Good Canary at the Rose Theatre Kingston

Written for Theatre Bubble, September 19th

Questions of eating disorders, drug consumption and overriding mental health issues do not seem to sit readily on stage beside discussions on the nature of authorship, publisher success, or the literary industry in the modern age. Both are huge, hulking topics, with nuance and depth that need to be properly examined and treated if they are to succeed. In that respect, Zach Helms’ 9-year old Good Canary, making its UK premiere at the Rose Theatre Kingston, gives itself a tricky route to navigate, one that is never made easy for either director John Malkovich or the cast, headed by a two-hander from Skins-alum Freya Mavor and Game of Thrones-victim Harry Lloyd (his death sequence still taking gold in every competition).

Annie vomits – a lot. She eats infrequently and survives on a huge batch of speed. Her husband, Jack, has his name attached to the cult literary sensation of the year, catapulting him into a world of entitlement, literary prowess and 7-figure advances on subsequent novels. As Annie’s psychological state deteriorates, Jack has to grapple with the reality of his world, the prospects for the future – not realising how desperate the situation truly is.

For a plot so dependent on weighty, intricate issues, it is Mavor and Lloyd that really pack the necessary punch to keep the show moving. Mavor in particular as the brilliant, innovative forged figure of Annie delivers a stellar performance, one that will invariably promise great things. There is a conviction in her dependency, a realism to her mental health issues, conveyed a normality so often unavailable on the stage. Lloyd as the husband Jack, the intrepid writer on the cusp of fame, is equally a relatably flawed individual, charismatic when necessary yet often capable of making the wrong decisions. His slightly awkward gait, and the way his American twang spat out his wife’s name, all were considerably effective.

There was certainly a great deal made from the fact that this was Malkovich’s directorial debut, but the renowned actor has certainly created a slick, smooth production that rarely relents from getting the audience’s attention. Malkovich’s blocking is fluid, with a few stabs at innovation (particularly in a phone call sequence, and another scene where the lines are projected onto the back wall rather than spoken). The projection itself was rather nicely used, particularly during Annie’s reality bending episodes, and designer Pierre-François Limbosch’s use of mechanised stage dressing is a welcome departure from the norm. A couple of moments almost felt slightly too neat – the transformation of a window into a bottle of pills, or the ghoulish figures that appear to Annie during a dinner party in the heights of New York. That said, the direction and design hit an exact sweetspot during a final scene, when a certain character is dragged offstage, as if controlled by the same mechanised system that controls the ebb and flow of tables and chairs. Actors and characters come and go as if nothing more than the minimalist chaise longue.

Helm’s script is by no means perfect – sometimes dramatic revelations can feel hamfistedly delivered when a more subtle approach could have sounded less jarring, and the two central themes of writing and drug consumption never feel both suitably satisfied by the play’s conclusion. Equally, some of the supporting roles feel entirely functional as opposed to dimensional figures – all different parts of the same vehicle that drives Jack and Annie to their conclusion. An unsatisfying consequence for a show with some real strength.

Interview: Debs Newbold, Lost in Blue at the Roundhouse

Shot in her house on the Nikon D7100.

Review: Radiant Vermin at the Soho Theatre

Written for Theatre Bubble, May 2015

Philip Ridley seems to be set on continuing a rather marvellous form in 2016. With hits like A Pitchfork Disney, Mercury Fur and The Fastest Clock in the Universe continuing to see revivals and reproductions, it is exciting to see Radiant Vermin, after a stellar 2015 debut, return to the Soho Theatre before crossing the pond to Broadway.

Indeed, Ridley’s intense lyricism was here on display once more – working alongside a fun conceptual framework to bring the expected biting social commentary throughout. The play sees a young couple, Ollie and Jill, brought into a new ‘Dream Home’ scheme – granted a new property in an up and coming area seemingly without condition. After an ill-fated encounter with a house intruder, the two realise that their house has a dark ability to grant them everything they want – if they’re ready to do what is necessary to get it.

