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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.”

Upon entering the house, there are several elements that stand out sorely. The calm atmosphere generated by a homely yet empty stage, prettily decorated with its vibrant flowers and pristine books and pregnant with imminence and potential, is in conflict with the cohort of creatives gathered at the entrance to the house, conversing casually, tapping away on their phones, pacing, exiting and re-entering, and with the house lights that remain lit until it is finally time for the performance to begin. I would recommend that the creatives pay greater and more sensitive attention to the busyness, informalisation and unprofessional casualness that they are allowing to permeate the performance space in their indiscreet activity, allowing for a distractive, tense and conflicted air. I would also recommend this general house light be turned off, for the localised light over the seating area is sufficient alone. Secondly, the set design itself (by Sam Went) has an incredibly corporate aesthetic, with the armless reception chair, gold-edged books and flowers, etc. This is in direct conflict with the warm, informal and conversational tone of the text. The globe and glass of water are particularly incongruous, the latter seeming to have no aesthetic purpose but merely a real and utilitarian one, as actor Luis Donegan-Brown (playing Nemo) takes regular sips from it — something against which I cannot recommend strongly enough. This utterly destroys the momentum of the performance and draws attention to the performative, and untrained, actor's body. Practising further calming, focusing and presence techniques will take this need for a comfort glass of water away from the actor. Sticking with Donegan-Brown, this actor maintains an impressive confidence, energy and vitality throughout. He is most transformative when presenting his various caricatural representations, distinguishing these well with great vocal, facial and corporeal expressivity. He possesses a promising talent and great potential, but there is a notable absence of refined skill. Notably also an issue to which Sam Moore’s text has given rise — more on this below — Donegan-Brown's performance is one of extremes: extreme physicality and loud vocal delivery, or extreme insularity and introversion. Born through this dichotomy is an absence of nuance, texturisation and, above all, humanisation. We are not presented with a character but merely with a caricature throughout the entire performance, and not a consistent one, either. Donegan-Brown falls short of presenting a particularised, distinct and identifiable character to which one can relate on any level beyond thematically. Rather early into the performance, Donegan-Brown's movements have become repetitive and indistinct, characterisable by large circular movements of the arms; lowered heads and slightly pursed lips; energetic full-body twists from left to right led by the waist; etc. We also find repetition in tone: solemn, mournful and sorrowful, or jubilant, exhilarated and unrestrained. Donegan-Brown has a propensity common to the amateur actor: he represents the emotions he would like his audience to feel and those he understands his audience ‘should’, as opposed to inhabiting the mind and body of a character and playing these authentically, letting any emotional invocations in regard to the audience develop naturally of their own accord. Psychological results, sensations of tension and drama, catharses and emotional outpours are not ever produced in an audience by brute force and desperation but by engaging an audience into the authentic and relatable world the play and creatives have carefully produced. One should not perform sadness or suspense but merely the events that produce these emotions [in the actor as well as the audience]. On to the writing. Despite presenting us with one main character and so many other secondary ones, Moore fails to develop any sense of plot or character development. Notedly, our main character, Nemo, starts the play by explaining that he struggled to come to terms with his sexuality and, by the end of the play, we now have a self-actualising Nemo who is happy identifying as merely ‘queer’ or, rather, label-less. However, despite this parallel, there is very little fluidity in the progression from the former mindset to the latter. How Nemo manages to ‘find himself’ in this way is completely uncommunicated, and this is without noting that this transformation bears little weight at all, given that we learn so little about this unnuanced and nondescript character that the fact he should transform at all is notably uninteresting. We know nothing of his history and identity beyond the fact that he is a queer man. Again, a rather monolithic representation; one reliant upon an audience’s pre-existing understanding and experience and not one that informs the audience of a peculiar and unique character identity; a caricature. We are presented with so many vignettes throughout the course of this play — miniature stories of queer passersby, retellings of passing desires and whims, and recounts of transient, inconsequential interactions — and all are supposedly hugely consequential in developing Nemo's self-acceptance. Yet, there are so many of these short-lived stories united merely by theme alone that the true content of this performance becomes entirely elusive. With our Nemo providing his responses to and opinions on every one of these recounts, the text starts to feel like the unfiltered and unrefined sociopolitical views of the writer, providing us on each occasion with an argument, an example and a conclusion — better resembling an open-ended school paper than a calculated and feeling play. I should also point out an inconsistency in Nemo’s character, who stresses early on that he never had a ‘coming out’ moment and was too ashamed/scared/vulnerable to do so, only doing so suggestively, “by proxy”. Yet, he complains that his boyfriend wasn’t out like he was. This fluidity in Nemo's character, his caricaturality and sterile progression, combined with the text's superficiality, overly structuredness and inflexibility, mean that this text can only produce a sensationalist reaction, dependent upon an audience's investment in queer politics; considered alone, this play has yet to find its own voice. Nevertheless, a good and energised performance from Donegan-Brown. “A play with good intentions, having yet to find its true purpose and unique voice.”

This review will consider Mary and Mietek, written by Maria Laumark, directed by Abigail Smith, and performed at The Space in London. The atmosphere created by the dim lights, the hypnotic and calming music (composed by Joel Marten), and the fantastical arrangement of the letters seen spread across the back wall of the stage and suspended from lines from the ceiling (set design by Ruth Newbery-Payton), is most impressive. In its simplicity, the design for this performance is effective, providing the performance with an air of whimsciliaty and mysticism whilst drawing little attention away from the character action on stage. In this way, design generates mood and draws our focus well. Music and sound effects are also expertly composed and designed by Marten. I would just be aware of the significant and distractive metatheatricality it produces to have him on stage at all times, watching the action. This distancing effect is not present in any other aspect of the performance, allowing for a stylistic inconsistency, as we are taken out of the illusion of the play and into the reality of a volume button-adjusting and prerecorded audio-playing musician. I would recommend either some physical barrier between the musician and the stage or complete concealment, to minimise the psychological effects of the coincidence of these two creative territories, or that that the text's representation itself become more self-aware and employ more metatheatrical devices to accommodate Marten's anti-illusory presence. For obvious reasons, I recommend the former over the latter. As for representation, Laumark (also playing Mary and Alma) and Louis Cruzat (playing Mietek and Ben) are good performers. An excellent chemistry has been formed and nurtured between them, and this comes through wonderfully in their presentations. The two have great energy, for the most part, and perform with great credibility, even in spite of certain unnatural and corny aspects of the written text they must deliver. The greatest issue I find with their performance is in regard to transformativity. Beyond a minute change in Cruzat's vocal delivery, the two struggle to particularise their two characters explicitly, to the point where it would often be difficult, nay impossible, to discern which character they were presenting without the telling aid of the dialogue and changes in lighting states. I would urge the creatives to develop some specificities, peculiarities, idiosyncrasies that both better signal their change of characters and permit them to perform each authentically and with nuance and conviction. Certainly, Cruzat homes his focus in on his diction, and Laumark performs more energetically, with more expressive physicality, when the two portray Mary and Mietek, but these shifts are far too understated and, moreover, decrease in intensity considerably as the performance progresses. However, the difficulty to discern one character from another could originate from the text itself and its disruption of the chronology of the two stories. We understand that we are at an airport and are led to imagine that any representation stylistically and temporally distinguishable must be the story of Mary and Mietek. With this in mind, the presentation time itself becomes too chaotic: not only do we have Mary and Mietek's past playing out before us, we also have Ben and Alma's past as well as their present. This presentation allows for a semiotic and temporal disconnect, challenging the flow, narrative style and legibility of the overall text. To reiterate here: with these three, essentially different characters per actor, this is another reason why transformativity is so important. This text also suffers from a common problem: towards the middle-end, it loses its poeticism and credibility and becomes a mere mouthpiece for the sociopolitical views of the writer. What were once expressive and heartfelt passages and phrases become lengthy lectures that lose all credibility in their explicitness. It is clear, given the disconnect between the characters and their repeated acknowledgements of the differences in each other's political opinions, that the two would already be completely aware of one another's philosophies and world views. To ingeminate them in such detail is unnatural, unrealistic and a clear device to communicate underlying sociopolitical themes. In this way, the articulation of the play's sociopolitical agenda ought to be reconsidered and refined. I would recommend as well that politics find its way into the script much earlier on in the text, that it is present throughout the story, shaping it, reflecting it, progressing it naturally and organically. Otherwise, as it currently stands, political dwellings seem far too incongruous with the tone and style of the performance hitherto. Alma begs Ben to tell her why he showed her the letters, and the answer is obviously rather significant to our reading, given that this would bring purpose and reason to an integral aspect of the text and story. Yet, we receive no substantial answer beyond "Because I love you." This is one example of the manner in which the two [three, to be pedantic] stories remain unmarried, disjointed. Underplayed sociopolitics being the only thing that relates these stories to one another, as well as the general and inconsequentially generic theme of love, we are given little to understand why these stories have been placed beside one another, of which parallels we should be aware, and what these coincidences mean for the characters and their present and future. There are many moments in this performance [which I imagine to be of directorial as opposed to editorial origin] wherein the mood and content of plot and dialogue clash with stylistic decisions and visual cues. This increases to an almost ridiculous degree by the end of the performance, where seriousness, tragedy and heartfelt passion are replaced by a certain cheekiness, a playful insincerity. For example, that Laumark should pull out a full-body down suit, exaggerative and camp in the randomness of its appearance, its incongruity with the atmosphere of the scene, its size and colour, and its irrelevance to any other aspect of Alma's character and her destination, is a peculiar and laughable choice decision. By this point, we are permitted to laugh during these serious scenes, and so the quality of others that are not so campy or overplayed, such as Ben having recorded the Polish translation for 'I love you' on his forearm in case he should forget it, are also afforded this same comedic reception. In this way, style and atmosphere are at war with the feeling, mood and content of the text, prompting, unsurprisingly, the audience to laugh at moments of tension and sorrow. Other, less destructive decisions feel incongruous and corny — one such decision being the catching of the suspended letters, performed slowly, attentively. This deliberate disruption of the scene to perform such a stylised and melodramatic action is too disjointed and unnecessarily marked, once more, in its mysticism and pacing, stylistically incongruous with the rest of the performance wherein no such other stylised movements are performed. “A performance with a wonderful premise but confused in execution.”

