The Snow Queen - The Nuffield Theatre, Southampton

Originally written for Exeunt

This year’s Christmas show at the Nuffield Theatre is a heart-warming tale of friendship, morality and bravery. Adapted for the stage by Georgia Pritchett, The Snow Queen tells the story of a lonely young girl, Gerda, whose only friend Kai is kidnapped by the wicked title character. What follows is her pursuit to save him, and the growth of the friendships that she makes along the way. In this, we meet some truly charming characters and see some great performances, most notably by Jack Shalloo as the Raven whose sharp delivery prompts the most giggles in the audience between both kids and adults. Nicola Munns brings a bright, sparkling energy to the stage as the Princess (Snow White) and Robber Maiden (Little Red Riding Hood), the latter of which inspiring something of a fan club amongst the girls in the audience – a great outcome for the strong, independent female character. 

Jessie Hart’s performance as Gerda is lovely, and she does a remarkable job with a character who is short on depth. For the first half of the show it is a struggle to understand why this irresistibly likeable girl is so staunchly adverse to having a friend other than Kai. In theory, this should prompt a sense of mystery to propel the story forwards, and draw an intriguing symmetry between herself and the Snow Queen. Instead, it is confusing, and would benefit from clearer, earlier indication that her reservations are because she is scared, rather than unjustifiably dismissive.  Similarly, it is difficult to decide whether or not we are supposed to warm to the Snow Queen, particularly as the performance by Natasha Jayetileke is lacking in conviction, and only reaches discernable intentions in the final moments of the show. 

In her defence, this is a family show, so we are not expecting a villain brimming with horror and menace to scare the children. Nor do we expect cartoon characters who irritate the adults, and to this extent, Pritchett has done right by the audience. But in terms of the approach to comedy, the writing hits neither mark. A joke built on the harmful stereotype that in a married couple, the husband prefers the wife when she’s not talking, lands uncomfortably. Regardless of whether the character is Snow White or Sleeping Beauty, the potential connotations of the line, “I prefer my women horizontal and unconscious” do not belong with an audience of parents and children. Likewise, jokes built around an overtly camp – though brilliantly performed – reindeer are just not useful, and I hope we laughed primarily at his performance than at the idea of a man being excited by other men. 

On the plus side, the set and lighting design by Ti Green and Mark Doubleday respectively is quite beautiful, and gasp-worthy for all ages. Spires of light stem from the stage floor and hang from the ceiling, twinkling and changing colour according to the climate of the scene. Most strikingly, while Kai is confined to the ice palace, he spends most of the show sitting on a swing hanging above the stage, gradually turning bluer and colder. His presence is a constant reminder of how much we want him to be rescued, and serves as a guiding force for act two. Credit for this effect must also go to Jos Slovick for his warm, delicate performance.

It is almost the cosy, fun production that it sometimes promises to be, and the musical numbers are catchy and jaunty, if occasionally lyrically weak. On the whole, for a fix of seasonal spirits and some uplifting entertainment, it works a treat.

http://www.nuffieldtheatre.co.uk/

HOPE by Jack Thorne - Royal Court Theatre

Recently, I had begun to have reservations about The Royal Court. After conversations with others who have much more naus than me, I was beginning to worry that as a theatre, it was not the spearhead - the trailblazer - I had always believed it to be. I worried that it produced tickbox issue plays for middle-class audiences for the sake of rhetoric, and for the good of the guffawing man in the back row of the stalls who ‘gets’ the literary references. All I could see in these highly political, provocative plays was catharsis, and any call to arms was rather preaching to the converted.

But on Monday afternoon, after enduring a day with a feeling I can only compare to the grey clouds that have dominated most of this week, I felt I needed something both familiar and refreshing to shift it. In the past, the National Theatre and The Royal Court have been my go-to remedies for the blues so within hours, I had set aside my burgeoning pre-conceptions and was sat in the stalls, waiting to see Hope by Jack Thorne.

Now, in terms of its stance as a Royal Court Play, it was just as I would have expected, complete with guffawing man in the back row. It includes the State-Of-The-Nation conversation that sounds remarkably similar to those slurred across pint glasses when it’s closing time at the pub. It is racially diverse (tick), thwarts the gender stereotype (tick), and hosts accents from across the UK (tick). It also stages a brilliant performance from Jo Eastwood, an actress with Down’s Syndrome. (I should point out - all of these decisions are also justified by the play, it is not just a case of the theatre being radically, wildly, controversially interested in equality.)

