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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Readers should note that the solo performer of this play shares his name with the main character. Therefore, to distinguish the two, mentions of ‘Alex’ will refer to the character, whereas ‘Alexander Millington’ or ‘Millington’ will refer to the actor himself. This review will consider I Heart Michael Ball, a play written and performed by Alexander Millington and directed by Helen Millington. One notably successful element of this performance is the manner in which it includes and relates to its audience. Prompting them to respond to specific questions and addressing them almost throughout, Millington allows the audience to feel engaged within the performance yet in such a way that their agency is limited and focused. This sets the audience up to feel connected to the material in some way and, more importantly, like active listeners, and, later, witnesses. This prompts a profounder visceral response to the harrowing aspects of the material; we feel somewhat responsible in allowing the torture to take place within an environment in which we have somewhat become active. However, I would recommend removing the section wherein an audience member is asked to read from the ‘minutes from the previous meeting’. This section is not only weak in its comedic material but also demands a different, intenser relationship between the audience and the work, an active participation which is not henceforth repeated. This leads to semiotic confusion and causes the audience to be unsure of their role, function and purpose within the performance. Alex asking an audience member to hold his mobile phone borders on having this same effect but is slightly more excusable in its lesser intensity. I would just recommend ensuring that the fake blood does not come into contact with the audience member’s hand upon retrieving it. Admittedly, this was an audience of four people, and I myself can be a rather obstinate or difficult audience member, especially when it comes to audience interaction. Yet, despite these challenges, Millington maintained excellent vitality and confidence, approaching his role with exemplary conviction. Millington is a transformative and driven actor, certainly talented. In his characterisation of Alex, Millington remains consistent, infusing his profile with a good number of idiosyncrasies. He demonstrates good vocal and corporeal expressivity and has formed an immediately comprehensible and accessible character, endearing and sweet. This is an excellent pretext for the plot’s harrowing developments, and I shall elaborate upon this below. However, Millington’s characterisation is slightly too caricatural. It is well-established yet univocal, repetitive: the soft-spokenness, the shyness. This is particularly true of the very beginning of the performance, which is, I must admit, incredibly poorly executed in its artificiality and clichéd representations. I would urge the actor to consider how he might develop more nuanced and varied traits, particularly when the material concentrates on the appreciation society, as opposed to on the telling of past traumas and memories. These sections are most notably slow and untextured. With the audience having potentially no interest in Michael Ball, having so much time dedicated to talking about him during these appreciation society scenes is questionable. In fact, with no personal extensive knowledge of Michael Ball beyond some songs and musical theatre roles, and with no significant appreciation of his work, I personally found myself somewhat exasperated quite soon into the performance. I would recommend interweaving some personal element of the character into the vast majority of Michael Ball references, just as Alex does when talking about specific cassettes he possesses or memories he associates with particular songs, etc. This would force us to remember why we should have any interest in listening to Alex speak incessantly about his favourite celebrity: because we want to learn about the character and his story, why it’s important to him [as opposed to hearing a mere list of Michael Ball facts]. However, there is certainly a benefit to this long-windedness, and that is that we are forced to acknowledge and settle into the relatively calm and innocent environment, allowing later revelations to be intenser and more uncomfortable. Admittedly, I had imagined that some sort of murder or mutilation would be taking place, given the plastic sheets, the washing-up bowl full of water and the tea towel with which to dry the hands — the two latter of which not readily belonging in the setting we are offered, furthermore. However, I actually managed to forget their presence through Alex’s ramblings and overall sweet, innocent and vulnerable demeanour, and this is down to the efficacy of the text and Millington’s characterisation. As for set design, a lot of effort has gone into filling the space, making it feel all the more authentic and natural, which both benefits this aforementioned calmness as well as the general illusion of the play. I would recommend keeping this bowl and towel out of sight and, actually, having Alex acknowledge the discomfort caused by and stickiness of the blood and leaving to retrieve them to clean his hands. This would make their presence far more natural and the reality of the play less conspicuous, if all we see upon entering the house is the plastic sheet. However, I would also recommend here investing in some kind of roll-up linoleum, which would tear less easily, thus protecting the stage more and feeling less cheap and amateurish in its visual appeal. It would, of course, be just as portable and would better blend in with the set design. The plastic sheet, as it stands, feels excessive, especially given that no blood should actually be directly shed onto it, emphasising that this is mostly to protect the stage floor and taking us out of the illusion of the play. As for the first groans we hear from Alfie, these come in too early and are also poorly worked into the narrative. It feels too deliberate, with Millington’s lengthy pause and artificial acknowledgement of the sound. In fact, that all of the groans we hear should be played via overhead speakers is most destructive of illusion. The sound design is far too clean; the cries need to sound further muffled and distant. I would recommend placing the speaker backstage, so that the sound may come from the very room to which Alex flees to sort him out, as opposed to coming obnoxiously from the heavens and via surround sound. Politically, I am unconvinced of the propriety of this performance, with Alfie Boe, a living person and public figure, being the victim of the crime we see in this play. This is particularly noteworthy, given that our main character shares the name with the writer and actor: Alex/-ander. It feels rather like a concealed death threat, as though because he is a celebrity he is exempt from the effects of an off-West End performance and thus untouchable. In this way, the material is rather inappropriate and too direct. I would recommend editing the text so that a friend or family member close to Alex wins a ticket, or is pulled up on stage or something of this nature, and sings with Michael Ball or has a unique VIP meet-and-greet experience, and that this torture be enacted upon this individual, instead, out of sheer jealousy and feelings of betrayal. “An engaging, if perhaps inappropriate, text, in need only of further texturisation and faster momentum.”

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.”

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.”

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."

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.”