The full title of this performance is Frankenstein's Monster is Drunk and the Sheep Have All Jumped the Fences. This is a most charming and energised performance from Big Telly Theatre Company. Quirky and unique, it aims to reimagine and recontextualise the character of Frankenstein’s Monster into a contemporary and fast-paced sphere whilst staying true to its gothic feel and old-world aesthetic. Most endearing and characteristic of this performance are the imaginative storytelling devices the creatives have incorporated: the receding white sheet to represent snow melting away, the projection of the images of sheep onto the furniture, etc. This provides the performance with a positively laughable cheapness and amateurism that further humanises the gothic tale and demands a wonderful comedic reception. This pairs well with the set-piece scraps, skeletal and seemingly incomplete, united in their wooden antique look and disorderliness and in their impressionistic, eclectic quality. In particular, the multifunctionality of the wardrobe is most impressive and creative — a table at the restaurant, a desk for the hotel reception, the front doors to the house, etc. In this way, this is a most multifunctional and intelligent set design by Ryan Dawson Laight. However, this multifacetedness bleeds into a significant issue that persists throughout this performance. Whilst the creatives have managed to secure a unique, clear and coherent narrative voice and aesthetic identity for their performance, the depth of the material is most questionable. First, text. We are presented with such a fast-paced plot that finer details that would humanise, deepen and add credibility to the performance often seem to be glossed over, and we move on from them as quickly as they were brought to our attention. Either this or they are overlooked completely. There is a great lack of stability and focus in this performance in this way. A good example of this is the bingo scene, which I shall return to later in a different context, wherein we see the Monster (Rhodri Lewis) and whom I shall henceforth refer to as the Monster’s Lover (Nicky Harley) shunned by the public, rejected and dismissed. We can see that the Monster and His Lover — though primarily the latter of the two — remain unaffected and resilient, standing their ground, but we fail to see how this really affects/strengthens them and their relationship; what type of toll, if any, it takes on them as individuals; why they tolerate it and what this reveals about their natures; etc. This also makes it harder to understand, being provided with no true explanation, why members of the public then start to rely on the Monster to find and rescue their children or to invite him around for dinner. First an early-teenage girl, then a nurse, then a hotelier, once having also been the assistant to a carpenter, the Monster’s Lover has so many experiences and identities at such a young age that it is difficult to pinpoint exactly who she is, what background she comes from, and why she has had [or has had to have?] all these jobs. Is she unsure of the career path she wants, or is she merely doing what she can to get by? We are not made aware either way. Of course, we have her brief introduction, but this serves more as a quirky description of her qualities and external attributes — strength and boisterousness — as opposed to her psychology. She is so destructive, formidable, untrusting and cold towards other people, who have [always?] shown her rejection and scorn, and yet she still wants to be a nurse and is fickle enough to let a complimenting photographer win her over into an affair? Consistency and coherency become huge issues in her character profile and development. Ironically, however, the content does seem more veered towards her than towards the Monster, which might also be worth noting — primarily for the former half of this performance. As through the Monster’s Lover’s many identities, we seem to race through the settings and contexts of the play at such a pace that it could be easy for an audience member to get lost in the action, especially after the moment in the story where the couple become hoteliers. Because we are not permitted a great amount of time to linger on any significant details, to learn more about the characters and the particularised world they inhabit, content could be seen to be superficial, overall. Excessive spectacularities, such as the shadow puppet show and the various dance sequences consume valuable stage time that could be better spent on developing this content. These inclusions are simply too similar, especially these dance sequences, whose choreography has insufficient variation in order to justify their number. Whilst some of these inclusions, such as the first dance sequence, in particular, depicting the falling in love and love-making of the Monster and His Lover, are lively, entertaining and humorous in themselves, combined with one another, they regurgitate all-too-familiar material. They teach us very little and are far too repetitive choreographically. The legibility of the choreography is also questionable in places, particularly during the longer dance sequences, such as ‘Putting on the Ritz’. This is without mentioning the lack of attention to detail: for example, hands are visible, shaking the back of the wardrobe and knocking the suitcases down, throughout the entirety of the early sex scene, and the shadow puppet scene may as well be removed altogether, given that these are simple, inanimate puppets that are simply lifted to the screen and bounced a few times before the puppet show comes to a premature end — any initial appeal becomes negligible, in this way. This lack of refinement in these repeated elements further exacerbates their ineffectiveness. And none of this is particularly aided by the caricatural acting style upon which the performers, and clearly the director, Zoë Seaton, have decided. Each performer has impeccable energy, conviction and credibility throughout. Rhodri Lewis and Nicky Harley have concretised their profiles well for the Monster and His Lover, and Chris Robinson and Vicky Allen, with emphasis on Allen, have established wonderful characterisations for the various passerby caricatures they represent — each of which is immediately identifiable. However, all performers retain a certain caricaturality throughout, with actions, movements and idiosyncrasies being equally unvaried and too frequently re-presented. Allen’s guttural character voice and deliberate American accent, accompanied by a tilt of the head, a crooked, tight-lipped mouth and a stiff posture; Lewis’s full-body rigidity, wide-eyed glare, gormless expression and long, low-tone grunts…these caricaturisations, initially hilarious in themselves, become univocal and mundane in their repetition. I would urge the creatives to develop further specificity in their various characters, becoming aware of the ready trends with which they regularly approach each of their roles. Though wonderfully energised and confident performers, the consistency and univocity of these profiles allow for a shallow, uninteresting and, ultimately, dehumanised reading; it is difficult to completely and profoundly engage and respond to the work, for this reason. Altogether, these elements I have addressed combine to produce an intensely caricatural and superficial play that feels incomplete and one-layered. Losing steam and depth before the halfway mark, this is a performance that actually has great potential — in its general content; in its sound, ghostly aesthetic; and in its rapid, fragmented and unpredictable narrative voice — and whose individual scenes are humorous and enticing, but that, overall, struggles to deepen, texturise and organise its material effectively. It feels that the creatives have placed greater emphasis on performance style and on establishing contexts and atmospheres than they have on the fundamentals: plot progression and character development, etc. I wrote above that I would return to the bingo scene, and it is with this and the notion of the performance’s audience participation that I will conclude this review. Directly addressing the audience at the very beginning of the performance, entering from within the audience space, the audience-performer divide is immediately eliminated, our territory as audience members having been breached and our vulnerability and presence accentuated. Shortly after, we have the airplane scene, where Allen and Tobinson interact with us as stewards, and, soon into the performance, the bingo scene, which takes audience interaction into the realm of audience participation. This consistent metatheatricality is certainly decisive, establishing an equally consistent performance style. However, the manner in which we are asked to participate and the purpose of doing so must also be brought into question when we speak about such devices. The bingo game is a distinct scene, forcing us out of the fast pace and chronology of the narrative and into an excitable self-awareness as we hope to win the game — or perhaps as we fear what participation comes next if we actually do, depending on the audience member type. In this way, a sense of competition, urgency and expectation, and another of self-awareness and exposedness take the place of engagement with the material. In other words, we lose sight of the world of the play and can only think about the mechanics of this game, our own presence and the presence of the competitors around us. To learn that we will simply be left with our bingo cards as the performance swiftly moves on and forgets bingo ever existed, this sense of competition, etc., can feel unrewarding and needless, especially as a similar scene and participation type does not arise again. In this bingo scene, we are also encouraged to ostracise the couple ourselves, given that we are participants in the bingo game, led by the game host, and prompted to laugh at the various remarks the game host makes. For these reasons, I am not sure how successful the bingo game is, although, of course, it is enjoyable in itself, or how successful audience participation is in this performance in general. After this, we have no audience participation or even interaction whatsoever, and suddenly stylistic consistency becomes highly questionable. Why such extremity and intensity in the manner in which the audience are incorporated into the performance if this should have no purpose in the long run and should be soon forgotten? Additionally, whilst the cheap-feeling metatheatricality persists, how exactly the audience is employed and implemented in this performance when they are is also inconsistent. It is easy to become unsure of one’s role as an audience member here: participant, silent observer, witness…? I mentioned the characters narrating the story, and this brings me to another issue: when performing their narrations, particularly when standing at the microphones, there should be a clear and strict decision between Allen and Robinson as to whether they are to be looking at one another; the action onstage; or simply staring forward, above the audience’s heads. Currently, the former two are characteristic of Allen’s narrations, and the latter of Robinson’s. As our narrators, these characters direct our focus and invite us to receive the material in a particular way. Whilst Allen remains animated, watching Robinson as he narrates, looking at the audience and then at the action onstage, Robinson simply stares icily forward, transfixed, almost stupefied. This is a disconcerting disparity — not to be taken as successfully disconcerting, given the monstrous themes. "A unique and entertaining performance but ultimately chaotic and superficial in its eclecticism."

