Ano Nedoslov (Citizens Theatre, Glasgow)

This review was originally featured in an edited form at TVBomb on 28 September 2015.

 

Disclaimer: I have absolutely no idea what this was about, for two reasons. One, the performance was entirely signed, with no translation. Two, when they occasionally spoke, it was in Russian, again with no translation. So that’s two layers of disconnect to negotiate, and that’s without entering into the ethical discourse of reviewing a piece that you cannot fully make sense of. However, event organisers Solar Bear are absolutely clear that Progression 2015, the encompassing festival celebrating international deaf arts, be fully accessible to those both deaf and hearing, so I’ve decided to stop agonising and hand-wringing over the moral intricacies and to just write the damn review.

The Nedoslov Theatre Company are an internationally renowned group of deaf and hard of hearing actors and dancers from Moscow. Unlocked Freedom, the first of the two short pieces they present, is a bit overwhelmingly Russian, with an excess of gaudy floral skirt swooshing, scarf waving, and some twiddly folk music. Granted, the dialogue (and consequently, plot) was lost on me, but there was enough there to piece together some sort of love triangle, and a good old-fashioned tragic, stabby ending. Taken as a whole, it was all a bit too much; it felt strangely like the kind of thing that would be drawn up in a nicotine stained B-movie writers’ room when the director asks for something quintessentially Russian which accidentally ends up embodying the exact opposite, something that feels like it was borne of a back street souvenir shop.

The second piece, No Rights to Have an Angel, offers something wholly different, more challenging, and infinitely more subtle. With very little narrative, this charming movement-based piece explores what it means to be an artist, and perhaps also nods towards the difficulties of being an artist in Russia today, particularly one who operates outwith the boundaries of conventional theatre practice as Nedoslov do. Occasionally it relapsed into some slightly anachronistic choreographed set piece dance routines, but it also offered some genuinely beautiful moments, such as the ethereal snowdrifts of plastic bags being wafted around the stage, or the perfectly constructed tableaus that tell a whole story in the slight movement of a hand. Nedoslov are at their absolute best when they are focussed and precise.

Perhaps some of the ‘theatreness’ of the theatre event is lost in the lack of translation, but what is important is the event itself, and the impact that it has not only amongst the deaf community, but the ripples it creates amongst the wider artistic community too.  Solar Bear are a company that consistently nudge boundaries, and it is to their immense credit that such a diverse and inclusive festival can happen in the first place.

Interview: Frank van Laecke

This interview was first featured on TV Bomb on 17th July 2015.

I’ll hold my hands up and admit it: I am really not up on my Belgian culture. I’ve watched a few episodes of the (bloody brilliant) Cordon and I am partial to a bit of Jacques Brel, but I come up empty when it comes to Flemish live art, theatre, and performance. As such, I have absolutely no presuppositions when I delve in to the curious world of Les Ballets C de la B, and En Avant, Marche! director Frank van Laecke.

Reading through Frank’s biography makes me a bit nervous. It’s difficult to know what type of work to expect from a man who has directed across seemingly every art form, large scale and small, locally and internationally. Similarly, Les Ballets C de la B have an extraordinary track record in making form-breaking work, collaborating with artists of every colour, creed, and even species. When I ask Frank what we can expect from En Avant, Marche!, he refuses to pigeon-hole the work: ‘I carry all of my experiences with me, and take every opportunity to learn. I think it’s a mix of everything, of theatre, dance, and music. The main actor in the piece is music, and what it can do in our lives.’ He goes on to give me something more concrete: the central arc of the play is a brass band dealing with the serious illness of one of its members; the man is saying farewell to the group, and they are saying farewell to him. A simple conceit, perhaps, but one that holds a reflective mirror up to society. ‘If you read En Avant, Marche! as a funeral march,’ Frank poses, ‘it is not all about sadness. It can also be about celebrating the end of something. It’s a consolation.’

Frank is curious in this punctuating role that the brass band often seems to play in life: ‘The fact that the band is there at the most important times in life, at a funeral, at a wedding – it is very telling. At these key moments, they are there, and we stand still.’ He beautifully recalls the moment when he, co-director and founder of Les Ballets C de la B Alain Platel, and composer Steven Prengels first visited a brass band rehearsal: ‘We were moved by the mix of people – there was a baker, a doctor, so many different people, and they all came together one evening to do one thing, to create music together. All of the private storylines disappear, all of the private sorrows. The songs that came out of the brass band in that moment were so beautiful, so inspiring, so touching. We understood we have to make something about that feeling, that collectivity. The world was standing still, whilst they were all there to create something together as a group.’ He is interested in these rare moments of collective placidity. ‘In a world that moves ever faster, sometimes you have to stop in order to continue. This is the balance we try to reach. Trying to find our place in the community. Thinking about what it means for you and your group when you have to leave.’

