaccurate, untrue, that they are, in fact, retellings of experiences over which she would have liked to have more control. She defines her stage as a safe place, a place to relive memories but with a difference: she stands up for herself. In Sticky Door, Katie’s helplessness, depression, loss of self and loss of confidence is exposed, and we become aware of the true, harrowing power of misogyny and its potential ramifications for and amongst women. Katie depicts a toxic cycle of self-abuse, motivated by a need for self-liberation and self-empowerment, of independence from men. She takes our hands and journeys us through her psychology as she distances herself from male influence, scared to make her emotions available to men, scared to let men in. This is truly the most human of the trilogy, demonstrating the need for and fear of love that affects so many women today. Boxing off the playing area of the stage, leaving a doorway for Katie to exit through at the end of the performance, is a very powerful design, meaning that this ‘truly’ is a safe space that Katie can imagine into existence as a form of therapy for herself, to express these memories and thoughts to a willing and appreciative audience. I find this to be very significant. I must say that this play is utterly fraught with references to items expressed in the previous plays, and, without having seen these, these would just feel as though a series of hollow evocations. That being said, other characters, those who only played minor roles in the previous plays, make a reappearance in this play and much to its benefit, retaining a greater presence than before. The use of these characters is most rich and compelling. This play does flutter a bit with its focus, with the metaphor of the sticky door not being entirely convincing in its relationship to the content of the text, and the audio files we are presented are far too generalised for this very specific narrative. However, overall, a very clearcut and hard-hitting performance. “A powerful performance tackling human themes with intellect and integrity.” Photography Credit: Katie Arnstein and associates.

This review will consider Tina Jay’s Syndrome, directed by Jack Brett Anderson and staged at the Tristan Bates Theatre (located in The Actors Centre). Unfortunately, I find this play to be very uninspiring and bland, and its reasonings to be highly over-intellectualised. The text appropriates the sufferings of the soldiers of the Gulf War to, essentially, tell the story of a soldier turned gay whilst in the army. Its manner of communication is highly fallible, depicting characters through a certain sensationalisation and unrealism. It is, admittedly, the text itself with which I have a problem, however, as I find the actors to be most strong and skilled. The actors each demonstrate transformativity and vitality and assume their roles with vigour and high engageability. The only issue I have with the actors is that their overall delivery of banter is rather overcooked, wooden, but, other than this, this is a cast of remarkable performers. The dramatic text we are presented is very unstable and inconsistent, extremified by the drastic changes of time, place and character in the second act. Suddenly, Matt (Robert Wilde) is homosexual, turned gay by Gabe (Akshay Kumar) with whom he professes to have felt a deep and magic chemistry, despite such being completely inexistent and unrepresented elsewhere, and his strong and longevitous heterosexual relationship is now falling apart thanks to one isolated [and confounding in itself] kiss with a man; the characters suddenly all have a profound respect for Gabe and admire him after showing him nothing but hatred, ostracisation and disapproval; Tayze (also played by Kumar) is suddenly comfortable with such intimate and romantic activities as spooning and handholding later on in Act II and does not want to be paid, without any significant changes in his and Matt’s situation… All of these features make for a fluttering and incoherent text. It seems as though Jay’s writing is far too concerned with events as opposed to realistic and palpable character developments, as changes in plot are incongruous and specious. As the play ‘progresses’, its content moves further and further away from what it originally started out as. Whilst some of these drastic changes are plausible, we need to see a development in order for them to seem natural and, above all, for them to be legible. For example, given that Gabe was so reticent, reserved and loving, what could Tayze, a flamboyant and erotic rent boy, justifiably have in common with him, other than homosexual interests and our metatheatrical understanding that this is, in fact, the same actor who portrays them both? Features like these make the text seem wildly unsure of itself. We are left with absolutely no understanding as to what makes the characters feel the way they do. There is simply not enough information to contextualise such drastic changes as entire transformations in character profiles: Ray’s (Romario Simpson) transformation from lascivious Jack the Lad to committed married father, for instance. I find the text to be highly vapid in areas, particularly with the characters’ extensive focus on sex and little else. We learn extremely little about the characters because of such content, and this is what makes changes in the characters’ profiles and the events in their lives seem so flawed and unfeasible, as the sole facts that we are presented, such as Matt’s sheer devotion to his wife, are soon entirely contradicted or subverted. The second act is far more concerned with the psychology and reasoning of the characters; we finally get a glimpse into the way they see the world, but it is rather too late by this point. Other than Gabe, no characters reveal any palpable aspects of their personalities, emotions or psychologies. When we are presented other, new facts, such as Matt suddenly being head over heels in love with Gabe, a certain disparateness, a friction occurs, and the text becomes convoluted and illegible. In this way, the first and second acts feel like completely different plays. One could, indeed, present these two acts as self-contained, separate plays and they would function just as well. I find it perplexing how little the war actually features in a play about soldiers. Jay confesses to hoping that she has depicted the Gulf War with historical accuracy, yet the only readable features of the Gulf War remain the burn pits and the ingestion of and [to some degree] the effects of PB. It is clear to me that Jay wanted to represent some impacts the Gulf War would have had on the soldiers themselves, concentrating on how this war may have impacted their lives, their minds. For this, I would recommend a complete restructuring of the text, wherein we start with the soldiers after the war (which would make sense, seeing as the post-war effects are the main focus of this story) and wherein flashbacks are used to depict specific and important moments that occurred during the war itself. Otherwise, to have the four soldiers sit around talking endlessly about banging women for the entire first act with little else to constitute the material of the play just seems most needless, not to mention celebratory of a very toxic masculinity and misogyny. As for the very writing itself, I find its structure to be most repetitive in places. There is a bland poeticism that shows itself from time to time, following a frame exemplified by this series of questions taken loosely from the text: "Do you think it will ever end?" "What, the war?" "No, the burning." Moments like these do not follow the natural patterns of speech. The suggestions made by the second speakers in these series are always out of context; it is unnatural the way they read the questions, a reading written only to produce the vapid dramatic effect in the last statement. This is most particular to the moment when Matt asks Gabe a question which he –– somehow –– reads as "When did you know you were gay?", despite the [ungrammatical and unnatural] structure of the question implying this reading in no way whatsoever. These moments are too artificial, utilised blandly for shoddy dramatic effect. On to set (designed by Jonjo McGuire) and costume. Despite some aspects of the set seeming rather cheap, there is a certain claustrophobia to this design that I definitely admire, from the tight playing area in the first act to the thin gauze composing the back wall of Deno’s (Kerim Hassan) flat, revealing the camouflage netting behind, as though the war remains a backdrop to Deno’s life. Whilst the fundamental aspects of the set, the construction of an army campsite and of rooms, is refined and articulate, I find, again, that there is a certain needless over-intellectualisation underlying artistic decisions –– the fact that the set is within a shipping container, for example. Costume, on the other hand, is very well designed and articulate throughout, though I do find Matt’s costume in the second act to be rather incongruous with his character. As for technical components, lighting (designed by Matt Carnazza) is simple, in a most effective and intelligent way, and focuses the eye well. Music, however, ignoring the technical difficulties which saw music play when it was not supposed to in Act II, is utterly bizarre. I cannot at all fathom why reggae music and 90’s/00’s music made its way into this play. The selection of songs is completely incongruous with the material and adds an unwanted campiness and regressive exoticism, just another example of the incertitude of this dramatic text. “A weak and spineless play, kept afloat only by its strong performers.”