This was my third time being invited to review this performance, Colloquium, and it is always an honour to see how the performance has developed and improved, and, yet again, improved it certainly has. Written by Katherine Stockton and directed, on this occasion, by Molly Wilsher, this performance was staged at Culture Palace, London. Concerning the text, style and momentum are far more consistent. We have lost the former freneticism and fragmentedness, and there is now a far greater fluidity and rhythm and a greater consistency in the overall voice of the play. Dialogue, for the most part, feels a lot more natural and authentic, and conversations feel less superficial and more varied, deepening our understanding of the characters as living, feeling humans, as opposed to mere progressors of the narrative. Similarly, character relationships are far clearer, from the status of the characters within the university to the characters’ personal relationships to and with one another. We now understand the histories and motives of the characters far better as well. However, I mentioned above that dialogue feels more natural and authentic ‘for the most part’, and this is because, until Anna’s (Hannah Eggleton) monologue, dialogue seems to follow a certain rigid pattern. This pattern is characterised by a certain aggressive bantering between the characters, where questions are posed sarcastically and responded to with equally flippant, acerbic remarks, and then a bold, knowing statement is uttered. This provides the former part of the text with a certain roboticism and excessive structuredness and thus with a sense of inauthenticity. However, for some reason, after this first monologue, such a pattern disappears, or, at least, presents itself far less frequently. There are also some inconsistencies. Most notably, that Anna should detail her failing romance with George (Benjamin Prudence) to Ben (Callum Choudhury). So confrontational and dismissive towards Ben, adamant that nothing is happening between George and her, it should seem peculiar that she should then open herself up to him so readily and trustingly, and so elaborately, only to reproach him immediately afterwards with a “Happy now?!” and to continue with this disregard. We have seen nothing of him to imagine him as a loving and reliable confidant, and I cannot imagine what Anna would gain from opening up to him in this way. In fact, that they should be speaking with each other at all in this manner is rather debatable still. It is not necessary for every single character to have a relationship with one another, but, instead, the various contexts to which each of those characters belongs should combine and coexist coherently. I believe it is clear enough already that Ben and Alice share such a context as ‘competing’ applicants, and Ben could quite easily exist only in this context without this impairing the profundity of the overall text or his character. Anna, Ben and George do share the opening scene together, but what we see in this scene is a first encounter, and this is insufficient to warrant Anna opening up so freely as she does. I would not remove this first scene, however, as, regardless of how it contextualises the relationship between these three, it does establish status and differences amongst the characters and notably prepares us for the nature of the impending interviews. As for acting, this is a very strong cast. My only issue with almost all of the cast members is a propensity to preempt and react prematurely to other performers, relying too heavily upon the material established in rehearsal and not 'living in the moment'. However, this particular problem surfaces notably infrequently. One significant problem that does crop up frequently, however, concerns backstage etiquette. The distracting noises of performers rustling, coughing, preparing to enter onto the stage, etc. persisted throughout the entire performance. A further corporeal self-discipline is required for this purpose, and, especially in performance sites where sound travels easily, it is inherent that all necessary movements be made preemptively, systematically and in unison: as one performer enters, the performers next on stage must approach the curtain concurrently, to have the sound of their approach masked by the louder and more attractive sound of the entering performer. Similarly, performers should not gather to recompose in the backstage area but should approach the side of the curtain from which they will next be entering immediately after exiting the stage, queueing in order of appearance. Eggleton demonstrates a great sensitivity to her role, aware of her character intentions and presenting a great emotional range. She maintains throughout great credibility as well, but, where this emotionality is concerned, she could benefit from better graduality in her monologue; we go straight to wet-eyed forlorn, and it would be better to build this emotion. I would also recommend more subtlety in her shifting between emotional states. Alexandra Gallagher (playing Alice) has chosen this time around a characterisation significantly different to her previous one. She has chosen to portray Alice as highly emotional, despairing, almost traumatised. I can understand how this should be effective, particularly later on in the play, to express how this oppressive and exclusivist enrolment methodology would eventually affect applicants and their mental well-being, but this portrayal is rather extreme from the very beginning, even in her scenes with Choudhury, meaning that little room is left to develop the character and to chart her inevitable breakdown. In this way, her characterisation remains slightly caricatural and superficial. Still confident, bold and, for the most part, credible in her portrayal, I would just recommend that Gallagher work on her emotional sensitivity and study the text more thoroughly to decide which exact moments alter, challenge and ‘crack’ her character, and that she respond in her performance to each of these progressively, appropriately. Nevertheless, a degree more hostility, confidence and reproach should underpin her characterisation if Alice is to be understood as so ‘resistant’. I should note, however, that the character of Alice does seem to have a far more muted, insidious and implicit role in this draft; perhaps therein lies the issue here, with Gallagher reading her character as powerless and merely instrumental. Sean Bennett (playing Alfred) has lost his former caricaturality and roboticism altogether, no longer relying on repeated gestures or prop-handling to build his character profile but, instead, infusing this profile with a good array of idiosyncrasies to develop a consistent and unique characterisation: adjusting his cardigan, clasping his hands, pursing the lips, etc. His pacing has significantly improved, and he has also seen a great improvement in his interactivity with fellow performers, once performing too insularly. I only have two issues with Bennett’s performance, overall: firstly, it is made clear in the text that Alfred seems to have some kind of health issue or breakdown, revealing itself when he becomes particularly irate with Alice, prompting her to ask if she should seek assistance. This is significantly underplayed and rushed; we do not see this breakdown or build-up whatsoever, and, currently, it feels markedly peculiar that Alice should be so concerned for him in this way. Secondly, projection — and this also applies to Truman Gaudoin (playing Bennett). Especially given the echoic nature of this particular performance site, it is easy to lose the ends of these performers’ sentences. Beyond these issues, a faultless, credible portrayal. Gaudoin has established a solid and clear profile for Bennett, remaining bold and deliberate throughout. He performs with good credibility but could see slightly more variation in his characterisation. For this, I would recommend more reactivity when it comes to moments in dialogue where his character is simply listening, silent, and I would focus significantly on manual expression: Bennett has a tendency — by no means throughout his performance but, nevertheless, persistently — to allow his hands to flop beside him, motionless and inexpressive, particularly when engaging in a duologue for which he and his interlocutor must be stood. Not exaggeratively or with accentuation, but the hands should always be utilised to express; extremely rarely in the everyday do they flop by the sides. Prudence does wonderfully in his monologue, and the performance of certain deliberate stylistic decisions, such as revealing his bandaged wrists, posing for the mother’s photograph, etc., are handled impeccably well, feeling most spontaneous and natural. A few notable slip-ups on lines, but I would put this down not to nerves but to pacing, with Prudence being slightly too led by the emotional shifts of his character where control and creative self-regulation are still necessary. More of a directorial issue, I would just pay attention to the use of space in this monologue scene; it is not necessary to have him moving around, kneeling, sitting back down, standing up, sitting back down again, quite so consistently. Whilst the intention here is to allow for an increase in dynamism and vitality, the effect is exhausting and too deliberate; besides, the content of the monologue is varied enough not to warrant such an intense physicality in delivery. I should also mention that Prudence seems slightly lost during group scenes, whilst very comfortable during his monologue, seeming to omit in these scenes particularisation, specificity and variation in his characterisation. I would put this down both to blocking and writing; it is clear that Prudence is, quite rightly, unsure as to the purpose of his character’s presence in these scenes. I believe George should have a few more lines in such scenes, to better establish his presence as well as for us to better understand his character’s psychology, reasoning and perceptions of his surroundings — this includes his interaction with Bennett, discussing his taking over Alfred’s module. As it currently stands, both of the monologues do feel slightly incongruous with the rest of the text — stylistically, rather than in their content. That the monologuer should first share a scene with another character, only to wait until they are gone to begin, feels far too structured and deliberate. This is unaided by the change of lighting states, from a warm and thus less intense wash to a less natural, colder and brighter one. In these ways, identical for each of the monologues, they feel too marked and performative. I would, rather than remove them, rearrange them or mark them differently. They are effective in not only providing the characters with greater depth and intrigue but in providing respite from the heaviness and tensions of the text, breaking its momentum and adding variation. As for set, its minimalism, as before, permits this performance a great dynamism and multifunctionality. Aesthetically, considering also the type of chairs used, this is an appropriate set design. However, when it comes to blocking, it seems the creatives struggle to find a natural set of interactions with the set. The set has a precise and inflexible arrangement, and this seems to have a lot of power over the performers, forcing them to comply with the layout and offering little disorder. Not every scene requires the use of the chairs [this is not a recommendation to remove them but to occasionally ignore them]; and not every scene must see the characters in a sort of face-off, one sat on either side, or sat in such a symmetrical fashion. I enjoy the moment towards the end of the play, for instance, when Bennett sits next to Alfred, or when he crouches before Alice to intimidate her. Ignoring these moments, there are far too few to diversify the performers’ use of the set. I would recommend further considering the exact topography of each of the many settings of the play and to play around with only repeating interactions with the set when the setting is repeated. Costumes are superbly designed and correspond well with the characters’ respective identities. I also find the minimal use of props to be appropriate, although mobile phones should display something on their screens and not be left black, for credibility and illusion, and the text on the newspaper should be far more tailored, specific and revealing, for the same purposes. Lighting is equally congruous, and I would certainly keep this change of lighting states between the continuous action and the monologues; I only had an issue with this change due to how structured the monologues already feel in the text itself. Overall, a marvellous improvement and a solid, coherent performance. Great consistency in style, both in performance and in text. Excellent work from absolutely all cast members, as well. “An excellent, coherent and most enjoyable performance; an intellectual treat!”