The play itself talks about cuts to funding for front line organisations, closing Sure Start centres, care for the elderly and turning off street lighting in areas already deemed unsafe. Cuts are targeted at a largely Bangladeshi area, which the council has apparently (questionably) calculated in correspondence to their data. Jobs are at risk, people’s futures are at risk. We see a man so torn apart by having to make these decisions, so constrained by what is politically or morally right, that he is nearly driven back to alcoholism.

And then we see an older man sit beside a young boy and tell him that life is going to be much worse for his generation, to which the boy retorts that it doesn’t have to be: otherwise, what’s the point of living? Through him, we are inspired to feel hope for the next generation, and the generations thereafter. We are invited to dream that perhaps they will look after our world and our society better than we have.

Hope by Jack Thorne at the Royal Court Theatre

The story is great, and moves swiftly and engagingly forwards with some really fantastic performances. Tom Scutt has of course done a great job on the design, to the extent that I thought “Eugh, what’s with the set? It looks like a really drab village hall”, which I presume was absolutely the intention.

Furthermore, yes, it is cathartic, and I feel no differently about the issues presented than I did before I saw the play. But what is significant is that I feel riled by them again, which is a feeling that is otherwise too easily forgotten. Beyond the theatre, beyond the meetings with the local councillors, beyond writing the letter to your local MP and signing the petition to keep the library open/save the arts centre, we bear those feelings alone. What this play, and what the Royal Court tells us through its The Big Idea discussions, video collaborations with the Guardian and by programming plays such as this one, is that we are not alone. More than that, if you have made it to the end of the play without walking out (I can’t be sure, but I think a few did), then you are more than likely surrounded by hundreds of others who feel like you. And that is what matters.

***

By the end of the night, my blue feeling had shifted. It may have been knocked out of me by squeezing passed Damien Lewis in the bar, but I would like to think that aid came mainly from my experience in the auditorium and of the play itself. I think it instilled in me the sense of purpose and responsibility to society which had recently began to slip, particularly after reading an article in the New Statesman noting that younger generations are becoming less and less likely to vote.  If they are not engaging with the future of their country, then what hope is there left?

And that’s just it. This play reminded me to look to the future of this country with hope, not apathy or disassociation. Of course a play isn’t going to change the world on its own, and we can only hope that those who are prone to apathy and disassociation stumble into the theatre by happy accident, or at least listen to someone who has. One evening at the theatre won’t change our government overnight, and neither is it trying to, and this is what I had forgotten. What this play - this theatre - reminds us of is that it is only by coming together that we can dare to hope, and actively pursue a clearer future.

***

Written by Jack Thorne

Directed by John Tiffany

Designed by Tom Scutt

http://www.royalcourttheatre.com/whats-on/hope/?tab=0

Far Away by Caryl Churchill - The Young Vic

Originally written for Exeunt

Caryl Churchill’s Far Away is 40 minutes long, give or take. It has three characters, one of whom is played by two actresses at different stages of her life, and it takes place in four locations.

We are in the Clare Studio, and the audience sit facing one another with a wooden promenade stage between them.

To give some background to the opening scenes, young Joan, intelligently played by Emilia Jones (alternated with Sasha Willoughby), is staying with her aunt Harper, played by Tamzin Griffin. During her stay, Joan learns things about her aunt and uncle that she is both too young to understand, and young enough to see that they are wrong. She knows that her uncle is keeping prisoners in their shed, and that he has attacked a couple of them, but her aunt convinces her that this is a positive movement that she can be part of. Joan grows up, and goes on to work in a hat industry and make hats for these prisoners.

It is here that the older Joan (Samantha Colley) meets Todd (Ariyon Bakare), and we watch as their relationship tantalisingly grows. The scenes are short, but by the time the set for the hat factory has disappeared, these characters are undoubtedly in love. Meanwhile, each scene change is punctuated with a cold, dark, mechanical soundtrack that snaps off again whenever the lights come up and the hats appear more decorated. It is an undercurrent that haunts us while Todd and Joan’s conversation weaves between their unspoken love and shared concern for the corruption of the hat industry. It threatens to erupt.