This is a very enjoyable performance, offering a rich and textured story that blends traditional African spiritualism with modern-day sociocultural concerns. Written by Temi Wilkey, The High Table follows the story of lesbian lovers Tara (Cherrelle Skeete) and Leah (Ibinabo Jack) who are soon to be wed in spite of cultural prejudices and of Tara’s parents’ disapproval. The forbidden love of two homosexuals is not a unique premise for a play, this is true, but the direct association this play makes between African spiritual ideals, cultural values and homosexuality is quite original, indeed. The play voices the effects of colonialist ideology on contemporary African views on homosexuality, something rarely addressed in this fashion, and uses the spirits of the ancestors, primarily spirit Yetunde (Jumoké Fashola) and the imagery she uses, to evoke Africa’s history before said colonisation. The text is very thought-provoking in this way and comprises very heavy and challenging topics, such as hate incidents and governmental injustices, asylum-seeking and suicide, but does so with a certain ease and intelligence. The spirits of the ancestors are used in this play as our moral and intellectual guides through the story, their moral thinkings adapting as the story unfolds, and I think this is a clever, if rather direct, way of presenting the themes of the text. The actors in this play are very engaging, sufficiently humorous and compelling where they ought to be. They each remain sure of their characters’ intentions and objectives, performing with convincing and coherent emotion. These are strong performers. There does lack, however, a sense of believability, especially given that, on the night I saw the performance, the vast majority of the cast stumbled over their lines repeatedly. There is definitely a sense of rigidity in their performances at times, and I would have liked to see more energy from them in areas, especially where transformativity is concerned; it took me some time, as it did other, vocal members of the audience, to realise, for example, that the actors were, in fact, multi-roling. Another related issue that I have pertains to the actors’ use of movement in this performance –– a directorial issue, I should add. There is a particular movement Fashola makes repeatedly throughout the play when she enters into an almost trance-like state, accompanied by the tense sound of the percussionist’s (Mohamed Gueye) drumming. Fashola kicks her feet on the ground, staying in one spot, turning to each side of the stage whilst she speaks. I find Fashola’s physicality in these moments to be most energyless to such an extent that her movements seem awkward and unseemly. These moments are rather laughable and ineffective, and so I would like to see more vitality and severity here. Conversely, there is another type of movement which all actors perform at some point during the play, and this is a slow, stylised series of movements accompanied by stark coloured washes (lighting designed by José Tevar) and dramatic music. These sequences are far too incongruous stylistically with the rest of the performance and stick out sorely as overdramatic and cheap, especially with this drastic change in technical components as well. On the topic of music, I must commend percussionist Gueye for his drumming. Gueye’s music adds severity, tone and texture to the performance, increasing drama, tension, suspense and sensation. I find his integration into the world of the play to be rather strange, however. Gueye sits Upstage Right with a persistent smile on his face, reacting subtly to the dialogues ensuing amongst the spirits below him. He is even acknowledged by the spirits at some point. I would prefer he be silhouetted when not playing his music, rather than integrated into the action; otherwise, this complicates our reading of space and function. As for pre-recorded music, I find the usage of this to be fallible when played alongside Gueye’s live drumming; its usage within the material realm, however, when Tara and Leah listen and dance to their songs on their phones, for example, is most apt. As for sound, one thing that sticks out for me is the use of echoing when the spirits speak. This is most otherworldly and effective — a most commendable decision. As alluded to above, in this play, there are two worlds: the spiritual realm and the material realm. The two are differentiated very effectively, principally through the use of space, costume and sound. The action that transpires in the material world is presented downstage, in a small clearing amongst the brown dust, and the consistency of this makes for better readability but also for better spatial organisation. Slight alterations of costume –– such as the material Jack ties around her waist when playing Adebisi, used as a head towel or placed to the side of the stage when she plays Leah –– also help to indicate such a change in setting. Such features also indicate an interrelationship between the material realm and the spiritual, which I favour. Characters from the material world also have a certain interaction with the set (designed by Natasha Jenkins), sweeping the dust upon it off of the clearing with a traditional African sweeping broom (those usually made of palm-tree branches / twigs), just as one might sweep one’s compound in Africa. This adds relatable and comical cultural references to the dramatic text, though I am not sure what such dust would be doing in the living rooms of African families living in London, as Tara’s are. The characters also clear paths, as Tara does when requesting that her mother leave, and actions like this are less legible and rather too histrionic. The set otherwise captures a very legible afterlife inspired by the vast planes of Africa. Overall, this is a very gripping performance. However, I feel that the text relies too heavily on comedy in places where it could present quite serious content, and I find certain content, particularly that involving the spirits, to be rather repetitive and bland, overall. Homosexuality is once again synonymous with struggle and suffering, and I find that the text follows a rather bleak and seemingly unending trend in contemporary literature, however gratifying and heartwarming the very ending may be. I would also recommend strengthening scenes between Tara and Leah which oftentimes feel unnaturally gushy and overplayed. This being said, the manner in which the content of this play is communicated is most refreshing and intriguing; I just believe that the text carries the actors at times and vice versa at others. Finding a balance between the poignancy of certain scenes and articulacy in acting in certain areas would vastly benefit this play. “Enjoyable and endearing yet lacking a certain vigour.”