I will start by stating that this pantomime has distinctly little appeal for children, despite welcoming so many into the house. From "oui oui hole", "Dick's huge Whittington", "Prince Charming's Balls" and other such double-entendre-based jokes to political quips, ironic feminist teachings and other sexual innuendoes, its material is distinctly mature. The chariot race, I would say, alongside the general existence of puppets, colourful costumes and projectile sweeties, are the only elements that show true consideration of the children in the audience. Of course, a pantomime must appeal to both adults and children and such adult content is not inherently problematic; this performance, however, fails to balance its adult content with that suitable for and enjoyable to children. Comedic content is also somewhat repetitive throughout: common social profiles, late entrances and missed cues, interrupted skits, or, most significantly, the constant deconstruction of pantomime. This latter works entirely against the creatives: having explained the context of the skit, then interrupting the skit to start all over again, then moving swiftly on to the next thing…all comedic potential is entirely thwarted in this manner. The main costumes are particularly irksome in this performance. It is beyond all reason that the two hosts should be dressed in sports uniforms, both pedestrian enough to feel out of place in their performance context yet obnoxious enough to clash with the costume pieces lain overtop. A few other costumes are simply undercooked, and not in a hilarious way: Other costumes, however, are most humorous and transportive: Cinderella, Prince Charming, and sleeping beauty's evil fairy. This performance aims to be eclectic, to offer great variety and yet lacks the framework necessary to refine, shape, structure and give identity to it. As it stands, it is merely chaotic and voiceless. Of course, the intention is to present a series of various pantomimes in quick succession, but the stories are simply skimmed over, replaced by completely unrelated skits that could be attributed to any pantomime at all or, worse, by a mere summarising narration. I would recommend far more attention be given to the stories presented; after all, this is the only objective of the show: to portray several pantomimes in one sitting. In terms of performance style, Daniel Clarkson is certainly far more expressive than Jefferson Turner, and this is jarring to watch at times. Especially with Clarkson performing longer solo skits – Prince Charming's monologues, his one-man reenactment of the King Rat and Cat's fight or his huge offstage monologue during the Cinderella story, to name a few – the comedic content is emphatically delivered by Clarkson over Turner, and this is a huge issue for a performance presenting two entirely equal hosts. Not only is Clarkson more expressive, having intenser physicality, but Turner rather underplays his characters. This sense of underplaying is most notable in the ambit of his gaze: Clarkson performs to the entire house, looking up to the circle, across the stalls, etc.; Turner merely performs outwardly, just above the stalls and just below the circle, in a comfort zone where no audience member should actually reside. All of this is unaided by his propensity to stumble over his lines. I would pay close attention to this discrepancy in the duo's performativity and to this lack of eye contact on Turner's part. As voiced by the hosts in the performance, it is, ironically, most peculiar that Charlotte Payne and Jacob Jackson should appear as unmarkedly as they do. Their appearances are also serious, not comedic or self-referential: Payne performs and sings beautifully as the fairy, and Jackson plays his roles with little metatheatrical self-reflection. In this manner, these two performers are most ill-incorporated into this show, despite how well they perform. I will say, however, that comedic timing is impeccable and that one-liners are well conceived, congruous and well delivered. Clarkson is a most energised and captivating performer, committing to the ludicrousness of his roles wonderfully. The duo do have a good chemistry, but I would work on allowing this to feel less artificial in places. Puppets are wonderfully crafted, and the majority of costumes are equally well designed. The set design is notably lacking, however, which is slightly made up for with the abundance of props, but this emphasises any moments where physicality and expressivity are lacking. “Chaotic, ill-considered and underplayed.”

I am afraid, I must express that this is a markedly shallow performance. Acting style is caricatural across the entirety of the cast, not so much an issue on the performers’ part but on that of the writing, which remains incredibly superficial, predictable and unvitalised. Jonny Amies (playing Maggio) certainly stands out from the rest of the cast, especially with the majority of lines being offered to him, despite his secondary significance in the plot, and this is because of the particularised and credible, though certainly not naturalistic, profile he presents. Nevertheless, led by the text, even his portrayal remains, overall, robotic and unvaried. Amies has a propensity to perform his lines energetically, fast, and then to physically retract, leaning backwards, becoming silent. This pattern persists throughout his entire performance but does present itself significantly less frequently as the performance progresses. Other breaths of fresh air include Eve Polycarpou (playing Mrs Kipfer), Carley Stenson (playing Karen) and Desmonda Cathabel (playing Lorene) who also share a good degree of particularisation, credibility and conviction in their portrayals, despite text and direction. All other performers, I am afraid, seem unable to fight against the sterility and superficiality of the text and hence succumb to — and understandably so. The text itself races through a vague and unenlightening narrative, relying upon its audience’s pre-existing knowledge of the source-text upon which this musical is based, James Jones’s novel, for any profound appeal in its fragmented, rushed and vignette-heavy narrative. More importantly, however, it relies upon their acceptance of its plot ‘developments’ — or, rather, ‘incidents’ — such as the fact that after one, singular meeting that sees Prewitt (Robin Hayward) barely interact with Lorene, question her circumstances and promptly leave, we are to believe that the two have a strong, destined and vibrant burgeoning love, to overlook the lack of information we have received to contextualise their romantic duet and to regard their ‘love story’ as profound and moving. Other elements are simply glossed over: Karen’s affairs, Prewitt’s inability to fight due to related trauma, the soldiers’ difficulties with being involved in the army…and suddenly we have a brothel and a plague of illicit homosexual activity. Even the chronology of these events is ill-communicated, with the play beginning in early December and moving through to the end of December, only to return back to the 7th halfway through, with no comprehensible explanation. It seems that the writers, Tim Rice, Stuart Brayson, Donald Rice and Bill Oakes, have struggled intensely to condense Jones’s story into a coherent, articulate, structured and resonant performance, transforming it, instead, into a mere sensationalist typification of its themes and character types. The resulting superficiality is notably unaided by the overly sentimental and wallowing solos we are endlessly presented, as well as the general lyrics of the musical. Hammy, self-centred, it seems as though the lyricists are relying upon the songs to invoke emotion and feeling in a story otherwise devoid of character development, relatability and psychological realism. Similarly, it is also clear that the creatives are relying on the stock clown/dork figure, in regard to Maggio, to invoke an emotional response from the audience, particularly with the tribulations that he undergoes. These ‘techniques’ feel far too deliberate, prising psychological results from the audience members, as opposed to concentrating on coherent and resonant contexts and events that shape our characters and their psychologies. Admittedly, the choruses of a good number of the songs are well composed and engaging, but the vast, vast majority of the lyrics are repetitive and insignificant or, more infrequently, overly sentimental in comparison to the play’s spoken content. The traverse staging, practically a round stage with the few audience members permitted along the sides of the stage, is a most peculiar decision, given that the creatives have paid little attention in choreography and blocking to the performers’ visibility, unaided by the set design’s (by Stewart Charlesworth) pillars and palm trees on each corner. On the topic of choreography (by Cressida Carré), this is incredibly repetitive and unvaried, with the majority of movement isolated to the upper body. Lending to this aforementioned caricaturality, saluting, marching and filing quickly become an all-too-familiar repertoire. “A dull and ill-conceived performance, devoid of effort and soul.”