 

Reading such copy may make the play sound like a satire on the nature of modern housing (particularly in a context like London), but the roots of Ridley’s script stretch far deeper than this, reaching a class and societal commentary that was almost unexpected when constructed by a small cast of three. His concept is a brutally honest one – plundering prejudices and expectations to reveal stark fallacies and realities. The class-based undertones that permeated throughout were certainly keenly felt, and what emerged by the conclusion was a thesis on modern society that was both grotesquely real and brutally honest. As much as Ollie and Jill, our two protagonists, are willing to subjugate and fundamentally murder those that they perceive as an underclass, in times of austerity, this idea is one that feels uncomfortably close – as was recently also presented in The Busker’s Opera when it debuted at the Park Theatre. Their success is our success – but for them it is literally closer to home.

The show was funny, often disconcertingly so. A lot of this humour came from the fabulous two-hander from Scarlett Alice Johnson and Sean Michael Verey, tirelessly ploughing through Ridley’s script with a frenetic physicality and poise. A lot of the fluidity that was felt in spite of such a weighty concept has to be put down to the expert direction from David Mercatali – particularly with the copious yet inventive blocking that the cast had to go through (especially in the unforgettable birthday scene, that saw Johnson and Verey playing altogether about 12 different roles between them over the space of ten minutes). Ridley did not make it easy for his performers, but they succeeded with a tantalising tenacity.

Radiant Vermin is a fierce little show – one that will certainly see a vocal reception when it goes over to the East Coast. It will be interesting to see what tone this reception takes – American society is constructed with so many differing facets that it may seem like a strange, British phenomenon rather than a commentary that is readily applicable to different nations. Nevertheless, Ridley continues to churn out fantastic and biting pieces, and for that he can only be applauded.

Radiant Vermin will be playing until May 28th. 

Review: The Busker’s Opera at the Park Theatre

Written for Theatre Bubble, May 2015

Scheduling your press night on the same night as the mayoral and local elections was a rather fantastic coup for The Buskers Opera. Analysing the fallout of the Olympics and the flippant attitude towards poverty and austerity in the present day, this was a politically charged performance on a politically charged evening; a musical with a message (that just so happened to be delivered entirely in rhyming couplets). For the most part this was delivered with resounding success, and the Park Theatre must be commended for bringing such an adventurous show to its central stage.

Riffing on (yet never conforming to) the originalBeggar’s Opera (conceived in 1728 by John Gay and Johann Pepusch), this modern retelling has gutted the story’s concept, maintaining only a desire to challenge social convention and existing operatic tropes. Gay’s project succeeded a satire of the Italian Opera convention – highlighting how the rich are always treated to positive narrative conclusions whilst the poor are left persecuted. Some may even recognise the story from its later Brechtian reincarnation, The Threepenny Opera (also soon to return to the stage at the National). For writer and lyricist Dougal Irvine, these themes are ripe and relevant. Gentrification, homelessness and middle class guilt are concepts to be plundered, all in the crucible of the national fervour and optimism that surrounded the 2012 Games.

The concept never got old for the show’s 2 hour and 15 minute runtime. The characters, devolving sometimes to farcical quality, retain enough pertinence and relevance to be engrossingly watchable. This isn’t a fun romp by any means – homeless figures are slain or killed with reckless abandon, by either negligence, disregard, or surreal interruptions from the ‘Cuts’ – scissor wielding actors coming onstage and murdering ensemble members. It was a strange, performative depiction of a pressing issue, but managed to highlight an uneasy truth surrounding the capital – one third of all those that died in a homeless environment were from London (before the latest cuts even came through).