And so, I begin to better understand what is at the core of En Avant, Marche!: community and stillness. Community not just as the heart of the piece, but also a lived reality for those involved with the performance. Frank describes the chemistry shared between the creative team and performers as ‘what life should be about’. As with Gardenia, his previous collaboration with Les Ballets C de la B, En Avant, Marche! is devised entirely from scratch. Long days and weeks were spent in the rehearsal room, sharing ideas, forging the beating heart of the piece. ‘It’s a very heavy way of working. You are falling on nothing but each other. You are full of doubts, but doubt is so important: it is the understanding that nothing comes easily.’ At every stop of the tour, they will work with a different native brass band, with each member bringing their own stories and experiences, creating what he describes as ‘a living performance’. It is an enormous challenge, but one that he seems very excited by; ‘It’s fantastic that it is so alive, but this also makes it vulnerable. Sometimes it could go wrong!’ But I can’t help but feel that it is this vulnerability that makes the piece so human, and so accessible.

And so I still don’t really know what to expect, in terms of mechanics and words and visuals and plot. But I know that the team behind En Avant, Marche! are setting out to move us, to disturb us, to make us doubt ourselves. It’s that moment that is so special in theatre, the phenomenological experience of an audience coming together innocently and optimistically to share something. As Frank says so beautifully, ‘In the end, we all do the same things: we ask people to love us, and our work. I will continue to try to understand and love what I make. It’s the bottom line of what we are doing.’

And I buy in to that one hundred percent.

The Slab Boys (Citizens, Glasgow)

This review was first published at TV Bomb on 18th February 2015.

An early contender for 2015’s hottest ticket, perhaps? It’s certainly been plenty hyped up – interviews in every broadsheet, and some slickly shot promos with the show’s creators. As though the shoes weren’t already big enough to fill, The Slab Boys is synonymous with the ‘golden age’ of Scottish theatre of the late 1970s and early 80s, and the trilogy is still deemed by many (including myself whole-heartedly) to be one of Scotland’s greatest theatrical triumphs. So then, it is absolutely appropriate that David Hayman, director of the world premiere at the Traverse in 1978, has returned to team up once again with writer and designer John Byrne for this new production at the Citz.

Set in a ‘slab room’ (a paint-grinding room, for the uninitiated) of a carpet factory in Paisley in 1957, the slab boys truly are the lowest rung on the ladder. At the heart of the play are Phil McCann and Spanky Farrell, two raucous teenage teddy boys who have somehow found their way in the monotonous world of full-time employment. Theirs is the double act to end all double acts – they finish each other’s gags, cover for each other when the militant boss Willie Currie is on the prowl, and pilfer each other cakes from the unwitting tea-lady Sadie’s trolly. Their shared sense of humour is mocking at its best, and downright sadist at its worst – and it’s the weedy slab boy Hector McKenzie who seems to bear the brunt.

As a play, it is theatrical dynamite. Yes, it is funny – achingly, guiltily funny in places – but it is also superbly dark. Phil McCann is a glorious, gorgeous bastard whose aptitude for razor-sharp cruelty seems boundless, particularly when cracking deflecting jokes about the tragic mental ill-health of his mother. Sammy Hayman’s portrayal just can’t pull it off – he is ultimately a bit flat, not enough charm or swagger to be a rebel with sex appeal, and not enough dark intensity to be a dangerous presence. As Willie Currie, Hayman Sr. finds an authoritative stride, Jamie Quinn has a little more bite as Spanky, and Kathryn Howden lights up the stage with her maternal, measured Sadie.

John Byrne’s set is predictably fantastic, painted by his own exceptional hand, although the decision to have a corridor running round the front of the set leads to some overly long entrances and exits, dropping the pace considerably. Occasionally, this production feels like an adult panto, with long pregnant pauses left for laughter, and the strong central comedic double act is too often pushed towards slapstick. Not one single word of Byrne’s script is superfluous, yet sometimes scenes feel as though they are slogging through the murkier dark bits, seeking the next laugh. The solid script still shines through in an otherwise sturdy production, but this show suffers from a fatal miscasting.

