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Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Review: 'The Marriage of Kim K' at the Arcola Theatre, 25th July 2017

Wednesday, July 26, 2017 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

 

The Marriage of Kim K reviewed by David James

Rating: 3 Stars

Even after all these years, the sacrilegious thrill of mashing up high and low culture gives me happy little tingles. Nothing gets my goat quite like people snootily dismissing something because it doesn't fit their rarified opinion of what music, theatre, film or art should consist of. 

In the best case scenario you dive into trash and come up clutching diamonds, as I did when I went to see Miley Cyrus perform her jawdropping Bangerz tour. On the other hand, you can just come up with a fistful of trash. For example, I was briefly convinced that Michael Bay's Transformers films were secretly genius subversive satires, but on closer inspection well, they weren't.

And so to The Marriage of Kim K, a musical by Leo Mercer (known as leoemercer) and Stephen Hyde that fuses Mozart's The Marriage of Figaro with Keeping Up With The Kardashians. We approach this through the framing device of Beth (Amelia Gabriel) and Mo (Stephen Hyde - also the show's composer), a young married couple arguing about what to watch on TV. Beth, a young lawyer, just wants to relax her mind for a bit with Kim and company, while struggling songwriter Mo turns his nose up and demands to watch televised opera. 

On stage right are Kim Kardashian (Yasemine Mireille) and her (temporary) husband Kris Humphries (James Edge). Recently married in a blaze of publicity, the pair quickly realising that this may have been an awful mistake. Kris is a preening, jockish lunkhead who treats his new wife like an inflatable doll, while Kim is increasingly peeved at the way he disregards her feelings. On top of that, she's receiving calls from a lovelorn Kanye West...

Meanwhile, on stage right, excerpts from The Marriage of Figaro play out. In full period costume and slathered in stage makeup, Count Almaviva (Nathan Bellis) and the Countess (Emily Burnett) emerge, initially singing in Italian but soon in English (Beth demands the subtitles be switched on). Camp, highly strung and vaguely clownish, the pair as impressive vocally as they are comedically.

With Beth and Mo's creaky marriage literally at the centre of the piece, Keeping Up With The Kardashians and The Marriage of Figaro become two equally valid prisms to examine their problems through. When Beth identifies with Kim and Mo with the Count, we not only get insights into their individual personalities but into the social archetypes the pair represent. Beth is every brainy woman who feels judged for leafing through Hello when they're bored and Mo's the kind of dude who craves being seen as culturally literate, intellectual (probably while wearing a turtleneck).


This is all conveyed through genuinely neat wordplay and music. The Kardashian side of the stage is pop-inflected and the Figaro side pretty much traditional opera (with a bit more swearing than usual). As we near the end three stories and become increasingly intertwined and the cross-cutting becomes more rapid, melding each musical element into an effective high/low culture symphony.

It's an outright impressive feat of musical writing, with Faux and Mercer managing to keep everything balanced as they essentially tell three stories at once. Performative highlights are James Edge's wonderfully boneheaded Kris, who flexes and peacocks his way around the stage to great effect, Nathan Bellis's Count, possessed of an admirably expressive rubberface and Amelia Gabriel's Beth, who emotionally anchors the show.

Unfortunately, even though the ointment is damn fine, there are still a couple of flies to be found. Least egregious is that Mo is maybe a bit too much of a twat - I found myself rooting for Beth to ditch this stuffy failure and strike out on her own (but maybe this is the point). 

Somewhat worse is that the show doesn't work well with the Arcola's thrust staging.  I was way off to one side, and the triptych stage design meant that half of the characters were obscured at all times. On top of that, the sound mixing wasn't particularly great and a lot of (what I'm assuming were) clever lyrics were lost in an aural fuzz.

The Marriage of Kim K is clearly a great show but I'm not sure the Arcola has the right seating layout to properly stage it - if you do go, avoid sitting to the extreme left or right of the stage. But it's still refreshing to see something so resolutely unstuffy and playful, going so far as to successfully align the antics of Kim Kardashian with one of Mozart's finest operas. If I had a chance to see it at a better angle, I'd leap at the chance.

The Marriage of Kim K is at the Arcola until 29 July, then on tour. Details here.

