SEARCH MY SITE

NB: The character played by Conor Lowson is never named in this text and so shall be referred to simply as 'Lowson's/his character' in this review. Overall, this is a very impressive one-man performance written by Luke Stapleton and directed by Jamie Biddle. With a well-defined and coherent plot and characters, this play is wonderfully brought to life by performer Conor Lowson and his powerful, gripping and somewhat unique portrayal of our principal character. Starting with the text itself. This play has a dark premise, yet, overall, the gorier, more graphic and more violent material is not merely sensationalist but complements the telling of this vivid and mysterious story. In this way, it has a distinct and intelligent voice. Admittedly, there is not a great number of events and developments in this performance, but the events we are presented are certainly sufficiently fleshed out to remain both substantial and intriguing. Stapleton has also developed a logical and coherent main character, and it is his emotional response to stimuli and his secondhanded experience of and almost flâneur-like interest in others and their circumstances that make this performance so engaging; we observe the dark and the enigmantic through his eyes. Stapleton also paces this performance very well, allowing for intrigue and a rise in suspense and tension, but there are still certain aspects of his text that signal discontinuity or unnaturalism — one example being that Lowson's character spends a good amount of time studying Omar's dog tag, holding it in his hands, and yet it is only towards the very end of the performance that he realises that Omar's name is engraved into it. Nevertheless, this remains a strong and logical story. Particularly strong in this text is the slow and careful manner in which information is revealed, with Stapleton providing his audience with allusions and fragments of information throughout, like playing catch ‘with his head’ or the ‘pineapples’. This former piece of information is particularly intriguing in its extremity, also consolidating theme and the text’s nature early on. The audience's function within this performance, outlined by Lowson directly interacting and conversing with the audience, is facilitated excellently until the latter half of the text when they are slowly forgotten. This must be urgently readdressed. I imagine that these interactions are not written in the text, given their somewhat extemporaneous nature, but such ad libs, as successful as these initial ones are here, must consider how they combine with the rest of the material’s entirety. Interactions are first explicit and unnegotiable but soon turn nonexistent, and how we are addressed and what role we play —participants, witnesses, interlocutors, active listeners, etc. — must be consistent. With Lowson's character's speech becoming more and more enclosed and indirect, his relationship to us and our role as listeners becomes completely questionable, and it is easy to feel in this performance that the audience's presence is more and more neglected the deeper into this performance we get. We can observe a disjointedness of this nature when we consider Lowson's casual and natural entrance against the very stylised blackout ending. The character offered by the text and the one offered by Lowson are in direct conflict in this way [and in this way alone]. This brings me on to acting. Lowson is certainly a talented actor. He has a distinct ability to command the space, is confident, has excellent stage presence, and is energised and invigorated throughout his performance. His transformativity when portraying the various other characters that his encounters does, indeed, range from adequate to excellent, depending on the specific character represented, but representations are sufficiently distinguished such that this is not too severe an issue. Lowson has a good emotional range and corporeal expressivity, but whilst his diction is superb, I would just pay greater attention to volume. Without an abundance of theatrical properties and set pieces, the White Bear Theatre is quite an anechoic space, and this compromises somewhat Lowson's audibility, particularly when his delivery is directed to the opposite audience section. Lowson should work on slight adjustments to his vocal delivery in this way, increasing the volume of his voice accordingly, noting, of course, the difference between shouting and projecting. Lowson demonstrates an excellent — actually, exemplary — awareness of his audience, overall, responding well to their movements and reactions as well as to the general atmospheres that consume the space itself. However, as the performance progresses, there surface undeniable moments wherein Lowson is focusing too much upon the audience’s potential response, as opposed to upon the life and psychology of the character and, where this is necessary in direct address, the audience’s actual response. It is clear that he increases his volume at times and performs swifter movements, becoming more erratic and even lunging towards audience members for the extra shot at a jump scare, all in an attempt to invoke emotion or shock within or to directly target audience members such that they remain invested and excited by the material. This sensationalist decision, most likely a directorial issue, quickly becomes rather cheap and ineffective and compromises to some noticeable degree the credibility and integrity of the performance. This is without mentioning that the actuality of the audience response is rather opposite to the intended one: it completely removes them from the material of the text, merely awakening self-preservative instincts and temporospatial awareness, both of which are needless in and subtractive from this performance. A greater, less negligible problem is the excessive structuring of both the text and of Lowson's portrayal, the latter of which is concretised by the second half of the play. From halfway in, with every single clause and phrase, Lowson's intonation changes and he addresses the audience sections alternatingly, presenting a different emotion or tone with every turn of the body or lift and fall of the head. This becomes so structured, in fact, that it becomes entirely predictable and hence robotic, unnatural and overly rehearsed. It becomes clear in this way that Lowson is hyperfocusing on his delivery and his external representations as opposed to on the psychology of his character and his experiences. As for the text itself, Stapleton relies far too heavily upon simlies in his writing, which are most effective at times, such as with the graphic descriptions of Keith's infected head wound [which does, unfortunately, reveal another discontinuity, given that nothing becomes of his head infection] or with the rather romantic and literary descriptions of his handcrafted wooden boat, but when these similes are used alongside every other description, especially when these descriptions are of fleeting moments and objects, their effect wears off, and the text feels monotonous, univocal and unimaginative stylistically. There are other aspects that are far too often repeated, too, and one worth mentioning is the use of the phrase 'with that': "With that, she disappeared", "With that, he was gone". Unless specific phrases like this are left peculiar or unique, illuminating the character's individualised idiolect, their constant repetition ought to be avoided. On to staging and design. Biddle and Lowson have decided to keep Lowson's character sat down in one spot for the vast majority of the performance, and I believe this is an efficacious decision, drawing our attention away from needless spectacularities and towards this character and the material and specificities of the text alone. However, this intense focus type is another reason as to why the text itself must be sleek and refined in its communications, profound and entirely interesting. Whilst story and plot developments certainly are varied and engaging, Lowson’s lines become far too repetitive in the manner listed above, and repetition does not equate to profundity. Whilst I find the alcohol in the back a good symbol and foreshadowing for the revelatory conversation to come with Keith about Omar's fate, the manner in which it is implemented into the performance is subtractive and underwhelming. It is clear that the creatives wished to break up the soliloquy, to give the audience a breather, but this respite should either be present in the written text itself or should feel relevant and necessary, not just for us but for Lowson’s character itself. Breaks should not feel deliberate but organic, not coming about because the character has finished this segment of the story but because he has become sensitive to an aspect of the story he is telling, for example, uncomfortable or confused, or perhaps he is excited about his story and wants to celebrate in some way, such that the drink is necessary to calm or free him. Including in these scene breaks, there are multiple instances throughout this performance where Lowson stands up, rather unnaturally, once even atop his chair, only to sit back down again almost immediately after, once the following line has been delivered in the aforementioned erratic manner. There is no clear and natural motivation behind these excessive movements, and I would recommend limiting his movements to the chair entirely. The creatives should not fear boring the audience with a sense of stasis or inertion. The alcohol itself could, and perhaps should, just be placed beside him, on the floor by the chair. His drinking it will still enable for the lengthy pause that getting up and walking over to the table at the back of the stage would permit. This is all without mentioning that the particular table upon which the bottle sits is also aesthetically jarring against the otherwise barren stage. On to lighting (designed by Can Bitirim). Given its naturalistic style and the relaxed environment that this performance provides, the individual colours used in this design, beyond red, have little symbolic or logical relevance to the text. However, the manner in which lighting is combined cued and operated for this performance is otherwise clever and well-executed. States change gradually and almost unnoticeably throughout, and this complements the natural flow, momentum and themes of the text. I would just reconsider the fading of the blue and the green overhead lights Upstage Center towards the very end of the performance. These only seem to be able to fade in distinct and blatant phases and, in doing so, draw far too much attention to themselves. I would recommend their fade start much earlier, so that this staggered effect may be less noticeable, or that the lantern itself be replaced by something more suitable and discreet. Nevertheless, seamless operation by Bitirim. “A gripping story vitalised by a talented performer.”

The atmosphere as the audience enters is clever, artistic and well-constructed: beams of yellow and blue splitting through a hazed dim stage, and two simple white fabric flats. A simple set design by Cheng Keng but a dynamic one. With the accompaniment of relaxing music (composed by Grace Joy Howarth), the creatives have created the perfect environment to settle, calm and relax the young audience but also to prepare them to take the material slightly more seriously, open-mindedly and receptively. But then we have the stagehands enter Upstage, milling around, moving odd-bits and set pieces. This is hugely destructive of illusion and is a subtraction from our first [and what should remain our] still, untouched and peaceful visual. I fail to see what preparations are needed here that could not have been executed before the audience enter, as they should have been, in order to keep the stage fictionalised and, in this way, uncontaminated. Most unprofessional. An effective set and tech design here is completely compromised. It is imperative in children’s theatre that aesthetics and visual semiotics take priority, that they are conspicuous and transparent, and that they serve as storytellers in themselves. This is not merely for colourful visual appeal but due to an undeveloped capacity for abstract thinking, which is still the case even for the children at the highest end of the target audience age range: ten years old. Visually, this performance is very lacking, however, and not only have simple solutions been omitted here, but there are various visual elements that actually contradict the sociopolitical messages of the play that we are meant to take away from it. First, these simple solutions. Costume (designed by Sophie Aubz) is simply awful, a huge issue in this performance. Even as an adult, I could barely discern which animals the actors were portraying until this was explicitly detailed in speech or discernible [a posteriori] from the characters’ contexts. More than mere ears on a headband is needed to signal the specific animals these actors represent. Following on from this, further extremity in the actors' portrayals is needed to communicate the morphological and physiological particularities and the individual identities of the characters that they are representing — much more than locked bodily positions, twitches, changes in vocal pitch, and limps are required here. I shall elaborate upon the acting below. Similarly, an increased number and frequency of sound effects — waves for the ocean, cracking ice for the polar bear’s habitat, tractors and baaing/mooing/etc. for the farm — would better communicate context, which is currently undisclosed in the majority of scenes, except, sometimes fleetingly, in dialogue. On to this second point: that certain aspects of this performance contradict its overarching sociopolitical aims. This performance, quite honourably, aims to teach children the importance of keeping our planet safe through a specific critical lens that observes the impact of human activity on the animal kingdom. Providing various snapshots of animals during the Anthropocene, the performance aims to expose the dangers, struggles and tortures that animals endure today at the hands of both our dominion and carelessness, and it aims to do this through an imaginative fictional narrative, seeing our animals speaking and anthropomorphised, and through song. It is a promising text, presenting a great range of contexts and abuses from the ill-treatment of household pets to the mass pollution of the sea. We are presented these through the [so-called] ‘compassionate’ eyes of our titular character, Birdie (Ana Chloe Moorey), who is flown to the various settings of the play by her newfound best friend, Robin (Gabe Hampton-Saint). It is a sweet, endearing and magical premise. However, it is what happens when we arrive at the various settings that allows for this sense of contradiction. Each animal explains its troubles and sufferances and then proceeds to elaborate upon these through song. Often, these songs are campy and filled with humour. Choreography (by Hampton-Saint) facilitates this comedy, too, especially for Vikram Grover’s song as Cluck the Turkey or during Amy Margareta (playing Monty the Monkey) and Grover's (also playing Ellis the Elephant) duet. Ironically, despite the overall significance of lyrics, and the skeletal narrative, the animals seem to be mocking their own fates, with Cluck humouring the idea of being a Christmas dinner with a campy Christmas medley, and with Monty rolling about the floor, joyously dancing with Ellis whilst singing about the destruction of his habitat. There is a certain lack of seriousness in this play in which the animals seem far too gleeful and upbeat despite their distress. This not only dampens the effect when Birdie finally 'saves' each of the animals by the end of their respective scenes [how exactly is never truly elucidated] — for if they were happy to begin with, what has she really changed? — but also discredits and delegitimises the animals' experiences and sufferings. We should see these animals truly miserable and pained, only to have their hope reignited once Birdie identifies the issues they face and sets out to save not just these individual animals but the entirety of each of their species. More significantly, this contradictory reading is intensified by the background presence of Birdie and Robin whilst the animals are delivering their songs. Throughout the entire play, except for in the scenes including Buttercup the Cow (Charlotte Swarbrick) [more on this below], we see Birdie and Robin either smiling or laughing as the animals detail their trauma or misery, merely enjoying sharing the space with these magical animals, or completely detached from the action altogether, playing their own games with one another, passing and interacting with theatrical properties and mimicking the animals. With Birdie and Robin being our guides through this play, with their actions and reactions signposting the audience to the best treatment of and respect for animals and the planet, this display completely obliterates and ridiculises any cogency, seriousness or urgency that this play intends to communicate. We are taught by these characters to feed the mere narrative that we care whilst, in reality, flippantly enjoying and selfishly profiting from the contexts of animal cruelty and suffering that we are presented here. We are taught, in fact, to laugh about the fates and actualities of the animals with which we share this planet, and to see them as mere pathetic caricatures that mock and, paradoxically, take pleasure in their own despair, singing, dancing, seemingly having the time of their lives. This performance struggles severely to elucidate the realities of the animal kingdom but also to re-animalise the characters that we are presented. We access and empathise with these characters only through the characteristics that we share with one another, and this is detrimental to our reading, especially when we turn to the character of Buttercup the Cow. Devoid of seriousness and true emotional stimuli, this play then presents us with a farm animal who has had her calf taken from her by humans. Whilst the other animals — the fish, the polar bear, the monkeys, for example — are affected indirectly by humans, by deforestation or by air or sea pollution, this cow and Cluck are the only animals that are directly targeted by humans, bred, farmed, tortured and killed specifically for their bodies and their products, and whilst the latter is just as ridiculised as its precedents, Buttercup has a far more relatable and earthy character, maternal and emotional, unlike the rest of the animals we have been presented thus far. It is most peculiar that the creatives have chosen to treat this animal type and her suffering with more humanity and solemnity than the others, and, whilst this remains a powerful section in itself, put beside the more ‘playful’ [or careless] scenes, it is clear as to which narrative this scene inevitably promotes, and it is not a narrative that coincides with the performance’s underlying aims. Supported by thematic clauses such as 'The love that a mother feels for her son', with which the audience type can more readily identify, our reading becomes that her trauma and experience are somehow greater, intenser, rawer because its attributes