Then, a line of hats – ridiculous, beautiful, extravagant hats – begins to parade around us. There is cheering and applause from the surrounding crowds while people held together by chains whimper. A child cries. The cheering increases. Someone stumbles and puts a jolt in the rest of the line. Someone is hit. The line turn a corner and they are made to stand in front of the audience for an excruciatingly long time, crippled by the weight of their hats. The cheering continues and they are made to move again. Then there is the sound of gun fire, one bullet for each and every hat. The final bullet fires and the parade comes to an end.

In actuality, the only thing we see on stage is the hats hanging from the grid above the stage. Guy Hoare’s lighting gives them a looming aesthetic, and the sound creates the majority of the atmosphere that is so horrifying and distressing. But otherwise, there is no performance. Out of context, it is absurd to try to justify my shuddering, shaking and sobbing in response to the parade, but it is due to the direction of Kate Hewitt (the recipient of the JMK Director’s Award 2014), that it should achieve such a powerful effect so quickly. It is the contrast that is so striking: we have seen Joan as an innocent young girl in her pyjamas; the blossoming of love between Joan and Todd and the image of them posing before each other, wearing their hats, complementing each other and brimming with pride.

After the parade, and after Joan and Todd have left the hat industry, there is a sense of honesty as the cast lift a couple of the staging slabs and prop them against the wall, unveiling a light from beneath the stage and a haze of smoke. This production is ripe with similar moments that can be read symbolically, and when they’re not distracting, they highlight the depth of this play that is already a concentrated whirlwind of provocation. In particular, within the final scene, Joan has walked a vast number of miles just to be back with her husband and exhausted, she sleeps behind one of the staging slabs. Todd rests his back against this slab, waiting for her to wake. It is clear that although the removal of the staging slab – the foundations they walked on – has released light, the act has also put a barrier between them.

It is a thoughtful production of a timeless play. The play asks questions of our society, both globally and domestic, with a template that is universally recognised: the hat industry is a seemingly innocent organisation providing jobs and a service, but it is in support of a radically harmful one elsewhere. We see how the revelation of this corruption causes loved ones to be separated and forced to take sides. Like Joan and Todd, we call on our journalists to do something about the imbalance and injustice. From coffee shops, to sweatshops, to British politics and global affairs, we need only open a newspaper to recognise these characters. And so, this production maintains that timelessness in its sparse set, and you can see whatever you want hanging beneath those hats and heckling in the crowds.

Beyond this, our constant is in following the relationships between the people concerned. We have seen Todd and Joan grow in love, and Joan grow up to realise that her aunt is not necessarily right, just because they are family. Finally, this brings us to acknowledge the sideline message of Churchill’s play – what does any of the corruption and politics matter when we are confronted with love? Should it matter? it is as much an intellectual journey as an emotional one, and Hewitt’s brave move to produce one of Caryl Churchill’s plays has paid off, with sharp, moving, haunting clarity.

(I still cannot get the image of the parade of hats out of my head.)

My Beautiful Black Dog - RADAR 2014 - Bush Theatre

Originally written for Exeunt

"This is not a fairy tale.”

This is the story of the human experience of depression, told through song, dance, glitter and sequins. 

A disco ball hangs from the ceiling. Silver streamers hang from the back entrance to the stage. The performers are dressed all in black, but with feathers, sequins and sparkles, looking gloriously like the pages of a Christmas party fashion spread in a magazine. The epitome of happiness, twinkling in the darkness.

And as the music starts, Brigitte Aphrodite’s talents as a comedy singer/songwriter shine through. This is as much a rock gig as it is a piece of theatre with support from vocalists and musicians, Lucy Thackeray, Russell Ditchfield, Matthew Blake and Musical Director Quiet Boy.

The songs are catchy, funny, nuanced and thoughtful. The characters are well defined, the choreography is charming, and each number is a neat piece of storytelling deserving of its own applause. But what carries the piece forward is the dark undertones in moments of pause, and the harsh reality of depression that Brigitte falls into once the music has died away.