Before starting this review, I should note that there are different versions of this performance available, some for children and some for adults only, and the content constituting each show, I am sure, varies from performance to performance. This review will consider the performance of 12th February at Wanstead Library, intended for very young to young children, and families. Mama G’s Story Time Roadshow is a delight for both its young and adult audience members with a very wholesome message for our young: be who you want to be and love who you want to love. Delivered from a pantomime dame, this message is all the more direct and poignant, an important philosophy to have the children of today internalise. Mama G’s stories focus on developing disruptive identities, those which stand out from the masses and refusing to follow norms, celebrating a male dinosaur who discovers a love for dressing in women’s clothing, and a horse who yearns to be a unicorn in spite of apparent physical limitations. These characters and their stories serve as intelligent and endearing frameworks for children to explore topics still stigmatised and abnormalised today, and, given that Mama G also sells story-time CDs for children to take home, these philosophies are permitted to extend beyond the stage and become integral features of children’s lives. In fact, several parents/guardians amongst the audience revealed to me that their children were obsessed with Mama G’s stories, that they listen to the CDs on repeat and can recite the stories by heart. In this way, this work is most progressive, positive and encouraging and could serve as a particular, fundamental lifeline for children in need of exposure to the unconventional. This performance is inextricably confined to a discourse on gender — considering Mama G as a pantomime dame, her cross-dressing T-Rex, her song about the LGBT+ flag, etc. — and so one must consider how this discourse is being utilised by the performance and what the performance achieves and communicates by such utilisation. Mama G presents a very important and positive rhetoric for her young audience, exposing them to LGBT+ themes early in life. If done properly, and, for the most part of this performance, it is, this could be highly encouraging and eye-opening, allowing young children to experience profound and poignant contemporary philosophies wildly unavailable to them in mainstream children’s entertainment. In Mama G’s stories, both the male T-Rex, Little Roar, and the female horse, Eunice, are courageous in establishing an identity of their own, one which disrupts the norms of the environments they inhabit, causing discomfort in others around them. In negligence of this, the characters continue to be themselves and to dream big. Whilst the story of Little Roar promotes acceptance of transvestism, one could see Eunice’s story, her transitioning from horse to unicorn, as a positive depiction of the transgender experience, using the symbol of the unicorn, common to the LGBT+ community, to facilitate this. Eunice is uncomfortable with her existing identity and wants to be something different and so changes her identity to feel better in her own skin. However, this remains only a reading based on retrospect. This is not explicitly a story of a transgender horse, and I think comparing a real animal with a mythological one is not the best articulation of the struggles of transgender people. So, what is this story about? Indeed, I find the significance of Eunice’s story to be rather vague and feel it encroaches upon a negative territory, that of following, ironically, gender-specific trends in children’s literature. Whilst Little Roar’s cross-dressing is something that complements his established identity, something that draws out what is inside of him already, so to speak, Eunice’s wanting to be a unicorn is a complete disregard of her existing identity and the assumption of an imaginary one. By using ‘magic’, ‘dreams’ and other suchlike mystical and, above all, immaterial means, Eunice rejects her identity and changes herself completely. This reflects the literary trend of presenting young females as image-obsessed but also one which teaches them to rely on the immaterial, to have little physical interaction with the material world. Whilst Little Roar’s actions alter the world around him, with other characters learning to broaden their horizons and accept him for what he is and with Little Roar going on to be a famous fashion designer, Eunice’s doings remain completely imaginary, with her transformation not only being an impermanent dress-up but also having no effect on neither her future nor her present surroundings [as the discomfort of her friends, though they learn to accept and not question her, still feels resonant]. Reliant on fleeting, impermanent factors, such as eating glitter and sticking a glue stick to her head, Eunice’s ‘elegant’ transformation — an important descriptor — is itself fleeting and impermanent but, more importantly, extreme. Beyond this, these outlandish acts, alongside Mama G’s delivery of them as she exaggerates shock and surprise, encourage the children to laugh at Eunice’s dream, which is the very thing Mama G repetitively warns against. There is a certain uneasiness in her message in this respect. I would urge not necessarily a total reconsideration of Eunice’s story but many modifications within it. We are in need as a society of more stories that present empowered females whose desires and actions have substantial physical effects on the world in which they live and females unconcerned with beauty or image, females I would hope a performance of this nature would depict. [Again, content changes from performance to performance, and so maybe such stories are presented in others; I can only comment upon this performance alone, however]. The character of Mama G is most definitely one of charm and vitality, and performer Robert Pearce’s boundless energy complements this well. Comical movements and witty ad-libs make for a truly engaging performance for both children and adults. In fact, Mama G seemed to have quite the spellbinding effect upon the adults in the same way as upon the children on the day I watched this performance, given their glued eyes and heavy laughter. I would just recommend altering this particular dramatic text to accommodate the children even more, given that these should be the primary audience. Shifting from an overly child-oriented and lullaby-esque Mama G-special rendition of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Roar’ to stories containing language better suited to seven-year-olds and over, and, finally, to a T-Rex with a so-called “millinery passion”, there is a huge inconsistency in language, material and style, in both the manner in which Mama G addresses her audience and whom Mama G treats her audience to be. Certain features — such as descriptions using registers of language higher than those comprehensible by young children — need to be omitted completely and replaced with child-oriented material. Such language has no place in a performance like this and is a simple business move to attract adults to buy into Mama G’s brand; it is simply unseemly in performance. I shall now move on to specific storytelling techniques. Instrumental music certainly plays a large part