are profoundly relatable to us humans, and, more importantly, to the parents and children that compose the audience. Birdie and Robin both treat her circumstances with seriousness, sorrow and sympathy now, too, expressing these earnestly, joining her in her doleful song, and acting immediately to help her find her child. This is, by far, the most emotive, impactful and hence efficacious section of the performance, and it is very well constructed. However, we learn nothing of the dairy industry, how these animals are exploited and affected beyond having their children taken away, and nothing about what they must endure. In this, the only scene that truly demands our empathy, feeling and seriousness, is a failure to acknowledge that which separates these animals from us humans. We are not taught to feel empathy for the living sentient beings that we might find foreign or otherwise inaccessible. Thus, the undesirable connotation here is that we should only care profoundly for animals displaying what we consider to be human characteristics. this can also be applied to our understanding of Birdie's relationship to Steve's (Paul Bruce) puppy. However, I should point out here that even the ending of this scene with Buttercup is ridiculised to some extent, with the comedic appearance of the puppet representing her calf. The above is not to take away from the efficacy of this section itself — it is certainly an impactful and charged scene, as evidenced by the stirring of the young audience, rising from their seats to get a better look, visibly invested — but merely to highlight, when found amongst the rest of the material we are presented in this performance, being so distinguished thematically and stylistically from it, how the overall communication of the underlying sociopolitical agenda becomes confused and misaligned in this way. Having a similar effect, descriptions of ‘The Destroyer’ [until he is portrayed by Bruce], representative of humankind, are far too fictionalised and exaggerated. That The Destroyer eats burgers, drives cars and litters everywhere is most relatable and realistic, understanding that this is us. However, having long sharp teeth and pointed fingers, as described by the characters and depicted in what I shall refer to henceforth as the shadow sequence, is so monstrous that it subtracts from the reality to which the play refers us. All spectacular, descriptive and aesthetic features should aim to complement, sharpen and concretise our readings, not to embellish them beyond recognisability. In this way, our own everyday actions are separated from the narrative of the actions of 'humankind'; we lose our sense of personal action and duty. Sticking with this 'shadow sequence', this is by far the most impressive, memorable and enjoyable feature of this performance, seeing an assortment of representations, achieved by both static and active shadowing bodies. I would just recommend that these bodies are not repeated, such as the sad cloud symbolic of air pollution, for example, and that the song’s campiness be toned down ever so slightly, so that the dark intensity of this ‘character’ can be better understood as wholly negative and not in any way enjoyable, quirky or inviting. It seems there is a resistance in this play against scaring the young audience or presenting a world that is too ‘doom and gloom’; this is a naïve decision. Considering the language use in this performance, specialist vocabulary such as 'greenhouse gases' ought to be better elucidated. Other than this, however, this text is certainly accessible to its target audience. When it comes to elucidating the core principles and phenomena this performance addresses, meaning is not so readily conveyed. Rory the Polar Bear (also Grover) offers us as an explanation of global warming, and he might as well have offered us nothing. Using a whiteboard and marker for his demonstration, one expects that his diagram will be enlightening, a clear and simple visual reference; instead, he merely draws a 'greenhouse' and squiggles on it whilst explaining the process verbally. This is a wonderful opportunity to teach the children about the planet itself in a focused and particularised environment, where empathy and emotion can coincide with intellect and reason; erase this initial drawing, now that the similarity has been understood, and draw the ozone layer and the rays of light that it has trapped within it. Again, there seems here to be a certain resistance to elaborate, replaced by oftentimes needless campy dances and quirky one-liners. Three separate groups of children (nine altogether) expressed that whilst they “enjoyed the performance” and “had fun”, they had no profound idea of what the story was about or what they had learned from it, and it is clear as to why this is the case, with almost totally indiscernible animal types, an underplay or subversion of negative subject matter, and a sheer lack of detail and expansion where imperative and necessary. Visual representations that serve as aids to enhance our learning are simply lacking and underdeveloped, from the lifeless puppet of Steve's dog that the actors regularly discard and leave unattended to the infinitesimal recycling logo on the cardboard box into which Birdie throws Steve's paper cup. These are important signifiers and should not be used so lightly and with such little care. We should believe and have constant confirmation that Steve’s dog is alive and thus worthy of our emotional and temporal investment, and it should be emphasised with extremity that we are not throwing Steve’s cup away but recycling it, not downplayed in this manner. As for acting, I remain most impressed by Margaretta's portrayals of her characters. She is incredibly expressive and transformative, confident in her roles and vitalised. I would just pay better attention to diction when portraying the Mouse, as the pitch of her voice often interferes with comprehensibility. Next, Grover is wonderfully expressive in his caricatural portrayal of Cluck, but his other characters remain indistinct and uninvigorated. All other actors are adequate in their presentations, but energy and intensity are hugely lacking, generally. Also a choreographical issue, musical renditions especially lack dynamism and dimensionality, overall. As alluded to above, character profiles are limited to locked bodily positions, such as Hampton-Saint's stance of pride or Swarbrick's hunch as Buttercup, and are in desperate need of variation and vitality. Where singing is concerned, however, these performers have immaculate voices. With only a few vocal mishaps, the performers manage to maintain wonderful harmonies and crisp notes. Howarth's music and lyrics are just as efficacious, clear, catchy and well composed, communicating the ethics and messages of the play well. Overall, this remains an endearing and well-intentioned performance with an effective storyline. However, not only aspects of the staged performance itself but also the ending of this text focus our attention too significantly on the human and diminish the extremity of and our culpability and new duties in regard to animal suffering, which is in contrast with the text's aims. Revealing that Birdie's Mother (also Swarbrick) was actually the Queen of the Animal Kingdom at the end of the performance, removes us and our responsibilities from the play altogether, focusing our attention on Birdie's closure and peace of mind. By the end, it feels as though all of the material that we have been presented, all that we have learnt was merely for Birdie's own development alone, all to enable her to find and become her true self. The focus must remain on the animals if the political agenda underlying this performance is to bare itself successfully and work upon the audience in any substantial and significant way. A mere one-time statement, "You'll help us, won't you?" does not critically engage and mobilise an audience, or make for a very successful and congruous audience integration. “An endearing text with honourable objectives but compromised by an unruly and uncareful execution.”

This is certainly a captivating and thought-provoking performance, tackling well its themes of responsibility, pressure, self-depreciation, unrequited love and mental illness. A most articulate and profound piece of theatre that I would certainly recommend readers see. Joe Marty (playing Brendon) and Ruth Page (playing Fran) have an excellent and palpable chemistry, evidenced in their shared humour and endearing secretive winks and smiles of encouragement at the end of the overture to prepare one another for the performance to come. This is an excellent ground for their work together. They remain throughout unfazed by and confident in their interactions with one another, demonstrating eye contact and engagement with one another throughout. The two also do a good job at welcoming the audience, increasing awareness of their presence and the space. However — and the following are significant points — this metatheatricality and subtextual chemistry actually work against our reading of the performance. Not once again is the audience addressed, meaning that we have become needlessly self-aware and recognisant of the mechanics of theatre, the Other, the performer and our relationships to these, whilst the performance will otherwise remain enclosed and fictional. In this way, the audience-performer divide is dismantled, only to be reinforced immediately as the play begins. Then, the characters themselves that Page and Marty proceed to present to us remain, overall, distinct and isolated from one another — by their own harsh spotlights, by never touching, by offering only the odd retort and a distancing eye contact as forms of address. Whilst playfulness persists for a while — with Fran voicing her opinion that Brendon could never, despite his self-belief, feature on the front cover of GQ magazine providing us with a good example — by the beginning-middle, we have lost any sense of relation, togetherness and shared experience. It feels, in this way, that the overture with which we are presented is one intended for an ultimately different performance, setting us up to read in these performers, and hence in their characters, a direct relationship to us that will never be consolidated, as well as a belonging and solidarity with one another that we ought not to perceive. Of course, we can connect the characters’ experiences indirectly by theme, their loneliness, their frustrations, etc., but this is a very different matter. I should also note here that whilst Page and Marty are confident in these initial audience interactions, addressing each audience member respectively, their script remains somewhat limited, focused on the so-called “energy” or “vibe” of the room, how we are all feeling, and what beverages people have brought into the house with them. This is somewhat unimaginative, communicating a lack of extensive preparation, and better interactions, and perhaps interactions that are notably congruous with the material to follow, ought to be conceived here. This is our first impression of the performance; it ought not to be repetitive or lacking in any way. The two do make more elaborate jokes, encouraging us to dance at any point if we wish [again, when during the performance would this be appropriate?], roaming the corridors to spot latecomers, etc. More varied interactions of this nature are needed here, but, again, with thought to congruity. Integration of composer-musician Joe Strickland, also the director of this performance, feels distinctly incomplete. Clearly not trained as a performer, his unnaturalistic expressions and responses to the material are both distracting and subtractive. For example, his mouthing, “Oh no!” when it is revealed that a ‘dead’ man is lying in Brendon’s bedroom [I should also note here that this extreme development seems to be glossed over and forgotten, where it ought to be better communicated and expanded upon. I remain completely perplexed as to who this dead man is and as to what relevance he has to the progression of this text.] Strickland’s extreme responses minimise the credibility or integrity of invaluable moments in this performance. Page is the only one of the two main performers to really address Strickland, laughing and talking with him, whilst he seems invisible to Marty beyond Marty’s early reference that he would like the music to pause and resume at a specific point in time. This interaction he shares with Page is heading in the direction of better inclusion, but there are instances where he informs her [in pretence?] of cues or upcoming decisions, directing her attention to his grid controller. This interaction type defictionalises the performance far too emphatically and ought to be avoided. Strickland’s relationship with his own music is also rather distracting at times, seeing him bopping, tapping, ‘lost in the art of it’ whilst the topics addressed by the text are supposed to be far calmer or intense, demanding our emotional investment or stricter attention. This is particularly distracting and artificial during scenes where the music we are offered is merely a repetitive percussive beat. In fact, tech overall proves itself to be quite incongruous with the performance, providing us itself with rhythms that do not coincide with the emotional quality of the scenes we are offered. Beyond this, the music’s volume is far too loud, combining with the volume of the microphoned actors, their oftentimes extensive physical expressivity, the fast pace of the music and the intensity of the material, all to allow for an unwanted sense of chaos and busyness which persists throughout the entire performance. This also minimises our appreciation of the final scene that is executed in silence, as it is easy to be absorbed, finally, in the peace of the music’s absence as opposed to in the intensity of the isolation of the text and story alone in its retreat. On to the text itself. This text, poetic and literary in some aspects, and conversational and naturalistic in others, is excellently structured, gripping and well-conceived. The fragmented and achronological narrative with which we are presented provides great intrigue and dynamism, keeping Brendon’s story, in particular, esoteric and erratic, which communicates successfully these qualities of his personality, frame of mind and actions. The story we are presented is unique, expanding profoundly upon often-overlooked emotional relationships with otherwise fleeting and short-lived life events. Its characters are also well-defined and excellently developed. In regard to its theme of mental illness, this play also successfully and commendably humanises emotions from which we are often taught to distance ourselves: desperation, vulnerability, neediness, despair… I would just pay closer attention to the writing of Brendon's character. Whilst I wrote above that the esotericism of his narrative is effective, it is also slightly excessive in its constancy. It is not until the middle-end of the performance that any humanisation or understanding of his character and circumstances are permitted. Conversely, his mention of Joyce Vincent seems to come too late, feeling as though a much-too-conspicuous foreshadowing of his own death. When addressing Fran, 'you' and 'her' are used almost interchangeably, and this ought to be addressed, also. Beyond Brendon's narrative, abject descriptions are also somewhat repetitive: 'paste', 'spit', etc., and the same can be said for the use of onomatopoeia, namely 'boom'. Other than these items, this is a solid, sleek and sound text. As for the performers themselves, Marty and Page remain energised and invigorated throughout the entire performance. They are confident, eager, and aware of their respective characters' psychologies, feelings, motivations and intentions. More of a directorial issue, I would just reconsider how the two react to one another's monologues. As alluded to above, there is a playfulness turned sour and removed as the play goes on, without particularly well-communicated reasoning as to why. Oftentimes, their responses to one another are too artificial and extreme, seeing the actors bursting with laughter or delivering their lines without regard to natural intonation and pacing; these moments feel far too rehearsed in this way. Nevertheless, they have great command over their roles and excellent awareness of one another and the audience. Pacing and variation in delivery, without which this play could become too bipartite and monotonous, are also immaculately handled. Diction becomes a notable problem for Marty as the performance draws to a close, however, and I imagine this is due to a mischannelling of nervous energy and to the lingering effects of an [efficacious] erratic physicality. Most important to consider is his enunication when delivering his line about this aforementioned dead man: the line, 'he sits up', was delivered rather awkwardly as 'he shits up'. When his character is calling his ex-partner and ends up stuck on her voicemail, his repeated line is delivered consistently as follows: 'it call [sic.], it rings'. This performer has wonderful facial expressivity, as does Page, but conceals it with his microphone, which he holds at far too high a tilt; it ought to be held perpendicular to his face. I should also mention here Page's propensity towards manual expression, which is wonderful and articulate but too juxtapositional against Marty's expressivity in the first scene, limited exclusively to his face. Both performers, with emphasis on Marty, sometimes deliver their lines with too great an emphasis on the lyricality and poeticism of the text, altering their pacing and intonation to match its rhythm; this ought to be avoided. Some final trivial notes. Marty forces our attention towards Page when his character describes hers, noting that Fran wears her handbag on one shoulder where, in fact, she wears it on the other and across her chest, which would make it incredibly difficult for someone to quickly snatch from her in an alleyway. Moreover, should she still have this handbag, once the rest of the performance will be dedicated to her hunting it, and Brendon, down? The audience is far too harshly lit, which would be acceptable if this initial metatheatricality was continuous, but, again, it is not. This can also lead to the audience's discomfort, due to the infamous heat of the lights — as it did mine. There is also a discontinuity in the text, where Brendon describes himself running away, seeing Fran at the bottom of a staircase, then being hit in the face with her thrown dog's ashes, but the chronology of this is later revealed by Fran to be different. Finally, I would recommend not having Marty strike the microphone against his head, risking its momentary malfunction, as was the case on the night I saw the performance. Instead, he ought to make the sound himself whilst striking his head with his own hand, which would be welcomed by the play’s aforementioned insistence upon onomatopoeia heretofore. Once more, as with my most recent review before this, I personally thoroughly enjoyed this performance, but the items I have noted above bring me to the rating below. "Excellent actors and a gripping, articulate story, but staging needs further refinement."