Just as Brigitte’s story ebbs between the show and reality, so too does the piece flow between hilarity and despair. It is easy to laugh with Brigitte when she hops around the stage in a glittery leotard, sings with faux sincerity and tells us anecdotes about the platform guard at Bromley Station (a.k.a The Sunshine Lady). The toe-tapping number ‘We’re Gonna Pop This Party’ which narrates the gang’s antics on their crazy night out is a particular highpoint. It is less easy to laugh, however, when we see a girl crawl under her bed and remain there for three weeks. It is in this way that the piece strikes the balance between an honest portrayal of depression and its bright, jovial antithesis brilliantly, and it is never long before the audience are laughing again.

That is until the house lights come on and Brigitte removes her microphone. The set is cleared, and she takes a piece of paper from her black bum bag. She reads from a letter addressed to her parents and describes her experience of the illness. This hiatus is crucial. The stigma around depression that threatens to disregard it as a ‘real’ illness, to attribute it to laziness, a passing phase or worse, a bout of sadness, deserves to be tackled. Otherwise, we are inhibited from talking about it and from it being taken seriously with regards to diagnosis and treatment, and allowing the consequences of people suffering in silence.

This is not just a fun piece of theatre. It is a way of communicating what depression can look  like, and finding a vessel for expression. In Brigitte’s letter, she talks about the self-loathing that accompanies depression. What a backlash, then, to don a sparkly leotard, get a bunch of friends together and sing some songs about it? The show finishes on a high with a celebration of this bedfellow, naming her black dog Creshendorious. Brigitte has been a delightful character to follow throughout the show, and for this final number, it is a real pleasure to see her accept that she is something to be celebrated, black dog and all.

And like all good rock gigs, there is an encore. The final song has the audience clapping along, declaring that the same celebration goes for the rest of us.

“Our hearts are hawks

Whopping great hawks”

We are all beautiful, in all our complexities, and this show is a heartwarming reminder of that.

SPINE by Clara Brennan - Soho Theatre

Review:

It was good.  The story was fantastic.  I thought her "Laaandaaan" accent sounded forced, which was a bit distracting, but Rosie Wyatt has a great energy on stage.  The set design is lovely, and the piece has really sweet things to say about having a backbone as a woman, and relating that to the spine of a book.  Most poignantly, a spine freely available in the dying world of libraries.

My response:

The books that have enriched my outlook on the world:

Roald Dahl, Matilda 

Taught me that a thirst for knowledge is cool.

DH Lawrence, Women in Love 

Taught me what love should look like. (FYI my favourite book ever)

T.S Eliot, Collected Poems 1909-1962 

Taught me that sometimes things deserve a second chance/reading i.e: The Waste Land

Henry James, The Turn of the Screw 

Taught me to trust carefully, and that it's okay to be unsure.

André Breton, Nadja 

Taught me that sometimes it’s okay that beautiful things happen in a moment, and then they’re gone.

Katherine Mansfield, Bliss 

For quite an academic reason. But generally, that women can pack a powerful punch against any insinuation that they might be ‘lacking’ in anything, anatomical or otherwise.

Jacqueline Wilson, all. 

Taught me about other people, and to be interested in other people.

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar 

Taught me to look after myself.

Francois Sagan, Bonjour Tristesse 

Taught me to savour my youth, recognise loneliness, and to respect the virtues of honesty.

J.K Rowling, Harry Potter 

Provocation: what this series can’t teach you, nothing else will.

Most of these books are from my university library or reading list. I had the incomparable privilege of receiving that education (before the £9,000 a year tuition fees, at that) and of being able to sit in the library for 24 hours a day. But, for those who will not go to university, libraries are still standing. And for as long as they stand, the young can learn the lessons that Channel 4, YouTube and Facebook just aren’t suitable for. Because what these books also teach is patience, and to be gentle with the world.

Also: there is nothing I have learnt from a female writer that I couldn’t have learnt from a male one. I will continue forevermore to take wisdom from each and charge straight back out into the world with it.

That is all.

Different Every Night

I’ve been feeling a little fractured lately, and I’m going to attempt to explain why, through the medium of theatre.

Temporality is absolutely theatre’s best asset.  “Different every night”, “live” and “unpredictable” are all positive attributes of both watching and making it.  Likewise, whenever I review a show, I bear in mind that tomorrow night’s performance might carry a wholly different energy.  It is exciting, this element of the unknown.