in this performance, used as a backing to both Mama G’s songs and her stories. The usage of this music is slick, seamless and impressive, and it is clear that Pearce is very experienced and organised with his equipment. Volume, however, seems to be an issue at times, having to be in-/decreased at various intervals, taking away from the performativity of certain segments. Another key element is movement and dancing, either through teaching the audience dance moves that they must repeat in song or with Mama G’s own personal dancerly movements and gestures. I would have liked more of these, but, overall, these were sufficient in mesmerising the young audience members and in making the adult audience members laugh. Props are fundamental, from the music equipment to books, to bags, to puppets. All props are used well with the exception of this latter, the puppets. These feature in the story of Eunice but are used without a proper introduction. Mama G is already halfway through the story when the puppets make a bland, abrupt and, above all, unmarked appearance. This is really a great opportunity to add some wonder and magic to the show. Introduce Eunice (the puppet) from the beginning of the story, show her to the children, animate her. She is simply used in a rendition of ‘Old McDonald Had a Farm’ and put straight back to bed, after ‘whispering’ something into Mama G’s ear just that little too late. The magic bag, however, is a simple yet successful trick. Beyond the music, I would recommend that storytelling techniques be uniquer and more particularised to the performance and that they be used more vigorously, imaginatively, thoughtfully. Whilst I find the alteration of existing nursery rhymes or the use of existing stories by other authors to be a successful and viable way to help children bridge their current understanding of the world together with the world presented by Mama G, that which communicates and celebrates LGBT+ themes, there still lacks a sense of individuality in this performance. It remains difficult for me to grasp Mama G’s character beyond a generic pantomime dame — a self-given title that I find not entirely accurate to describe Mama G’s character type — and a voicer of LGBT+ themes. I would simply like to see more work go into the particularisation of Mama G’s character and her manner of storytelling. There are a lot of elements that could do with further refinement. This being said, Mama G provides a safe space for a certain expression and experience unavailable so distinctly elsewhere. Energy and momentum are faultless, and storytelling and techniques remain varied and engaging. A most captivating performance for the young. “A special and unique experience, educative and endearing.”

Written by Margaret Perry and directed by Thomas Martin, Collapsible presents a narrative of postmodern solipsism, a reflection on the self and one’s identity in an age dominated by crisis, destruction, instability and a lack of hope, compassion and sociability. It follows an unemployed Essie (Breffni Holahan) who struggles to find not only a job but herself. Dissociated and overwhelmed by the world, Essie observes the seemingly concrete identities of others and questions the characteristics of her own, haunted by what others may think of her and by actions of the past that no longer seem her own, trying and failing to find her place. This dramatic text has a great premise. It is relevant and topical and speaks poignantly to widespread intersubjective concerns about one’s loss of self and one’s responsibility towards and agency within the external world. Its writing has a poetic and visceral quality to it, tackling real human issues with emotion and feeling. This is most successful. One other thing the text is particularly good at is demonstrating setting without too many irksome direct references. The information we receive is just enough to capture location and relationship, and this is most effective. However, we are given very little to distinguish the character of Essie; it is more in Holahan’s portrayal of her that character is conveyed. This is quite an issue. For a play that revolves around lack [or loss] of identity, we need to feel some sort of compromise of identity. Instead, from the very beginning of the play, Essie’s profile remains dilute, and the degradation of any humanness simply quickens, worsens. Essie’s character always feels airy and vapid, and we only really get to understand her through the information on her that we receive from other characters and by the feelings that she depicts. This makes her seem as though a vessel of fleeting emotions and behaviours rather than a fixed person who is experiencing these. A sense of hollowness in Essie’s character is certainly desirable but should develop gradually throughout the text; it should not be immediate; otherwise, there is nothing substantial to follow, and the text remains somewhat shallow, repetitive and monotonous. I must admit that this same effect is true of Holahan’s characterisation as well. Before moving on to such characterisation, I shall clarify that both the text and Holahan’s performance are excellent, but there could be a more refined degradation into Essie’s lack of self, and slightly more variation in Holahan’s portrayal. This is my only main issue. Holahan’s portrayal sees Essie as inhuman, demented and intense, wide-eyed and staring into the audience, adopting at times uncomfortable, contorted positions. Initially, this is most consuming and powerful, but it soon becomes highly superficial, complicating our reading of Essie as a person with logical/realistic emotional processes and susceptibility. Along with the poeticism of the text, Essie becomes dehumanised through Holahan’s portrayal, and so we lose the grit and rawness beneath the story, its humanity. This is most problematic for the final moments of the play where Derek makes an appearance, and we are forced to consider Essie as real, as human, as a tangible person. All of this being said, Holahan’s portrayal is captivating throughout. Her comedic timing is superb, complementing well the humour within the text, and her characterisation is continuous, coherent and compelling. Holahan distinguishes between her characters most seamlessly and in a manner I find most refreshing and almost exemplary. Rather than turning from side to side or changing tone or voice completely, assuming drastically different positions, etc., Holahan simply runs through the dialogue, changing only her expression and, much less dramatically, her posture and physicality. For the majority of her performance, this works incredibly well and guides us through the text in a fluid fashion. There are times, however, where such distinctions are lacking and character changes are difficult to read, but this is rare. Holahan performs with tireless energy and vitality. With the nature of the set demanding highly restricted movement, Holahan retains animation and variation in her performance. Director Thomas Martin has certainly considered physicality and its communications very cleverly, without inviting too much movement, which would seem unnatural and robotic. This brings me on to set (designed by Alison Neighbour). The set for this performance is truly beautiful, comprising a ground of fine aggregate and dirt through which pierce