I must, unfortunately, start this review by detailing some negative initial impressions walking into the house, somewhat immortalised by subsequent happenings. As I entered the house, two members of the crew were gossiping, one lounging over the seats, another stood broadly at the control desk, talking across the distance with her. Loudly skindering, relaxed, ignorant to the now entering audience and to the mood with which they were imbuing the space, the creatives made for a markedly hostile ambience, in conflict with the silent and tense atmosphere that the performance itself attempts to have settle. I then notice the two performers shrouded in darkness but still clearly visible, Caidraic Heffernan (playing Mason) and Kate Valentine Crisp (as Esther and Edward). The two, with great emphasis on Crisp, are restless, stretching, yawning. Either their presence on the stage here should be deliberate, intentional, their purpose clear, their actions coherent and established, or they should not be present at all. Even if the intention is to present these characters as relaxed, languid, which is most notably not the case here, a degree of muscular tension as well as focus techniques should ground the actor in the space so that they remain present, aware, enlivened, awake, not sleepy or detached in their external inactivity. It is not until the end of the performance that I am reminded of this trend of disconnection from the work and its integrity. Loud, frantic and chatting, the creatives clear the stage with an uncareful urgency, completely disrupting, yet again, the tense and quiet atmosphere of the space that their performance has, supposedly, taken nearly an hour to produce. The final, concretised impression is a slapdash performance for experience or money, with no care or integrity from the creatives’ part, completely destroying any hopes of illusion and ambience, careless as to the sentiment with which they will leave their departing audience as an important souvenir of their work. Appallingly unprofessional. I hope this comportment is reconsidered appropriately for future performances. Moving on to the performance itself. Partially an editorial issue, Izzy is portrayed well by Amelia Paltridge, but characterisation remains inconsistent in places. Our very first impression of Izzy, as Paltridge [needlessly and incongruously] stares into the audience’s eyes, her glare and movements determined, calculative, directly contrasts with our next impression immediately after this overture: she is anxious, awkward, perhaps even terrified of us. This second impression is all the more surprising for another reason. That her book club ‘audience’ should have such a crippling effect on her as she requests we interact, awaits our responses — both to no avail —and censors herself in the descriptions she offers us is confounding, given that her ‘audience’ never actually existed; the book club fell through. Nervous and perhaps distracted throughout, she is, without offering us an introduction or any coherency and logic, somehow completely comfortable with Esther. In their scenes together, her constant anxiety seems to have disappeared altogether, and she is now entirely collected, laidback upon her chair. We can surmise, perhaps, that this is because she is in love with Esther and feels at ease in her presence, but this is only a retrospective surmise, given that Paltridge maintains this anxiety in her portrayals during precedent interactions between her character and Esther, and that Esther is never appropriately introduced as a potential love interest, to begin with — in fact, it is never truly made clear as to who she is at all. In this way, the character of Izzy with which we are presented, at first filled with passion, love, interest, fond of a little ‘befriended’ rogue mouse she has named Charlie, and later cold, spiteful, and plotting Charlie’s death[?!], all without presenting any logical development, is completely inconsistent and hence incomprehensible. Emotion, distress and trauma are some of the running themes of this performance which presents our main character’s parasocial relationship with fictional character Edward Cullen as a coping mechanism to bear the complexities of the world in which she lives as well as those of her seemingly unfixed sexual identity. A sound premise with which to work and from which to consolidate Izzy’s character, it would seem, but such clarity does not extend beyond these details. These themes and most other aspects of the text remain somewhat impenetrable in their superficiality, lacking credibility and particularisation. The text itself is most repetitive in the tripartite structure which consumes its majority and in its reliance upon the same recurrent themes: [homo]sexuality, identity and disconnection, and its constant reliance upon emotional aspects of the characters, ironically, forces us away from bonding with them, as they seem inhuman, monolithic, unidimensional. Moreover, the characters are all holding onto something from the past — Mason onto Naomi, Esther onto her childhood bully, and Izzy onto Edward — and this furthers the sense of a lack of depth and variation. Izzy’s monologic book club scenes and the constant proverbial wrestling in her interactions with the other characters in every single other scene, even during the mouse’s death scene, lends this sense of unidimensionality, also. Izzy’s circumstances are never fully explained; we are never allowed or made to fully understand the reasons behind her emotional dispositions, beyond one mention that she was bullied in her youth and felt isolated as a result. Consequently, we have no reason to care for her; we have no questions, for we know we will receive no answers; we, rather like her, are enabled to feel disconnected from the world of the play. Whilst the fragmented narrative successfully communicates well the disorder of memories, relationships, impulses and emotions in her mind, I believe this, too, confuses and complicates our reading of her chronology and her development [or perhaps regression]. After this persistent sense of stagnancy and repetition, in the structure of scenes and in the text’s themes, is a notable shift in the text’s voice and subject matter towards the very end…but it is not a positive one. We are allowed no clear understanding as to why Edward has now left Izzy, especially after having given into biting her wrist, but, most significantly, we are now introduced for the first time to Izzy’s mother (also Crisp) in a short seaside flashback including the two. This is a most peculiar scene, following shortly after the mouse's death scene, both including a hitherto unseen reliance upon an abundance of one-use theatrical properties, meaning that they are aesthetically and stylistically incongruous, and neither overtly consistent with the material we have been offered hitherto. Again, it feels as though some deep emotional memory, trauma or disconnect is being referenced here but remains superficial in its inaccessibility and transience. A sense of depth is referenced, for example, in the inclusion of jam in the mouse’s deathtrap as something tempting but fatal, reminding us of Esther’s account of the sweet-smelling jam-like breath of her bully, and in the inclusion of Izzy not being touched by [the memory of] her mother, after Edward’s fixation on the fact that no-one has ever or does ever touch him. However, these references remain, once more, shallow and far too esoteric. Absence of reason and significance is even observable in the presence of technical elements. The significance of the microphone and its usage remains confused in this performance. Initially a signifier that we are in the book club, the microphone is used sporadically by Crisp’s characters too, and its purpose thus becomes confused, destabilising our mode of reception and needlessly stylising and depersonalising extracts of the text. I should also note here that the microphone is slightly too high, obscuring Paltridge’s face, and that Paltridge fails to speak her lines into it consistently, often continuing to speak when her head is slightly turned or tilted, allowing, most jarringly, for most of her words to be projected by the microphone and some not. When Edward says another character’s name “like that” — something I shall return to below — we see the LED spots light up…and this is their only usage beyond creating a starry background for Edward[?] — or Esther? Potentially even Naomi? — and Jacob’s[?] (also Heffernan) dance. I add these parentheses because who these characters are exactly remains completely unclear, as charming as this scene is in itself, which is something that three other audience members happened to voice, as well. Unfortunately, the red scarf work by Crisp is not enough to ground our reading here. I digress… The relevance of this use of the spotlights is left unmarked and unknown. Again, the umbrella at the end: pretty but for what purpose? Completely incongruous with the technical style of the rest of the performance which remains technically featherlight, beyond these LED spots. Perhaps the only successful use of tech is the use of the spotlights and washes to distinguish scenes, but this is too rudimentary an inclusion to really commend. Perhaps the saving grace of this performance is its performers, who remain invested and energised throughout, despite the aforementioned minor hiccups during the overture. They remain certain of their character intentions and motivations, even if we cannot, and are confident in portraying the bold, graphic, profane and sexual material offered by the text. For the most part, they are credible actors, but none have conceived particularly strong profiles for their characters. Idiosyncrasies beyond Esther’s holding a Peroni bottle [which is clearly not filled with Peroni or a comparably coloured liquid but with clear water — attention to detail is important] are nonexistent. Nevertheless, physicalities have good vigour, and expressivity is above adequate. I would just urge more extremity in Paltridge’s physicality, particularly in more extreme scenes, and that Crisp pay closer attention the differentiation between her characters; lack of distinct profiles and idiolects often means that her characters are indiscernible unless explicitly named by the written text itself. I mentioned above the manner in which Edward says other characters’ names, and whilst this is clearly an important feature in the text, Crisp fails to mark the names with any notable peculiarity, in tone, enunciation or expression. This ought to be addressed. Ultimately, however, the problem here is not the performers but the material they are performing. Overall, this is an eclectic and confused performance whose text must be significantly reworked. The performers demonstrate good promise but are not able to salvage its general esotericism and superficiality. Character developments are incoherent, and story and plot require the audience to read too intently into subtext. Intertextual references are minimal; in fact, the purpose and significance of Twilight to Izzy — the entire premise of the play — is, overall, underplayed. Unprofessional dispositions, whilst these do not particularly alter my criticism here, certainly leave me with a sour taste of this performance, moreover. “A confused, incomplete and incoherent text made merely watchable by good performers.”