At its best, The Buskers Opera was a scathing rollercoaster of a show, with some wonderfully energetic musical sequences executed by a fantastically talented cast (a personal highlight being ‘The Tale of the Rat’, which made a perfect reprise at the end of the show). The book was, it has to be admitted, incredibly wordy, making a few phrases verge on indecipherable, but for the most part the comedic and nuanced nature of the script was easily comprehended. The rhyming couplets, maintained consistently throughout the show, only jarred sporadically and instead succeeded in pushing the wild and intricate plot onwards.

A lot of the charm also fell on the cast and direction from Lotte Wakeham, who kept movement up and tone clear throughout despite some of the script’s freneticism. Performers like John McCrea and George Macquire (as the central Macheath) stood shoulder to shoulder with seasoned veterans David Burt and Simon Kane, but the standout plaudits must go to Natasha Cottrail, who executed her role as the daughter of mayor Lockitt with the refreshingly farcical pertinence that the show needed. Design from Anna Kecia Williams, particularly the interwoven tube lines dotting the floor, were also entirely apt.

There were a few strange conceptual disconnects – the show placed such a huge emphasis on the death of some characters before bumping others off for comedic effect. This was subversive theatre that cared more about the message it was delivering than how exactly it was delivered, but a rough-shod performance that challenged musical, theatrical and national sentiments is exactly what London needs as it continues forward with a new Mayor.

Book -Dougal Irvine

Music – Dougal Irvine

Lyrics – Dougal Irvine

Director – Lotte Wakeham

Musical director – Sean Green

Set – Anna Kecia Williams

Lighting – Christopher Nairne

Sound – Andy Graham

Stage manager – Dan Miller

Production manager – Christine Piper

Cast includes

George Maguire, David Burt, Simon Kane, Natasha Cottriall, Lauren Samuels, John McCrea, Ishmael Gander, Maimuna Memon, Giovanni Ryan

Casting – Charlotte Sutton

Producer – Michael Peavoy, Neil Marcus, Jamie Clark, Paul Ryder for the Buskers Opera Ltd

Review: Les Blancs at the National Theatre

Written for Theatre Bubble, April 2015

Lorraine Hansberry’s Les Blancs first opened on Broadway 46 years ago – challenging post-imperial perceptions of race and society in Africa. The remnants of the play’s American heritage are still prevalent (the inclusion of a white, US-born, photographer for example) but as the show opens at the National, it assumes a new form of symbolic prowess, one that has perhaps matured with time.

No doubt this is a powerful performance, but one that had a rather blunted impact when it opened in 1970 compared with Hansberry’s most famous work A Raisin in the Sun. Whilst to some it was ‘a harrowing revelation of what we have brought each other to’, to others it was imbued with ‘pervading dullness and didacticism’. In the present day it is hard to see where this sentiment stems from, but over the last half century Les Blancs has undergone a significant transformation – one that must be examined.

In its original form Les Blancs was less based on didacticism than on reaction – particularly in response to Jean Genet’s 1958 Les Negres. Les Negres, performed Off Broadway through the late 1950s and early 60s, depicts a troupe of black actors creating the trial and murder of a white woman – actors white up to depict the establishment figures throughout. For Genet it was a piece attempting to provide a form of racial commentary, yet Hansberry (and many critics) thought very differently.

As noted in Graham Dunstan Martin’s fantastic article examining racism in the play,  Genet equated the perception of black communities with a form of persecution against moral reprehensibility. For the French writer, morality becomes an absolutist concept that transcends the racial structures that it should be defined by, and in the process, diminishes the racial power structures of society. As Dunstan Martin puts it, ‘there is no attempt on Genet’s part to enlist our sympathies’, and black communities are simply equated with the ‘underclass’ that appears through Genet’s texts – be they ‘maids, victims, criminals’. It was a dangerously reductive and fundamentally wrong depictions. It was, to Hansberry, vital that these issues be corrected. Her performance is a response, a correction.

 

To 2016, therefore. We have lost a lot of this 1950s based context, now faced with a very different yet familiar set of circumstances regarding racial prejudice in our own period.