three tall metal beams, one of which supports a small ‘concrete’ platform for Holahan to sit on. Whilst I do enjoy this set design, I do not think it is the best suited for this performance. I understand that this is meant to represent a [de]construction site, one seeming disused, drab and unworkable, and that this is intended to be symbolic of the de-/re-/construction of Essie’s identity and/or the hopeless moribundity of the world itself which Essie inhabits. yet this is a very literal symbolism of a mere theme that does not evoke the personality of the text. When Derek later enters the stage, further complications arise. This is a moment where the audience is intended to be conscious of the real world, to see Derek and Essie as real people having a real — and peculiar — interaction that extends past the confusions of events in Essie’s head. This is the first and only time that we get a glimpse into the world beyond Essie’s understanding of it, or lack thereof, and so it feels erroneous for this set, which the actor playing Derek enters into and stands upon, to be so overly fictive and otherworldly. One feature I do really enjoy, though, and feel worthy of a mention is the small collection of dust placed on top of the platform. This crumbles now and again, whenever Holahan moves, to form a fine free-falling mist, evoking throughout that sense of falling apart. Lighting (designed by Alex Fernandes) is a very strong element of this performance, complementing and informing us of event and narrative extremely well. Whilst I do not favour this final scene between Derek and Essie, I must mention that lighting has a very particular and fruitful role within it. An intense and blinding light is shone into the audience, and when the stage is lit once more, along with the house itself, Derek has stood up from amongst the spectators. This is a very simple yet highly effective way of defictionalising the stage, drawing our attention to ourselves and the world beyond the play i.e. the world outside of Essie’s head. Lighting has a similar storytelling role in other places during the performance, one example of this being shortly before this final scene, when Holahan stands up upon the platform, her delivery becoming sharper and more urgent. In this moment, the lights fade until a simple orange wash illuminates her from behind as a silhouette before a complete blackout takes the stage. This really conveys that sense of disappearance, of the evanescence of identity and self and of one’s direct relationship to the world. Sound (designed by Jon McLeod) is used minimally in this performance, mostly to determine scene changes. Here, a sound similar to that of a stone falling into water is played, usually combined with a leg movement from Holahan as though she is about to step off the platform as she delivers her line, interrupted, ‘Feet firmly on the... [ground]’. This is a motif used throughout the play and one which I find to be rather needless, robotic and ineffective in its awkward referentiality to set. It does, however, add slight structure, mood and texture to the performance. To conclude, this remains a very evocative, poignant and visceral performance. It is both hard-hitting and alleviating, humorous and serious, poetic and raw. However, with the poeticism of the text, Holahan’s dehumanising portrayal, the overly fictionalising set, etc., the extent of the play remains entirely theatrical, reducing significance and meaning and, rather ironically, impact. This is a very articulate and refined piece of theatre, but slight alterations need to be made in order to really let the heart, richness and depth of the text shine through. “A very compelling performance, otherworldly yet topical.”

Produced by The Feathers of Daedalus Circus and performed at The Vaults in London, Tarot is a seemly blend of cabaret and circus, inspiring outright awe and wonder in its spectators. The first noticeable feature of this performance is its dark, coherent and slick aesthetic. Costume and set alike are contemporary, gothic and seductive, combining the peculiarities of cabaret with the imagery and ambiance affiliated with tarot readings, a fresh and intelligent vision. So dimly lit and packed full with spectators, the space feels almost claustrophobic, with limited stage space enhancing the incredibility of the acrobatics and gymnastics performed within it. Performers definitely have an astute and trained awareness of the space they are inhabiting, performing with localised and refined, though not in any way inhibited, movements. Performers also ascend to the rigging above, in hoops and on ropes and chains, meaning that space is also expanded beautifully vertically. The only [indirect] issues I really have with this definitive and refined aesthetic are certainly minute. These are the trainers that quite a few of the musicians are wearing, subtracting from the otherwise strong burlesque-meets-hippie-goth vision, and the fact that the Emcee (Ruby Wednesday) exposes the candles as artificial, describing them rather self-knowingly and facetiously as a risk against ‘health and safety’ regulations. With a performance exerting rather psychic themes as tarot, any destruction of illusion whatsoever can only be subtractive and discordant. Other than these small issues, a most remarkable aesthetic of crushed velvet and tight gauze. On to the performance itself, starting, of course, with the Emcee. The Emcee for this performance plays a peculiar role, mostly retaining the subversive and disruptive profile of the traditional cabaret Emcee but with a distinct twist, the origins of whose origins lie in a contemporary understanding of queerness and gender-bending. This is achieved through the Emcee’s androgyny, dick jokes, overt bi-/pansexuality and, above all, his direct references to his queerness. The only trouble with this, however, is that the Emcee loses his particularity — where the bizarre behaviour and outlandish costuming of the Emcee is traditionally presented as simply accepted and ‘normal’, unchallenged and unreferenced; he simply is and is allowed to be, unquestioned — and discourses surrounding gender and, though less potently, drag performance infiltrate the work in this way, confusing style and genre with extending sociopolitical significance. However, this could be read as though, much like the cabaret of 1930s Berlin, the cabaret influences here are reflecting the modern understanding of queerness and the fluidity of gender and sexuality…but for what cause? This Emcee retains a certain crazed volatility and unpredictability, cackling madly at times and singing in enigmatic lyric at others, yet his energy is rather low, overall. I would have liked to see more from Ruby, especially during the act that sees him sat cross-legged in a suspended hoop, stopping every so often in the air to the rising music. This particular act, I feel, was most anticlimactic, with all movements being rather lacklustre, repetitive and lethargic, and with the hoop turning in such a way that Ruby would be facing away from us for the entire song. Ruby remains both enchanting and seductive but has insufficient performativity, almost as if he is relying on his look to carry his character. He is certainly comical, with his witty remarks and jokes, but there are definite limitations to this humour, as