This review will consider Hackney Wick Wrestling, a show presented by independent wrestling school and promotion Hustle Wrestling, taking place for one night only at the Colour Factory. In terms of aesthetics, the vast majority of the wrestlers are indistinct at best. Amidst the mere shirtless men, it is difficult to discern any established wrestler types beyond the overly caricatural: the fabulous queer male, the burlesquely female, the villainous duo, the rubber duck mascot, etc. Whilst the former of this list, Cassius, has generally consolidated his profile well, most of the visual motifs and gestures used by these wrestlers are over-relied upon to denote types, and we are offered little else beyond these, meaning that representations remain superficial and repetitious: Nina Samuels's dainty lifts of the arm, accompanied by the drop of a stiff hand, or the triangle Liam Massett and Cairo form with their fingers. These are powerful images in themselves but remain shallow and somewhat ineffective with nothing to compare them to: how can we know that Nina is now truly enraged, if we have hitherto only seen her bitter and angry, for instance? Visuals are an incredibly important aspect of wrestling, especially where narrative is concerned, and such superficiality may compromise intrigue and depth, increasing predictability and formal rigidity. It is important that all wrestlers have a vast repertoire of quirks, gestures, catchphrases and aesthetic attributes, etc., to concretise a more profound, and thus more interesting, profile. Equally, it is important that these characteristic qualities complement the wrestler's performance type: Cassius's screaming when attacking, or being attacked himself, and his somewhat catlike or gymnastic movements, for example, complement his profile's flamboyancy. Unfortunately, I cannot see how Nina’s bitchiness, arrogance and snobbishness outside of the ring come into play in her in-ring performances, or what role another wrestler’s rubber ducks have in his [in fact, he actually left his rubber duck with an audience member — more on this below]. Furthermore, Liam Massett and Cairo's actions as an obvious duo are too few to be noteworthy. These are only a few of the examples I could offer here. In short, more than costume and gestural motif is needed here to consolidate the wrestler’s profile. Sticking with visuals, I shall turn my attention towards technical elements. The lighting design (by the Colour Factory) for this performance is…rocky. Transitional and preluding lighting effects are notably spectacular, engaging and dynamic, and the natural washes that flood the stage during the matches themselves are effective in their perhaps necessary simplicity; anything else for these particular matches would be too distracting and superfluous, especially for the battle royale. However, in wrestlers’ entrances, lighting design is incredibly poor, which is most subtractive, given how important these initial impressions will always be. Spots fail both to illuminate stationary subjects and to follow those moving about the floor outside of the ring. Both an issue of blocking and presentation as well as of tech, wrestlers remain practically invisible whilst roaming this floor, interacting with audience members and, supposedly, making their presence known. Tech here needs to be urgently readdressed. Then, we have sound (designed by Jonathan Woodhouse). Sound is deafeningly loud — to the point where I would rather urge that earplugs be offered to audience members — and this is a problem most significant to KAO’s three performances during the half-time interval. Unfortunately, diction and variety in choreography are terrible between the two, though I will note that music is satisfactory and presentations to each audience section are wonderfully handled, perhaps better than in the main action itself. I cannot comment on the lyrics, due to this issue with diction, volume and indecipherability. Otherwise, music is used excellently, overall, and theme tunes establish wrestlers well. I would just pay closer attention to how music complements and facilitates this aforementioned need for deeper wrestler profiling; as profiles are better established, music may seem all the more incongruous. I would also note the legal concerns of copyright, particularly with Disney songs, though I cannot comment on whether rights have or have not been secured. On to the matches themselves. The well-sought kayfabe is not a term I would immediately attribute to this performance, which is most disappointing to have to admit. The art and desire of any wrestling match is to appear — and perhaps, loosely, to be — unstaged, authentic, genuine; the dreaded adjective, ‘fake’, is both incendiary and catastrophic to a booker’s work. However, the vast majority of the action we see in this show may incontestably be described as distinctly artificial. With this show, there is one main positive and one main negative insofar as realism is concerned: throws and drops are handled impeccably well throughout by all of the wrestlers, particularly when performed by two wrestlers on one; however, stand-alone strikes, kicks and punches are entirely lacking and unfeasible. Nearly every wrestler, besides those I shall highlight below, fails to charge their attacks, i.e. to demonstrate a feasible and observable degree of impetus and tension before releasing their strikes. The result is an unbelievable attack that deals confounding and surprising damage to the wincing, crying and pleading opponents, despite the fact that they ought to be ineffectual with such a conspicuous lack of force. Most significantly, the wrestlers stick far too closely to the rehearsed choreography, failing to 'live in the moment', so to speak. By this, I refer to a shocking number of instances where strikes miss opponents altogether, and yet the opponent reacts as though they have been mortally wounded, nonetheless. I would urge that combatants pay closer attention to the live action of their marches. There is an irksome disregard for realism in terms of continuity outside of the ring, as well. The aforementioned rubber-duck wrestler, for example, having given his jacket and rubber duck to an audience member, as detailed above, first returns to them barely able to stand, limping, wincing, etc. He then returns shortly after the match has ended, unaffected, content, uninjured, thanking the audience member once more for hanging on to his belongings, rather eager for any needless form of audience interaction. Stagehands, as clearly rehearsed, warn audience members that items, or the wrestlers themselves, will be thrown towards them, and move their tables out of the way in preparation for the falls, which obnoxiously emphasises the fictitious aspects of each relative match, in the ‘reality’ of which audience members are desperate to lose themselves. Not only for illusion and hedonistic experience but for health and safety concerns — noting we have a duty as creatives to protect the audiences of our work, of which they cannot know the boundaries — the space should be arranged in such a way that extreme rearrangements and invasions like these cannot take place. I myself was surprised to have to vacate my table altogether to make room for a reversing Max the Impaler, backing up into my table whilst retrieving another table and two chairs from under the ring — a much-awaited moment but one that felt all the more fictitious, given how these items were concealed under the ring: how would she have known they were there? Given the lack of space in the Colour Factory, meaning that audiences have little space to use in their urgent evacuation, danger here is increased to a beyond sensationalist level, becoming quite real, especially given also that their drinks end up on the now slippery floor. Moving on to narrative. Narrative is clear-cut, coherent and well-conceived. However, its execution is poor, overall. Narrative progressions are rather glossed over, by which I mean that pivotal moments in the matches, where one opponent suddenly gains control, for example, filling with rage and attacking their unsuspecting opponent, or where a combatant comes to an opponent’s aid, etc., divide the choreography into distinct segments. With nearly all of the matches, there is no sense of gradual progression or of a significant build-up of tension; instead, the next 'segment' merely begins without introduction, and we must simply infer the narrative for ourselves and merely accept that a drastic change has occurred. One excellent example of this is during the main event match between Laura Di Matteo and Max the Impaler, where, despite all odds, underdog Laura Di Matteo rises to defeat championing beast Max the Impaler, after having been knocked completely unconscious by this formidable opponent. We are to understand that this comparatively small and weak combatant uses speed, technique and accuracy to defeat her terrifying overbearing opponent, but there is such little resistance from Max, and this transformation from unconscious victim to valiant victor is so sudden, that credibility is completely lost here in the narrative’s depiction. It is easy to feel that the creatives are merely presenting the individual story moments without care to consider how these cohere seamlessly and congruously together. My next point is crucial to note: sitting in the Northside audience section, through which wrestlers first enter, I had a wonderful view of every wrestler throughout the entire show, extremely rarely seeing the back of any one wrestler's head. This is a terrible thing for me to note…meaning that the opposite audience section had the complete opposite experience, seeing only the backs of the wrestlers' heads. Almost all action is performed to the north of the ring, and it is clear why: photographers and videographers (Luke Ross, Constantinos Erotokritou and Geoff Alleyne) stay almost exclusively on this side, not only obscuring the audience's view but tempting the wrestlers to perform to them in this manner. Conspicuously inspired by mediatised/televised professional matches and international “lockdown” wrestling trends during the recent pandemic, it is clear that priorities lie in benefitting 'permanent' virtual audiences, as opposed to live ones. Considering it is the latter who constitute physical following and in-house audiences, not to mention monetary support, this is most undesirable. I mentioned that this is also the audience section through which wrestlers enter, and whilst some choose to mill around the four sections in an attempt to introduce themselves and hype up those members of each of the audience sections, most wrestlers simply enter indistinctly, jump into the ring and prepare to begin their match — a problem coinciding with the performance’s overall visual inadequacy. This is further dramatically exacerbated by those aforementioned spotlights that cannot keep up with the entering wrestlers, and by the absence of those spotlights around the auditorium to follow the wrestlers as they prance around the parameters of the ring. By far the most impressive match in this performance is that between Tate Mayfairs and Adriano. This match offers great expressivity from the wrestlers; great profiles [if notably less caricatural than others, which is otherwise welcomed but incongruous with the more whimsical and aesthetically charged material]; much-needed muscular tension, anticipation and release; and a gradual progression through narrative. Whilst Tate's injury is far too sudden, the duration of his first aid support (from Jack Dengel) is most naturalistic. I would just recommend developing further dramaticism by varying the activities during in this first aid support and by changing lighting states and/or stopping music, only to resume once the match does. Also, where was a commentary from the hosts for this 'unexpected' and 'severe' occurrence? From this point on, however, with Tate tricking Adriano and regaining control of the match, we return to strikes that do not actually make contact with the body, subsequent overly expressive wincing, and a sense of rushing through the narrative. Most disappointing are the Battle Royale and the match between Rayne Leverkeusen and Nina Samuels. These needed considerable work. As for the latter, choreography became entirely repetitive, from hair gripping to awkward body locks, with expressivity minimal and narrative shockingly unclear — in fact, this is the only match that suffered complete obscurity insofar as narrative communication is concerned. Similarly, the former is incredibly chaotic, and not in a sensationalist and exhilarating way. It is almost impossible to tell what is happening, and this is not merely because of the sheer number of wrestlers in the ring, but because choreography fails to draw the eye to specific happenings. This was, in fact, noted by several other vocal audience members. Choreography also fails to coincide with the intentions of the wrestlers. For example, there are repeatedly moments where two wrestlers are left alone by the others for enough time to toss one more opponent over the ropes, but the opponent hangs on, unbudging and stiff, refusing to be eliminated. The two wrestlers quickly give up and search for other wrestlers to eliminate... This is completely unfeasible. This is an excellent opportunity for the wrestlers to eliminate this opponent whilst they are vulnerable and on the verge of falling out of the ring; that the wrestlers would not continue to pursue this is most unrealistic — and, again, this lack of realism is intensified through repetition. It is clear that in choreographing this particular match, the creatives relied heavily upon certain wrestlers to be ‘recuperating’, ‘regaining their strength’ or trying to stay balanced on the edge of the ring, barely holding onto the last rope before tumbling to their elimination. Far too often, such weak and vulnerable wrestlers are neglected in this battle, and this is devastating where credibility is concerned. Most notably regularly neglected in this way was Ted Sabine, as an example. Some extra notes. The second referee we are introduced to, Tom Scarborough, is intently engaged in the action, reacting to and commenting on almost everything that occurs, and this is hugely beneficial to our reading and to the credibility of the matches in which he is involved. Our first referee, however, Oscar Harding, takes some time to warm up, initially avoiding sustained eye contact with the wrestlers, delivering his lines to the air, as though it is merely what he feels is required of him. He seems distracted, somewhat disengaged, unsure of his role. That every single count should be broken by the restricted wrestler at the count of two really drives home this unwanted and intense sense of structure, artificiality and rehearsal; variation is required here: a count broken at "one", another at "two", and another broken before "one" has barely left the referee's mouth, for example, would make these suspenseful moments feel all the more realistic. That the ‘hosts’ sit shrouded in darkness in front of the tech board, invisible to the audience whom they address only via overhead speaker, is most underwhelming. In this way, it feels as though the creatives felt compelled to go through the motions of a conventional wrestling match without dedicating too much energy and patience to features like these that actually work the audience and structure their work. Barring one, the hosts lack sufficient energy and fail to command the space, most notably in their introduction. The fact that the padding where turnbuckles meet the ropes at the ring post is so exaggeratively large connotes an overly protective environment, a resistance from pain, blood and injury, but perhaps this is excusable given the nature of Hustle Wrestling's schooling work. Overall, despite my criticisms above, this show has great vitality and variety. Matches see intriguing opponent pairs, overall, and underlying narratives are refined and coherent, if sometimes predictable. I would just pay greater attention to how rehearsal and training might combine with extemporisation; at the moment, there is a rigid fixation upon pre-established choreography that compromises credibility during live performance. The more extreme stunts have clearly consumed the creatives' focus, and I would recommend now that better thought be given to subtler and interstitial action. “A good show but one which misaligns aim and execution and whose wrestlers are disconnected from the live experience.”