This performance, written and directed by Lydia Vie, has a wonderful and exciting premise and presents an excellent range of engaging character types. Aesthetically, for the most part, it is also coherent and equally engaging in its eclectic and flamboyant design. A true feast for the eyes at times. However, I am afraid, the superficiality of the written text for this play restricts its potential from achieving much beyond visual appeal. I shall start with acting. We are presented with a great range of abilities, but repetitive characterisations – derived, of course, from the caricatural and unnuanced characters in the text itself – allow for monotonous and shallow profiles. This is particularly the case for those less focalised by the text, such as Anna Oggero (playing Violet) and Christiana Maycea (playing Silver): Oggero's constant hugging herself or fiddling with her hands is, of course, effective in quickly communicating nervousness but very soon becomes far too shallow and unyielding. Maycea is perhaps the most unenergised of the performers, and I would have liked to have seen far greater intensity, vigour and presence in her performance. A great intensity, however, from Sevi Filippidou (playing Eden) who remains bold, confident and self-aware throughout, but, again, her repetitive repertoire of movements weakens our reading of her character. Characterisation in performances like this, presenting scenelets in quick succession and lingering predominantly only on a few characters – in this case, Amber (Chryssi Janetou) – is most importantly achieved in silent scenes and in choreography. Unfortunately, wherever these actors are silent, they remain either frozen or perform extremely vague and indecipherable actions in slow motion. This is not effective in developing refined, precise and demonstrable characterisations. Indeed, choreography is very poor throughout the entirety of the performance, either repetitive or completely illegible. An example of illegibility is in the last sequence wherein Eden paints her hands in red lipstick to smear over Violet's hands in stealing her heart – a very symbolic and pretty depiction. As Filippidou does this, we see Oggero pulling at each of her fingertips, slowly, with fluid motions. What this represents is most unclear. To provide an example of repetitiveness, I would turn to Alexis Danan's (playing Felix) daisy chain dance or Oggero's rather unenergised attempt to get out of the web of caution tape, seeing her stumble vaguely back and forth, in and out of the various taped-off sections. Oggero, for example, spends the vast majority of the performance, especially in early parts, simply filing her nails, which is a most pedestrian and unrevealing activity, eliminating any poignant reading of her character. Audience perspective is not considered in choreography, either, particularly in what I shall refer to as the window-cleaning and the red-carpet sequences. Those not sitting in the centre of the house would be unable to see any of the action whatsoever. With choreography being so intrinsic to this performance, that it should be so repetitive and so vague is a huge issue. However, this is not to say that choreography shows no promise whatsoever. Indeed, the concept of Jasper's (Ilias Alexeas) window-cleaning sequence is endearing and humorous in its quirkiness and variety. That Felix should use the daisy chain, which his lover had used to hang herself, in a quick, passion-filled tango of sorts is equally enchanting. Indeed, there is a definite creativity lurking behind the choreography, but the creatives, on this occasion, were simply unable to pull it off in practice, presenting unvaried routines and repetitive repertoires in each choreographed sequence. In fact, each sequence could easily have been halved in time and would still have communicated the same content. I shall now move on to the text itself. Really, this play can be broken down into four parts. The first two, which constitute the majority of the performance's content, consist of the characters detailing their respective stories of heartbreak and of the characters playing games to pass the endless time they must spend in this liminal realm. The third part, in its brevity, consists of the characters breaking free from the hotel and moving on into the afterlife, and the fourth, even briefer, consists of Eden revealing her true intentions and trapping Violet forever. That such focus and attention should be given to these two former parts – and, most surprisingly, to the second I have mentioned – and that these latter two should be so rushed and inconsequential is most peculiar. Currently, this performance feels incredibly undercooked, presenting various, superficial vignettes which, in their thematic similitude, give the impression that the overall plot is coherent, well-established and profound but which, in truth, reveal very little about the characters, their stories and their current shared context. Far less time should be given to such unnecessary incidents as the characters playing charades, truth or dare and spin the bottle, and given, instead, to progressing the actual plot of the play. As it stands, it feels as though we are rushing through the meaningful elements of the performance – through the development of the characters and their inter-/relationships – and giving an unnecessary abundance of time to inferior, insignificant material. If the plot were far better developed, its significant and pivotal events would seem far less incoherent and haphazard: that Silver and Felix should fall in love, that Eden is, in fact, evil and conniving, etc. – both of which examples seem to come out of nowhere. One recommendation might be to present the characters' stories in quick succession upon Amber's entrance, so that we may understand the characters in their entirety from as early on in the play as possible, and then we can spend the rest of the play developing these characters, seeing what roles their traumas and heartbreaks play in their lives now, how character relationships develop because of these, etc. At least one game sequence should be permitted at the very most, for respite from heavy content or to trigger another development – that Amber should start to crush on Felix, for example. Personally, though, I would remove these game sequences altogether, as they currently only subtract from the performance's profundity and consume valuable stage time. The text seems to obsess over asking questions that are never answered, either when the characters are in game or with Jasper's catchphrase 'Have you ever felt so lonely you could die?' – indeed, that it should be Jasper's catchphrase and not Eden's is most peculiar. With so many questions being asked [and, again, never answered], bearing no relevance to the performance content whatsoever, these ought to be reduced or entirely deleted as well so that better focus may be given to more valuable story developments. I mentioned Jasper's catchphrase, and I would recommend far more context-related elements like this. That the four 'chambers' of the heart should be translated into the four chambers of the hotel and that Elvis Presley's song of the same name should be played again and again add a great sense of context in their symbolism and familiarity. However, these are the only elements beyond the luggage and luggage trolley and Eden's phone conversations with guests that actually draw us into the context of a hotel. Indeed, the significance of a hotel as opposed to any other liminal spiritual realm is left uncommunicated. Once again, an undercooked reference which, whilst being aesthetically appealing, bears little fruit in the bigger picture of the performance. We need to see what it is exactly about a hotel setting that should affect these characters. What are the relationships between the hotelier and guests? This question, in particular, is definitely something to better consider if we are to be at all shocked by Eden's final intentions. Even the performance's tagline, 'we hope you have an unpleasant stay', communicates a relationship between hotelier and guest, a dingy context of suffering and pain, but we do not actually see any of this in the text itself, only in our summations and personal imaginings. It seems as though the creatives have a great budding concept but have run away with it too quickly before it can be materialised in its final, more coherent form. A few final notes. One could argue that not only this performance's aesthetic but its overall storytelling style rely heavily upon an abundance of theatrical properties, from the severed horse's head to the bubble bottle. Such properties are ubiquitous and highly significant. In this way, any pretence of an action where props are not used, such as Eden's leafing through the hotel's reservations book and Amber's presentation of a dagger, becomes intensified and extreme, drawing excessive attention to the inferior presentation of mime and relying upon the audience's imagination that is elsewhere not called into action. I would recommend removing all mime from this performance and replacing imagined properties with physical, material ones. Otherwise, an emphatic stylistic inconsistency arises. There are a few, almost missable moments of audience interaction that are unnecessary and entirely distractive, and the vast, vast majority of these come from Oggero. This is a self-contained performance, never addressing its audience, not even in its various monologues. Thus, that Oggero should go so far as to scrub an audience member’s foot as though shining their shoe, look them in the eye, and roll away, has no purpose; it merely takes the audience member out of the performance and into an awareness of the audience-performer contract, the codes and mechanicality of the space and of the art form in general, and into an awareness of themselves and their own bodies. This self-consciousness is not in any way facilitatory in a performance like this. “A performance with great promise and intrigue but rushed, incoherent and incomplete.”