As some may know, I recently started working for Theatre Delicatessen.  I first became aware of them when I was working on the Soho Poly Theatre Festival and volunteering for Secret Cinema.  Through both environments, I became interested in the question of “What constitutes a theatrical space?” and even wrote an essay on it for university.  One day at Secret Cinema, a girl handed me a copy of TimeOut and I read an article about their residency at Marylebone Gardens.  Already harbouring an interest in non-conventional theatre spaces due to the Soho Poly’s humble existence in what is now a storage room, the main thing that drew me to Theatre Delicatessen was the act of taking over an old office building.  They turn them into event spaces, art spaces, spaces for artists to rehearse, flourish and grow.  It is recycling, on an epic scale.

So here we are now, at 119 Farringdon Road, in the old Guardian office building.  There is a set date on the lease, and it is our home until further notice.  Artists come through our doors, rehearse their work, and leave.  We house and co-produce work, which brings audience through the doors who likewise come in, sit down and watch a show before I bid them goodnight.  The building itself is obviously still under development, and every time I go down to the basement to see what the SoundBoxed collective are up to, they’ve built or painted something new for their performance space.  Chandeliers have appeared in the event space.  The fourth floor is currently gearing up for ‘The Space is Inbetween Us’ by AlexandraBaybutt and David Somló, a production that by its very design, will be different every night.  

The bodily process of each day is the same, but what happens in between is very different.  It is exciting, it is exhausting.

***

I have quite a substantial soap box from which to shout about theatre criticism and regional theatre i.e: there is not enough coverage.  I am currently in the process of finding voices in Hampshire.  I really want to be able to tag team, so we can get more of the incredible work covered (Although Theatre Deli is a London Living Wage employer, I can’t afford to hop back every week.  So if you’re out there and interested, PLEASE get in touch).  It is great, and brimming with potential, and the only thing that made my London-move questionable.  But to go and review work, I leave this already temporal city to fly through my parent’s home, hop behind the wheel of my granparents’ old car, and watch and critically diagnose work that likewise, by nature, is fluid.  I then write the review.  I email it off and it is published in the ether and read by GOD knows who and...I get back on a train.  I head straight back to work, and people again fly in and out of those automatic doors with “Hello-how are you?-Goodbye.”  

It is exciting, it is exhausting.

***

A week ago, I went to the first workshop for the Soho Young Company Writer’s Lab.  For the first exercise, we essentially turned the main stage into a map of the world and stood where we grew up, where our parents grew up and where our grandparents grew up.  This was fascinating from a socio-geographical perspective, mainly because everyone spread further and further away from London.  But also to watch people climb over the seats to reach Mozambique, or to look up onto the balcony to see Canada.  We sat down again and immediately, the map disappeared.  I had just been at home, and at my grandparents’ home, how was I suddenly back in the Soho Theatre writing about it all?  Aptly, I have come away from the session with the beginning of a new play drawing on my ancestry, and of a fractured sense of belonging.  It was exciting, it was exhausting.

***

For the past fortnight, the King’s College Arts and Humanities Festival has been happening.  Within it, I was involved with a project organised by playwright Jingan Young which was a collaboration between poetry/playwriting/art to explore the theme of colony.  We took over this amazing little bar in the depths of the KCL strand campus and allowed stories to be told in a space that already has quite enough of its own stories to tell (just ask Ben, the barman.)  We watched as it turned from bar to theatre and back to bar, where we danced and drank in the very same space our talented actors had spoken and moved in.  It was incredible.  I feel very much as if we flew through that space at a rate of knots, shouting a whirlwind of stories with the sense of urgency that performing in a non-conventional space inspires.  It was exciting, it was exhausting.

Artwork by Aowen Jin, photo by Rebecca Yeo

***

Tonight, I went for a run.  Within a crazy week, sometimes an extra hour’s sleep really is preferable to half an hour pounding the pavements, so it has been a while.  But tonight, I think it only took a few seconds before all of that feeling of fragmentation, of discord and of temporality dissipated.  I returned home strong again, whole again, with restored acceptance of what the hell I’m doing here.  Of course a lot of that comes down to the rush of endorphins.  But also, it is in the simplicity of breathing in, and of breathing out.  Of being my body, having control over the space I cover, the speed at which I cover it and the pressure with which my feet strike it.  For each passing second, the pavement is only my running ground, nothing more.  