NB: The onstage persona of solo performer Maria Caruso will be referenced in this review as ‘Maria’; any mentions of ‘Maria Caruso’, or simply ‘Caruso’, refer to the real artist herself. What we are presented in this performance is not so much a metamorphosis, or a growth through the various stages of life, as solo performer Maria Caruso explains is her intention, but an impermanent assumption of another identity. This was something noted by three separate audience members, as well, I should note, with one remarking that the material was better understood as a ‘presentation of the ego’, as opposed to some kind of evolution or ongoing transformation [of the self]. This is certainly an accurate description of the material presented, with Caruso putting on the various dresses, as though a new skin, and assuming her various new identities/profiles. Perhaps if the intention is to make this ‘metamorphosis’ clearer, the dresses should be presented to us one by one, and not as a broad selection of dresses from which Maria may pick and choose, or something similar to this process — notably, she does not choose from these dresses ‘chronologically’, from left to right or vice versa, either, further distancing us from this intended reading. To have these dresses suspended from the fly tower and not each hung from a clothing display stand or the like, grounded on the stage with her, also implies a certain ethereality and otherworldliness, a detachment from Maria’s logical and earthly plane, as though the dresses come from above. This certainly works for the intended reading, as the dresses come to represent here, and more intensely later on, a certain force acting upon her that she cannot control but to which she is drawn. With our current reading, however, this separation is too jarring; we can easily imagine that she is, indeed, choosing a new identity from the selection of dresses, and each should be immediately accessible for her, existing on and sharing her same plane, coming from her and her world and not from the ether. This theme of identity assumption is also implicit in the various manners in which she interacts with the dresses before putting them on and after taking them off, from expressions of dread and repulsion to intrigue and enchantment. She chooses to put these dresses on; her dresses, the stages of her life, do not ultimately force themselves upon her. Of course, from Caruso’s perspective, this is because she is revisiting these stages of her life deliberately, but the personal relationships with the work and the therapeutic quality that the work has for the performer are entirely different subjects from the external presentation offered to the audience – unless, of course, this therapeutic aim is coherently and notably interwoven into the work. This performance is not explicit in its use of therapy, however, and I would urge Caruso to reconsider what these demonstrations communicate, as opposed to what they signify for her personally. A further example of this has its place with what I shall refer to henceforth as the ‘comfort rag’, the beige fabric to which Maria returns repeatedly in this performance and from which Maria is supposedly birthed at the beginning. Caruso explains that holding the comfort rag as though a child in her arms was a symbolic representation of the prospective child she thought she would have but miscarried in real life during earlier conceptions of the performance. Whilst this is a moving and saddening aspect of the performance, there is a difference once more between intention and execution: because the comfort rag has been a protective force, something we start the performance with and return to regularly, something that nurtures and comforts, brings closure, nostalgia and peace, to cradle it once the final dress has been put on and to walk away with it implies both a resistance to give it up and a sentimental attachment to it, the need to reciprocate the nurturing and perpetuate the once-beautiful and once-therapeutic relationship. That all of the material we have seen thus far should be considered solely symbolic expressions and yet this nurturing gesture should be considered as literal mime, representative of an actual baby, leads to a semiotic and stylistic inconsistency. This action automatically references the feelings, sentimentality and affects associated with the rag, not a real-life infant child. If this and any other aspect of the performance requires further explanation in order for the audience to understand it, the performance is not complete and sufficiently articulate alone. I mentioned that we start the performance with Maria ‘being birthed’; on the contrary, she merely wakes up. She demonstrates no unfamiliarity with the rag which she takes with her on her journey through the narrative but merely demonstrates the affection and sensuality associated with it. Lack of responsibility, isolation, sensuality and defence/comfort are certainly effectively communicated, but their origins and how these come to be understood by the audience are the issue here. Caruso demonstrates little awareness of what her performance is actually communicating outside of her own mind, and an example to evidence this view is her mention that the blue colour of the final dress is highly sentimental to her because it is the colour of her company, Bodiography. This esoteric information could perhaps only be understood by a few, select audience members — namely those who know her and her company well — and so, again, the performance fails to communicate effectively alone, without extraneous explanations, and emphasis on personal significance outweighs the reality of what is being presented. Caruso argues that the audience are “free to make up their own mind” about her performance, that any interpretation is valid, as with any other piece of art. This is an overemphasis upon potential psychological results of and emotional responses, which fails to recognise that the performance itself does have an objective reality, a material reality: we are presented physical, existing entities employed to communicate information deliberately. This information exists; it is the fundament of the performance; without it, the performance could not exist itself. The information may be partially concealed, abstracted, stylised, but is inevitably communicated by the performer in various ways; these 'ways' [use of movement, voice, imagery, etc.] are objectively observable and studiable, and reliance upon audience emotional response does not protect the integrity of the performance or make it invincible. This is a far too common mentality amongst today’s postmodernist artists, to comfort themselves with the quality of their work by arguing that their work is multilayered and multifaceted and, usually, also that any positive opinion and response is warming and validating and that any negative one is merely an interpretation unless deemed gentle, constructive and useful. It is important that our artworks retain their agency. Whichever emotional responses they prompt, which is certainly beyond the artist’s control, the artwork itself should communicate and execute well its intentions and objectives, and the artist should be aware of and in control of these objective communications. This being said, I must note that Caruso has a wonderful outlook on the psychological significance of artistic expression, notably through dance and movement, and has a wonderful understanding of its capacity to empower, diversify and articulate. A wonderful perspective to lead with. The imagery with which we are presented is certainly bold and striking, and whilst incongruous with Caruso’s own personal experience of and intentions for the play, choreography is legible and coherent, overall. However, I am afraid that this choreography soon becomes underwhelmingly repetitive: Caruso’s regal walks across the stage, the comfort rag draped across her shoulders and trailing behind her, or her falling forward onto one leg through the stiffened forearms she holds in front of herself and, or patting, open-palmed, upon an imaginary obstructive barrier — each of these latter two being interactions with or actions against "the wall". The latter, patting movement is particularly weak in its repetition, given pre-existing associations with comic mime; it feels cliché, unoriginal, an easy representation. Resulting from this and from the performance's structure, there is a great sense of predictability in this performance. By her approach towards the very first dress, seeing how Maria embodies a new profile and performs a distinct and contrasting choreographic repertoire, it is clear that each dress will prompt a new profile. It also becomes clear upon her second return to the comfort rag that each subsequent return will prompt these aforementioned regal walks, and sensual, fluid movements. Caruso also has a tendency to trace the stage concentrically, clock-wise, merely walking to the back of the stage, away from the audience, to return to perform a movement towards them, sometimes breaking this circular movement to follow a diagonal from Upstage Left to Downstage Right. This is most characteristic of the comfort rag segments and the red dress segment but is something that persists throughout almost the entirety of the performance. Further variation is thus required. The final area I should note is the use of metatheatrical techniques. The vast majority of this performance is self-contained, i.e. prompting no audience interaction or address, and so I find the decision to perform such actions as throwing the dresses into the audience, or screaming or smirking cockily at them, to be rather perplexing. The communication in almost all of these moments is that we are somehow behind any pain and suffering she exhibits as well as her vulnerability, that we are victimising her in some way. These ‘empowering’, volatile and often aggressive or arrogant actions do not communicate the mutuality with the audience that Caruso intends; instead, they acknowledge a defensiveness, a disconnect, a conflict. Caruso noted in the post-performance Q&A that the ending usually sees her walk through the audience with her final dress, entering into the audience’s world and sharing their hope, confidence and open-mindedness for the future. Yet, I fail to see how dumping the dresses, and thus the traumatic stages of her life, into this space to leave them there, correlates with this peace that the space is supposed to offer. The implication would be different if the dresses were discarded with pride, empowerment, confidence, as though this space represented in its entirety closure and catharsis; alas, she often discards them with expressions of fear, dread, unease and sorrow, and so the space becomes more of a void of repressed material than a territory of hope and peace of mind. Nevertheless, though rather overly simplistic in areas, this remains a well-structured and intriguing watch. Though admittedly shaky in performing some movements, particularly with high lifts of the legs, Caruso retains great form and corporeal awareness, overall. Her choreography is also generally explicit and sufficiently expressive. I would just pay far greater attention, in particular, to the scratching movements with the black dress. The manner in which this movement is executed, its urgency and lack of localisation do not communicate self-harm or frustrations enacted upon the self but merely extreme itchiness. It is not a clawing or an abrasive, angry scratch homing in concentratedly on a particular region of the body, which would imply self-harm, and her expressions incontestably manifest great worry, fear and physical pain. Music is entirely fitting with the qualities and aesthetics of the segments, and each piece itself is well composed, if repetitive now and again in its motifs. Lighting is far too harsh, overall, but does have its impressive effects, such as the final imagery for which it allows: Caruso walking into a dark abyss, away from the stark lights at the apron and back into the otherwise unlit stage. A strong ending visually. The misalignment between intention and execution that I have elucidated above is the main driving force behind my rating below, before repetitiveness of choreography and lack of creative responsibility. This performance is certainly engaging but is by no means a representation of 'the frustrations of the world', as the slogan on the official programme reads, nor is it a demonstration of a metamorphosis or self-development. “An intriguing but somewhat simple performance that miscommunicates its true concerns.”

This review will consider Bliss, a play written by Phoebe Mills, directed by Léoni Hughes, and currently being staged at the Etcetera Theatre. This is an excellent performance, well-conceived, well written and marvellously performed — perhaps the best cast I have seen in a while, in fact. The story with which we are presented has good intrigue and is coherent and well structured, if slightly predictable, and characters are adequately established and developed. In need of only minor perfections, this performance has wonderful potential and makes for a most enjoyable and engrossing watch. I shall start with the story. The very thing that is this performance’s greatest asset is also, paradoxically, its downfall: information about the characters, their context and their setting is not formally introduced to us; we are forced to make our own inferences from the text ourselves. The effect is a slow revelation of truths — about the government initiative, Bliss; the characters’ personal and interconnected histories; the context and cause of not just the suffering of our characters but of their entire world — and this maintains mystery, enigma and hence considerable intrigue. We are forced to be attentive to the material, to look for subtext, clues and implications. We are not simply handled the information and commanded to digest it. This is most effective where engagement is concerned. However, considering the gradual manner in which information is revealed is very different to considering the information itself, its profundity and integrity, and here we have our paradox. At the end of the performance, we are left with no profound and substantial understanding of the characters’ contexts, histories and relationships. Even expressions of their occupations are left vague and ambiguous. We are left only with somewhat superficial profiles — especially with Madi (Gabrielle Pausey) and Damien (Ciaran Duce) who become increasingly caricatural as the play progresses, mere archetypal spokespeople for Bliss. Indeed, we are given substantial clues as to the type of suffering and experiences that our characters have endured hitherto, with mentions of protests and riots, the loss of family members, and descriptions of Bliss and the government’s intentions within the characters’ arguments and debates. We also understand that the characters are suffering and starving, with their excitement over a handful of potatoes or the mentions of lacking necessities — electricity, heating, etc. — and that these sufferances constitute a common ground for these characters upon which to bond deeply. However, there is still a distinct lack of specificity, meaning that we are left with a notably vague understanding of the world of the play. How did the protests and riots affect the characters' lives? How is Bliss becoming, seemingly, more and more popular, despite the data leaks? And how did Tate get away with leaking data from the government so freely and with no consequences? How are the other characters — Elsie (Mary Tillett), especially — supporting themselves beyond help from Tate (James Farley) and Amari (Maxine Meixner)? Surely, if Tate and Amari now have enough resources and money to support themselves and the other three characters, then they are not as impoverished and disadvantaged as they are made out to be. Similarly, why are the characters still depending upon homegrown potatoes whilst shops exist to buy Tate's favourite snacks? Who are these shops intended for and how do they keep afloat if the entire world is in financial difficulty? And are the characters not further suffering with a certain ever-increasing nationwide hyperinflation, if these shops are, indeed, open during these troubling times? What is Tate's "quota" and why is he only able to meet and exceed it now? If electricity is so scarce, why, and how, are we wasting it by playing music? And where are all the party props coming from, despite charades being the [costless] game of choice for an impoverished group? All of these questions should exemplify the sheer lack of specificity in this play, arising from a lack of particularisation of context. They also signify that the vague and open ending will also be compromised, furthering this trend. Even with Bliss itself, what the company actually does with the bodies it reaps — beyond perhaps entering them into a coma-like state and a VR-like simulation — or why there is a 48-hour window during which one can retrieve them; what these ‘experiments’ are actually for; how many the government intend to collect in this manner; how the ‘patients’ will be kept alive, especially if food and resources are so scarce…these are fundamental questions that are left unanswered, and this, unfortunately, does not allow for a mysterious and intriguing concept; it merely allows for a sense of superficiality and a lack of particularisation. In this way, Mills fails to ground and enrich the story and its characters’ lives. My inference is that some nuclear war has occurred — and I welcome that I may be entirely wrong — and this might explain Gaia’s (voiced by Phoebe Mills) soldier-like absence and the characters’ lack of resources, but my lack of certitude here drives me not into an avid investigation into and fantasy about the story but into detachment. This is frustrating because the skeletal plot and narrative is otherwise so well-conceived and clearcut. Despite this lack of depth here, the story is wonderfully communicated and solid in itself, and this is what makes this play so successful. It is easy to forgive the lack of specificity for this reason, and for the character types with which we are presented. Character profiles are astutely and keenly developed. Each has a somewhat unique idiolect, and the chemistries and relationships between the characters are not only well established but palpable and endearing. This is especially true of Tate and Amari, whose particularised manner of interacting is maintained, dynamic and enriched throughout the play. The cute and familiar manner in which all characters interact, in fact, from spoonings to hugs to repeated shared catchphrases, is wonderfully conceived and equally well portrayed by these bold and well-bonded actors. With this aforementioned superficiality also comes a certain predictability, however, which somewhat compromises our access to the characters. This is partially due to pacing as well as structure. Immediately after we get a sense of what Bliss is, the next scene sees Elsie revealing that she is going to 'plug herself in'. Similarly, far too soon after Madi's appearance wherein she encourages Amari to do the same, the next scene has her bonding with Tate one last time before disappearing. In this manner, tension is unable to build and all actions are immediate and direct where they ought to be insidious, with such ideas growing to infest within and shape the characters' psychologies and desires until they are compelled, when we least expect it, to act upon them. Pacing is also an issue in the sequence towards the end of the performance wherein Tate and Amari, now left alone, go through the mundane and sorrowful motions of their daily lives: dwindling potato counts, loss of resources, Tate's recurring failure to make his quotas, etc. The fragmented style of this sequence and the short vignettes it presents us are incongruous with the text we have been presented hitherto, which presents us with longer scenes and an unbroken and naturalistic narrative. Complete with a red wash and the sound of a heartbeat, this sequence takes on a far too hammy and literal communication style. Personally, I would remove this sequence and rework this communication of the passing of time and the characters' increasing depression, especially given that the rapid communication of these items causes this interval between Madi's recommendation and Amari's disappearance to become ever shorter. Despite this inhibitory use of pacing in the text that rather rushes through what is otherwise a solid plot, the cast's delivery is exceptional, and their own pacing rather counteracts this issue. And this brings me on to acting. I have very few negative criticisms as regards the acting in this performance. The cast members are each certain of their character’s intentions, motivations and objectives; each demonstrates great expressivity and adequate emotional range; each maintains great energy and vigour; and all maintain a good sense of naturalism throughout, where made possible by the text. There is also a wonderful chemistry amongst the performers, an achievement which is most commendable, especially given that one performer had only recently joined. An excellent cast. There are, however, three main areas to which I would recommend further attention be given. Grounding and focusing techniques ought to be urgently employed by the creatives, as almost all members of the cast, with great emphasis on Farley and Tillett, stumble over their lines repeatedly, compromising both the momentum and the naturalism of many scenes. Scenes that require more extreme emotionality from the actors are either somewhat underplayed or far too histrionic. Duce’s outburst of disbelief, for example, is perhaps the weakest portrayal of emotion, far too exaggerated and deliberate. I would recommend here that the creatives focus not on the mere ‘genuine-looking’ representation of their characters’ emotions — betrayal, shock, fear, anger… — but upon the circumstances that their characters find themselves in, acknowledging that emotion is a by-product [secondary] of lived experience [primary], and that this latter should thus take priority in an ‘authentic’ portrayal; emotions will come organically once the actor experiences and responds to the reality of the scene. Finally, the performers' ad libs are far too deliberate and distinguished from the main text, clearly improvised on the spot but stemming from a vague blueprint that has come from repetition during rehearsals. I recommend these exchanges be scripted and concretised, as the performers remain distinctly unsure of what to do in these moments, despite clearly feeling confident in their ability to maintain tension and mood. Less significantly, I must also note here that the decision to have certain characters speaking softly whilst others deliver the main dialogue, as opposed to having them mime awkwardly in silence on the side of the stage, as per awkward convention, is a most commendable one. An example of what I am referring to here can be found in an early scene, wherein Madi and Amari share an intimate moment together whilst the other characters talk amongst themselves, Amari congratulating Madi on her pregnancy. Some final notes on set design (by Josh Barrow & Charlotte Keith) and tech design (lighting also by Hughes and sound by Danny Hardwick, with tech operation by Danny Hardwick & Charlotte Keith). This set is marvellously filled with cohesive theatrical properties, making for a most naturalistic aesthetic. All properties are incorporated well and are not overused, despite their abundance. The aforementioned red washes, however, are far too stylised and in conflict with the calmer style of the performance; otherwise, lighting is used to differentiate scenes well. It would be preferable to have the tape recordings play through the cassette player itself, as opposed to through the sound system, for further naturalism. Otherwise, the inclusion of a cassette player has a great symbolic quality, referencing the technological advancements and promises of Bliss against the retrogressive technology available to the common people. Sound effects, as alluded to above, are ineffective in this performance, clichéd and excessive, if adequately designed in themselves. “An exceptional play; gripping, coherent and wonderfully performed.” Photography Credit: Phoebe Mills.