Jeff Clarke's adaptation of this 1847 comic opera has a good number of seeds for a successful comedy but is much too convoluted and rushed. Excessive spectacularities and metatheatrical techniques do not progress but, instead, work against the narrative and world of the play. It is a pantomime, then an enclosed play, then a melodramatic opera…and thus has no consistent, reliable performance style. This is also true of the acting style: some actors perform to the audience; others, to each other. This is even the case between actor profiles: Paul Featherstone as Colonel Jeffries, for example, performs robotically—unnaturalistic and representative gesticulations with every line—facing the audience and delivering speech with a rising intonation as though to suggest and forbode something to the audience. As Reverend Lupin, however, his focus remains exclusively on the other characters, and his movements and vocal deliveries, though all consistent with his chosen profile, are sufficiently varied. It appears that Clarke has not yet decided whether he would like his audience to be 'terrified', as written in advertisements, and beguiled by and engaged in the horrific acts of his rather stoic and brute-like Sweeney (Nick Dwyer) or humoured by the ludicrousness and exaggerative of them and those of accompanying characters. It is clear that we are to understand Sweeney as a devilish, corrupt and entirely evil individual, unremorseful and a straight-to-the-point murderer, yet this is inconsistent with certain comedic inclusions—things like him miming opening/closing doors and hatches to the accompaniments of the orchestra. The actors themselves are, overall, incredibly talented and demonstrate excellent versatility and presence, but the consistency of their profiles is made impossible by the indecisive written material. Overall, vocal technique is excellent across the cast, with a particular emphasis on Madeline Robinson. I would just recommend focus be given to Nick Dwyer's diction, which is currently very poor both in speech and song. I mentioned the orchestra's sound effects. Whilst these were overplayed, they were most creative and could have developed a great sense of familiarity and texture to the performance in their repetition; however, they were often forgotten completely, with some actors simply entering/exiting the stage, uninhibited, particularly towards the beginning of the first act. Inclusions like this must be consistent in order to create a coherent and consistent world. These sound effects also distracted from more sinister or suspenseful moments, compromising momentum, with every character forced to take time out to perform the laborious mime. More significantly, we have inconsistencies in the plot itself—or, rather, meaningless items and events that are completely glossed over and forgotten. Some examples: Mrs Oakley (Caroline Kennedy) being locked in the cupboard; a blood-covered Thornhill (Matt Kellett) breaking free from the cellar [except, he actually, somehow, enters from the front door—yet another inconsistency], holding a knife; and finally, after an entire [lengthy] segment being dedicated to all of the characters' shared hatred of Reverend Lupin, we open the second act with them entertaining his and Cecily's (Lynsey Docherty) song, he is welcomed into the house with no concern, and all of the characters remain civil to him thereafter. There are plenty more of these examples. It is not until the very of the play that all of the various skits and subplots happen to finally coincide. Until then, these remain completely disparate and unmarriable to such an extent that any throughline is indiscernible. One would favour, with performances like this one, a distinct and grounding plotline from the very start of the performance over an endless series of unrelated [and rather silly] skits. Audience inclusion was particularly ill-addressed, as well, with marketing ploys encouraging the audience to interact, hiss, heckle, yet with the performance itself making no effort to employ and engage them. Dwyer had clearly not practised what he would say back to a heckling audience, given his repetitive responses and the extensive agency he permitted them. I mentioned above the partial propensity to perform towards the audience whilst other actors performed to each other, and this further complicates this issue and confounds audiences in regard to their function and levels of inclusion and agency. On the topic of the audience, I would pay significant attention to the most vocal of audience members and their responses: "This is bonkers," "I'm sorry it's not what we expected," and "That ending went on for far too long. Like, we get it—you played more than one role." Though, of course, I cannot speak wholly of an audience, it was unfortunate to experience the sheer number of dissatisfied but, most importantly, discombobulated audience members leaving the theatre. I would pay close attention and respond urgently to this reaction type. “A sketch of a performance; convoluted, inconsistent and confused.” This is a free review published publicly as part of my work as a freelance dramaturg offering support, training and guidance to theatremakers and live performance artists. To request your own review, which may also be published privately for an affordable price, contact me. Alternatively, find out more about the dramaturgy services I offer by clicking here.

NB: As the performer shares the same name as the onstage persona we are presented, 'Charlie Merriman' and, simply, 'Merriman' will be used to signify the former and 'Charlie' the latter. This is most enjoyable and engaging performance, directed by Helen Eastman and written and performed by Charlie Merriman. I find its main areas of concern, however, to be in the consideration of the inconsistency of its performance style and its themes. The first issue concerning style starts with Merriman being in the house as we enter the stage. This would be a wonderful way of breaking the audience-performer divide if Merriman divided his attention amongst the audience members equally, his presence thus seeming deliberate and meaningful, and not divided uniquely amongst a couple of familiar attendees. This could cause a sense of tension in the audience, rendering the environment hostile and unpredictable as they attempt to gauge whether this is, in fact, a performer as Merriman lingers around, not introducing himself yet restless and obstructive. Perhaps on a more primitive level, it could also develop a sense of favouritism amongst the ignored audience members and thus one of inferiority and, later, distance, particularly if this is prolonged. If a coherent, progressive and effective activity type or reason for having him on stage cannot be found to justify and embellish his presence, he should not be on stage as we enter. Concerns with metatheatricality develop only once again, however, when an audience member is invited to suggest an excuse as to why Charlie cannot attend his Zoom Zumba class tomorrow. This moment is not only stylistically inconsistent but also endangers momentum and pacing, as it did on the night I saw the performance, with Merriman surrendering agency to the audience and thus losing control and compromising the performance’s flow and rhythm in the process. In no other part of the performance is an audience member directly included in this way; this is a huge issue, destabilising the audience's understanding of their involvement. That this audience member's suggestion should then alter the plot, alter the conversation Charlie has with his new partner, adds an extra unwanted layer of metatheatre to the performance. We learn here that its plot is not concrete, untouchable, a historical 'reality'; we learn that Charlie's story is being 'made up as it progresses', and therefore we compromise the realism, authenticity and relatability of the narrative and character. And there are already concerns of superficiality with the plot that make this all the more problematic. However, beyond these moments, I must say that this is the most consistent performance I have seen in a while in terms of its employment of metatheatrical techniques beyond these I have mentioned so far. The audience, for the vast majority of the performance, are kept at a clear amount of distance and are permitted to maintain a promising, coherent [‘passive’] relationship. I would just urge the creatives to consider the consistency of the role and function of the audience within the performance, which are currently unstable: are we active participants, removed witnesses, silent addressees, etc.? This should be consistent for the best reception, and enjoyment, of the performance possible — we should know our place and what is expected of us as spectators. Merriman maintains a confident yet calm and amicable demeanour throughout the entirety of the performance, consciously witty, and consistent in his profile throughout. He has a great command of the text, and boldness when approaching the audience. I only have a few concerns insofar as his acting, but they are quite crucial ones: Firstly, Merriman must develop a greater corporeal and topographical awareness for this performance; currently, we have him frequently dropping props on the floor, knocking into some and breaking others: the coathanger that fell off the privacy screen, the arm of the pill's glasses, the dropped syringe, etc. I can only recommend greater practice of handling and retrieving the theatrical properties but also of the repeated sequences, upon which I shall elaborate below, for which choreography is performed shakily at present. Currently, there is also a lack of intensity during these sequences, and the resulting feeling is that there is a reliance upon the intensity and suspense of the sequences themselves as opposed to upon one that emanates from the performer. My advice would be to not rely on the theme of repetition, pacing and activity alone to develop a sense of tension; it feels far too artificial, deliberate and thus lacklustre. Tension should not be the end goal but a by-product of the presentation of concrete information about the character and their circumstances. It should exist naturally, authentically, organically, within the body and the mind of the actor, not too heavily adorned by topographical and choreographic specificities. Another example of this issue is in the aforementioned moment wherein an audience member was invited to disrupt the flow of the performance, making a statement found by the majority of the audience to be hilarious and enhancing. This was met with a degree of reserve, coolness and acceptance. Though he incorporated this into the story, clearly aware of its comedic effect, his delivery lacked a certain amount of impetus. This also brings me to my last concern regarding acting: I would urge in Merriman a greater receptivity of the audience. Here, if the audience found it so funny, he could both reclaim and enhance the hilarity of the moment by really exaggerating the delivery of the excuse on the phone, now made aware that this is something this particular audience will respond to and tailoring his delivery to their desire. Additionally, the ambit of his gaze is, for the most part of the performance, restricted to the top centre of the audience. If he were to scan the entire audience more regularly, a more authentic, profound and inclusive environment would be produced. Moving on from acting, there is also a notable attempt to connect together, and connect with, the audience in a spiritual and ritualistic deep-breathing exercise, and this is not only another example of why it is important that the audience must be aware of their function and role, but also an example of how the various comedic and dramatic techniques allow for a certain illegibility and inconsistency when paired together as they are throughout. With repetition being a recurrent technique, the audience naturally becomes hyper-attuned to rhythms and substructures, and we have already deep-breathed earlier in the performance, and we took three deep breaths and no more than three. Noting this and the fact that this performance has hitherto alleviated through comedic devices, and glossed over, any sense of profound emotion [namely here: trauma, struggle, pain, discomfort, fear, etc.], it seems unlikely that the audience would bother to take any more than these three deep breaths nor that they would do so with any profound reflections and feeling. Indeed, this was perceptible as Merriman delivered the line, “You can open your eyes now,” when the vast majority, if not all, of the audience had long already done so. Again, receptivity is key in moments like these. Sticking with this theme of dramatic vs comedic techniques, I reflect upon the post-performance debrief wherein Merriman expressed that the aim of this performance is to raise awareness of the potential of modern medicine, what new studies and research can achieve and how lives can be bettered for these. However, the revelation of a particular statistic — that those with cystic fibrosis also have an increased risk of developing cancer but, for their diminished life expectancy, rarely see this potentiality — is presented in such a way that a call for action becomes squashed by a fatalistic, pessimistic "Why bother?" attitude. Merriman conveys this thus: "Damned if you do; damned if you don't." I would recommend, in order to align better with this performance's main objective, that this wording be reconsidered and that a different approach be taken: "But that's a risk I'm willing to take" or "It's worth a shot" — something optimistic, empowering, encouraging of the new advancements that the audience are so desired to support and donate to. Pessimism rarely works as a call to action for an audience, and this is a comedy, after all, but I do understand that this tragic undertone was perhaps attractive to add a layer of depth, feeling and realism to the performance — this is unnecessary for this text, however. As for the comedic devices alone, some very intriguing and hilarious ones are being used, most notably puppetry. Puppetry sequences are most creative — from the puppet pills to the pillow and stuffed socks to communicate Charlie's sleeping. The sequences are also playfully educational and revealing, encapsulating well Charlie's personal history as well as medical specificities. There is just a tendency to over-rely upon comedic devices — especially repetition — and the substructures we are presented are in danger of becoming quite predictable and tiresome. Similarly, whilst repeated sequences are too long, fundamental storytelling techniques tend to be underused: we rush from skit to vignette to anecdote — complete with game shows, solo ballads, puppeteering, impersonations… — and the overall identity of the performance and its style becomes compromised. We have moments where Charlie starts to explain a story using one storytelling technique but proceeds with another, and the techniques fight for stage time: mime, choreographed sequences, monologues, the game shows. This should be re-examined, and a 'show OR tell' attitude should be employed in various areas. “A moving performance with honourable objectives and an inviting solo performer but with a degree of superficiality and inconsistency in style and mood.” Want a technical analysis for your own live performance? Private and public reviews are requestable by all London-based artists and for any live performance type. For more information, please click here. Artists from across the UK and the globe can also benefit from performance analyses as part of my dramaturgy service and can receive guidance, support and training in the form of consultations and/or workshops.