Friday, July 21, 2017

Review: 'Disco Pigs' at Trafalgar Studios, 19th July 2017

Friday, July 21, 2017 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments


Disco Pigs reviewed by David James

Rating: 4 Stars

Pig and Runt are at the top of the food chain. They met as newborns on the Cork City maternity ward and have been inseparable for the following 17 years. Their stomping grounds are pubs, offies and nightclubs: their lives a tsunami of cheap booze, dance music and a touch of the old ultraviolence. Feeling isolated in a snooty world they cling to each other, diving deep into Bonnie and Clyde self-mythology as they transcend depressing reality and become rock star super-criminal outlaws.

The pair form a single chaotic organism: emotionally, physically and behaviourally intertwined. And yet cracks are beginning to form. Pig is battling with strong romantic inclinations towards Runt, but she considers him more of a brother than a lover. And then there are the moments where she seems to sense a world beyond dingy urban streets and sulphuric cider. Things are going to boil over between them at some point, and this play shows us how it goes down.

Disco Pigs premiered at the 1997 Edinburgh Festival to critical acclaim, leaving audiences and promoters goggle-eyed. A two-year world tour, a West End production and a feature film followed. And then the play submerged, only popping its head above water for periodic revivals. And so to Trafalgar Studios, where director John Haidar and stars Evanna Lynch and Colin Campbell find out what Disco Pigs feels like 20 years later.

The answer is a satisfyingly retro. Leaving aside the excellent soundtrack for a moment, Disco Pigs taps into a specifically 1990s misanthropy, delivering the romanticised, predatory thrills you see in Natural Born Killers, True Romance and Funny Games (and their common ancestor, Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange). Looking back, this predilection for 'cool' characters slaughtering anyone who stands in their way to an on point soundtrack looks like a bad case of pre millennial tension - with the West in a state of relative peace and prosperity the most satisfying prick to kick against was apparently everyday tedium.


Designer Richard Kent provides a stark backdrop to the action - a bare stage with a malleable curtain at the rear and glowing telly in the corner. Lighting wise it's a show of harsh primary coloured washes, Runt and Pig glowing radioactive green or red as they tear their way through an off license or kick in the teeth of any unfortunate victim who gets in their way. Later in the show, they deploy a fantastic laser, leaving a psychedelic curtain of shifting light above the actors.

Trafalgar Studios 2 is a relatively small performance space, but such minimal staging is still risky, requiring the performers to do the heavy lifting. Fortunately, Lynch and Campbell hurl themselves into the roles like it's their last night on earth, Pig and Run a multicoloured Tasmanian Devil style whirlwind of Adidas, sneers and flailing limbs. 

Underneath all the testosterone bluster, Campbell's Pig is quietly sad performance, battling his desires and gradually realising that bravado just isn't cutting it anymore. He gets long moments in the spotlight as he dances to a blistering playlist of 90s dance hits - not giving a shit as he throws shapes with a determined expression. You can see on his face the gradual realisation that Runt is evolving in a different direction, leaving Pig struggling to maintain the status quo.

But Lynch is no slouch. Her Runt is a wirily electric harlequin, her face alternating between a performative punk sneer and wistful glances off into the horizon. Both characters are stuck in the Red Queen's dilemma - running as fast as they can to stay in the same place - yet Lynch's Runt is beginning to realise that there's more to life than this endless cycle of noxious booze and mindless violence. 

Bold, uncompromising plays like this are what I go the theatre for and I enjoyed every minute of Disco Pigs (honestly, I'd enjoy any production that plays most of Underworld's Rez). It took me a couple of minutes to pick up the lingo, but as soon as you figure out what the characters are on about the play rattles on with ever-increasing momentum. It's a damn good time is what it is.


Friday, July 14, 2017

Review: 'Grimm's Fairy Tales' at Abney Park Cemetery, 13th July 2017

Friday, July 14, 2017 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments


Grimm's Fairy Tales reviewed by David James

Rating: 4 Stars

Turns out there's a good reason the Brothers Grimm weren't the Brothers Cheery. Grimm's Fairy Tales finds Pandemonium Performance in Abney Park Cemetery, their old stalking ground. Within this overgrown labyrinth, we find characters both familiar and stranges. Pandemonium, like many before them, are trying to un-Disney these nursery rhymes and children's tales. Gone are the chirruping animal companions the jaunty songs and the super happy endings.