We are presented with a pretty and clean set design (by Georgia Wilmot) as we enter the house, but its relevance to the performance remains entirely questionable, from the colour scheme to the incorporation of the LED lights (lighting design by Laura Howard). Costume, however, whilst perhaps unimaginative to some degree, is coherent and well designed. As for the text itself, this performance suffers a great deal from superficiality, which I shall detail later. Its structure is repetitive and chaotic, and sociopolitical subtexts and messages fail to coincide harmoniously with plot and narrative, blatantly and uncooperatively crammed into the narrative. Tension is handled very poorly in this performance, characteristically presented throughout by an increase in pacing, a discomforting sound or a cacophony of sounds, a gradual change in the overall lighting state, and then a break: one line from another character is delivered, usually a question, and then natural lighting re-consumes the stage, and delivery slows back down. This is a most clichéd and hence dissatisfying presentation. In its forced structure, a frustrating sense of artificiality and deliberateness. Increased tension should not be in the presentation of material but in the material itself. The fragmented and frenetic structure of the text is, at first, dynamic and effective, evoking a good sense of the racing mind of our main character. However, once we come to realise that the entire play will be presented in this manner, not only does this play become monotonous, severely lacking in variation, but also this aforementioned sense of superficiality is born. Zayan (Nikhil Parmar) only glosses over each of the topics presented, failing to provide us with any profound or layered information on the contexts in which he finds himself. This lack of depth is further intensified by Parmar’s caricatural representations of his characters. The characters with which we are presented are immediately recognisable, which would be good in moderation, for pacing and dramatic purposes, but with all of the characters being presented in this manner, we lose any sense of unique identity, peculiarity and personality. The dying younger sister who encourages him in his endeavours, wise beyond her years; the ex’s new, impressive actor boyfriend, smug with his apparent accomplishments… These descriptions reflect the characters in their entireties; there is nothing more to them, and they add nothing more than rapid contextualisation to the text. These are shallow and quick-fire representations. Moreover, Parmar fails to distinguish his characters coherently, especially towards the end as he comes to present every single one of them with the same [faltering] accent. And this brings me on to acting. Parmar retains an adequate energy throughout and has wonderful comedic timing, which is commendable, but he suffers from an explicit desire to exploit the audience-performer relationship, aiming solely to grab their attention with his representations. He spends the vast majority of the performance staring into specific audience members’ eyes, making his way around the house, addressing each of the four sections deliberately. This, combined with using all of the stage, from each side of the stage to the stage floor, makes for a most chaotic presentation, set on invoking a sense of urgency, rhythm and drama. The true effect is cheap sensationalism, depersonalisation — which is ironic, considering the performance’s primary subject matter — and, again, shallowness and monotony. In this way, this is a poor performance from Parmar, lacking in substance, naturalism and credibility. However, I must stress that this is just as much a directorial issue (direction by Georgia Green) as it is an issue with acting, and many decisions, such as having Parmar stand in the audience, spotlit, to deliver his speech towards the end of the play, before his suit automatically rises like a ghost, on the back wall of the stage, concretise my reading that director Green desired this unnecessary sensationalism and symbolism just as much as writer-performer Parmar. Despite its honourable objectives, aiming to demonstrate the depersonalisation and dehumanisation of the people who have become the objects of sociocultural and political discourses on culture/race and cultural/racial identity within woke and social justice culture, this performance falls short of articulacy and coherency. Ironically, whilst aiming to re-humanise and remind us of those that have been branded as the racialised Other and, specifically, those neither ‘fully white’ nor ‘fully black’ and so unaddressed within these binary-obsessed conversations, this performance actually presents us with a monolithic and caricatural representation. This performance needs considerable work, from restructuring text to reworking delivery to marrying underlying sociopolitical concepts with the rest of its material. “Ill-conceived, chaotic and inarticulate.”

I found these creatives and their work to be most endearing, and their purpose and incentive honourable. Personally, I had a pleasant evening watching them perform. However, my personal enjoyment of this performance must be distinguished from my critical view of it, hence my writing below. The performers have an excellent chemistry, from encouraging moments of eye contact and smiles at one another, to George’s (Lennan) and Charlie’s (Bence) dedicatory speeches, to the in-jokes and commentaries fully fledged by the final speech by Katy Reynard (also the director of this performance). In this sense, there is a relaxed sense of intimacy and personality present throughout the entirety of this performance. This is a beautiful and important foundation for the creatives’ work, further creating an environment of trust, love, empathy and openness for their audience as well. This is most efficacious for a performance of this nature and with these objectives and is certainly one element behind my own enjoyment of the show. However, this foundation should inspire and coach the development of a performance; it should not be the performance’s very material. Yet, these expressions of solidarity and togetherness amongst the cast pervade the performance most perniciously. We have here the first seeds of a well-intentioned performance with a good premise, given that creating such a love-filled and open queer space is the intention of these performers. However, this is ineffective if this symbolic territory remains bound to the stage and to the performers alone. Prompted by a palpable hyperfixation of these performers upon their own having a good time, other significant aspects of this performance take a back seat and get lost: coherency, articulacy and communications of objectives are generally lost in a severe lack of structure and direction. In this way, this performance is in dire need of further particularisation and specificity. A general overview could be that a group of close and like-minded friends got together to have fun singing their favourite musical numbers together before an audience who would notably share their political beliefs. This is a lovely and heartwarming premise and sounds like good fun, but this alone does not make for an artistic and intelligent performance. The dilute theme of ‘queerified’ musical theatre songs is not enough to ground this performance, either, I am afraid. I emphasise: this performance lacks organisation, a clearcut purpose and thus legibility. More importantly, this performance suffers from a great lack of identity. Anyone can sing musical theatre numbers, so what significance do they gain when incorporated into and performed within Proud 2 Be Here specifically? Beyond a so-called queerification, which I shall address below, I have not been made distinctly aware of the answer to this question. When addressing this performance’s unique identity and objectives, I am drawn to the notion that the performance we are watching is a cabaret. It is not. I believe the creatives have been inspired by the high-flown and fabulous sound of the term ‘cabaret’ and are unaware of its definitions and characteristics. This is a concert, not a cabaret, and already we have misinformed and misdirected our audience, perhaps even to their disappointment. Furthermore, this is a concert of musical theatre lovesongs specifically, and we have little content, if any, to imagine the queer identity or queer character, which is supposedly the focal point of the entire performance, as opposed to queer love and its fictional representations. Sometimes, we are even presented with a mere unmodified restaging of the songs themselves, which, though true only for the minority of the musical numbers, becomes increasingly evident as the show progresses. Our “first emcee”, Daniel (Breakwell), informs us that we are to expect a performance of various musical theatre numbers that have been “queerified to the gods” in order to represent the queer community appropriately, as much needed in the industry. The seeming grandiosity of this so-called queerification is somewhat disappointing in reality: the songs themselves have been largely untouched; the only aspect that has been altered, beyond a few superimposed puns and the rare verse, is the gender of the song’s addressee. This is an issue because the categorical and ‘boxing’ heteronormative representations present in these musical theatre performances, as Marnie (Yule) puts it, that Proud 2 Be Here aims to dismantle are perpetuated and concretised through this much-too-subtle subversion, rendering moot and hypocritical the main points of argument to which we are exposed. What is it smog these characters and their contexts that are so heteronormative and damaging, if all that needs to be altered is the addressee’s gender to neutralise them and have them speak of the queer community? The creatives express that these are not characters they will never play but wish they could, but characters they will play someday, once the industry allows them onto the stage in main, queer roles. It appears here that the desire to diversify and expand the representations so often found in musical theatre is in direct conflict with a desire to keep these characters exactly as they are, with their idiosyncrasies, social contexts and peculiarities but to make them playable by all, regardless of gender and sexuality. This complicates the motives and readability of this performance such that arguments seem contradictory and hence confused. If these representations are so damaging, why ought we to immortalise and to play them? Why not make our own — queer characters that represent the community and lifestyle appropriately and accurately? Briefly put, then: the songs with which we are presented largely retain their original contexts and meanings; no significant modifications to reflect the queer community have actually been made. This is not a space that wholly and accurately reflects solely the queer community and its desires authentically, then. Not only are these political arguments incoherent and inconsistent within the re-presentations of these musical numbers, but so is the material we are presented outside of them. There is notably an attempt at some sort of structure: after a short series of songs, one performer [inappropriately named “the next emcee”, or even an “MD” on one occasion] delivers a speech. In these speeches, the creatives touch upon some incredibly resonant and important topics, such as the recent [and largely uncovered] Norway terrorist attack and, as referenced above, the under-/misrepresentation of queer people and their culture in the arts, namely in musical theatre. However, the cohesive incorporation of these subjects into a coherent and articulate performance is notably ill-considered. These speeches remain incredibly vague, providing the good-intentioned seeds for a poignant and observant sociopolitical discourse but failing to communicate well the creatives’ messages and concerns. Overall, the speeches are wishy-washy, their subjects related to one another only through the theme of queerness. These aforementioned dedicatory speeches communicate the cast’s chemistry wonderfully, but the purpose of these, why we need to hear why the performers feel the other cast members are so special to them, is left inevident. How does this chemistry reflect and progress the performance? Some speeches, such as Marnie’s (Yule) and Hannah’s (Cound), touch upon very important topics but merely state a hard-to-swallow fact, seemingly irrelevant to the content hitherto, and move on. The content of other speeches has not been scripted, and the improvising performers lose their trains of thought and stumble over their words, losing the speech altogether: Hannah-Theresa’s (Engen) and Daniel’s, for example. Conversely, other speeches, such as Charlie’s about the effects of lockdown and Anna’s about perceptions of bisexuality, are far too over-rehearsed, delivered unnaturally and robotically. In this way, these speeches, as honourable and important as their references are, either need to be far more informative, educational, or they need to articulate the shared concerns of the audience in a manner that encapsulates major aspects of our culture and reflects on them in the content we are being presented. Either way, these speeches need to be far more