The Olivier theatre, an empty waste dominated by a skeletal ghost of a house, a hospital, fixed to a mission in the heart of the country. There, a photographer, Morris, arrives – our way ‘in’ to the show through his un-educated, unsuspecting and notably, white, eyes. As a premise it is a telling one, but Morris is nothing more than a tool for Hansberry to create a form of legitimacy for this ‘fictional’ African nation – though the nation is only fictional enough to show just how real and applicable its circumstances are.

The story that unfolds is one of power, a country attempting to legitimise its own existence when every avenue has denied it legitimacy. This is a story of race – of race oppressed and denied. At the same time, it is a story of patriarchal structure and maternal affection, intertwining familial and political with ease. This is most aptly found in Sheila Atim as evocatively anonymous ‘The Woman’ – a haggard, silent, near spectral form that glides across the stage – a symbol or a shadow, it is hard to say. Yael Farber’s direction and patience here is astounding.

Treading the fine line between the familial and wider circumstances are difficult, and sometimes clarity of plot is sacrificed for the necessity of evoking the wider tenor and sentiments of the text. The onus on joining the two together falls to Danny Sapani’s Tchembe, a man settled in England yet returning for his father’s funeral. This English context is another interesting case of the show and its evolving pertinence – Tchembe’s notions of his new, European family, sat around watching television, are much the same as our own. We can empathise with one aspect of this man’s life, whilst being complicit in the subjugation of other parts of it. The duality was entirely innovative.

Les Blancs was once, and remains, an essay on the pivotal and intrinsic dangers of imperialist rule, of political stigma and violence.Yet it is also a treatise on revolution, powerfully conjuring up an emancipator movement within the show and slowly burning away at the rule of the whites. It may have transformed from its earlier reaction to Genet, but the context of the late 1950s is all too relevant in the modern-day. It is not, and should not, be easy viewing, leaving audiences (with their own lives, based on power structures responsible for the same subjugation addressed in the play) a lot to chew on.

Les Blancs will be playing until the 3rd June at the Olivier Theatre. More information here. 

Review: Bug at Found111

Written for Theatre Bubble, April 2016

In a haze-filled, muggy room four floors up at 111 Charing Cross Street (formerly Central St. Martins Art School) an audience is suddenly aware of every itch, ever stir, every scratching sensation as it flares up across their bodies. The paranoia is not helped by the surroundings – the whole space, hemmed in on all sides by the crowd, becomes intensely claustrophobic and sweaty as, beetle-like, a crazed and blood-coated James Norton sidles across the stage.

Such is Bug, currently being put on at Found111, a site specific venue formerly used by productions including last year’s The Dazzle and Barbarians. This time the space is transformed into an Oklahoma motel room, the abode of Kate Fleetwood’s Agnes, hiding from her recently returned ex-husband after his release from prison. There she is thrown into contact with the mysterious Peter Evans (Norton), an elusive, bug-obsessed individual with, using the easiest turns of phrase, a murky past.

 

This is not theatre for the faint of heart (for faint an audience member did), dripping in visceral sound effects and blood packs as the actors scratch and claw at one another. The sense of immersion at Found111 (the audience essentially thrown into the motel with Fleetwood, Norton and the remainder of the cast) is slowly transformed into a slightly sickening sense of parasitic awareness – we were privy to their insectoid delusions; we are made gnawingly aware that the show is, in itself, as artificial and constructed as the imaginary bugs that Agnes and Peter perceive.

Letts’ text is a marvellously wonderful piece – slowly twisting the knot of paranoia and suspense as language becomes more fragmented and desperate. By the end of the performance, she has transformed her own characters into warped contraptions, all reconfigured to fit the paranoid narrative that the two main characters create for themselves. It is masterful work that has not lost any of its bite over the last twenty years. The plot and the narrative seemed reminiscent of Nicky Silver’s Pterodactyls – an American suburbia reconfigured by psychological delusion in the face of intense personal tragedy. Where Bug transcends Silver’s piece is through the physical quality of the text – it crawls through the audience, leaving an innate feeling of uncleanliness.

