Two dates, a few months apart but on two different continents, are layered on top of each other. Actor and writer Kate Goodfellow plays herself in both, a bravely intimate portrayal of two seemingly unrelated days, one in Australia and one in the UK. The link between them is the temperature; it is 39 degrees and too hot.
By flipping deftly between these timeframes, Goodfellow explores the moment of the Australian bushfires and the fall out from them, experienced far away, displaced in a flat she hates. Through Joseph Ed Thomas’ dramatic lighting design, the audience are flipped from one moment to the other. At the same time, Goodfellow rapidly changes the frame through which she engages with natural disaster. She veers from the highly personal and individual to the political manifesto, holding forth on domestic politicians and global blindness. This switching is supported by Ruth Newbery-Payton, who plays her visiting sister but also fills in as news readers, horrified bystanders and government officials.
At the focal point of the performance is the beautiful set piece built by Chris Gibbs. A stubbornly hot radiator is flanked by bags for life stuffed with Goodfellow’s belongings. Above these is a luminous and backlit window. The blinds are drawn but the frame glows consistently, providing a dramatic and also flexible backdrop as it simmers red with fire or grey with the piercing light of London. It’s perennially closed blinds makes the space claustrophobic enough to house Goodfellow’s portrayal of mental health crises but also hints at the greater context of these; she is not suffering on a purely personal basis and mental health doesn’t function in a vacuum. Huge decisions made miles away slip in through the gaps in the blinds.
Goodfellow has a lot to balance in this hour long set, and it does sometimes run away from her. There is considerable comedy in the interactions between her and her sister, but the jumps from there to external tragedy and personal disaster are often jarring and uncomfortable. What is aiming for a Fleabag-esque candidness can’t be earnt in the short time and is instead disorienting. This is compounded by writing which is at times clumsy and hammy. Moments of spoken word feel misplaced amongst casual language and the dialogue slips between realistic and stylised too fast and frequent to track.
Despite its tonal issues, Goodfellow has created a hugely vulnerable and timely piece of theatre. The closeness to her own life is keenly felt and means that the audience are willing to follow her through it, even if the road is a little uneven.
“The lightness in the whole production betrays the skilful way in which the story is told and the issues explored”
Austerity Britain has a lot to answer for with its meaningless and mean-spirited social re-engineering responsible for many devastating things in contemporary society, not least the tearing apart of communities.
Many writers have been inspired by the crisis yet in Conor Hunt’s powerful new play “Who Cares” politics take a back seat to the more important reality of friendship winning through against all odds.
Last year Anna Jordan’s “We Anchor in Hope” showed how the closure of local pubs to make way for supermarket express stores, classy restaurants and luxury flats was ripping the heart out of community life.
In “Who Cares” the starting point is the same, as friendly Manchester local The Crown faces closure. But the pub is a sanctuary for a young disabled man, the only place he feels safe after being forced to move with his mum from their Camden flat because the council hadn’t the time to fix a broken lift.
Instead of descending into the sort of sentimentality beloved of TV soaps, a play which could so easily have focussed on a person’s disability stands out for concentrating on the value of true friendship, fighting against the odds and breaking away from self-imposed limitations.
The two characters are so well-developed over the course of an hour that this genuinely feels like a promising pilot for a TV sitcom. You can engage and empathise with them from the start and we want to know more about their lives and futures.
Reece Pantry’s Jamie suffers from Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease, a form of the long-term degenerative condition Muscular Dystrophy. Pantry, who has MD himself, quickly avoids any attempt to milk sympathy, believably portraying the sense of isolation and desperate need to save a pub where he feels accepted for who he is. It is no surprise Muscular Dystrophy UK has been so supportive of the production.
Kyle Rowe has the confident air of a young Christopher Eccleston in the role of pub landlord Daniel. Beneath the bluff Northern exterior lies a tender sincerity and the relationship between the two men is beautifully painted, from Dan helping Jamie fill out important forms to the pair singing Sonny and Cher at a karaoke.
There is an hilarious and touching scene in which Dan finds a Snow White outfit and wears it knowing how ridiculous he looks just to help his friend gain confidence in chatting up girls. The sight of Rowe in the costume will be one of the lasting images from this year’s VAULT Festival.
Emma-Louise Howell directs with a touch that is firm enough to move the plot along, yet with a delicacy that allows the two characters to develop naturally. The lightness in the whole production betrays the skilful way in which the story is told and the issues explored.
The set (Justin Williams) is an extraordinary recreation of a pub interior, at the start littered with the debris of a hen party the night before. Later on comedian Bradley Walsh even manages to make a sort of cameo appearance. It is a good example to others of using decent set and props fully rather than leaving absolutely everything to the imagination. Lighting (Joseph Ed Thomas) and sound (Jack Ridley) also do much to evoke the various moods.
It is refreshing to see such mature writing from someone up and coming and Hunt is clearly going to be a name to watch. Despite its warm heart “Who Cares” also has the capacity to provoke and dares to ask hard-hitting questions in a battered Britain.
