“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.
“Helen Ramsay is brilliant as the bolshie good-timer, leaning into a very believable sibling-like petulance”
A and B have been friends for a few years now. Best friends even, and they’ve come to rely on one another for the truth. But B has started seeing someone who disapproves of A, and it’s tearing them apart.
The unlikeliness of their friendship is already in the script: A is rambunctious and charming, whereas B is introspective and uptight. But both love a tussle, and they’re not afraid to disagree, which is, we’re told, the crux of their relationship. That’s all well and good, but we never really get to see the good bits of the friendship, or, in particular, what B has to offer A. It’s hard to know whether this is the fault of writer Mike Bartlett or director James Haddrell, or maybe the chemistry just isn’t right, but ultimately, whilst A is definitely not perfect, B comes across a drag as well as a bad friend, so it’s kind of hard to support the friendship when it seems doomed from the get.
As we’ve come to expect from Bartlett, the script is quippy and clever, latticing political eloquence with nonsense banter. Helen Ramsay is brilliant as the bolshie good-timer, leaning into a very believable sibling-like petulance. Lauren Drennan definitely has the harder job, but despite her seeming fairly unlikeable in her relationship with A, she comes alive when she turns to the audience to speak directly about her choices, which does give us an idea of who she might’ve been when they first met.
But given there isn’t really a set- just a white curtain, and a coat rack- there’s a lot of pressure on Ramsay and Drennan to keep the audience entirely focused and engaged with pure dialogue for just under two hours, which would be a struggle with even the quippiest and most eloquent of scripts. Even a sofa would’ve done, or a couple of chairs, just to give some texture.
Without giving the whole thing away, the ending seems a little overwrought considering the careful nuance of the plot until then. Also, because a suspension cable is required in the last scene for health and safety, Ramsay quickly runs off stage at a crucially tense moment to be clipped on, and the audience is blasted with an angsty soundtrack as the stage momentarily blacks out, as though we might not notice this massive interruption, and I’m left feeling confused and distracted just when I’m supposed to be gripped.
It’s hard not to be particularly critical with a Mike Bartlett play, considering how well received the prolific writer has been in the last few years. But although I wanted this to be exceptional, it’s still very good, with moments of brilliance; a thoughtful consideration of what we expect of our friendships, and how much is too much.