A Christmas Carol (Citizens Theatre, Glasgow)

This review first appeared on TV Bomb on 10th December 2014

In the age of persistent attention-stealing screens, invasive advertising and excessively gaudy special effects, it seems ever more implausible that a couple of folk on a stage with a few instruments and some fake snow could grasp a child’s attention and imagination for more than five minutes. Dominic Hill’s wonderful A Christmas Carol raises the bar and proves that you don’t need to bombard an audience’s senses in order to maintain intrigue. It is a show to remind you both of the magical powers of theatre, and of the true spirit of Christmas.

Everything that we have come to expect of a Dominic Hill production is here from the get-go. As you enter the auditorium, the cast, waving and welcoming, greet you with some gentle Christmas carols. Nikola Kodjabashia’s arrangement of voices and instruments is as inventive and charming as ever, verified by the array of little voices chiming in from the stalls, merrily joining in with the playful bongs of Big Ben.  Cliff Burnett leads as a particularly miserly Scrooge: not your classic panto baddy, but more of a misanthropic Father Jack(minus alcoholism and plus a whole lot of sadness). The rest of the cast is equally as strong, supported by some finely choreographed flourishes from movement directors Benedicte Seierup and Lucien MacDougall.

Though there are some token pantomime elements here – a bit of cross-dressing and a hearty sing-along – this is truly the definition of Christmas theatre. It has plenty of gasp-inducing moments for little ones – the ghosts of Christmases past and future are wickedly creepy puppets crafted by designer Rachel Canning, and ectoplasmic spirits soar through the auditorium – but us older souls will find much to savour too. Adults who yearn for Christmas to mean something more than endless spending will be rewarded with a slice of perfect Dickensian festivity. Everything about this show is a Christmas dream that simply left me wanting more.

Homecoming, Station Stories (Glasgow Queen Street Station)

This review was first published on TV Bomb on 8th December 2014

Acclaimed artist and Cryptic Associate Sven Werner has created this immersive installation as part of the closing celebrations for Homecoming Scotland 2014. Described as a Victorian world in miniature, participants spend five minutes or so peering through vintage viewfinders, separated from the crowd by a black cloth draped over the shoulders.

The two tiny installations – one a snowy cottage, and the other a lonely train carriage slowly trundling along – are charming, and have been constructed with a huge amount of affection. The set is aesthetically delicious: stacks of suitcases, timeworn leather benches, and old cameras on wooden tripods. It looks as though it has organically grown out of travel detritus, although the actual placing of it within the station is odd. Pressed up against the ticket barriers, it acts like a rock in a river when waves of commuters swarm through the gates. It is very brightly exposed and centralized, which means that the bold act of engaging with the unknown requires a little more bravery. The stories themselves are curious beasts: tales of departure and arrival and all that’s in between, relayed in a softly American drawl – truly a voice to get lost in. The content itself is slightly less engaging. Perhaps ‘magic’ is a subjective concept, but instead of feeling transported away by the narrative, I felt very still and static.

And this is where the problem lies; the beauty of successful immersive theatre events is the ability to forget time and lose yourself in the experience, whereas Station Stories makes the participant hyper-aware of passing moments. Every few minutes, the familiar chirrups of the Scotrail lady announcing the latest delays pervade the space, and the shadows of passing footfall can prove distracting. The isolation isn’t isolated enough to allow you to feel transported, so instead you become conspicuously aware. On paper, Homecoming: Station Stories ticks a lot of boxes for me – I’m not ashamed to admit my all-encompassing love for trains, Victoriana, and story-telling – but sadly the installation failed to move me.

 

Hamlet (Citizens, Glasgow)

This review was first published by TV Bomb on September 27th 2014

Before the curtain even rises – so to speak, as there is no curtain – it is plain to see that Dominic Hill is channeling his omnipresent signature style in the Citizens’ Theatre’s latest output, Hamlet. Indeed, as the production progresses, you start to feel as though you’re playing a game of Citz-Bingo; exposed back walls? Check. Cast wandering the stage before lights down? Check. Plinky plonky music produced by the ensemble using a wonderful collection of junkshop instruments? Check. For those who have seen Crime and Punishment or The Libertine this may feel like a return to familiar territory but don’t let looking for those little tropes distract you – this is a phenomenal production.