***

The thing about space that is used for theatre is that it is so radically multi-functioning.  What happens in that space is always a little bit magical.  Magical, but then it’s gone.

And, that’s why I’ve been feeling a little bit fractured.  There’s been a lot of magic, in very different places, where the only constant was my own tired, hungry, neglected body.  But I have now eaten, I have been for a run.  I will sleep.

Bring on next week.

Othello - Frantic Assembly - Nuffield Theatre - Southampton

Originally written for Exeunt.


The night I saw Frantic Assembly’s revived touring production of Othello, the Nuffield Theatre in Southampton was full to the brim with excited school groups. What was even better was that the kids had been set an assignment to review the piece, so it was pretty endearing to watch as they tried to scribble notes in the dark after the most poignant monologues and altercations. Best of all, though, was a moment when Steven Miller’s satisfyingly slimey Iago weaved his arm through Othello’s, standing behind him to likewise point towards the deed apparently committed between his wife and Cassio. The girl sat next to me, having clocked this symbolism, turned to her friend and mimicked the movement beautifully. What better character study could there be than to get out of the classroom and not just see the physical language, but to want to replicate it?

I loved Shakespeare at school (yes, I was that girl). But I had grown disdainful of his plays of late, purely because I couldn’t turn a corner of the world of theatre without seeing an advert or a review for yet another reimagining, restaging, rehashing of the same old stories we will seemingly play out forever more. However, in the same way that Frantic Assembly inspired excitement in the school audience at the Nuffield (cheering, whooping, rapturous applause), they have reawakened my love for the Bard.

To put it simply, it is due to the way that Frantic Assembly put together a production that makes this retelling the stunning piece of work that it has been heralded as. It is in the purposeful symbolism of the set design, the costume, the music. The calculated movements, the searing performances. It is due to framing the bar where this play takes place with a series of flats that move and bend to disorientating effect, communicating drunkenness or mental and emotional discord. It is the pool table, played throughout, that comes to its own climax when Lodovico tells Iago to “look on the tragic loading of this bed”: the careful setup of all the balls to pot both the black and the white.

Most provocatively, it is in having the ladies’ toilets on stage, while the gents’ toilets are out of sight. What is the meaning of this? Must we have the women’s private deeds flaunted infront of us, primed for criticism and slut-shaming, while the men can slip discreetly out of sight? Sounds familiar. I’ll leave you to wonder whether Shakespeare was simply ahead of his time.

There are more, so many more, moments of pure visual genius. The production is bulletproof. Everything has already been questioned before it reaches the stage so the implications of what we see are undeniably purposeful, rich in possibilities. And, let’s face it, Shakespearean verse is not most people’s common tongue to express lust or love, anger or jealousy. The physical gestures, however, are universally understood. Pass a pool cue through a girl’s hand at just the right angle and an audience will know exactly what you’re aiming for.

But, my opinion that all of this clever set design and physical language makes the original play clearer will not be shared by all, and I would wager that this is something very specific to already knowing it reasonably well. But Frantic Assembly have not brought this play into the tracksuit clad, party hard 21^st Century to accurately restore the production of Othello from the 17th Century. Although, neither is its stance as a direct response to the Yorkshire race riots of 2001 very obvious, except in hindsight.

Regardless, between a misplaced handkerchief and Scott Graham’s source of inspiration, the piece’s relevance prevails. What we see is a black man, feared and respected by his peers, who is manipulated by his friend to believe his white wife is betraying him for another white man.We see Iago and Emilia’s poisonous relationship, the sisterhood between Emilia and Desdemona, the comedic post-rendezvous debrief between Bianca and Cassio. We see women battling for equality, men humbled by their own masculinity and the furtive importance of trust and forgiveness in friendships and relationships.

Frantic Assembly tell those stories in a way that is more relevant, accessible and engaging, with all the fire that is less easily found in the text, but that music and physical gesture can evoke. That’s why we reproduce Shakespeare, and that’s why a Frantic Assembly retelling works so well. I have no doubt that the year 11s will look back on this production in 10 years’ time, when we are facing the next all-female/all-male/digitally enhanced/staged-on-the-moon production of Othello, and what they will remember is how much they enjoyed it.