pertinent to the concert’s material and far better excommunicated than they currently are. Especially for such short speeches, bringing scraps of paper or mobile phones onto the stage from which to read scripts and notes is highly unprofessional and aesthetically undesirable — not to mention confounding, given that these speeches must be repeated every time this performance is staged and so surely could be memorised by performers with a desire to star in productions in the West End. To improve the delivery of these speeches, I would recommend that the performers employ calming and focusing techniques that may be practised before and even during their performance. As expressed above, the creatives’ nerves and inner emotions tend to compromise their confidence and, ultimately, their eloquence and intelligibility in the early parts of the performance and especially before their solo speeches. I should also mention here that Hannah’s speech is far too aggressive, especially given the audience type, who, presumably, already concur: after prompting a laugh from her audience about bisexuality being seen as a “spicy version of straight”, a sharp "It's not funny" whips them back into silence. This is unnecessary and needlessly confrontational; delivery ought to be reconsidered here. After the inconsistency and incoherency of material, we have the lack of topographical organisation, which further cements the performance’s overall disorderliness. Admittedly, this was a small stage and an altogether intimate theatre venue, but having the performers waiting just off of the stage, or watching the action from the house, sometimes half-perched upon the stage, addressed by onstage performers though invisible to the audience, lost in the dark corner just off Stage Left...this is far too visually and semiotically confused. At times, especially during the [highly important] opening number, it is difficult to see all of the performers, sardined onto the stage where spreading out is still, in fact, possible — and necessary. Indeed, I can see an attempt in this opening number specifically to ensure that all cast members are viewable, with their staggered positioning, but this attempt failed, unfortunately. Lighting suffers a similar fate, with spotlights regularly failing to follow or focus upon the performers, and with lanterns illuminating prematurely before they have been repositioned. For many of the numbers with which we are presented, half of the performers remain either dimly lit or completely unlit altogether, especially those just off stage. Visually, this is a hugely chaotic performance. Choreography (arrangements by Hannah Cound) is too hesitant. Oftentimes, particularly in the former portion of the performance, choreography is virtually nonexistent, with the performers simply stood either end of the stage, demonstrating no discernible or conspicuous characterisations. However, this does vastly improve as the performance goes on, and choreographic decisions become bolder and more obvious, with an increased use of space and dynamism in movements. Nevertheless, these movements remain untidy, overall. I would urgently recommend the creatives reconsider the creative possibilities and necessity of using the space of the stage to their advantage. This brings me on to the performers themselves. Whilst solo performances tend to be weaker, harmonies are mostly impeccable. These are, indeed, talented performers, for the most part. Where movement has been choreographed and where narratives are incorporated decisively and well into this choreography, the numbers with which we are presented are most enjoyable and energised; other numbers, seeing the performers standing awkwardly, singing into the audience are less impressive. I should note that it is peculiar that Engen, in particular, is used so frequently as the object of fantasy and crush, yet other performers like Reynard seem to make a rare appearance. An equal distribution of roles ought to be sought. Most likely a volume issue, the microphones had not been set up correctly, resulting in a quiet high-pitched whistle coinciding only with the performers' vocals. Overall, the performers also hold these microphones far too close to their mouths and often forget to move away when projecting their voices. Their crescendoes almost always result in a change to the next note in the same key where they often ought to maintain the same note, and repetition of this makes the songs feel too similar, overall. Expressivity during songs is far too dissimilar amongst the performers, with Reynard and Bence being mostly devoid of corporeal and facial expression, as opposed to Cound, Yule and Jan Gunnar Garlid, for example, who remain distinctly theatrical and animated throughout. The effect is jarring and allows for a confused aesthetic and communication. In fact, I should commend Yule for their versatility, impressive physicality and vocal excellence. A skilled performer, most certainly the strongest of the entire cast, though they do take a short while to warm up. Overall, the creatives need to better consider not only the communications of the objectives of their performance but the objectives themselves, and levels of expressivity, characterisation and energy need to be consistent across the cast. Briefly put, the issue is in the conveyance of the personal beliefs and intentions, motivations and passions to an audience who are going blind into their work. Clarity, structure and presentation should be the main points of focus for this company, Cabaret Theatre, going forward. “An endearing and enjoyable performance but devoid of articulacy and focus.”

This is a truly excellent play, wonderfully written by Morgan Lloyd Malcolm, and expertly cast, with direction by Wendy Bollard. Comedy is instrumentalised well in the former portion of this text, with quick-witted quips, character idiosyncrasies and the general disparity between the two coaxing us to connect, understand, bond with and enjoy each of the characters respectively. Having drawn us in with such comedic devices, we are better prepared to empathise with Carla (Jennifer Thornton) in the latter portion of the play and to have a profounder response to Heather’s (Tegan Verheul) psychopathy and evil actions. This is well constructed. On the note of characters, these are also very well conceived. Caricatural at first, with mentions of ‘rescued lattes’ and Carla’s ultimately chav-like identity, these characters are readily accessible and inviting, immediately comprehensible in their oppositional personalities. As the initial conversation deepens, we move towards opinionatedness and unexpected details (sixty-year-old husbands, Facebook-stalking, catfishing, etc.), and these initially presumed superficial characters become increasingly and unceasingly interesting and layered, culminating, of course, in Heather’s devilish plot and kickstarting what becomes an absurd, well paced and whirlwind narrative style. Heather’s political comebacks as well as the rockiness in the relationship between the two, engaged in one another in one moment and arguing the next, pretexts well the extreme discord into which they will later be forced and also alludes to previous tensions well, all without giving too much away. This being said, the plot in itself, that Heather actually secretly wishes to exert her revenge upon Carla, and not her husband, is, indeed, notably predictable. Aforementioned comedic devices and the excellent and commendable unpredictability of character profiles [as opposed to the plot] are what make this play so unique and engaging and do offset this predictability well — initially. However, it is by Heather’s second monologue, once she has re-gagged Carla, that this predictability works against the text. I enjoy that Heather delivers her spiels about semi-unrelated topics within this harrowing and murderous context, further enriched with the cool and calm demeanour Verheul portrays her with, as though completely absent-minded and unfeeling in her psychopathic doings, intensifying, moreover, the sinisterness of the material. However, by the second monologue, the effect has slightly worn off. It is easy to disengage from her venting about the evils of the world, corrupt politicians, the supposed effects of karma, and the eventual consequences of every evil action. Her intentions, worldview and schemes already well explicated by this point — again, emphasised by the predictability of plot — this second rant becomes notably superfluous, and monotony starts to sink in; we lose momentum. I would recommend removing this second monologue entirely, or, at the very least, editing and combining the two together to ensure that all the necessary and most textured points are still covered. As for acting, these performers are truly exceptional, talented and skilled in their portrayals. I should mention that Verheul does retain a greater degree of credibility and naturalism, but both demonstrate excellent character awareness, maintaining wonderful corporeal and vocal expressivity throughout. Both are able to portray the initial caricatural aspects of their characters well and yet manage to texturise their profiles as the play progresses, too. I only have two small notes for improvement for these actors. For Verheul, quick shifts in thought, especially in the first scene, are presented too artificially, by which I mean that when Heather second-guesses herself, jumping around her words, these shifts are presented as too structured, deliberate and untidy. I would recommend working on the presentation of rapid shifts of thought in this way. As for Thornton, there is a very similar problem wherein tag questions or moments in her lines where Carla is breaking away from a train of thought, asking for reassurance or, again, second-guessing herself, lack the intonation and pacing appropriate to natural speech. Any negative or impassioned emotions routinely feel unnatural from Thornton, and one thing, in particular, that I would recommend in regard to this is that she maintain her expressions of horror when her character is tied to the chair, as this rather quickly peters out as Heather’s monologue progresses, not into submission but indifference. Beyond these two issues, these are truly outstanding performers with great control over their roles and with excellent stage presence. Finally, there are a few directorial and design issues that ought to be addressed. First, transitions are atrocious. Far too long and untidy. This could be easily resolved in all instances, however. For example, after the very first scene, Thornton could take the coffee cups after rearranging the table, whilst Verheul makes a speedy exit behind the backdrop where she will then change out of her first costume and into her second, which I imagine and hope was concealed under the first. I remain confused as to why the actors exited and re-entered several times, empty-handed, only to come back and deal with aspects of the set that could have all been handled in their first exits. Another recommendation: why should we not see Heather tie Carla up and prepare the room with the stage lights up? With lighting being far too bright for transitions, we can observe Carla come back to life after passing out, tying her own gag, fixing herself, aiding Heather in tying her up, and then passing back out again. This is far too destructive of illusion, and I would urge creatives to show the same attention to pacing that they do in this transition: slowly tie her up…slowly prepare the stage… This could be tremendously effective and would take the same amount of time as this transition currently does — or less — whilst improving credibility, continuity and mood. I mentioned lighting was too bright during transitions, and lighting (designed by Juliann Pichelski) is used equally precariously at other times as well. For example, when lighting states are deliberately changed as the two recall the pigeon incident or as Heather, furious and superior, denigrates her husband. The former is comedic in its exaggerativeness and randomness, and this is not the appropriate style for this moment, which actually intends to be dark, sinister, revelatory. I would recommend if this effect is to be kept that the cue be processed far more gradually, such that it is nearly impossible to perceive the new state until we finally recognise that the stage is now engulfed in it; this would de-intensify this comedic effect and lend to the revelatory and transformative nature of the text here. In the second instance, the changing lighting state has the same effect but transforms the aesthetic and mood so much that there is a supplementary sense of foreboding. When this portion of the text — which is far too lengthy; I would recommend editing this down — proves to be quite long-winded and monotonous, this comedic setup draws intense unwanted attention to the faltering comedy. The foreboding has promised something that we do not receive and in such an obnoxiously stylised manner. This stylisation, evidenced in both examples, contrasts far too harshly against an otherwise entirely realistic and natural presentation. All pedantic criticisms aside, this remains an excellent performance. I would certainly recommend giving it a watch! “An exemplary performance; a wildly entertaining text excellently performed.”