Brian Ferguson opens the titular role by literally hiding under the table, wandering a barren landscape of grief and distress for the loss of his father. His anguish soon turns into calculated, psychopathic, vengeful rage against his murderous uncle and untrustworthy mother, but it’s the lighter touches that Ferguson brings to the role that are most pleasing. There are elements of quirky, teenagery exuberance as he eats his cereal in his pants and forgoes personal hygiene. He channels Doctor Who-era David Tennant as he fizzles and crackles with an energy that, at the drop of a hat, goes to a very dark place indeed.

Ferguson is given further force by a simply superb cast. Cliff Burnett’s Polonius is calculating and slick, and at points where other actors may have strayed in to uncomfortable ‘over-acting’ territory, he deftly pulls it back with delicious moments of effete eccentricity. Adam Best is, as ever, supremely watchable, and Meghan Tyler’s gorgeous and damaged Ophelia throws herself around the stage with divine abandon.

This is an excellent production, no doubt. It deftly dodges the potential Shakespearean pitfall of losing the intrinsic beauty of the language in favour of snazzy staging; there is no stumbling or uncertainty at all, and the three and a bit hours seem to fly by. The set is beautiful and interesting and the music is a rich tapestry of Tom Waits-inspired organic sounds. It is altogether bold and confident and electric. But you may feel as though you have seen it before.

Blackout (Cottiers, Glasgow)

This review was originally featured on Exeunt Magazine on 10th June 2014

A personal connection with alcoholism is hard to feign. Those who don’t have any lived experience of the disease tend to fall back on bargain basement aphorisms, through no fault of their own: as a society, we still seem to perpetuate an image of alcoholism that would be better at home in the 1940s.  Though our language is essentially indifferent towards it, as a noun it still feels inherently masculine. It’s a disease for old men stumbling out of pubs after closing time. It’s warm beer and cheap whiskey. There is a collective blind spot that we seem to want to foster, and in it abide all of the alcoholic misfits who don’t adhere to this strict archetype. Perhaps they are the wrong class, colour, or gender. Perhaps they drink the wrong drink. Perhaps they just don’t drink ‘enough’ – how many binges is too many binges? In Blackout, playwright and actor Mark Jeary has set out to explore the nature of addiction, and to challenge some of our outmoded notions of what it means to be an alcoholic.

Over the course of 55 minutes, we hear five authentic and strong stories of addiction, one of them Jeary’s own. This is a journey that is sometimes euphoric, sometimes degrading, and predominantly out of control. Directors Joshua Payne and Belle Jones have sensibly given this play plenty of space to breathe.  The characters are shoeless and nameless. The stage is almost empty, save for a mattress (what is it about a double mattress on a bare floor that is so strongly evocative of a clammy, damp, run-down bedsit?) and a few chairs, giving the stories the imaginative legroom to be told without constraint.

The five narratives, constructed through a series of interviews with recovering alcoholics, are punchy, unapologetic, and unsentimental. The group begin by individually recounting their descent in to alcoholism, from the first illicit sip as a shy teenager at a party, to top trumping each other with increasingly more degrading and dangerous scenarios – the image of a woman drunkenly teetering and squatting to take a piss off the top of the Scott Monument is filthy and horrifying in equal measure. Ultimately, all of the five see that rock bottom coming up at them alarmingly quickly through the chaos, the sexual promiscuity, and the physical degradation, and all try and avoid it by delving deeper in to the drink.

The five-strong ensemble deliver equally strong and convincing performances, though it’s Miriam-Sarah Doren’s ‘Four’ who really packs a punch; her agonising, angsty snapshot of a mother who cannot help but terrorise her son during her blackout rages lurks in the mind for days after the final bows. What Jeary captures so distressingly perfectly is the utter selfishness of alcoholism. Even after nearly battering her son to death with a kitchen stool, ‘Four’ flippantly remarks, whilst smiling, that “obviously he’s no dead, ‘cause I’d be talking to you from the jail”. It’s this self-centered thinking that sends shockwaves through families, breaks selfless hearts, and burns what Jeary terms a ‘hole in the soul’.

This play feels like it is still on a journey, rather than settled in its destination. Though it is refreshing and commendable to see the unrepresented faces of alcohol addiction on stage, the fact that all five characters end up in recovery by the end feels neatly unrealistic and over-optimistic: frankly, not everyone does. Putting a personal preference for gritty endings aside, this one does feel too perfectly packaged. Regardless, this is an important piece of work that asks difficult questions of our perceptions of alcoholism. This is not so much Jeary’s heart on stage, as much as it is his guts. One character thanks God for his blackouts because they allow him to forget. I thank Mark Jeary for his Blackout because it forces us to think.