comedic timing is not a conspicuous strongpoint of his. Furthermore, there seems to be a lack of preparation for Ruby’s tarot readings, with Ruby visibly finding it difficult to produce cogent and coherent readings for the players. On the night I attended this performance, there was also a notable difference in the way in which he interacted with the first player vs the second, making for a sense of discontinuity in his persona. Ruby remained rather restrictive with this first player, almost reticent, not willing to give too much effort or pizzazz, as though hiding behind the mysteriousness of his persona; yet, for the second player, he seemed to come out of himself, losing the mysterious persona altogether and becoming more conversational and informal. It is here, too, that he mentioned that the candles were artificial. I understand that the trajectories behind these two readings were very different, the first seeming to be guided by allusions to the player‘s relationship troubles and the second concerning the future success or failure of the player’s own performance to be staged soon, also at The Vaults, and so, naturally, the first would be — initially — rather imprecise and cryptic compared to the second, but, ultimately, with good planning and effort, this should make no difference. Ruby stated that it is difficult to talk about such intimate issues with players in front of an audience, and, to me, this just seems as though a poor excuse for a vapid reading. It should be remembered that this is not just an everyday tarot reading where privacy is key but one within the context of a performance, a shared and communal experience, and, moreover, a reading upon which the performance, if momentarily, depends. Ruby should be willing to push audience members to divulge these informations in this way if these are the very subject of the reading, otherwise what purpose does the reading serve? What can it possibly uncover or demonstrate? It is highly fallible to design such fragile moments that depend solely on the audience member’s willingness to participate or divulge personal information to be successful — not that Ruby really even attempted to get this information out of the player or to see if this would, indeed, have been appropriate/acceptable in their eyes. In these moments, the audience are given far too much agency, and this agency should be stripped back significantly, if not eliminated entirely, if these readings are to be successful and viable as such integral parts of the performance. I am also curious to know what procedure is in place for when no audience members whatsoever volunteer to have a tarot reading… In performances like these, requesting things of the audience, instead of demanding things of them — especially when the figure of the Emcee is supposed to be daring, enigmatic and, frankly, scary — is most fallible, much like when Ruby asks if the audience members know the suits of tarot, inspiring awkward, tense and stuttering responses. With regards to the other performers, the acro stunts and formations that we are presented are highly successful in their ability to astound and bewilder. The repertoire devised in this performance is wonderfully varied, full of constant surprises and show-stopping acts. The performers have great poise and presence, equally as alluring, ghostly and seductive as Ruby. However, each of these performers inarguably requires a lot more physical practice, primarily where acro stunts are concerned, being shaky and unrefined in most of their movements as a collective; individually, though, they are very almost perfect. In this way, the seemingly inconceivable and inhuman nature of these acts, as well as their sheer variety, almost begin to captivate us more than the performers’ bodily control and articulacy as an ensemble. Despite the diversity of material, this performance could definitely give a lot more. In this performance, precious, fleeting time is hugely consumed by the performers’ initial interactions with their articles and props, intended for style and effect. Performers each assume a rather animalistic or creaturely stance, usually on all fours, and glare at the ropes, hoops or chains, etc. as though attempting to entrance them. Indeed, this is alluring and hypnotic at first, but it quickly becomes overused, slowing the acts down considerably. There is a lot more that this time could be used for besides these glares and slow, ‘mystical’ movements. As for the Emcee’s fire art, this is a most unexpected and enthralling way to end the performance, highly successful and efficacious. Again, there are just the recurrent issues of repetitiveness of movement and Ruby’s exposure of artificiality. The beauty and intrigue of fire art have predominantly to do with the proposal of danger, that this is a roaring, ferocious naked flame; so, whilst I understand the subversion and dominance Ruby exerts whilst wiggling his fingers into the fire, pairing this with tracing the flame over the body again and again simply overemphasises the harmlessness of the fire, obliterating any remaining sense of risk, shock and terror affiliated so wonderfully with the art form. The repetition of this becomes, too, time-consuming and bizarre (and not in an effective cabaret-esque manner). The musicians, which form soul-funk band Yoshi, are most definitely very talented. Their music makes for a consistent style, without motif yet with the same rhythm and tempo and within a consistent genre, adding texture, mood and tone, crescendoing and falling where necessary for drama, tension and suspense. The music is most promising in this way. However, there is a sporadic disturbance in the music which comes to full-fledged fruition towards the end, and this makes for friction not only in the style of the music but in the style of the performance itself. One musician, formerly the pianist and vocalist of the band, takes to a peculiar rapping, preempted by a sluggish “Yo…yo…yo…”. This is both neither a genre the vocalist seems particularly attuned to performing nor a genre pertinent to this performance. In addition, rapping later begins to approximate at points the deliberately over-performative chantings affiliated with vogueing, again calling forward this contemporary discourse of gender performativity where it is not warranted or relevant, and the music thus loses even more integrity. Besides this, however, lyrics remain poignant and eerie, gothic and inspired, and musicians play admirably with casual discipline and controlled fluidity. As a final note, I found the imagery and symbolism regarding tarot to be rather negligible, which is a huge concept flaw. This entire show –– with omission, of course, of the tarot readings –– could be performed without even a mere allusion to tarot in the slightest. This performance claims to comprise ‘tarot-led circus acts’, but, as I hope to have elucidated above, the relationship between the selected tarot cards, the ‘story’ resulting from these and the circus acts themselves bear no palpable relationship. The performers could just as well hand the Emcee cards with a piece of card detailing the next stunt or act; the Emcee would introduce it; and it would be performed, all in the exact same manner as per the theme of tarot. What is tarot really bringing to this performance that nothing