What's left are dire warnings about the cruelty and unfairness of the world, designed to prepare wide-eyed innocents for a life of drudgery speckled with misery, with a predator around every corner and where a happy ending is probably just wishful thinking. This is underlined by the magnificent backdrop of dead Victorians, looming stone angels and crooked gravestones that, in the summer twilight, begin to resemble rows of crooked teeth.

Pandemonium adapts four stories: Rumplestiltskin, Red Riding Hood, Hansel & Gretel and The Godfather. Paul Lingham, writing and directing, approaches them with a sadistic irreverence. The performers are constantly breaking the fourth wall to light-heartedly menace any children in the audience and making little satirical asides that fly over their heads. And so, for just over an hour, we wander the arteries of the cemetery, getting a glimpse of what it might really be like to be lost deep in the woods.

The show neatly captures this nervous chaos, with characters like Rob Cumming's Wolf and Stephanie Christian's cannibal Witch making us feel as if we've walked off the familiar path and found ourselves somewhere different and dangerous. 

The feeling of dislocation peaks with the final story, The Godfather. This lesser known Grimm story involves a father unable to support his large family, so decides to entrust his thirteenth child to the Grim Reaper. Death raises the child, whose ability to see how long people have left to live makes him become a successful doctor. The moral of the fable is the inevitability and unpredictable nature of death, that you might feel a cold, bony hand touch your shoulder at any moment of the day and there's nothing you can do about it.

At the show I attended were a bunch of under tens who kept an eye on to see if they were enjoying themselves. They spent most of the show nervously excited (there was one great moment where, after The Huntswoman had slain the Wolf, a six-year-old spotted that his chest was still moving and exclaimed in surprise "It's not real! He's still breathing!"). However, in this finale they looked genuinely frightened - with Steve Fitzgerald's quietly sinister Death (with a taxidermied snake coiled around his top hat) even sending a shiver up my spine.

Okay fine, kids have to realise that they're going to end up as worm food at some point, but this being the finale of a show feels a bit like a theatrical sucker punch and is destined to lead to some sleepless nights/kiddie existential dread. I'm far from an advocate for all happy endings all the time, but perhaps concluding with the (relatively) cheerier Hansel & Gretel might have left us with some better vibes.

Despite that, Grimm's Fairy Tales is destined to lodge in the memory. I've seen a bunch of shows in Abney Park Cemetery now, and repetition has not dulled the power of the place. This production is especially notable for allowing us inside the skeletal chapel at the centre of the park. Formerly open to the elements but now newly roofed, it's an intensely cool place, so much so that the weather-beaten stones vie for attention with the play.

Pandemonium Performance are onto a winner here, their skewed adaptation making the familiar unfamiliar by resurrecting the dark, medieval origins of the tales. The cast gives it their all, with Nell Hardy's Hansel a particular highlight (her zombie-like eating is particularly horrifying) You can really sense the weight of history in the characters, get a taste of the power of myth and understand what W.H. Auden was on about when he described the work of the Brothers Grimm as "one of the founding works of Western culture". 

One caveat - if you're thinking of bringing any particular sensitive children along I might give it a miss, unless you want to deal with a worried voice piping up on the ride home: "Mummy, when is Death going to come for me?"

Grimm's Fairy Tales is at Abney Park Cemetery until 30th July, with multiple shows per day. Tickets and details here.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Review: 'Boy's Club' at Jackson's Lane, 12th July 2017

Thursday, July 13, 2017 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments


Boy's Club reviewed by David James

Rating: 4 Stars

I know gender is performative, but I've never seen it performed this entertainingly. Boy's Club is the creation of Sharlit Deyzac and Leonor Lemée and is a spiffy hour of comedy during which we careen from extreme masculinity to extreme femininity in a hail of simulated semen, menstrual blood and gold glitter.

The show introduces us to a pair of out of work actresses who will "do anything to get on stage". Faced with a casually sexist theatre world bereft of satisfying roles for women and with producers unwilling to book an all-female act, there's only one path left open. They must masquerade as men. And not 'Jules and Jo' are not just any men, they're lads, blokes, cock-up-your-beaver, catcallers, lip-curlers, big blue balls bulging with babybatter. As Sinitta so memorably put it, they're so macho.