This is an excellent performance—perhaps a personal favourite. Rich in imagery and comedic appeal, this text is effective and most loveable. However, it seems to be still in an early stage of development. I shall start with the first thing audience members see when they enter the house: the set. This is a beautiful set design; it is most creative, dynamic and, above all, congruous with the material. It reflects well the narrative, with the various theatrical properties being assigned to their own space upon the floor, within a depiction of the cosmos, being evocative of Tess's (Rhiannon Neads) notions of ephemerality and of the histories of the characters, fleeting moments they have shared, aspects of their lives, etc., patently cementing these in time and space. The large, circular lanterns by the Upstage wall, representing celestial bodies, also add a sense of life and dynamism to what could otherwise be a static stage space, swaying gently throughout the performance. This set also serves a practical as well as a creative purpose: a neat and pragmatic organisation of the theatrical properties. Its circularity, whilst, of course, evoking the nature and forces of the solar system, also evoke the idea that these moments in time will recur in the characters' minds as memories, traumas, pains and feelings, and constantly remind us of the characters' shared past whilst foreshadowing their future. A very impressive set design. I would just pay attention to the area Upstage Right, which feels bare in comparison. This aesthetic combines excellently with the sound design, as well, to produce a sense of familiarity and thematic consistency. I would note, however, that the sound that closes the play is slightly too dramatic, given the lack of intensity in the written material itself, upon which I shall elaborate below. Nonetheless, sound design in itself—here and throughout—is impeccable. The theme of outer space and the universe not only grounds this play well but also looms over the characters with its notions of impending explosions, vastitude, inexplicability, etc. It provides the performance with a sense of structure, consistency and narrative, from the concept of two forces working against one another in something as 'pretty' as a star, to the visual representations of a lonely Tess, dwarfed in a huge white circle [her subjective perception of the universe] whilst Harry (Sam Swann) remains off to the side in his own bubble of light, to Tess's persistent, self-comforting and obsessive use of the astronaut costume. I would just note that the overture, with Tess walking slowly and buoyantly, as though on the moon's surface, is much too stylised, considering that this stylisation type will not appear again in this performance. I would recommend, if this is kept, that Swann enter a while after Neads to let this effect cement itself properly, at least; otherwise, this initial visual is too jarring and confused: we are on the moon, and yet is there a man in a suit and fez, plodding after her, unencumbered and with no breathing supports? On to the text itself. Also the writer of this play, Neads has produced a text with an excellent grip on popular-culture references, but this is simultaneously one of its most endearing facets and its downfall. The characters remain throughout superficial and obscured due to an overreliance upon and an unnatural presentation of bantering one-liners and questions that reveal nothing substantial about the characters' psyches and essences, such as 'What's your favourite planet?' or 'What would you do if a meteorite was about to strike Earth?' Tess's phone conversations with her friend reveal her feelings towards Harry and allude to her human emotionality, but they do not reveal anything significant about her—especially not that she has a propensity towards depression, which will be of paramount importance to understand as the play progresses. As for Harry, we come to understand nothing about him at all, beyond that he is a nice and loving person. Personally, I enjoyed their sweet and blossoming relationship so much that, halfway in, I was rather irked by the possibility that the writer could yet follow a traditional storyline, the notion that something horrid could come along and disrupt what they had together; I thought it would be interesting to see what a problem-less relationship could look like: an 'us against the world', where the only 'problem' is the world itself and is not anything between them…but I understand that this is simply a personal desire and not a critical dealbreaker. However, that Tess should end up with depression, beyond feeling lacklustre and unimaginative in following traditional trends as a plotline, feels incredibly superficial because of the manner in which it is presented in the text. It seems to come out of nowhere, with the only 'negative' emotional trait we see from Tess heretofore being her inability to accept that someone loves her and to express love unrestrainedly. This is insufficient to form the groundwork for our understanding of her depression. Evidently, it destroys the relationship, but exactly how and why is never elucidated. For example, suddenly, after being so loving and involved with Harry, she is now name-calling, denigrating and, ultimately, being emotionally abusive towards him. Of course, we can assume that she does still love him, that she is merely trying to push him away, as Harry himself indicates may be the case, perhaps out of fear of hurting him even more in the future if they were to continue to pursue their relationship together, but, really, we are given no reason for this random outburst. And that’s it. Relationship over, and now she’s cutting up his T-shirt. The progression—or, rather, regression—of their relationship is rushed and made unclear in this way; it remains merely a rapid series of allusions and incidents linked only by a newborn theme of depression, not having any relevance to the story we have seen thus far. Even the mere idea that she should be so distant from and dismissive towards him, avoiding physical intimacy, despite cuddling up to him, demanding sex and that he take the day off work to be with her a few scenes prior, is confounding. In fact, the volatile and terrified manner in which she refuses him almost equates to the behaviour someone going through sexual trauma would demonstrate, not so much depression, and this adds an unwanted, extra connotation. Despite this, however, other moments wherein we glimpse her depression, and her general pessimistic outlook on life, are depicted accurately, if a little cliché. In this way, it feels as though we are seeing mere glimpses, vignettes, into the characters' lives, as opposed to a fleshed-out and profound representations. We lose character profundity and replace it with a skeletal overview that rushes through the various stages of their relationship, even skipping months and years at a time until, suddenly, the two have moved on completely—somehow—and are confronted with one another merely by chance—which feels equally hammy—remaining amicable and engaged with one another. Whilst the actors themselves perform with an incredible sensitivity to naturalism, developing credible and textured profiles [as much as the text permits], this is rather compromised by the roboticism of the characters' lines, which fail to emulate natural speech patterns. For example, when explaining how stars work, we lose all sense of idiolect and idiosyncrasy and are presented with what feels as though textbook material: 'This instantaneous explosion causes…' Simply substituting a phrase like this for 'And then it explodes straightaway and causes…' will allow these rather sterile phrases in the text to feel more human and less like the transcription of a science lecture. In fact, the characters' speech types are notably inconsistent; idiolects fail to reveal themselves at all throughout. This lack of naturalism becomes a huge issue for this performance, and in multiple aspects, unaided by certain directorial decisions (director: Jessica Dromgoole). Transitions are notably unruly. It is clear that the actors have had no clear, decisive and meaningful instruction during these sequences, aimlessly heading to the edge of the stage, only to turn back again to commence the next scene, or, most disappointingly, failing to get into position before the lights go up. I would recommend simple blackouts for this performance which does not call for overly stylised transitional sequences; nevertheless, if the stylisation found at the beginning of the play is something the creatives wish to explore, these transitions offer a great opportunity to do so, to build a library of imagery exploring the relationship between the characters and thus enriching our understanding of them as well as adding flare, visual appeal, and stylistic continuity and coherency. Another thing that compromises naturalism has to do with mime. I mentioned that the organisation of theatrical properties was well-conceived, but how these properties are utilised is not so successful. To have the phones off, screens black, allows for destruction of illusion whereby audience members must suspend disbelief that the mobile phone that they can see is clearly turned off is actually a functioning mobile that the characters are using to converse. Turn them on; use real messages and calls. Otherwise, the actors naturally fall into a common miming trap: over-interaction. An example of how Swann fell into this is in his portrayal of Harry’s phone conversation with Tess wherein he believes she has hung up when she is, in fact, still on the line. With an iPhone, as soon as one takes the phone away from one’s cheek, the display relights and shows the call screen—or, at the very least, a green bar at the top of the phone screen to indicate that a call is currently active—and so, if Harry were, indeed, using this device in real life, he would not have had to interact with the phone as frenetically as Swann portrayed him to, tapping the screen continuously, miming as though searching for a hidden button or setting; he would know straightaway that Tess was still on the line. In this way, certain interactions with theatrical properties compromise naturalism. A similar, more alienating example is in Neads’s first solo scene wherein she is supposedly having a phone conversation with her friend whilst gathering herself together and retrieving her switched-off mobile phone when Harry calls her. Neads then starts to interact with the mobile phone, which has been hanging awhile from her neck by a lanyard, now holding it and using it differently than she had been doing hitherto. This communicates that the phone was off whilst it was hanging by her waist, especially given the blank screen. Decide either upon full mime, or use the properties appropriately; do not half-commit to the properties. Use working mobiles, toothpaste with the toothbrush, etc. Detailed items demanding effort and thought, such as the star map (which I recognised myself as an authentic product, enhancing my own appreciation of the play’s illusoriness) and the printed “Jam-Man” screenplay, were most effective for this reason—although, perhaps plain white paper would feel more authentic over coloured. This is still a very powerful, engaging and hilarious text, but these elements inhibit it from attaining greater integrity and refinement. Its lack of naturalism is a major concern. I would prioritise enhancing narrative and plot over these [perhaps more pedantic and] decorative concerns. The actors themselves perform with excellent credibility. Their chemistry is impeccable—the manner in which they interact with one another, shared eye contact, proximity, etc. They have a great grasp on their character intentions and motivations, performing accordingly and most accurately. I have little on which to critique them, beyond one moment: when Tess first describes how she is feeling, Neads stands straight, arms unmoving, staring forward; this is most unnatural. We usually, especially when expressing emotional content, shift our weight, bow our head and perform self-soothing actions whilst standing. Other than this, these are impressive and talented actors. The text makes wonderful use of theme and motif; has a well-structured, if fledgling and predictable, storyline; and presents very lovable characters with the aid of its impressive comedic integrity. The writer demonstrates an incredible familiarity with aspects of popular culture, particularly science-fiction works, and the intertextuality this offers successfully generates a sense of shared experience, engagement and comfort amongst the audience. As I mentioned above, this latter is its strong point, but my recommendation is to prioritise story and plot, particularly if such a hard-hitting storyline and powerful psychological result are desired, as appears to be the case. “A thoroughly enjoyable but incomplete performance.” This is a free review published publicly as part of my work as a freelance dramaturg offering support, training and guidance to theatremakers and live performance artists. To request your own review, which may also be published privately for an affordable price, contact me. Alternatively, find out more about the dramaturgy services I offer by clicking here.