else could? How, specifically, does it modify structure and embellish content in an unequivocal way? What does tarot offer that generic playing cards, for instance, with their suits and figures, could not? This lack of specificity and particularisation of theme is a huge flaw for this performance. Tarot readings in themselves are just as vague. Ruby seems to describe only what the cards signify in themselves as opposed to how this signification might be applied to events in the player’s life. The reading he provides the second player with was definitely more articulate but was more of an artist-to-artist counsel as opposed to valid utilisation of the tarot cards. Overall, this is a very gripping performance with huge promise and potential. It is a most unique and captivating experience. Its main issue really revolves around its duration; the performance does not leave enough time for the material to mature, nor for us to fully appreciate and digest it. There seem to be several very unique and credulous trajectories at the fundament of the work, yet these remain rather superficial and basic, for they are neither sufficiently developed individually nor combined together as well as they could be. This is truest of the performance’s incorporation of story which remains bland and shallow, a poor excuse to merely loosely contextualise the circus acts presented. The Feathers Daedalus Circus need to find a preciser, creative and tailored way to imagine and contextualise storytelling within this performance, or it needs to be eliminated completely. As it stands, a few cards are singled out –– e.g. the fool, the lovers, the hierophant, etc. –– and these each inspire the circus acts presented; there is no such story present here. Specific decisions, such as providing audience members with a tarot card each or even the tarot readings, need to be more complex and have an actual, readable and poignant impact on the performance. These elements need to feel necessary, not simple time-fillers, bonuses or superfluous oddities but obligatory, unmissable factors, nay determinants, of the performance. Such developments in these elements will progress them from merely aesthetic and omittable to fundamental elements of a cohesive and decisive performance. “Sensational and bewitching.”

For the Sake of Argument forces its audience to consider the relationship between words and war, from Eleanor Hickock’s (Ashleigh Cole) argument at the weekly pub debates that causes conflict between the group, to her opinionated writings and their impact upon the ideological thinking of late soldier Mark (Georgie Farmer), to Mark’s monologues such as that comprising a breakdown of cliché as a throughway to encouraging pride in one’s country, and the need to defend it in war. Such a relationship is certainly [rather laboriously] elucidated for the audience, but how the play wants us to digest this and the rest of its material, how it wants us to think about or swallow it remains utterly obscured. Despite the crude factuality and bluntness of the content presented, the overall aims of the dramatic text remain extremely minimal, convoluted and unclear. This is certainly a play for the politically-minded, or, at least, for those with high interest in politics. Whilst tensions are rising globally on modern soils, world war is definitely something shadowing our minds today, and so this play seems apt and relevant. It seems equally appropriate for this play to consider Britain’s past relationships with war and how ideologies and idolisation of historic figures oft-affiliated with war have shaped the beliefs of our modern society as a whole to the present day. However, as promising and relevant as these items seem on paper, this performance, completely unsure itself, seems unable to make anything of them. The lines of thought raised in this play are utterly unmindful towards plot and remain as simple regurgitations of information with no real bearing or relevance. This play is so devoid of personality and coherency that it almost feels as though its writer, Harry Darrell, simply gets carried away with political reasonings and writes a play simply to express his obsessions. Really, there are two [very disparate] strands to this performance. One deals with plot and the lives of characters; the other has to do with the rudimentary presentation of “facts”, presented as though significant and influential for the characters of this former strand but, actually, being very bland and unrelatable. It seems in this performance that these two strands cannot co-exist wholly and harmoniously. For now, it is this latter strand I am interested in, that of the presentation of facts. The dramatic text rather unimaginatively presents its agenda in the form of a for-vs-against debate. The ‘characters’ very briefly prepare their arguments before attacking pre-selected subjects. And this pretty much sums up the first act. Facts –– or, rather, schooled opinions –– are thrown left, right and centre, facts on Winston Churchill, facts on David Livingstone, facts on Tony Blair, and more, all of which bear absolutely no relation or significance to character or plot development. The only thing we gain from these debates, right at the very end of them, is the knowledge that Eleanor, who positively riles the group of debaters with her incessant and strong-willed appreciation of Tony Blair’s infamous war on terror, is a pompous, stubborn intellect whose views are not shared by the vast majority; surely the same acquisition of knowledge can be achieved less transparently and more creatively, more subtextually? It simply feels as though Darrell is unable to write convincing and complex main characters, shoving their thinkings down our throats, instead, with no imagination, let alone realism. The problem during these debates is that we become heavily encumbered with ongoing lists of needless and fleeting information. We also only get one speech each from the for and the against, meaning that these endless facts that we are presented also remain open-ended, unfinished and uncorroborated. It becomes a far-too-simple and endless back and forth of items which remain, within the play, mere unsubstantiated opinions. Everything one person says is exposed as uneducated and incorrect, contradicted with yet another fact, and it just feels as though the initial speech we heard was a waste of our time and that the next speech counteracting it could just as surely be contradicted by another later down the line. Whilst this extremely heavy focus on historical political figures and war devises a distinct lexical field to narrow and particularise our focus, the deeper subtextual significance that this holds within the play becomes absolutely undetectable through the sheer convolution. The context of a debate, especially one which has no bearing on the events of the play or the lives of the characters, one which is contextual and finalised with the simple vote of a yay or nay, intensifies this feeling of irrelevancy. The debates feel self-contained and unprogressive, detached from the world of the play. Although, there is the added complication that characters seem to treat the speeches they make as though expressions of their own opinions and thinkings, despite their stances of for or against being predetermined and enforced by Eleanor. It