This is masculinity turned up to 11 and for a while, it looks as though the girls are going to get away with their deception. But then... something occurs that reveals the truth and they're required to improvise. And so the needle swings from testosterone to oestrogen and the cabaret act morphs into a feminist political protest.

You can tell that Deyzac and Lemée are top class performers the moment they step on stage. Leaving aside their caricature behaviour, their male drag is utterly convincing. If they were standing at a bus stop or ordering a drink in a pub, you'd assume they were dudes. And so they swagger about the stage with the crotches thrust forward, stomping the boards and flashing sharkteeth smiles at the women in the audience. It's a hilariously bestial distillation of masculinity, the two sniffing the air as they hunt for quivering quims.

They're so much fun as men that, when the gender compass switches poles, there's a hell of a whiplash. Suddenly the grimacing fuckmachine is simpering from within frills and pigtails, giving us the full bimbo to P!nk's Slut Like You.  That someone can believably embody both extremes of the gender spectrum within an hour and change before our eyes is an efficient demonstration of just how fluid gender can be in the hands of talented performers.

And, naturally, Boy's Club is uproariously funny. The duo has the casual yet precise stage presence that comes with professional training, combining elements of dance, stand-up, clowning and audience interaction. Sure, the show's humour, with its focus on bodily fluids, gross-out gags and grotesque over-sexiness isn't exactly highbrow but it put a smile on my face from start to finish.

But, under the bonnet, there's a lot more going on than a bunch of dick jokes. While the overheated male caricatures are funny, the fact that they reflect reality is pretty depressing. It must be a fucking nightmare having to put up with bozos like this in real life, tossing out crap chat-up lines and strutting around like they own the place. While they're doing this there are a couple of pointed lines - in a 'chat up the audience bit', Deyzac's character slyly says that he'll be walking behind them as they go home that night. Eek.

Things snowball into a political protest about women being paid less for men for doing the same job, their argument incredibly pointed considering they've been doing a better job being men than most men do. This devolves into chaotic protest until the sound of sirens.

Unfortunately this the fly in the ointment. Up to this point, the show is taut as hell, bouncing between various numbers and stand-up sequences. But, by the end, things have unwound a bit. It's probably a bad sign when you have to repeatedly apologise to the audience for taking so long to get the show moving again. 

But by that point, Deyzac and Lemée have built up more than enough audience goodwill to see them through to the final curtain. I've been a bit down on theatre lately - having had a rough couple of weeks of shows that have been some unfortunate combination of boring, stupid and unfunny. Boy's Club is a cut above the rest and left me zipping down from Highgate with a silly grin plastered over my face.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Review: 'Wet Bread' at the King's Head Theatre, 10th July 2017

Tuesday, July 11, 2017 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments



Wet Bread reviewed by David James

Rating: 3 Stars

Nothing puts hairs on your chest like being the object of satire. This is Tom Glover's Wet Bread, a one-woman show that takes down of 'yer typical die-hard left-wing activist who abhors meat, engages in endless political campaigns, tries to stand up for the downtrodden and creams their knickers at the mention of Jeremy Bernard Corbyn.

As a die-hard left-wing activist who abhors meat, engages in endless political campaigns, tries to stand up for the trodden and creams his knickers at the mention of Jeremy Bernard Corbyn, I found plenty that made me uncomfortably shift in my seat.

Our heroine Adele (Morag Sims) is anti everything: meat, Israel, military intervention, climate change, homelessness and, above all else, the fucking Tories. We meet her haranguing an undecided voter just before the 2015 general election, eventually yelling "Fascist!" at her and stomping off in a huff. 

Glover and Sims quickly sketch a portrait of someone whose heart might be in the right place but whose social skills leave much to be desired. Adele is constantly haranguing her friends and family, eager to impress her many viewpoints upon them. Her holier-than-thou attitude drives one of her friends to give her an ultimatum: you have a year to change the world through protesting or you give up politics for good. And so, with the gauntlet lying at her feet, Adele gets to work.

What follows is a gradual and frustratingly slow process of enlightenment, wherein Adele's various efforts to improve the lives of the local and global downtrodden founder on the rocks of reality. It turns out that women suffering domestic violence don't need to be told of the existence of shelters, that leading an anti-fracking sit-in doesn't work if you turn up when the building is closed, and that you cannot rehabilitate a piss-sodden alcoholic tramp through the force of your personality alone.

