Emerging Critics Scheme, Week Five: Life and Death of a Journalist

"I'm not particularly interesting."

That’s a bold statement for a main character to be making in the opening scene of a play, especially while she's introducing herself to the audience. It's the sort of thing a person only admits to when they know it’s entirely untrue. The faux-humbleness of an a-lister wearing a name-badge to a celeb-party (yes, I'm looking at you Brad Pitt - don't for a second think I was fooled by your Oscar-baiting mock-modesty).

But Lucy Roslyn's Laura isn't an actor with a steely eye on an Academy Award. She's a journalist covering the Hong Kong protests. And she's not after fame, or even glory. She really believes in what's she's doing. When she speaks about her work, it's with the kind of fervour usually reserved for the newly converted. All grand vision and awed expressions.

But such zeal is born of more than nice articles about dogs wearing hand-knitted sweaters, and we are soon whisked back to see our heroines origin story for ourselves.

After an exciting start, with Laura a self-aware narrator, Jingan Young's Life and Death of a Journalist leaves the thrill of a meta Hong Kong behind and drags us back to a London built solidly behind the fourth-wall.

Here we rediscover Laura, desperate to write, if only to pay the rent. Just as things are looking really painful, on the verge of being forced to move into a very naice one-bedroom flat courtesy of her boyfriend's (Robert Bradley) rich dad, she's offered the writing gig that dreams are made of. A chance to get her words out there and to be the pointy stick that jabs at the CCP. A small catch: China is funding it.

But that's alright. She's been assured she won't be censored. And isn't this what she always wanted?

There's no prizes for guessing that it won't take long for the funders to want a return on their investment. A small change of wording (I mean... who even notices whether someone's called a protester or a rioter?)… The posting of a confession video (even if it s footage of her close friend)… That's all fine. It'll work itself out in the end. Once they learn to trust her, and let her write her long-reads on the use of torture to force (or is it just ‘extract'?) confessions. Which they totally will. When the time is right.

This gradual chipping away of personal morals should be a gripping watch, but too often we are siphoned off into the slow destruction of Laura's more personal relationships. When we see Laura and her long-suffering boyfriend in the same room, it's hard to see what could have ever brought them together in the first place. Laura's reactions to him are so preformative, complete with mock-accents and dramatic gestures, they seem to be stuck in a perpetual first date. Or, given that he at one point asks her where she sees them in five years, quite possibly a job interview.

But even that feels almost sensible in a world where jobs are offered in casual conversations and Laura's boss (Melissa Woodbridge) ricochets between providing an almost parental all-knowing role, and handing out the tequila shots - plucked out from underneath an overturned chair.

The rest of the stage is strewn with rubbish. Discarded bottles and those aforementioned fallen chairs. There are boards leaning against the wall, plastered with the stencilled message stating that "They can't kill us all." Hints at the dissent and violence happening on the other side of the world, which are otherwise only allowed to appear onstage in the scene transitions as the cast go into slow-mo moments of revolt.

If it sounds like a lot of things are happening in this play, you'd be right. Perhaps too much for a story that comes in at well under an hour. It's the characters who suffer, forced to spend much of their time explaining what the hell the political situation actually is in China for the benefit of the audience rather than getting down to the business of having a backstory.

It's a frustrating watch. Lucy Roslyn is an engaging actor, and Laura more interesting than she claims to be. I suspect, like so many writers, she could have done with not being constrained within the confines of such a stingy word-count.

Life and Death of a Journalist plays at VAULT Festival from 25 February - 1 March

Emerging Critics Scheme, Week Four: Omelette

I'm not very good at being green. You know this already. It's my great shame. I try. I really do. Like the other day: I spent a full five minutes in the household items aisle in Sainsbury's staring at the Ecover offerings. I knew I should get them. I've just moved into a new flat. This could be a new beginning for me. A fresh, planet-friendly, start. I've already recycled all my moving boxes. And like, it's a small flat. It doesn't require much in the way of products to keep it clean. But the next thing I know, I'm standing in the self-service queue in Poundland buying some cut-price Persil, and that's the end of my environmental adventure.