Thank you, Frantic, for reminding me why I ever loved Shakespeare.

Joli Vyann Double Bill: Stateless and H2H. The Point, Eastleigh

Originally written for Exeunt.

It could be so easy for a company who combine contemporary dance and circus skills to simply fill an evening with crowd-pleasing spectacle and gravity-defying moves. Particularly a company with the daring and refined physical skill of this Hampshire-based company, Joli Vyann. And yet – although this production is ripe for provoking gasps and general incredulity, it harnesses these impressive skills and directs them towards storytelling. Presented as a double bill of pieces in development, the first, Stateless is an exploration of the human experience of immigration. It is told visually and literally, as we watch the four performers throw themselves between each other or jump between pieces of set. The risk factor is high, and the story is told to emotionally charged effect. 

The overall sense is that this is what life for these characters feels like, not only what it looks like. We also experience what it sounds like, as the piece is supported by a soundtrack containing interviews with real people sharing their own stories on immigration. This emphasises the context and the mood of the piece in a way that lifts it beyond abstract representation, and into something quite raw. When we hear a quote such as “I left the house without packing anything, not even my sanity” then see a girl fling herself tirelessly against an immovable wall of people, the motion is contextualised, making it all the more uncomfortably real. Suddenly, the issues surrounding immigration – particularly for those escaping from a volatile environment – feel much closer to home. 

In light of this, the close physical contact is somehow comforting in this story, even when they are standing on top of each other’s heads. The inherent trust implies that they have found a home within each other. They work together to assemble the scattered pieces of set and build a bridge, a process that is as beautiful to watch in creation as it is upon completion because the company work so fluidly with one another. There is a sense of hope and determination to this section as the pace is slower, there is more playfulness between the characters and it feels as if they are achieving something. The section culminates with the meeting of the two female performers on top of the bridge. “Stateless” indeed. 

Another voice comes over the soundtrack and now, the group are on the run from the police. This is cleverly and impressively imagined by use of a cyr wheel (a big hula hoop) which one of the male dancers sets spinning horizontally in the centre of the stage. The performers jump away from its grasp, afraid of being caught. When one of them is captured, he manages to control the hoop – to control the system – but not for long. The others swoop through the spinning hoop as if trying to save him but the hoop is softening in momentum. Time is running out. The music ends, stillness falls, and all we hear is the clatter of the wheel declaring his capture. 

Stateless is currently in development, predicted to have grown into an hour long piece by next summer. Although the piece in its current state was enthralling, I am excited to see where it will go next. They have laid the foundation in terms of theme and story, and shown physical potential for this to be a deeper exploration of the experience of immigration through a unique, potent medium. They are due to be at the London International Mime Festival in the spring. 

The second part of the double bill was a piece entitled H2H and was in stark contrast to Stateless, both in mood and theme. It focuses, after much deliberation between the girls and boys falling in and out of love with each other, on a couple giving birth to their first child. The piece was slow to build – as relationships sometimes are – and after the element of surprise that the first piece provided, it was at risk of paling in comparison. It deals with issues that are more familiar, and therefore, potentially less challenging. However, the light relief of smiling performers and comic moments was very welcome, and the piece eased into its own stride. 

Most delightful was the company’s novel use of costume, through which each person’s jumper was twisted and danced through until it became a ball of knots and, by appropriation, a baby. Here, the piece began to probe deeper into our society’s approach to parenthood and gender roles, showing the mother as primary caregiver while the father recoiled from the baby’s cries. Prepped for provocation having observed that, for the most part, the men supported the women, I had to ask – is this not just a lazy stereotype? 

The power of this, however, was to place the question directly within the world of performance, where motherhood is regularly postponed or is a career-killing choice for female dancers. It also makes a point about motherhood in general, and the laughter in the audience was out of sympathy while an exhausted mother retrieved the baby from its father’s hands. The baby was passed between the performers, as if travelling from mum, to dad, to babysitter until the knots of the jumper were untied, and the clothing was returned to its owners. Evidently, what held these people together had likewise unfurled and the physical, emotional support disappeared. They turned their backs on each other and left.

Produced by Turtle Key Arts.