Norton has grabbed headlines with his performance as Peter – the instigator and catalyst of the bug-based terror. For a large man he seems constantly hunched, shuffling across the stage in a direct imitation of the creatures he seems taunted by. Pock-marked and blood stained, his slow degradation was so utterly complete that when he finally re-emerged for the exuberant applause it seemed as though a new man had emerged from the ashes.

Though the applause will go to Norton, it is Kate Fleetwood’s Agnes that acts as the foundation for the play – her collusion with Norton’s psychological issues drawing the audience into this deluded pairing and creating the slightly sickening knot in the stomach. Her haunted, pained expression permeated through the motel-room space as she lilted, often absent-mindedly, across the stage. Thankfully this wasn’t merely the result of her cheekbones, in spite of the opinion of some critics.

The design and sound were as effective as the actors themselves in forging the infested surroundings of Found111. The removal of the carpet, leaving only tin foil for the actors to walk across, made each footstep almost a rustle of insect ligaments or the buzz of wings. Even a day later I still find myself scratching absent-mindedly.

The play seemed to pull its punches somewhat in the first act, restraining Norton and Fleetwood from delivering fully formed emotional responses to circumstances in an attempt to truly ramp up the shock factor for the second half of the show. Certainly an effective move from director Simon Evans, but it dampened some of the emotional moments from early on – Agnes’s loss of her son Lloyd for one.

This was theatre at its most visceral, claustrophobic and shocking. Whilst not every beat landed, the play certainly achieved the effect it wanted – leaving audiences scratching their heads (and their arms, and their legs, and their chests, and their backs…..).

Director Simon Evans
Cast: James Norton, Kate Fleetwood, Alec Newman, Daisy Lewis, Robert Goodale
Producer: Found111
Set and Costume Designer Ben Stones
Lighting Designer Richard Howell
Composer and Sound Designer Edward Lewis
Associate Director / Movement Director Oliver Kaderbhai

Don’t Sleep There Are Snakes at the Park Theatre

It seems unfortunate for simple8 that they are the second company in a month to bring a performance about a western man integrating himself into an indigenous South American tribe and discovering key philosophical ideas about himself and others. Yet it would be counter productive to instinctively compare Don’t Sleep There are Snakes, based on the autobiographical account from Daniel Everett, to Complicite’s recent turn at the Barbican, at least not at this juncture. Don’t Sleep There are Snakes exists entirely within its own, far more tangible space, with its own faults and accomplishments.

Tonally, the show seemed slightly disconcerting, Missionary Daniel Everett’s arrival at the Piraha Tribe certainly seemed like an immersive and dangerous experience, his foreword mentioning the time his wife and children had severe malaria related illnesses and the despair that came with those moments. Yet simple8’s show never seemed to carry the same bite – the ensemble in their simplistic, primary and secondary colours, creating a toothless Brazil – even during Daniel’s times of danger we never felt wholly worried for our protagonist. The tribesmen, formed by the ensemble, seemed oddly inauthentic – speaking in English and dressed in casual clothes felt also slightly jarring. It’s clear what directors Sebastian Armesto (who, this reviewer is happy to note, is already being immortalised in a reaction meme), Hannah Emanuel and Dudley Hinton were trying to do here – break down perceived cultural barriers and make it easier to access these individuals on a visual and oral level, but considering modern social power structures (where we, as western audiences, have been part of the reason why indigenous cultures have had their lives and homes repeatedly destroyed), it seemed off-note for English-speaking actors to portray them as they were. Of course – the reasons for this became far more obvious as the show progressed, but the strange tone did not felt wholly justified.