If only being sustainable could be more, well, sustainable. You can imagine the trepidation I feel going off to watch a play about climate anxiety. I may not have the climate part down quite yet, but I am hot on feeling anxious. And one thing that always gets my palms sweating, is the thought of being called out.

In Anna Spearpoint's new play, Omelette, we meet Mia (Spearpoint herself) and Mo (Kwami Odoom). They've just met, and seem to be getting on rather well. They are both into saving the planet, but like... in a slightly-cynical-and-totally-not-obsessed kinda way.

The knowing looks are tempered by a touch of side-eye. They both belong to that slither of an age bracket within which 'vegan' can be used as a complete sentence, and while they book the odd Uber, they remain slightly embarrassed by the fact.

Still, they know how important the planet is, and they're not afraid to do their bit. Even if the rest of the world is taking its fucking time catching up. "They're still teaching them about the fucking Tudors," groans Mo as they despair of the education system. That sounds bloody familiar. I learnt about the Tudors three years running when I was a kid. And from what I hear, not much has changed. Schools fucking love the Tudors. Which is great for the success of the musical Six, but I think Mo may be onto something here. No one ever taught me how to recycle and I feel that a lesson on whether to leave the lids on milk bottles would have done me more use than getting a primer in royal slut-shaming.

The pair circle around each other on a matt that looks part vortex, part hypnotic spiral. Whatever it is, Seren Noel's design is pulling them in, and dragging us down with them.

As the new couple grow closer, their need to do good feeds off of one another. First, they're giving up tea ("exploitation") then trips to Pret ("You're better than that"), then paper.

I don't mind telling you, that as someone with a heavy tea addiction, a taste for Pret matcha lattes, and a nasty programme-buying habit, I'm feeling a little judged here. Fuck, I mean seriously, I really need to get my act together with the whole recycling thing. This shaming is getting to me. Even fictional characters are laying the judginess on thick now.

Still, the dialogue is snappy and the action fast-paced. Scene changes are hurried along by two bikers, slipping rucksacks over backs and stuffing the appropriate props inside. Tash Hyman's direction is making sure that we're getting our five-a-day packed in tight in the small Tupperware of fringe festival time slots. Not that they are sparing themselves from their own narrowed gazes.

They lean on each other, heavier and heavier as they try to lighten their carbon footprint, taking more and more extreme measures. They're not afraid to crack whatever eggs it takes to make the omelette of the title.

Not that they eat eggs, of course.

Vegan.

Here's the thing though. Those cracked eggs? Those extreme measures? I’m pretty sure I could make that work.

I've always secretly believed that my dream job would be as an anchorite. You know, those nuns who locked themselves away in cells. Closed off from the world, they exist in a kind of living death. I'd be into that.

Apart from the whole Jesus thing. I'm pretty sure the Catholic church isn't hiring Jews right now. Which is rude. But for some reason, they can't get done for religious discrimination, so I guess my pseudo-funeral will have to wait. At least until we're all under coronavirus lockdown.

Somehow, I don't think we're supposed to be thinking of Mo and Mia's fate as aspirational, though I'm sure it is meant to inspire us to crack of few eggs. Metaphorical, carbon-neutral, eggs, natch.

Thing is, I do wonder whether theatre is the right medium for the message.

One of my coworkers' go-to rants is on the wastefulness of theatre. The ephemeral nature of the art form means that everything we see has been created just for the purpose of a few short shows. Even shorter when we're talking about runs at the Vaults.

And yes, VAULT Fest may be pimping their green credentials this year. And the programmes for Omelette are delivered via QR code. But surely the greenest thing of all would have been not to put it on in the first place.