This May Hurt A Bit (Traverse, Edinburgh)

This review was first featured on Exeunt Magazine on 8th April 2014.

The NHS is unwell. Essential systems are frail and aging: having once been cured with a program of digitisation, top-down management and a slick face-lift, it now finds itself disjointed, dislocated and whimpering. Since its stormy birth in 1948, the NHS has been a bastion of good old-fashioned post-war Britishness, a symbol of our enduring commitment to supporting those who find themselves at their lowest ebb. It is impossible for most of us born into the world of ‘free at the point of contact’ healthcare to imagine any other way of life. But as the NHS moves towards its 70th birthday, its chances of making a full recovery are being called in to question; is it time for an early retirement?

Stella Feehily springs to the defence of our aging beloved against the aggressive agenda of privatisation in this latest offering from Out of Joint, produced in conjunction with the Octagon in Bolton. A traditional family story lies at the play’s heart, and their varying experiences and conflicting opinions of the NHS provide Feehily with a platform from which to extoll its virtues and analyse its weaknesses.

Widowed and recently made redundant, the icing on middle-aged Nicholas’ misery cake comes with a diagnosis of a chronic prostate condition. Accused by his snooty, pro-private healthcare sister of being a bleeding-heart liberal, he finds himself conflicted by wanting to defend the health service whose ideology he reveres, but whose long waiting-lists and administrative chaos are leaving him floundering and anxious. When his dignified and wise 90 year-old mother Iris suffers a fall and ends up in a ward at the troubled Harrington hospital, a sharp eye is cast on the pressures of a skewed staff to patient ratio. The second act examines the heart-breaking plight of both the overburdened, harassed, and distressed nurse who knows she is spreading her time dangerously thinly, and those in her care who struggle to maintain their humanity and dignity.

Overall, this play feels more like a political rant than a passionate scream. It is a collection of expertly portrayed, tightly controlled voices and vignettes rather than fully formed warts-and-all characters. Everyone can recognise the generic overworked-yet-caring eastern European nurse or the wily policy-crafting politician, but this technique overlooks the theatrical value of guts, flaws and flesh in a character. Relationships between the central characters are functional and sanitised, with whole scenes crafted purely to drive the political message forward.

While the central family story is suffused with a degree of pathos and empathy, other aspects of the play fall short of rousing the anger necessary to effect change.This is particularly true of the more preachy components of the play, such as the interjectory mini-lecture on the pitfalls of Private Finance Initiatives or the weather forecast charting the spread of hospital closures. Though informative and impressively Brechtian in the distance these scenes created between spectator and spectacle, they would have worked better if they had been balanced with a plot containing real human characters, rather than ‘types’.

That being said, the large cast portray an assortment of different characters with expertise and ease. They work hard to ensure the characters do not become caricatures, unless explicitly called for by the script (surrealist cameos from Sir Winston Churchill and Aneurin Bevan cannot be faulted for their technical precision and impact, though they do feel dramaturgically heavy-footed)All performances are slick, well-conceived and thoroughly believable, no doubt honed by the masterful touch of Max Stafford-Clark. Dynamism flows through the piece, and interjections of song and movement are a joy to watch. The production is well-paced and abounds with energy.

It is difficult not to feel engaged by This May Hurt A Bit; it is enrapturing, with its creative hospital-inspired set and vibrant verbatim soundscape. There is, however, an underlying feeling that the play itself might be preaching to the already converted – particularly in Scotland, where you find twice as many pandas as Tory MPs, and little persuasion is needed to elicit an audience to condemn any attack on the welfare state.

The play’s message is potent and prescient, so it is a shame that the text favours didacticism over other theatrical considerations (particularly characterisation, which would have allowed the production to disseminate the message by appealing to the heart as well as the head). However, if the goal was to set up the NHS as a jewel in the crown of our democracy, and communicate the message that it needs protection in a time of indiscriminate austerity, then this brilliantly directed and well-performed production certainly succeeds.

The Pitchfork Disney (Tron, Glasgow)

This review was first featured in Exeunt Magazine on 25th March 2014. 

Presley and Haley Stray are more than just siblings. More than twins, even. They are chaotically, hermetically, inextricably bound in an isolated world of their own creation; ten years ago their parents died in unexplained circumstances, and now they are a modern Hansel and Gretel of 28 years, agoraphobic and blissfully medicating each other to chemical sleep.

