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