I suppose the only answer is to make sure it’s worth it. As soon as I'm done typing this up, I'm sorting out my damn recycling. And once and for all, I'm figuring out whether I'm supposed to screw the caps back on my empty milk bottles.

Omelette played at VAULT Festival from 18 - 23 February 2020

Emerging Critics Scheme, Week Three: The First

A piece of advice: if you're feeling a bit hormonal, it's probably best not to go and read the undelivered Nixon moon speech. The one written just in case the moon landings, well... didn't land. Never have so many devastating phrases been packed into so few words. It's eight short paragraphs of pure, medical-grade, emotional manipulation. The bureaucratic equivalent of eight Andrex puppies pathetically struggling to untangle themselves from a metres of soft loo roll. To make it even worse, the speech is topped by a few housekeeping instructions that are devastating in their simplicity. I have to admit that this blogger lost it entirely at the phrase "widows-to-be."

Thankfully I managed to clean off the mascara tracks off my cheeks before heading over to the Vaults to catch Barry McStay's new play, The First. Taking the speech-that-never-was as his inspiration, we are launched right into the ship of the first manned trip to Mars.

Katrina Allen and Daniel Ward are at the helm, wafting along the slim stage to a soundtrack of spacey beeps and boops from Tingying Dong.

Replicating the look of zero gravity while in an underground tunnel is a tough order. And by rights balancing over a table should make Allen's astronaut Rose look ridiculous, but the movement, created by Mikley Brett, is as restrained as it is ingenious and the sight of the two crew members floating invisible props to each other through the dank air gets a giggle of appreciation from the audience.

The bants however, are flying a good deal faster.

This pair have been living in close quarters just a touch too long. The bonhomie of coworkers worn thin without the option of weekends off. There's a serrated edge forming between then as they try to one-up one another on who can come up with the best words to accompany their first steps on an alien planet.

The thought of what they'll be thinking down on earth is never far from their minds, even if the answers takes a 50-minute delay to get to them.

Turns out, the words to accompany their landing are very much on the minds of those on earth. In a well-guarded room two writers are busy scribbling out the twin speeches. One to be delivered when the astronauts safely arrive on Mars, and the other destined to become nothing more than a viral curio.

Switching into these new characters, and new accents, Allen and Ward demonstrate so neatly how damned difficult good words are, even when the inspirational is near heavenly.

Ward's Marcus glares at his laptop, as if wanting to frighten the words into existence, while Allen's Alisha frantically riffles through the pages of her notebook. Above their heads is the glowing planet, designed by Delyth Evans, clinging almost limpet-like on the wall. A constant reminder of their mission.

There's so much fast wordplay and clever-put downs both on the ground and up in space I'm beginning to fear for the future of the capital-S capital-R Special Relationship. This future American president, reportedly worse than Trump, may be happy to send up one of his girls with only a Brit to keep her company, but if the look on Marcus' face as Alisha tries to feed him various Brit-delicacies is anything to go by, I suspect we may be heading for a messy divorce.

Proving that even in this search for everlasting fame, when any cost is worth buying legacy that will outlive us, nothing lasts forever. Not even for those who make it into the history books. A fact that is never truer than down in the Vaults.

As we approach the end of our 60-minute slot, words and acting and movement and story are pumping out over me at such a rate that I have to poke a finger up underneath my glasses to stop a tear before it manages to do any more damage to my mascara.

Christ. I mean, not to blaspheme or anything, but seriously. My heart feels like a damp dishcloth, wrung out and now shivering gently on the line. My plans for a paracetamol and a cosy night in with my electric blanket are soon swapped out for a strong gin and tonic and an emergency compilation of kitten videos.

One thing's for sure, I don't have the stomach for immortality. I’ll happily wait for second place.

The First was performed at VAULT Festival between 11 - 16 February 2020

Emerging Critics Scheme, Week Two: GORGON: A Horror Story

"Have you seen what's at the end of our row?" a woman asks, giggling.

The man she's with leans forward to have a look.