Theirs is a love that both nourishes and destroys, that shields them from the pain of their stark loss, whilst also serving to perpetuate it. They joyfully lose themselves in intoxicating stories of the outside world which they so rarely visit, each one darker and more nihilistic than the last. Most people wear their love for one another like an overcoat, allowing it to protect them from harsh elements: Presley and Haley’s love is bare, vulnerable, raw, and bleeding. Their stifling, chocolate-gorging bubble is burst with the arrival of the sequinned, serpentine pub showman Cosmo Disney and his enormous, masked, and seemingly mute sidekick Pitchfork Cavalier.  Together they insistently taunt Presley, pushing him further in to his own mind than even he had previously dared go, all the while ominously circling the defenceless sleeping Haley.

All of the characters in Philip Ridley’s dystopian, brutal debut, The Pitchfork Disney, revel in the repulsive, and it takes a strong resolve not to flinch at some of the more ornate descriptions of suffering and torment. Haley, Presley and Cosmo have a shared understanding that torture is inherent in humanity, that once sinister impulses are indulged and acted upon they are compulsively replicated (Cosmo even manages to make a decent living out of it, swallowing live insects for euphoric paying voyeurs). In the world of The Pitchfork Disney, it is survival of the sickest; wounds are insistently probed, scabs are compulsively picked.

Director Eve Nicol ensures that this exquisite tension never drops until the final lamp dims; in one particularly stomach-flipping scene, Presley cradles the unconscious Haley’s head in his lap, tenderly stroking her hair, before starting to pull back her eyelids and touch her eyes. Strongly reminiscent of that scene fromUn Chien Andalou, you recoil when you remember Haley’s earlier prescient quip– “you know how easily horrible things can happen”. It is a wincingly clever and subtle piece of direction that moves members of the audience to hide behind their programmes. The intimate atmosphere of the Tron’s Changing House is sumptuously and softly lit, and Nicol ramps up the tension by having the invaders prowl and pace around the periphery of the performance space, physically embodying the swirling confusion of Presley’s mind.

This is a remarkably assured premiere production for new Glasgow-based company Heroes Theatre. Alan MacKenzie gives a stand-out performance as Presley, his relationship with his sister fluctuating between hyper-protective and toe-curlingly sexualised. Lucy Goldie’s Haley is exposed and dependent, and her beautifully crafted monologues flow lyrically and easily. This fantastic production is unfailingly humanising through the immediacy and urgency of its delivery. You leave feeling exhausted by the beautiful anxiety, and overwhelmed by the intensity and authenticity of the world of the Strays. For a production that inhabits the darkest, bleakest recesses of human nature, it somehow makes you feel relentlessly, violently alive.

Refugee Boy (Citizens, Glasgow)

This post was first featured on TV Bomb on 15th March 2014.

When a poet decides to adapt a fellow wordsmith’s novel for the stage, there opens the possibility of creating a text that is too beautiful, too honed, too well refined. It must take true courage to even consider adapting a Benjamin Zephaniah novel for the stage; for one, Zephaniah’s voice is so singular and distinct, always managing to coax new emotions out of the vernacular. Lemn Sissay approaches this task with boldness and heart, and it pays great dividends in Gail McIntyre’s production.

Alem Kelo, a fourteen year old boy of mixed Ethiopian and Eritrean heritage, arrives in England with his father from his civil war ravaged homeland to enjoy “the best holiday of his life” – only to find himself abandoned and alone when his father decides it is safer for him to remain in London. What follows is his distressing, disjointed journey through the British care system, and his enduring desire to be released from its labyrinthine chaos.

This production is assured, confident, and compassionate. The central performance given by Fisayo Akinade is nothing short of exceptional; he is at once charismatic and endearing, beautifully portraying the difficulty in trying to keep hold of an identity when everything that makes you ‘you’ is so suddenly fractured. Alem struggles to remain a child to his absent parents, whilst at the same time becoming a young adult in the hands of the judicial system.

Gail McIntyre ensures that the tempo of the performance is absolutely in keeping with the pulse of the language; movement is constant, vital, exciting, and nerve-wracking. Touching too are the moments showing the fractious strain placed upon Alem’s host family, who struggle to bear the pain of loving and losing another foster son. Though the script is often warm and amusing, it does not give a neatly packaged, positive ending – rather, it is one of guttural hurt and loss. But as Alem’s father beautifully points out, it is essential to have darkness in order to see the stars.