★★★

“Ismini Papaioannou’s costumes are brilliant, part cabaret part drag, they bring a vibrancy to the characters”

A hand snakes out from behind a glittering starry backdrop. Out slithers a performer, wrapped in glimmering metallic pleather – both mysterious and monstrous. ‘I am Charybdis a creature from the depths…’ their demeanour shifts, ‘and your host for the night!’

This is our chatty, flirty (and monstrous) MC (Hannah Van Der Westhuysen). They are joined by ‘Siren’ (Jazz Jenkins) and ‘Scylla’ (Kate Newman) to perform a series of musical numbers retelling and reclaiming their stories – ‘we used to kill and now we cabaret’. They are hopeful about rewriting history and no longer ‘being a step on a hero’s journey’. These are just some of the pithy and clever lyrics from writer and lyricist Quentin Beroud.

It’s entertaining, a little simplistic maybe, but a fun idea. But from a story perspective, it’s hard to know where it could go from there. This must have been a struggle for Beroud and writer/director Emily Louizou. The second act sees a more narrative driven story, where a mortal visits these monsters to ask for their help. At this point the energy changes, but the sombre tone and character led narrative have not been earned. A beautifully performed speech from Newman as the mortal feels a little hollow, in comparison to the campy caricatures of the beginning. The monsters, who’ve been caught in their dressing room, have shed some of their costume, which ruins the illusion. It is as if with their costume they’ve shed their extreme selves, and are much more human. It makes sense that there would need to be some story, but it clashes with the earlier tone and brings the whole energy down.

This is not the fault of the performers, all of whom are charismatic and complex. Jenkins has an incredible voice, Newman shows stark emotional range, and Van Der Westhuysen has a captivating stage presence.

Ismini Papaioannou’s costumes are brilliant, part cabaret part drag, they bring a vibrancy to the characters, and may be my favourite thing about this show. Scylla is imagined as a dog/human hybrid in an outfit made of wigs, Siren in an underwear as outerwear lingerie moment, with feathers and taloned boots. As mentioned, Charybdis is in skin-tight pleather, part seaweed part scales.

I’m not sure who the audience for this is. Retelling Greek myths is always popular, they’re great stories, and spinning them as tales of female empowerment and subjugation should work well. But this isn’t bringing anything new to the stories, apart from some great tunes (Irene Skylakaki) and joyous choreography (Ioli Filippakopoulou). While perhaps that is enough, the whole show feels strangely empty.

Reviewed on 28th May 2024

by Auriol Reddaway

Photography by Sophie Giddens

LIE LOW at the Royal Court

★★★★

“Charlotte McCurry’s Faye, and Thomas Finnegan’s Naoise perform a believably close pair of siblings, bound together by childhood games that seem innocent, until they’re not”

Ciara Elizabeth Smyth’s Lie Low arrives at the Royal Court’s Theatre Upstairs with plenty of trigger warnings. The company has also included a helpful guide on how to tackle a play that deals with trauma arising from sexual assault, should you need it. It’s true that Lie Low ventures into territory that might awaken all our darkest fears. But there’s also a lot of charm, humour and playful energy in Smyth’s script, and performers Charlotte McCurry and Thomas Finnegan make the most of their opportunities.

In Lie Low we are introduced to Faye, who has been unable to sleep since a terrifying home invasion. She invites her brother Naoise home to help her. Naoise, for some reason, has been reluctant to visit, and almost a year has passed before he finally arrives on her doorstep. In the meantime, Faye has been visiting doctors. Her life has become confined—and a discordant jumble of episodes of manic dancing with an enigmatic figure with a duck’s head that emerges sporadically from her mother’s wardrobe. Faye appears outwardly sane and in control to the current doctor she’s seeing, but it’s clear that, psychologically, she’s falling apart. She thinks her brother can help because he’s the only man she can trust. Using something called exposure therapy that Faye has found on the web, she invites Naoise to become the man who assaulted her so that she can confront him, and fight back. Understandably, Naoise is very reluctant to take on this role. We find that he has compelling reasons unrelated to Faye’s trauma, to resist her request.

Smyth has given us a great set up. As the play proceeds, and Faye and Naoise’s close sibling relationship unravels dance step by dance step, we respond with an uneasy mix of amusement and horror. And it’s not just the subject matter that brings such complicated reactions to the fore. There is something inherently untrustworthy about our protagonist. Faye’s troubled recollections of what actually happened on the night she was assaulted are echoed in Naoise’s recollections of their childhood. Who assaults, and who is assaulted? In Lie Low, the answer to this question is shrouded in ambiguity. Hazy recollections of childhood games, and later, drunken parties and their aftermath, take us further into the territory of unwanted questions and their messy answers.

Oisín Kearney’s direction and Ciaran Bagnall’s set and lighting heighten the feeling of ambiguity. There is irony in Bagnall’s strongly defined set—a carpet marking the playing space, and the brooding wardrobe at the back of the set. There’s also a standing lamp, but it’s small, and doesn’t illuminate much. Any light from the lamp is further obscured by a pair of Faye’s panties that are draped over the shade for much of the play. Sharp angles and light concealed—perfect metaphors for the drama that is unfolding before our eyes. Similarly, Charlotte McCurry’s Faye, and Thomas Finnegan’s Naoise perform a believably close pair of siblings, bound together by childhood games that seem innocent, until they’re not. McCurry’s Faye is in control—and it’s fascinating to watch how, in contrast, Finnegan’s Naoise comes undone. And that raises further unsettling questions about Faye’s trip into madness and insomnia, and the success of her return to sanity, and sleep.

At seventy minutes, Lie Low feels quite short. But there’s also a sense that there’s just enough material in this play to show the wisdom in calling it quits when it does. The energy of the performers keep it on track. They keep us focused from moment to moment. But there is something unrealized about Smyth’s script and the questions it raises. When the energy is gone, and the lights are out, what demons are still hiding in that wardrobe, waiting to emerge

FABULOUS CREATURES at the Arcola Theatre

★★★