At the end of our row, right next to me, is a podium covered by a spangly cloth. And resting on top, wobbly gently with all the dignity of a jelly on a plate, is a penis. With a pair of scissors jammed into it.

"Oh gawd," the man squeaks, quickly throwing himself back into his seat.

But even safe in his seat, he can't get comfortable. He twitches. Presumbly unable to forgot the, err, glamorously displayed appendage.

As the lights go out and this underground tunnel is lit by nothing but a pair of torches held by the cast, his whole body jerks around as if cold water is dripping down the back of his neck. Which, given we are in the Vaults, is more than possible.

Somehow I don't think he's going to like this play.

But the darkness is not to last.

A young woman is bouncing out, smiling from behind her stocking mask, which she wears to hide her skin condition. She goes to great pains to make sure we understand the finer aspects of taxidermy. Elf Lyons' Diana is like a gothic lolita, all cutsie sweetness until you spot the blood-drenched teddy bear hanging from her backpack.

I find myself nodding along as she assures us that "it's NOT macabre." We almost believe her, even as she delves into the more gruesome aspects of her hobby, with sound effects to match courtesy of sound designer Molly Isaac and foley-artist-slash-performer David Houston.

Live foley. An extra layer of fascination, which unfortunately suffers from being shoved off to one end of the tunnel. Even leaning forward doesn't manage to capture much more than a glimpse of the cast attacking various different shadowy props that remain frustratingly out of view.

Diana reels off her own litany of annoyances: the swirling cacophony of strangers and their collective noises. Once again, I find myself nodding along.

Next to me, my neighbour bounces around, shaking the bench we are sharing.

I breathe in the thick muggy air of the Vaults and try to eradicate him from my thoughts.

Honestly, I get Diana.

Seriously, people are disgusting and should be stopped. They're even harder to take when you're already on edge.

No wonder she's ready to snap. Diana's parents have long disappeared, leaving her to the mercy of a stepmother (Natalie Williams) seemingly pulled from the pages of the Grimmest faerie-tale. Her boyfriend (David Houston) fetishises her skin issues. Her flatmate (Natalie Williams again) is super-duper annoying. And now her sister has gone too. Freya. Vanished. And no one seems to care.

Fragmented parts of the tale are stitched together as countless characters are brought in: bar managers, and therapists, and podcasters, and researchers.

None of them understanding Diana or what she's trying to do.

On the other side of the space, there's a soft thump as someone falls forward onto the ground.

Elf stops mid-speech and runs over.

An audience member has fainted.

Elf puts her arms out in a time-out gesture. Show stop.

The audience member is retrieved from the floor. He doesn't want to leave. Someone finds him a bottle of water.

"I'm still very scary though," says Elf, working herself back into character.

He nods, looking a little dazed. Very scary.

"If you need to leave, I'll pretend I can't see you," she assures him, and then with a nod to the tech desk, we're off again.

And while, yes, she is very scary, Elf's caretaking of the fallen audience member feels entirely in character. Because Diana is a woman whose hate is reserved for those who should have loved her.

Later, she creeps through an aisle, past the punctured penis, and rounds on me.

"I didn't ask if you'd eaten," she says, eyes wide behind her mask. "Are you hungry?"

I tell her no.

The show started at the painfully late hour of 9.20pm. Past my bed-time, but at least allowed for some food on the way.

"You're not hungry?"

I'm not. I had a nice hot dinner before arriving at the Vaults.

Satisfied, she moves on.

Just as I'm congratulating myself on handling this all so well, Diana describes a memory involving a hot plate with such sensory detail, that I can feel my stomach churn and my tongue grow claggy in my mouth.

I'm beginning to regret that nice hot dinner.

I have to swallow hard to prevent myself from causing my own show stop.

But my queasiness almost comes as a relief.

My neighbour, it turns out, is safe.

From me at least. If had proof enough that there's no way I could handle the cleanup.

As for Diana... I doubt she's making any promises.