Fundamentally, despite its setting, this wasn’t a show about indigenous tribes, but one about the philosophical and religious transformation of Everett. Arriving in blazer and blue shirt alongside brown smart shoes, Everett felt like the lovechild of the anthropologists of the 1970s with a distinctly Geertz-ian mannerism permeating through Mark Arends’s performance. Everett’s experiences were as important as those of Geertz or Levi-Strauss – using anthropological examination and experience to reflect not only on Piraha culture but also that of modern audiences. For Everett this manifested itself in the ideas of language and temporal understanding. The Piraha, through the absence of recursion in their speech, symbolised a refutation of the idea of a universal genetic disposition towards language that had gripped linguistic theorists. It was a form of poststructuralism thinking emblematic of the linguistic turn, the works of Derrida or Foucault, but here played out with fantastic clarity on stage. Where else to examine the idea of language than in a theatre? It was in these debates, about half way through the performance, that the show sprang into a new lease of life.

The other temporal examination was carried off with equal aplomb. Simple8 succeeded magnificently here in showing the parallels between religious belief and the beliefs of the Piraha culture – for the piraha there is only the immediate experience – the knowledge of what is visible, not what was, or what will be. It is a liberating and intoxicating perception that, tragically, has been done away with by modern conquest and dismantling of Piraha life. It again is perfect for theatre where audiences themselves are subjected only to an immediate experience – as soon as a character is offstage, they too ‘disappear’. It was a marvelous touch and showed exciting ingenuity. To then place this in a religious context only added further food for thought.

Though delving into the Amazonian rainforest, the show was discourse on our own perceptions of reality. It may have been scrappy and tonally inconsistent in places, but the ideas conjured by simple8 were fundamentally enthralling. Their ensemble work, as impeccable as ever, made the show lilt forwards with reassuring clarity through the series of intense philosophical debates. The use of rope, creating both the contours of a plane before transforming into the snaking bends of the river, being a particular highlight.

As an epilogue, perhaps, it feels necessary to bring the show back to Complicite’sThe Encounter. Everett’s story felt startlingly familiar to that of Loren Macintyre, disentangling our ideas of temporal space and providing us with a counternarrative or an alternative explanation for the lives we lead. Both end with the writer being fundamentally and unwillingly divorced from the community he had so come to love. To compare the two is certainly no bad thing, but the modern obsession with these Amazonian ways is an intriguing phenomenon; almost a reaction against the postmodern and a driving need for an alternative.

Don’t Sleep There Are Snakes will be performing at the Park Theatre, Finsbury Park, until the 23rd April. Tickets and more information available here. 

Cast: Mark Arends, Christopher Doyle, Rachel Handshaw, Yuriri Naka, Emily Pennant-Rea and Clifford Samuel
Writers: Sebastian Armesto and Dudley Hinton with simple8
Co-Directors: Sebastian Armesto, Dudley Hinton and Hannah Emanuel
Plays until: 23rd April 2016

Review: Cyrano de Bergerac at the Southwark Playhouse

Written for Theatre Bubble, March 2016

The transformative nature of the Southwark Playhouse continues to astound. Having personally last seen it as a hectic medieval tavern, to now see the world of 17th century France is understatedly evoked with ease was a delightful experience.  Truly one of the most versatile spaces in the capital, Southwark provides a perfect venue for Cyrano de Bergerac, Glyn Maxwell’s 2013 adaptation of Edmond Rostand’s classic french text. And this new translation certainly starts out charmingly well – a convent of nuns greet you as you enter, producing madelines and phatic chatter to settle the audience into the performance and its 17th Century setting. Though they aren’t the first all-female company to do this, the amicable atmosphere that comes with this means of demarcating the dramatic space was wholly refreshing.

For those unfamiliar with Rostand’s work, the story is a typically neo-romantic five act narrative, here, in a metatheatrical twist, reproduced by the aforementioned convent of nuns  – boy sees girl from afar in Paris, they fall in love (also from afar), girl asks cousin (who is the boy’s new C.O and also besotted with the girl (his second cousin, mind) to find the boy, cousin woos girl through the boy (his cadet) by writing her poems and love letters until the hectic collision of court politics, Spanish wars and Gascoigne identity lets the performance clatter towards a bittersweet ending.