This performance is most impressive and effective in its narrative, focus and objectives. It is teeming with impressive talent from its young performers and is most thought-provoking. What is particularly impressive about this performance is that it blurs the lines between an individual's personal and social realities, exploring how trial by media, rumour and community can devastate the lives of the young, to whom identity and ego are still only fledgling concepts. Collective gaslighting, planted memories, soft evidence and widespread derision all play a role in devastating the reputations of the two characters and causing great divides amongst close friends — and perhaps also amongst an audience who, having no concrete evidence either way and perhaps emphasising the age of the characters, can easily be forced into vacillation over Aaron's (Harry Still) culpability in particular, given his extreme expressions of guilt and distress. One element that is most effective is that we as the audience are also encouraged to make assumptions based upon the limited evidence of video footage and spoken rumours. Whilst Lola (Mia Townsend) herself hardly remembers anything of the situation and whilst Aaron remains mostly silent throughout [which I am not sure is entirely efficacious here], it is easy as an audience to be mobilised by the hearsay and opinions expressed by surrounding characters. We see no concrete evidence to suggest anything incriminating, and even the outcome of the court hearing is left unexpressed. What is presented, however, is the blowup of news material and across social media. Throughout, what remains the prime focus of this performance is not the incident itself or the outcome of the resulting hearing, but the deteriorating self-esteems and social statuses and, ultimately, the lives of these two individuals. We are constantly reminded of their pain, trauma, distress and hopelessness as friends betray them and downplay their experiences and as trust is blurred. There is a particular sequence worth noting that is, in a good way, awkward and uncomfortable, really driving home the sentiment that the incident is being exaggerated: we are forced into an act of voyeurism, observing Aaron and Lola as they undress before us down to their underwear, one on each side of the stage. There is a strong and effective connotation here. As voyeurs, we observe their partially clad bodies sharing a space during a completely innocent activity but understand that this also could perhaps be initially misconstrued as a strange, uncomfortable or inexplicable provocative display. We also are forced, in this way, to sexualise and to potentially prejudge and damn the two for this innocent activity, as the community may have done. I should note, though, that Lola keeping her jogging bottoms on for a court hearing, paired with a frilly blouse, does compromise authenticity and realism here. The resulting visual is most bizarre. However, there is a slight imbalance in the focus given to the two characters. We see how Lola is affected a lot more than we do Aaron. Only this aforementioned scene wherein we see his breakdown and, somewhat, the lateral movement sequence involving him really present his involvement in his own story. Conversely, in every scene in which Lola is present, she demonstrates explicitly her opinions, feelings and responses, either of her own accord or in response to the snide or comforting remarks of her friends. Perhaps if this imbalance is desired, for some reason, this could make way for another exploration for this text: how young boys do not express such extreme negative emotions and experiences of trauma so freely in comparison to young girls, that their experiences are perhaps ignored, forgotten or negated more readily, also. This would need to be a more explicit exploration, however, and this is currently not an expressed object of study or focus of the performance. Away from the text (writing and direction by Gary Grant), which I shall emphasise is most impressive and well-conceived, and on to the performance itself and its style. I understand that there is a desire, particularly early on in the performance, to bombard the audience with incomplete and suggestive evidence and also to highlight how innocent and passing comments can be extracted from conversations and used against individuals in police investigations. This is desired to be achieved through a series of techniques and devices, but the resulting aesthetic is simply too overwhelming, and the play loses its structure, coherency and, ultimately, its identity and artistic integrity. There is a sheer clash of styles and climaxes: stylisations (freeze-frames and tableaux vivants), naturalist representation, fragmentation, flashbacks and flashforwards, chronological presentation, the presentation of audio recordings and films… There is simply no clear-cut identity for this performance, and this is right at the very beginning, when the performance type should, with performances like this, be immediately clear. There are also far too many moments of silence in this performance, and this is due to a lack of activity, which is sometimes deliberate and sometimes notably avoidable. Deliberate because of the frequent use of tableaux or passive choral presence, and avoidable because there are too many moments where other characters of secondary importance in scenes are simply stood or sat without purpose and intent — to call upon one example. Freeze-frames, in particular, are the greatest cause for concern in regard to this stasis, and I would really recommend against them for this performance — or, at least, for the time being until pacing is sharpened. I shall elaborate on pacing first. Mostly an issue with tech operation but also a directorial, actor-led and even cinematographic one, pacing is compromised regularly in this performance by awkward interstitial stops: prolonged waiting between freeze-frames and audio clips; between the end of a video and lights-up, and then between this and the action continuing after a freeze-frame; the wait for the next scene to continue when the first has been interrupted; etc. Particularly for this aforementioned bombardment to be effective — though, again, I would discourage the use of such a sheer array of styles — we need rapid succession, precise timing. Do not wait for the lights to come up to break a freeze-frame and start moving; be prepared and in motion already to look less artificial and not so deliberate when the lights come up. Projections should stop immediately upon the end of a video, not remain on the last frame for a few seconds before turning off. Transitions are also rather messy and too slow due to the sheer number of theatrical properties to re-/organise, despite the actors’ attempt to be as speedy as possible. However, this speediness also looks unprofessional and unrefined: rushing, running, throwing props into place, and then instantly stopping in frozen positions waiting for the lights; Lola crying, still, sat down, and then running off stage as soon as the lights start to dim [and have not yet been fully extinguished]; etc. Topography of the stage should be reconsidered to coincide with the urgency and freneticism desired for the performance style, or I would recommend ensuring a better incorporation of darkness and the interactions between stage lights and the human eye if transitions are to be kept thus. With pacing being amiss in this performance in this way, freeze-frames add an extra unwanted choppiness and fragmentation to the performance. It would be far more tolerable and impressive if pacing was refined, yes; it would invest the performance with a sense of urgency and modernity. However, it over-stylises the performance, which is already suffocating with stylisation. Ultimately, when we stylise objects of study in performance, we draw attention away from the reality of the object itself and towards the manner in which it is presented, the mood surrounding it or produced by the stylisation itself; in this sense, we distance our audience from a connection with the actual object being presented and compromise emotional identification. This type of stylisation, freezeframes, encapsulates a story or narrative or forces our attention to linger upon what would otherwise be a fleeting, negligible moment. It simply presents a vignette, tells a story; it does not allow us to connect and feel, and this is a performance dependent upon audience feeling, passion and emotional investment. Whilst I find the lateral movement sequences beneficial — because we are able to home in on Aaron and Lola and to experience in real-time their progressing emotions and reactions to the developing gossips and betrayals, constantly freezing scenes, especially so early on in the performance, takes us out of the reality and world of the play and compromises our emotional connections with the characters. “A most impressive text portrayed by great young talent but stylistically confused in performance.” Want a technical analysis for your own live performance? Private and public reviews are requestable by all London-based artists and for any live performance type. For more information, please click here. Artists from across the UK and the globe can also benefit from performance analyses as part of my dramaturgy service and can receive guidance, support and training in the form of consultations and/or workshops.