GORGON: A Horror Story played as part of the VAULT Festival, 5 - 9 February 2020

Emerging Critics Scheme, Week One: The Wild Unfeeling World

It’s not often that you have to jump over a puddle to get to your seat at the theatre.

The floor is slick with water and small buckets are dotted around the stage. I look up, worried that the Vaults may have sprung a leak.

Despite the inclement weather, Casey Jay Andrews’ smile is bright as she dashes around the circle of benches, saying hello to everyone. She picks up one of the buckets and shows it to a couple sitting close to me. "There's a bit in the show when I saw HQS Wellington," she says, showing the small label stuck to the bucket which also says 'HQS Wellington.’

"Please chuck it at me - not at this lady who's writing," she adds hurriedly, indicating me. I have my notebook and pen ready on my lap and I quickly join in with a plea not to splash the water in my direction. My handwriting is bad enough as it is without having to worry about the biro running. 

If my fellow audience members are feeling any anxiety about lobbing a bucket of water at a young woman they are hiding it well. Even Casey's dark comment about the door closing and sealing us in is met by only the mildest giggles.

With an even brighter smile, Casey welcomes us. Anyone lucky enough to have visited Casey's shed in last year’s The Archive of Educated Hearts will be familiar with her calming introductions, and after a brief warning that any fans of Moby Dick in the audience may need to brace themselves, we are launched straight into Casey's (very) loose adaptation on the tale. We are taken, not to the sea, but to a car park in Hounslow, where Dylan, is drowning in guilt after hitting a stray cat called Ahab with her great white... car. 

Casey’s poetic phrasing winds its way through our struggling heroine’s day, as she decides to trek all the way to the Sea Life centre on the Southbank. On foot.

She talks about desire paths, echoing her own journey through a collage of whale anatomy facts (did you know that the aorta of a whale can be as large as pipes at the London Bridge waterworks?), child development, evolutionary psychology, the wingspan of a pelican, the maximum number of times you can fold a piece of paper (103, apparently. Although your wodge of paper will be larger than the observable universe by that point). Casey, it seems, is a collector of facts. Plucking them from the world and displaying them for us to admire. Joyfully quoting the Kew Gardens website at us just because she likes their wording. 

Not that Casey is short of good words. Dylan’s epic walk across London is peppered with the type of linguistic tricks that make my heart sing. Sentences diving backwards and forwards, twisting between causation and logic (“She can’t work out if she forgot how to be joyous because the things in her life fell apart, or if the things in her life fell apart because she forgot how to be joyous”), using alliteration and repetition with wild glee, and all told with an excited breathlessness. Words tumble over each other, dissolving away before I’ve had the chance to fully soak myself in them.

An audience member is drafted in to animate Ahab the cat, in the form of a ginger hand-puppet.

“You’ve done an excellent job, Drew,” Casey tells our puppeteer. “Very sinister.”

We all applaud, knowing that there is a good deal more demanding audience interaction to come as Dylan passes a moored ship.

That’s the cue!

The first bucket is thrown tentatively, aimed at Casey’s feet.

But it doesn’t take long for my fellow audience members to get into their stride as checks off this city’s collection of maritime vehicles and soon Casey is soaked.

Droplets spring from her fingertips as she points the way - Onwards, ho!

This manic energy cannot last forever. Ahab is fast approaching and Dylan has to stop. 

As Casey kneels on the ground, the spotlight behind her casts a golden halo around her. An aura of steam rises off her wet hair, as some mystical spirit takes hold to transform this sodden performer into a religious icon.

It’s an arresting image. One which will stay with my a long time.

As will Casey’s parting thoughts - we must not scold our hands just to feel warmth under our skin.

Kindness is the message.

And if we can all be as thoughtful as Casey, perhaps there is some hope left for the world in these troubled times.

Or at least, some hope for the conservation of my notebook.

The Wild Unfeeling World was at VAULT Festival, 28 January - 1 Febuary 2020