Kathryn Hunter as the titular poet solider Cyrano was a casting choice of divine quality – her near-abstract physicality seeming almost puppet-esque, every movement and power stance creating a jauntily vivacious figure. It is sustained with panache, Hunter’s Cyrano (with his comically large nose) exists as a walking paradox – jaunting and awkwardly posed, yet oozing wonderful imagery and beautiful sentences in the wooing of his cousin. Though the company (including Game of Thrones‘ Ellie Kendrick as the cadet, Christian) functioned well, this was Hunter’s show and she seized the opportunity energetically – bounding across the stage, never still for a single second.

Some fantastic directorial choices from Russell Bolam have to be commended, alongside aspects of Glyn Maxwell’s script. The metatheatrical, almost Brechtian, structural choices , with the convent dwellers conjuring up this story, worked well – whilst the nuns themselves were deeply theologically driven, the moment ‘the play’ started, crosses were put away and a more secular, morally dubious society emerged. Even the priest in Cyrano’s story was a foolish money lover. In Cyrano’s world, words are the new gospel – characters are are devoted to metaphor, to rhyme, rather than to the cross.  It was an amusing and stylistically creative choice, and one that was certainly played to its full strength. It was also a perfect tribute to Rostand himself – the playwright including a metatheatrical sequence in his text.

In spite of this, something didn’t quite connect with the translation. Rostand is famed for his evocative romanticism, an ingrained textual lyricism, yet here the lack of a verse form dispelled some of this wonder. As the farcical swashbuckling of the first few acts gave way to the more pensive, tragic endings, the emotional resonance of the piece just didn’t seem to connect in a way it seemed to. The play ended jarringly quickly with a slightly uneven tone, and perhaps more embellishment here could have given the actors more of a chance to  make more of this tragic resonance. At the same time, Cyrano’s climactic duel with 100 men at the end of the first act felt somewhat static as a physical sequence – Hunter simply surrounded by the ‘100’ men in a ring.

Translation can often suck the magic out of a text, leaving the narrative and characters with far less to work with than the original. In that respect, Cyrano de Bergerac is something of a disappointment. However, an electrifying central performance from Hunter and some amicable and engaging directorial and casting choices  make this a charming replication of a classic text.

Review: Secret Life of Sugar Water at the National Theatre

At the Edinburgh Festival Fringe last year, The Secret Life of Sugar Water caused something of a stir amongst audiences – lauded as a deeply emotional experience that stood head and shoulders above so many other performances, both at and outside the Traverse Theatre. Some fellow thespians, exhausted, would return to our flat near Haymarket Station after performances, as if having endured something physically depleting. Finally being able to see the show at its current run at the Temporary Theatre, latched rather unconventionally to the side of National on the Southbank, I can finally see why.

Jack Thorne’s script sees Phil and Alice, a married couple, come to terms with life before, during, and after an ante-partum hemorrhage. The narrative flies wildly and unpredictably between the past and present, the creation of a relationship and the death of a prospective child. It is a human story, imbued with a subtly crafted, masterful linguistic skill. Thorne has the capacity to weave humanity with lyricism, forging a sense of naturalism and empathy even with a structure that is prone to spasmodic temporal shifts. Words like ‘it’ ‘now’ ‘is’ or ‘was’ all of a sudden command an overwhelming amount of emotion and power – all commandeered with aplomb by the fantastic partnership of Arthur Hughes and Genevieve Barr.