is convenient that these preselected stances happen, indeed, to be representative of how the characters truly feel or think… Again, this is evidence of how character and continuity are compromised for this bizarre vomiting of politics. One can imagine that Mark, who appears regularly in-between scenes, should be our guide in wading through the multitudinous opinions and theories presented throughout the play. One would imagine that his character is a navigator for us, clarifying and reorganising all of the information we have received in such a didactic and cogent way that the reading of this performance desired of us is transparent and accessible. Instead, Mark presents his own rhetorics and theories, supplementing those already delivered. The play becomes a furnace for facts and opinions that simply scream at the audience before dying out, only to be replaced by others just as dilute. What this play is ultimately wanting to communicate becomes far from comprehensible. The first and second acts feel like completely different performances, and the reason for this is a blatant misuse of character. This is an issue I have encountered with quite a few performances I have seen of late, where characters are used primarily as a mere tool to express thinking, as simple embodiments and voicers of ideology or politics. The characters have no real depth or significance, nor do they move the story along; quite fundamentally, they are part of the play only to apply an explicit political or sociopolitical discourse to a performance, one which could not be achieved so bluntly and easily through different means. This is, really, the worst recent case of this that I have seen, where characters are portrayed completely unrealistically and unnaturally, both in text and characterisation, having speech patterns that do not follow the natural and common, and exhibiting very few, if any, idiosyncrasies. They serve only to deliver the writer’s conjectures, suppositions and proposals. All characters when debating are written to speak in exactly the same way, despite obvious differences in the way they interact with one another beforehand. A prime and irksome example of this is Billy’s (Harry Farmer) particularised idiolect and how it changes completely when he enters a debate with Eleanor. He is cocky, his language is untrained, and his speech retains a certain colloquialism, yet he is soon entering into loquacious prose with an intellect, in the exact same lacklustre manner of speaking that all the other characters assume when debating, also to the detriment of their essences, identities and personalities. This balance between character and character function is something that definitely needs to be addressed. Then, there is the overall tone of the play. We go from a topless shouting drunk praying on his knees and a bumbling, babbling fool to a longevous, repetitive and robotic debate, then to an abrasive, cocky junkie, to another personality-less debate, all interlaced with the reflections of a soldier and ending in a near-death experience. It is a rollercoaster of mismatched style and content. In this performance, characters are extreme caricatures, full of vitality, energy, personality and ego. This is completely eradicated in the debate scenes, as depicted above with the character of Billy, where writing becomes uniform and undistinguished. This seems to be something recognised within the text, with Liz’s (Ella May) comedic interjections and outbursts, as though something is urgently needed to both break tension and re-ascertain character and fictionality. Additionally, the ending is far too extreme, adding a completely different tone of its own, one of erratic disruption and over-drama. Billy turns to functioning as a [caricaturistic] homicidal maniac, set on killing Eleanor for the influence her words had had on his brother. It feels cheap and utterly inconsistent, as though this already moribund performance makes one last cry for drama, theatrical poignancy and resonance. It is as though it was felt that climax and plot is absolutely necessary to finalise a play, regardless of what this particular climax was or how it related to the rest of the play’s content, or even what ending this particular play actually warranted. In other words, there is too much emphasis here on shock and dramatisation as opposed to clever reflection upon what would be suitable for this play. All of this makes the first act, primarily comprising debates, and the second, more concentrated on character and story, feel completely disjointed and dissimilar. Despite this inarticulacy and incoherency of text, characterisation ranges from average to very good in this performance. Actors clearly have profiles and personae in mind for their characters and treat them accordingly, demonstrating energy and cogency. However, there is definitely a sense of disparity across the characters, with some characters, like Liz, being outlandish and hyperbolic against the otherwise banal Abigail (Lucia France), for example. Admittedly, though, this is much more of an editorial or directorial issue; the caricatures presented in the text, those of the soldier, the fool, the drunkard and the junkie, that I mentioned earlier in this review make it very easy to over-exaggerate in characterisations, as is most certainly the case in this performance. This presentation of social stereotypes is something I find most regressive, especially when contextualised in deliberate comparison against ‘intellectuals’ and the ‘erudite’. Finally, I would just note that whilst her characterisation and physicality is superb, Paula Cassina struggles greatly with delivering her lines with realistic intonation; this is definitely something in need of perfecting. As a final note on theatrical components, I have very little to say on lighting, music and sound, given their minimal usage throughout. These were all both simple and sufficient. I do, however, have quite a bit to say about the main component in this performance, set (designed by Amy Watts). The set for this play was composed of a framed wooden stage with a stand-alone door Upstage Right, whose floor is replaced by a pit of sand. I imagine that the sand was to imply that the world of the characters, full of conflict and aggression, was a warzone of its own, the sand evoking the barren grounds soldiers are regularly imagined to fight on. This would make sense as to why Eleanor interacts with Liz in front of this sandbox in the final moments of the play, as though she is finding peace in abandoning her world of professed intelligence and turning towards humanity, socialisation and compassion. It does not explain, however, why Mark remains outside of the sandbox at all times, given his direct relationship with war and battles. Personally, I think it was just bizarre to have the characters treading through sand and getting covered in it for the entire production, or to see May brushing it around the stage to imitate sweeping the floor of the pub. A certainly brave set design but one which would only benefit a very different performance. If it adds nothing of significant value to the play or our reading of it, it simply should not be. “A bland and ill-communicative performance, uninspired, dissonant and convoluted.”

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.