“Taylor and Kimaryo are convincing and honest enough together”
The tragic themes in Philip Ridley’s one act two-hander, first produced in 2000 and regularly revived since, sadly retain their relevance today. This new production is set in a rather timeless era though with old-fashioned decor (and no evidence of any mobile phones) so we could be watching a period piece set anytime from the 1980s onwards.
The action takes place in a shabby room in East London with a ghastly red fitted carpet, whitewashed windows, peeling wallpaper, and a cruddy-looking sofa. There is a scattering of boxes around the floor, evidencing that Anita (Kerrie Taylor) has not yet finished moving in. A naked light bulb hangs from the ceiling. (Set & Costume Designer Alice Carroll).
Forced out of her previous home by gossiping neighbours, Anita is looking for a new start. But a boy who she has seen loitering near her old house, has now followed her here and she is curious to find out why. Davey (Brandon Kimaryo) – full of nervous energy, twisting and turning, unable to keep still – walks in through her open door and admits to having found the dead body of Anita’s son Vince, killed in a homophobic attack in an unsavoury disused station toilet. He now cannot unsee what he saw and wants to talk about Vince to make him “walk out of his head”.
Anita is full of suppressed anger. Her mood is volatile, quick to pique. Her voice rises to a shriek and then falls again to a whisper. She suspects Davey of involvement somehow in Vince’s death, certainly he knows more than he is saying. Facing off across the room, two metres apart, they interrogate each other. He wants to know all about the boy. She needs to know details of his death. When they encroach closer, Davey towers over her. She gives him cigarettes and gin. He gives her a foot massage and dope.
Together they replay what occurred on the fateful day, pacing out the action across the living room carpet. Director James Haddrell moves the couple around the room naturally and is not afraid to have them sit in silence when the conversation dries up. Little by little, they give up bits of their own story to learn something new from the other. But Davey has the more to explain and when he removes his black hoodie prior to an explosion of visceral grief, his smart shirt below is drenched in sweat.
The closing scene as Davey attempts to assuage his own feelings of guilt might have been a stretch for a young actor but Kimaryo (making his professional debut whilst still at drama school) nails it totally in a masterful display. Kerrie Taylor performs well too, collapsing to the floor in her own moment of despair. The complete story is finally told – tragic, sickening, and in parts somewhat implausible – but Taylor and Kimaryo are convincing and honest enough together that the action grips without slipping into soap opera.
Absorbing the styles and visions of modern American playwrights and screen writers, Cameron Corcoran conjures up a contained, remote world in ‘Lone Star Diner’, illustrating the shattered American Dream from different angles and with emphasis on what he considers the overlooked perspective of women. The plot is neatly constructed, twisting through the dialogue to reveal the reasons behind the characters’ behaviour, relationships and decisions. The overall effect, however, is not so much a feminist standpoint in a misogynistic world, as an impression of hardship, helplessness and acrimony in the USA, in which Corcoran is influenced by TV series and films. The personalities in the play are clearly drawn from these. However, in recreating rather than growing into their own roles, they can only go skin deep and are consequently hindered from interacting with complete conviction.
Director, Mike Cottrell, works hard to build up the tension from slow, low-key suspense to the unexpected burst of the outcome, though the balance before and after the interval is like a team getting a talking-to at half time and pulling their socks up. In the end, Billie Hamer, as June, gives a strong performance, showing desperate frustration from a past of trauma and disappointment, but at the beginning she needs the jaded fragility of her suffering to be apparent and make sense of her actions. Seamus Dillane struggles with his American accent, somewhat undermining the ruthless confidence of Cyrus. His opening scene with June is sometimes too hurried and clumsy for someone who is emotionally detached; instead of the calculated persuasion of his vulnerable victim which should arouse our suspicions and empathy, it comes across as a heated discussion. As the exploitative employee Larry, Adrian Walker-Reilly goes for the sinister undertones and expressive eyebrows of Jack Nicholson. Unfortunately, he never quite achieves the malevolence and, though tied to an underpaid job, it is hard to understand June’s true fear of him. Jack Sunderland brings relief as Billy Lee, the lawman. Verging on over-mannered at first, he offers some captivating moments as he uncovers the complexity and confusion of his feelings and sense of personal debt and duty.
The black and white floor tiles and metal furniture of the set (Natasha Shirley) immediately set the scene, with the encroaching sand of the surrounding desert reminding us of the diner’s isolation. Daniel Maxted’s lighting design creates dramatic and atmospheric qualities throughout the show and which intensify the cinematic approach. As a reflection on the fraud, greed and inhumanity that has resulted from the American Dream’s ethos of freedom to attain prosperity and success, ‘Lone Star Diner’ is an interesting and very watchable production. Yet the focus on female liberation becomes overshadowed by the many peripheral ideas, from an outsider’s eyes, wound into the story to enhance the cultural image. The poignancy of modern American theatre comes from the fact that American playwrights are simply writing about life.