NB: Lucy Loughnane both co-wrote and performs in this semi-autobiographical play. The character she has written is also called Lucy. To distinguish these three, mentions of ‘Lucy’ will refer to the character with which we are presented; ‘Lucy Loughnane’ or ‘Loughnane’, however, refer to the artist as a performer uniquely; and any considerations of the artist as the co-playwright will be further specified in the text. This review will consider Ascent, a play co-written by Lucy Loughnane and Joseph Ward, performed by Loughnane, directed by Ward, and staged at the Museum of Comedy. Ascent has great promise but completely loses sight of its identity halfway through, after struggling to establish its voice early on. I shall start with the sociopolitical agenda of and undertones to this performance. Writers Loughnane and Ward’s main character, Lucy, navigates the complex field of class concerns and representations, discovering and acknowledging her own privileges and the privileges of others, or lack thereof, and aiming to dismantle prejudices against her milieu and background. The text covers in substantial detail a perspective on systemic classism in the UK, uncovering also prejudices and hypocrisies existing amongst working class defenders and denigrators, and justifying the occasional access to otherwise inaccessible resources and facilities from which members of the working class might benefit. The political content is both honourable and explicit, but this explicitness soon works against our reading. The text is decisively fictitious, offering a comedic and endearing character through which we can uncover the political secrets of the play, presenting all of this to us through a linear first-person narrative. Lucy is presented to us by Loughnane somewhat caricaturally, also, upon which I shall elaborate below. This indirect mode of communication is effective, allowing us to identify with the political content via our newfound bond with a loveable character. However, the voice of the text takes an unexpected and inefficacious turn turns to poetry before losing sight completely of Lucy’s character and resorting to lecturing its audience. Both of these shifts in voice are far too drastic and deliberate, destroying what the performance has thus far worked so hard to construct. It feels as though writers Loughnane and Ward intended to instrumentalise our audience-character bond to merely ensnare us into a political rant. This is not effective and is a surefire way, moreover, to disengage an audience — especially if they do not already share the writer’s views. A performance can be a fictional play whose messages and didactic style educate its audience by appealing to their humanity, or it can be a sterile and lengthy lecture. Both approaches can be effective, but they cannot exist within the same performance, for they are two distinctly different modes of communication, for this leads to confusions of performance style and voice. Characters should not be utilised as a mere, uninterrupted mouthpiece for the political beliefs of the writer, however accurate and impressive these beliefs may be; a character must disguise, reveal, expose. Otherwise, why bother presenting a fictional character at all, if all they should do is preach unadulterated truths, losing all aspects of their fictional characteristic identity in the process? Of course, this is a semi-autobiographical work, but the argument still stands, as we are being presented with a fictionalised version of Lucy Loughnane, Lucy Maughan, nonetheless. Writers Loughnane and Ward then attempt to prettify this otherwise heavy and prescriptive material by finally returning to the character of Lucy, who expresses again her associations with outer space and celestial bodies with an undertone that preaches a certain universal hope and postmodernist spirituality. However, this is so far from this dictatorial lecturing — in it voice, its romantic content, its apoliticalness, its character-based narrative and its general content — that it feels like an altogether separate play. It does not complement the political spiel we just heard but juxtaposes it, clashes against it, allowing for an imbalance and disconnect in the material. In fact, these scenes, romantically dedicated to space, stand out against all of the material with which we are presented. These soliloquies are certainly well written, engaging, pretty, revelatory, but their voice and content are far too different from the rest of the performance, such that they do not reveal anything about the character or her context but simply romanticise aspects of the universe and promote solipsistic faith and fulfilment. Certainly, I could dig for symbolism — how Pluto’s ‘loneliness’, for example, could reflect Lucy’s own sense of disconnect, from her parents; her hometown; her fellow, classist university students; etc. — but this is too far a stretch and is not in keeping with the direct and literal storytelling devices with which we are presented throughout elsewhere. Inconsistency in voice and style is a persistent problem throughout this performance, and there are many questionable stylistic decisions when it comes to expression and movement. It feels as though the creatives intended to compile every theatrical technique they knew into one performance, and the effect is a sloppy, clichéd and unparticularised text: from ‘folding’ [scrunching up] clothes, simply moving them from one pile to another; to puppeteering a MacBook as a bird; to punctuating every word with a symbolising action with a knife and fork. This latter is particularly strange to me, given that no other section of the play is performed in such a deliberate, literal and aggressive manner. The creatives have clearly intended to infuse the text with as much dynamism, energy and momentum as possible; the effect is a completely inarticulate and voiceless performance. Simplicity is, indeed, sometimes key. There are some notable positives, however. Until about halfway, the plot presented to us is coherent and engaging. Lucy’s character is developed well, her actions impact the plot’s progression, and her relationships with others and the overall world in which she lives is clearly fleshed out. The [former portion of this] text is certainly comedic and endearing, with its uses of sarcastic remarks and comedic assumptions, and this allows us not only to connect with Lucy’s chanter but to access her self-depreciative and self-devaluing propensities and her progression away from these. As for acting, _ has an excellent and unfaltering energy throughout. She is bold and confident; certain of her characters’ intentions and feelings, even when these are not explicitly clear to us; and adequately expressive. However, beyond a change of accent and tone, there is very little to discern her various characters from one another. One peculiar entrance, almost a classical walk, sees her introduce her ‘posh’ character, who is perhaps the most distinguished out of all of the profiles presented, and this precedes a series of character changes. Frankly, I was unable to comprehend what reading I was supposed to make of this sequence, as Loughnane delivers one story in various accents, her general profile unchanging in spite of this. I believe this is both an editorial issue and an issue with acting. This section is simply unclear, however humorous it certainly may be. I would recommend that Loughnane work on physical characterisations, as opposed to vocal expressivity alone. I should also mention that this aforementioned distinctiveness in portraying the ‘posh’ character is far too caricatural, stylised and melodramatic, out of place when paired to Loughnane’s general characterisation of Lucy. One final note on design, namely lighting design. Blackouts are used most precariously in this performance, often rapidly between scenes, and lighting states remain unstable, with lights pulsing, changing colour, etc. Visually, this performance is highly volatile, and not in a pleasing, dynamic way. I would recommend more decisive lighting states and reconceiving the use of these blackouts. Lighting should aim to complement and facilitate the action; it should not be yet another performer, drawing needless attention to itself and hence away from the action on stage. The lighting design for this performance is certainly much too distracting and destructive to illusion. It is also ill-timed, its pulses and fades causing us to miss out on some of the action, such that I must admit that I actually thought a technical mishap had occurred at the first lighting state change, which another, vocal audience member had also believed. Moreover, this chaos for which it allows further justifies my claim that the creatives intended to throw everything they could on to this stage. As stated in the beginning of this review, this dramatic text does have incredible potential, and Loughnane performs well. However, this inconsistency in voice and style is far too destructive. Writers Loughnane and Ward need to better consider which effects they wish for their performance to have, and in which manner it should be expressing itself. Currently, the performance is far too chaotic, attempting to show so much that it, ultimately, shows very little. “A promising text but poorly constructed, desperate to please all senses.”

This performance has seen quite a drastic transformation since I was asked to review it back in 2021, and it is always a pleasure to see how artists refine and reshape their work. I will not treat this review as a study of the performance’s ‘progression’ or ‘development’ from this former version to the current, however. Instead, I will treat this as a unique performance in its own merit, only referencing some notable in-/effective differences in the final paragraph of this review. This performance is incredibly text-heavy, presenting lengthy dialogues and soliloquies, all centred around the theme of knowledge and its exclusivity. Despite the much-needed comedic quips that are thrown in here and there, it retains its seriousness, logic and focus. However, what it gains in coherency, it risks in momentum. Consequently, the creatives have attempted to infuse the performance with as much dynamism as possible, but the effect is far too deliberate. Rises in tension and conflict are extreme, with characters launching items around the stage — George’s (Ben Prudence) chalk, Anna’s (Katie Suitor) papers, Bennett’s (Harry-Jack Robinson) chair. Moreover, the characters’ breakdowns, wherein they resort to shouting, disciplining and rage, seem far too intense and have little realism in their lack of lead-up. This intensity is also emphasised when comparing it to these characters’ fixations upon intellect, reasoning and a sense of coolness in their conceited ‘omniscience’. A raise in the voice or stiffer physicality could certainly be credible, but regularly shouting or throwing properties in a tantrum rather takes it too far. Given that properties are so sparing and that this performance remains a minimalist design, with its black chairs and ‘chalkboards’ even camouflaging with the black of the performance space, any use of properties or any blatant aspects of costume become extremified visual stimuli from which the audience can discern place, time and style. With such intense focus already drawn to props and costumes, an exaggerative use like this further alienates and dramatises their presence to an excessive and ineffective degree. Similarly, the space is utilised in its entirety and relied upon too heavily, to create a sense of movement, energy and texture in an otherwise word-heavy text that could perhaps be deemed too static and unenergised. From Prudence standing just to the side of the audience to Suitor standing in the wings Stage Right to the actors generally roaming the stage’s extremities, the space is utilised far too deliberately and excessively. Semiotically, this performance remains confused, unstable in its requests for the audience’s focus and attention and in its directions. Mixing enclosed dialogues with soliloquies that address the audience directly already verges on semiotic confusion, altering the manner in which the audience relate to, function within and receive the material, especially because, although thematically congruous, these soliloquies have little to do with the main plot. The audience’s relationship to the performance space is routinely complicated. Territories and boundaries are blurred, and it becomes easy for an audience to question their function and role within the performance — invisible onlookers, passive listeners and silent moral supporters, or witnesses. Furthermore, it is not just topographical territories that are complicated in this performance but symbolic ones too. We are asked to imagine that Anna’s initial monologue is, in fact, a conversation with her superiors, and that George’s mentor is seated behind him — “I can talk to you about this, right?” as he addresses the empty chair — despite the fact that Alfred (Sean Bennett) will then enter the stage and be completely oblivious as to what we have just seen. I should also point out that, for this reason, having hitherto addressed this soliloquy to us and not an unknowing Alfred, George’s final summarising line should be addressed to the audience, not to him. I would recommend that the creatives reconsider what is otherwise a mental gymnastics for the audience who must navigate the multiple [symbolic and topographical] territories, voices and styles offered in this performance. A “straight play”, as we regularly refer to it, should not be something to shy away from. Additionally, creatives should not feel the need to embellish such a text with extra spectacularities and vitality, as long as the very text is texturised, layered and energised itself. Positives. And there are many. This text is very well-structured and coherent. Its characters have clear intentions and motivations, with emotional reasonings — despite this aforementioned tendency to exaggerate them — being well conceived and well communicated. The play poses many questions not only about knowledge, its bounds, its accuracy and the manners in which we arrive at it, but about propriety and professional conduct, the pressures exerted upon budding ‘intellectuals’, and how learned narcissism, learned pride and meritocratic teachings can interfere with epistemological pursuits. Content is certainly impressive, and the writer demonstrates great awareness and reading in the literature appropriate to allow material to feel organic, informed and comprehensive. Language of a higher register is used appropriately to provide characters with idiolects that demonstrate their backgrounds and general profiles, and is, for the vast majority of the text, used accurately. I would just recommend language type be consistent throughout for each of the respective characters. Equally, lexical and logical games are conceived and written well. Characters are, on the whole, well presented. Identities and intentions objectives are communicated well, both in the text and in the actors’ characterisations, but I should note that the shifts in Alice’s (Alex Gallacher) character are slightly unstable. Seemingly engaging in Alfred and Bennett’s hypocritical and oppressive practices, yet emphatically rebellious against them, it is easy to feel one has been offered a mixed reading of her by the end of the performance. Characters are in danger of becoming slightly caricatural. This is because, despite their specific interests and motivations being well defined, they remain extremely narrow, their actions and desires limited only to the development of the plot, or namely to progress our understanding of Alfred and Bennett’s “legacies”, their opinions, how they interview, challenge and ‘develop’ their students. The characters remain untextured and univocal in this way, and we learn very little about their psychologies, backstories, humanity. Employing these soliloquies is a good decision to combat this sterility, enriching the text with emotion and feeling, but the ultimate effect is not so yielding. I have mentioned above that the soliloquies we are offered are thematically congruous with the rest of the text: the social pressures to be an active, well-read and informed thinker, and their effects; personal interests vs ‘appropriate’ academic ones; the loss, discovery and mediation of the self in the pursuit of educating humanity; etc. Nevertheless, how these soliloquies relate back to the main story specifically is completely inevident, and these interludes thus become superfluous anecdotes, failing to progress and enrich the material we have seen hitherto, especially given that we do not return to these characters and their concerns at all. Fleeting interactions between these two distinguished characters, George and Anna, and Alfred and Bennett are not sufficient to ground them into the story and the narrative, I am afraid. It is important to see the generic students’ perspectives, but we are not, indeed, seeing their perspectives on the vital material of the play but on the effects of these aforementioned themes in general. In this way, they become negligible, feeling random and extraneous, despite providing perhaps needed respite from the stricter, heavier material. I would recommend that these characters be better interwoven into the main text and that their stories better reflect the text’s specific subject matter; either these changes should be made, or these characters and their stories should be removed altogether. Despite a certain superficiality, however, character profiles are certainly legible and consistent. Actors also bring them to life most adequately. Despite a disparity in acting styles, with Suitor’s vitalised and exaggerative profile clashing against Sean Bennett’s cooler and more conservative expressivity, for example — not a conceptual issue but purely a stylistic one — actors have excellent character awareness and emotionality. I would recommend that further peculiarities and idiosyncrasies be conceived by the actors for their characters, for a pensive and somewhat forlorn expression from Sean Bennett, for example, that persists throughout the performance further emphasises this aforementioned shallow caricaturisation. Corporeal and vocal expressivity is good. I would just draw attention to how actors react to others. This needs further direction, as improvised reactivity is proving difficult, with actors perceptibly unsure as to what they should be doing in these short-lived moments of silence. Diction is also a notable issue but only when the actors are performing their characters’ irateness or moments of extreme tension. In these moments, it is common in this performance to have actors trip up their lines or deliver them altogether unintelligibly. Despite these comments, this is an excellent cast, convincing and confident in their portrayals. Finally, how this performance has progressed. In its linear narrative, coherency has certainly developed. We now have an astute collection of characters and a plot. Theme now has a secondary role, complementing the narrative well, where before it was relied upon almost exclusively to provide the various sections of the text with meaning and interconnectedness. However, one positive feature of the earlier text’s fragmentation was a greater rhythm and momentum, and, as I have written above, I would recommend workshopping more natural, organic and indirect ways to provide this second performance with energy and tension. Energy and tension should come from plot developments alone and only as a by-product, not directly from excessive spectacularities or emotive demonstrations that aim exclusively to bring this tension to the surface. The material should not aim to be powerful and suspenseful; this is sensationalist and shallow. Instead, it should aim to be rich and textured, and any emotional responses will occur naturally. The chaos of the former text, the multiplicity in its various voices and scene types, and topographical organisations in its former staging, also leant into a sense of busyness and population, and I would recommend seeing these soliloquying characters reintroduced into the main body of material for this reason also. Overall, this play is now a lot more legible and refined. Its objectives are clearer, and the qualms of its characters are now distinct driving forces for plot where they might have otherwise been unclear in the former version. A good development. “A greatly improved text, though creatives need to reconsider rhythm and performance style.”