Unsaid throughout is the suspicion that Adele is just virtue signalling her way through life. Are her various campaigns and arguments borne as much from a desire to convince herself that she's a 'good' person rather than having a genuine desire to make the world a better place. This is something I can quite vividly identify with - and I have a great example. 

Just before the play began I was locking up my bike outside the pub when I saw a drunk, homeless woman career into a telephone box and smack into the pavement with a painful thud. I went over and collected the stuff she'd dropped and put it back in her carrier bags, checked it she was okay and helped her to her feet. Fair enough, you might think, seems like the decent thing to do. And yet, while doing all this I couldn't help but think, "the people sitting outside this pub must think I'm dead awesomely kind and super empathetic and just oh-so-amazing in general".

It's vain and self-centred thinking - you could even argue that I'm exploiting this poor woman's misfortune to get a dopamine hit of self-righteousness. But regardless of whether I was puffing up my mental plumage or not, I got her off the pavement. After all, if the end result is positive, then the internal motivation is irrelevant. Wet Bread understands this: while Adele might take in a homeless man mainly as an 'I told you so' move to win an argument, she ends up doing some genuine good in the world.

The show begins to wind up with a plea to tolerate philosophical and political differences, with an exhortation to value what unites rather than divides us. Very laudable, though sadly Wet Bread it concludes on a sour note with our political warrior erecting a final set of protest signs: "Stop Fighting" and "Just Love".

This is wishy-washy feelgood bullshit. If you stop fighting and start loving then the assholes are going to run rampant. Sure, Adele's fighting is largely futile (Glover is depressingly dead-on with his critique of mass marches), but even if it is self-aggrandising it's better than nothing. For a character like Adele to wave a placard that says 'stop fighting' is just depressing. And "Just Love" is precisely the kind of gloopy meaningless marketing rubbish that's gotten us the shitty, individualistic society we're in today.

It's a real shame, up to the last couple of minutes Wet Bread was reflecting some of my worst qualities back at me and giving me a lot to think about. It's a good show, well-performed and ploughing some extremely fertile comedic soil (with more than a shade of the excellent Citizen Smith). But the concluding statement of the piece is a bizarre call to inaction that really rubbed me up the wrong way, as if it was setting the parameters of what political activism should be (i.e. safe and unthreatening).

Wet Bread walks down a compelling path. It's just a shame that disappointment lies at the end of it.

Wet Bread is at the King's Head Theatre tonight and Thursday. Details here.

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Review: 'King Kong (A Comedy)' at the Vaults, 4th July 2017

Wednesday, July 5, 2017 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

King Kong (A Comedy) reviewed by David James

Rating: 2 Stars

KONG! The eighth wonder of the world! The God of Skull Island! Terror of both T-Rexes and Art Deco skyscrapers! Renowned as one of the angriest, hairiest and most potent metaphors for nature's untamed fury in cinema! The most famous giant gorilla in the world has lumbered and smashed his way across cinema screens for 80 years and now he's here! Tonight! In London!

And he's maybe a foot tall. 

King Kong (A Comedy) is the latest in the fertile genre of staging high-spectacle blockbuster action on a threadbare budget. These have ranged from Paranoid Dramatic's stab at Ridley Scott's Alien to Superbolt's (actually quite moving) take on Jurassic Park - which I saw in this very theatre. These productions are fuelled by curiosity: how is a fringe theatre company working to a strict budget going to put a giant angry gorilla on stage?

Creator Daniel Clarkson, who's already managed to cram the entirety of the Harry Potter story into a single short show, throws the kitchen sink at the problem. So Kong is variously a puppet, a man in an ape costume, a giant hand, and, memorably, a cardboard cut out of the 8-bit Donkey Kong. 

It works, the show skating through the skeleton of the 1933 film's plot - taking us from the bustling streets of depression era New York to the overgrown pulp adventure of Skull Island and back again. Our adventurers are egotistical filmmaker Carl Denham (Rob Crouch) and squeaky ape-fodder Ann Darrow (Alix Dunmore), assisted by a variety of characters played by Ben Chamberlain, Sam Donnelly and Brendan Murphy.