The traumatic experience of miscarriage and its effect on relationships has been a topic explored in a number of shows recently – Duncan MacMillan’s Lungs for instance being a comparative piece. Indeed, there is a tragedy of unfulfilled life – hope turned to despair. The death of a foetus can be used as a symbol of a dying relationship (as done in Lungs), the shared experience of two individuals being violently and unexpectedly rent apart. Where Lungs commits to this briskly and frankly however, The Secret Life of Sugar Water transcends these singular symbolic interpretations. This performance is physical, cerebral, almost intrinsically layered with flesh. A baby is a sexual entity, and as such it is in a sexual capacity that it is perceived. A fantastic duality exists in this respect – Thorne has Barr recreate the birthing scene of the dead foetus whilst Hughes, lying next to her, recreates a sexual experience – birth and ejaculation occurring simultaneously. The parallels are ambiguous – are both the birth and the climax meant to represent the removal of a dead weight? A moving forward for the couple? Or is it that the pair now exist in entirely different spheres?

This is a human play – an acknowledgement of a set of circumstances faced by thousands on a yearly basis.  As the final lights fade, there is the echo of children’s laughter – foreshadowing for the future as the two resolve to go on? Or the ghosts of those never born? It is impossible to know, as Thorne expects. This is a brilliant show with an innovative, lucrative set design from Lily Arnold and, though, marred perhaps by some intensely vigorous lighting changes that seemed slightly unnecessary, The Secret Life of Sugar Water is a show that must be experienced; even with the side dose of physical exhaustion.

Review: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot at the Rose & Crown Theatre

Written for Theatre Bubble, March 2016

Entering the auditorium space for Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (not to be confused with the upcoming Tina Fey movie), you are confronted with Rebecca Crookshank, former RAF member, here issuing commands in a brisk Scottish accent. Phones were put away, legs were uncrossed, smooching couples were scolded and told to sit up straight. It was immersive, whimsical, almost tongue in cheek. 

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot details the life of author and performer Rebecca Crookshank who, enlisting in the RAF in 1997, spent a number of years working across a variety of stations, both nationally and internationally, including on Mount Alice in the Falklands. Her life, retold almost with an anecdotal tone, has a deep seated pertinence – one that Crookshank reveals as her account progresses and she reveals the full nature of her experiences. 

With the play starting out with this little piece of fun interaction, the audience are lulled into this pleasant, positive environment, perhaps just like their narrator years previously. We are seduced by the optimistic narrative, the pleasure of the promotions, the satisfaction with military life. The power of this structure could only be retrospectively appreciated. What at first started as jubiliant optimism started to be marred by turbulent, troubling undercurrents that permeated through the account, coming to the fold as the play progressed. This was a show of halves – the first disarming the audience with charm, before the second truly showed the quite shocking nature of military life and the experiences of women.

The show’s use of video footage, projected onto a targeting system in the top right of the screen, is instrumental in creating this effect. Though at first it showed happy montages, parades, nostalgic episodes, the screen later shows the ordeals Crookshank had to go through. Her life on the Faulklands was at times shocking – sexual barbs, physical attacks and a constant, inescapable, oppression.  It was real footage – created by the author at the time – and had a haunting clarity to it. 

Fundamentally, Crookshank created the show to highlight and platform the intensely misogynistic and unsafe environment in British military spaces. The contrast between the figures created by Crookshank on stage and the reality shown on screen was intrinsically vital – there was no artifice or two-dimensional characterisation in the video. Only the plain facts and evidence of the difficulties she faced remain – for a glimpse into these experiences do watch the footage on Channel 4. 

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is an incredibly accomplished piece of didactic theatre, and Crookshank has used her own experiences to forge a powerful and enduring performance. There were a few moments that felt slightly off in terms of timing – certain emotional moments seemed slightly rushed when more significance could perhaps be given to them, but these were directorial choices that in no way inhibited Crookshank’s account – criticism is hard when the performance is based entirely on truth. This is a performance grounded in a shocking reality, and one that should be witnessed if at all possible. Most importantly, as much as this is Crookshank’s story, it is inevitably shared by thousands of servicewomen across the world – and for that it should be seen for its crucial relevance.