“Despite everything, the performances are – individually and collectively – quite wonderful”
What exactly is Terry Johnson saying in “The Sex Party”? It is probably the biggest question being asked as the audience leave the Menier Chocolate Factory, but the answer lies at the far end of a very circuitous route, littered with the roadkill of dozens of other debates – some bigger, some smaller, some old and some new. If Johnson had the answer, we would probably be watching a shorter play, but we would also be witnessing the premier of something ground-breaking, brave and unprecedented. As it stands, though, Johnson’s writing, whilst being wonderfully sharp, gives itself too many challenges.
But there is one question that pulls focus from all the others. Johnson has (semi) joked in interviews that this play runs the risk of him getting himself “cancelled”. And he has already confessed to losing friends – not because of the subject matter but because of the new vocabulary and attitudes he has had to adjust to and adopt. The characters in the drama have similar fallings out. Honestly. Is this progress?
Like Mike leigh’s “Abigail’s Party”, there is more than way to look at “The Sex Party”. We can recoil from the cringe-worthy pretension of the faux pas and twitter-feed platitudes, or we can see it as a portrait of individual and marital unhappiness. Unfortunately, the focus is bound to fall onto the former, which leaves the cast with a much harder job. Despite everything, the performances are – individually and collectively – quite wonderful.
Alex (Jason Merrells) and his young girlfriend Hetty (Molly Osborne) are hosting their first sex party. Osborne gives a standout portrayal of the submissive liberal – one who excuses coercion if it can be seen to be a personal choice. The party guests are trawled from the internet or chance meetings, with the exception of Alex’s old flame Gilly (Lisa Dawn) and her tetchy, jealous husband Jake (John Hopkins). Jeff (a wonderfully gruff, outspoken and debauched Timothy Hutton) barges onto the scene with a rich presence we outwardly resent while secretly finding his offensiveness funny. Magdalena, his Russian trophy wife (Amanda Ryan) is in tow, upstaging him – and everyone else – with her ludicrous and laughable opinions. (They say that many a true word is spoken in jest). Enter cool and aware Camilla (Kelly Price) with posh-but-dim, blond-haired buffoon Tim (an impressive Will Barton who occasionally channels another prominent posh-but-dim, blond-haired buffoon). The elephant in the room is Lucy (Pooya Mohseni), a transgender woman who throws a spanner into the works, sets the cat among the pigeons, and generally throws every other metaphor and cliché into the mix.
Mohseni doesn’t enter until the end of Act One. Up until then the piece can be enjoyed as a kind of alternative kitchen sink drama. Although it is a beautifully crafted kitchen sink in Tim Shortall’s stunning set that depicts a stylish Islington fitted kitchen. They are all in the kitchen at this party, only occasionally retreating offstage into the lounge for some staggered and brief sex. Conversation is awkward and the debates more varied than in the second half. It is clear, though, that Johnson is poking fun at the characters and not the subjects they are discussing. This is an important point, and one that is so often missed.
After interval the tone darkens, but narrows its focus. But this could well be the brilliant purpose of the writing. At one point, Lisa Dawn – who gives us a show stealing performance throughout – laments the fact that her own issues are completely overlooked and overshadowed by the subjects that have bulldozed themselves into the collective and confused consciousness. Mohseni, the flagship of self-identity in this piece, does her best to moderate the argument with poise and a coolness that seems to be telling us that it really shouldn’t matter.
“The Sex Party” is putting its head above the parapet. It is certain to be knocked down. It deals with prejudice, but the irony is that the same prejudices will inform people’s perception of the play before they have even seen it. Which is a shame. Yes, it could be pruned somewhat, and have fewer non-sequiturs and tangents, but Johnson’s writing is as acute and observant as ever; and often funny.
The literal translation of ‘La Clique’ from the French describes a group of people who are “friendly with each other but exclude others”. Tip number one: pay absolutely no attention to that definition when attending “La Clique”, the alternative cabaret-come-circus show at the Spiegeltent in Leicester Square. Expect the complete opposite. The show couldn’t be more inclusive if it tried. Tip number two: get there early if you want to secure a front row seat. Provided, that is, you like the idea of being soaked by the foamy bath water of a near-naked Burlesque songbird, or straddled by a highly toned aerialist in nothing but sequined trunks enjoying his moment of post-crucifixion passion. (Tip number three: if this doesn’t sound like your thing then either; a) stop reading now or b) make it your thing – you don’t know what you’re missing).
Born at the Edinburgh Festival back in 2004, the Olivier award-winning “La Clique” created its own genre with its mix of circus, cabaret, music and mayhem; topped with irreverence, sexiness and mind-blowing thrills. It has since travelled the world with its extended family of performers that represent the cream of the cabaret and circus scene. Wandering into the Spiegeltent in Leicester Square is like straying into an alternative wonderland, away from the tourists. An intimate world. A club in which you belong, and the penny drops. “La Clique” is faithful to its definition. It is the outside world that is excluded, and you are immersed within, and embraced by, this eccentric family.
There appears to be nobody in charge. No MC. Each performer is calling the shots. Miss Jolie Papillon appears like magic. The ‘Bird of Oceana’, with aquamarine feathers not quite concealing the climax of her exotic routine. Later returning with her bathtub burlesque (see above). A grotesque hospital patient transforms into the beauty that is aerialist Katharine Arnold. This show is not just about technique and virtuosic skill. It is performance art. Theatre. Spectacle. Arnold returns to the ring with Hugo Desmarais with a unique and exquisite display of passion and synchronicity, suspended high above the crowd, defying gravity with the ultimate wickedness.
Ashley Stroud, on the surface, has fewer tricks up her sleeve. The magic lies in the beauty – of body and soul. And voice. Mikael Bres takes pole dancing to another level, merging acrobatics, dance, drama and his mastery of the Chinese Pole. Comic relief comes from Sam Goodburn with his unicycle and slapstick reverse striptease. (Tip number four: avoid the front row if you’re at all fussy about where a biscuit has been before you eat it). Tara Boom is the popcorn seller from Hell – or Heaven, depending on your penchants. An act that should come with every Government health warning imaginable.
Whether these are highlights or whether I’ve managed to cover the whole line up is irrelevant. Every moment is a highlight. A revolution and a revelation. A place where you can leave your troubles outside. In the Spiegeltent life is beautiful. Sensuous, sensual and sexual. Thrilling and awe-inspiring. And unpredictable, sometimes dangerous. You smile, gape and laugh in equal measure. Entertainment is taken to the edge. And it takes you with it. Unmissable. (Tip number five: see tip number three – part b).
