“it doesn’t always feel like the comedy is intentional”
Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’ is a classic horror text and Arrows & Traps Theatre present a lively and committed production of it just in time for Halloween. For those who don’t know the story, Count Dracula is a vampire who feeds off the blood of the living, a murderer and seducer who has just moved from Transylvania to London. He is pursuing Mina Murray, the fiancé of Jonathan Harker, a solicitor who has recently been to visit the Count and is now plagued with visions of terrible things. As time begins to run out, a small team led by Professor Van Helsing, must fight to stop him.
The set, designed by Francine Huin-Wah, works really well. Set over two levels, the theatre is covered in thick castle stone and hung with ropes. The multiple levels allow lots of scope for use of the staging which Ross McGregor, writer and director of the piece, uses for maximum effect. The interweaving narratives are placed alongside each other so that sinister characters lurk in corners of seemingly innocent scenes, foreshadowing what is to come.
The cast is consistently strong. Lucy Ioannou as Lucy, and Beatrice Vincent who plays Mina, are a strong and lively duo. Cornelia Baumann’s Renfield is both terrifying and moving in her performance. Christopher Tester’s Dracula is wonderfully classic, sexual and camp, dressed in the long black robes of the night.
The production does seem occasionally confused – part comic, farcical almost, part genuine horror. A particularly jarring moment of this involves a cover of ‘Toxic’ by Britney Spears. Jump scares are followed by comic moments then another jump scare, and it doesn’t always feel like the comedy is intentional. There is a tendency at points towards melodrama but in this context the result is rather a fun one.
This is undoubtedly an entertaining and engaging evening delivered by committed and genuine performances.
“moments of brilliance bounce straight into the laps of the audience”
Alison Carr’s intricate and confident drama, exploring all the complexities of being and feeling vulnerable, the restrictive definitions of femininity and womanhood, and feeling trapped by your circumstance, delivers across the board. Its pace escalates as the plot thickens, handled expertly by a strong cast of three, and moments of brilliance bounce straight into the laps of the audience.
We enter to washes of sea sounds, setting the scene of this uniquely English seaside town. Jac Cooper’s sound design is exactly what this production needs – the soundscapes launch Claire’s opening monologue into an optimistic stratosphere, and later underscoring at climaxes of tension immerses the audience in the characters’ distress. Carr cleverly and subtly weaves in the darkness that is revealed more clearly in the second half of the play, with double meanings and seemingly offhand remarks. This is the sign of a writer who cares about discussing people in detail. Beginning with Claire’s end is utterly bittersweet and careful. Later, when her mother Maeve defends her daughter’s character, we believe her words, having seen Claire articulate what she feels like when she is free. This makes the play’s slow twist all the more crushing – Claire’s actions are not so difficult to understand. The hard issues in Caterpillar are never portrayed crassly.
Judith Amsenga delivers a stoic performance as Claire. She disrupts any camaraderie between Maeve and Simon with jarringly harsh remarks, and is relentlessly difficult to like. At times, this was played too extremely – but director Yasmeen Arden’s decision to go too far rather than not far enough is what the piece needs. Simon’s twisted speech about the spotlessness of his deceased ‘girlfriend’ later brings home how necessary it is to have overtly dislikeable, but still wroughtly complex, female characters. It’s a challenge to audiences, who are used to women quietly holding the fort, while other people and things – including their own self esteem and mental health – have the freedom to crumble around them. Maeve, a single parent, and Claire, an unhappy mother, battle one another because they have forever been fighting the war of expectation; of what society wants from them, and says will make them happy.
Tricia Kelly’s emotional range as Maeve is riveting. She cuts through the play with excellent comic timing, which mixes in with her own quiet suffering, as she recovers from a stroke. Kelly holds the stage when on the phone to her son-in-law and grandson, and her intonation and physical flair are entrancing to watch. Maeve pressures herself to keep a clean, lighthearted and welcoming home environment, which she extends to her guest at the b&b. Alan Mahon peels back Simon’s layers to reveal an altogether more sinister core beneath his battered hang-glider. His own low self-esteem, again deftly introduced by Carr in his first conversation with Claire about a reservation mix-up through her front door, causes him to fetishise and idealise women, to seek those who are vulnerable in order to strengthen his own ego. It’s close to the bone, but it’s not unfamiliar. The best scenes occur when Simon plays alongside each of the women. These jousting matches are well-placed in the play, and Arden plots them well in the space.
Holly Pigott’s set and costume design is a harmony of sunny brights and pastels, which beautifully highlights and offsets the stage action. Some needed space is niftily created by way of a further entrance/exit, taking the characters ‘outside’ – both an escape from their claustrophobia, and a reminder of it. Ben Jacobs’ lighting design is sensual and considerate. Lighting the seaside wooden cage around the stage with LEDs is a master touch. Arden has measured and weighed every line and motion of Caterpillar, and when it is at its best, it’s hard to look away. Caterpillar is at once searingly modern and strikingly timeless, a necessary drama for now.