What follows is 80 minutes of family-friendly comedy that's just on the border of panto. Rob Crouch is responsible for most of the best bits, his sonorous voice a fantastic fit for the subterranean echobox of The Vaults. He chews more scenery than Kong chews bananas, continually busting his way through the fourth wall and has the show's one inarguably killer line when he muses on the stupidity of a society so primitive it thinks it can protect itself with a giant wall.



But here's the thing, though there's a tonne of imagination gone into the staging and the actors all have well-developed funnybones, King Kong (A Comedy) simply isn't half as hilarious as it probably should be. Don't get me wrong, it's funny (it passed the 'five laughs' test at any rate), but it's no gutbuster.

There are a smidge too many self-referential gags where we're expected to laugh about how predictable the humour is. For example, a character is given a gas grenade and is told to pull the pin and throw the grenade. Naturally, the pin is soon sailing through the air - a solid gag, but hardly an inspired one. Also failing to hit the mark is Ben Chamberlain's 'adenoidal nerd' stereotype, most of whose antics are met by, at best, mild titters. By the end, I began to pay attention to the audience rather than the show - noticing that while they seemed relatively engaged they weren't exactly rolling in the aisles.

But in an unexpected twist, the show plays the Empire State finale almost completely straight. At the rear of the stage a puppet, expertly manipulated by the cast, moves in slow motion to Barber's Adagio for Strings and tries his best to fend off his fate. In the moment he beats his chest in one final act of defiance against civilisation, this parody actually manages to properly encapsulate the tragedy of Kong.

King Kong (A Comedy) is not breaking down any comedy boundaries. It's probably a good shout if you've got small children you're looking to entertain (and would most likely make a good double bill with the well-received production of Alice's Adventures Underground being staged alongside it in the Vaults). But, ultimately, it's just not that funny.

King Kong (A Comedy) is at the Vaults until 27 August. Tickets here.

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Review: 'Attic' at the King's Head Theatre, 26th June 2017

Tuesday, June 27, 2017 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments


Attic reviewed by David James

Rating: 2 Stars

As someone who's been in too many relationships with bonkers women, Meriel Hinsching's Attic contained many familiar moments. This 45-minute long miniplay bills itself as examining a "dangerous, boundary-pushing relationship" and "the dark, animalistic and unconventional sides to love". 

Our not-so-starcrossed lovers are Leonie (Phoebe Stapleton) and Bay (Connor Harris) (a confession: throughout the play I thought Leonie was calling him 'bae'). Bay seems like a pretty straightforward kind of guy: he's processing the death of his sister and seeking some kind of intimacy. We encounter the pair post break-up and, though Bay has a new girlfriend, the flame still burns between them.  

Bay is a fairly understandable but Leonie is trickier to diagnose. She's an overly aggressive conversationalist, physically stand-offish and prone to rambling monologues and melodramatic suicide threats. She appears to be written as a rare and unique person who sees the world through a strict anti-bullshit filter. 

That's the intention. But, to be frank, she's basically 'yer textbook asshole.

Leonie is impossible to sympathise with, and over the play's 45 minutes Bay's continuing involvement with her goes from perplexing to outright surreal. I wouldn't exactly say the play glamorises an abusive relationship, but it certainly approaches it with weird romanticism. At first, this sour note is intriguing: where is Hinsching going with this strange set-up? But, by the time the curtain falls, it feels flimsy in an icky sort of way.

Much of this is down to the power imbalance between Bay and Leonie. If they were as fucked up as each another then fine: there are worse ways to spend an evening than watching two horrible people spiralling life's plughole. But the fact that Bay seems like a pretty normal kind of guy (and a somewhat vulnerable one at that) creates a weird disconnect. 

But bubbling away under all that is that Stapleton and Harris simply don't have the romantic chemistry to make this work. If there really was some spark between them they could harness that and blast through the other deficiencies, but they seem less like lovers drawn to one another like moths to a flame and more like two strangers tolerating one another.

Attic ends up a baffling and unfocused play. I never for a moment felt like Leonie and Bay's relationship was pushing any boundaries or was particularly unconventional. Instead, you get a clumsy relationship drama between two uninteresting characters that doesn't go anywhere interesting or have much to say. It's nowhere near the worst thing I've ever seen, and at least it's mercifully short, but there's precious little here to recommend.


Attic is at the King's Head on the 2nd and 3rd of July. More information here.

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