“There’s enough that’s excellent to know that she could make this genuinely spine-chilling”
Writer Nina Atesh has come upon a beautiful, terrifying idea: What if the sea simply disappeared one day, drying out like a small puddle, stranding all its aquatic societies, fish and sailor alike. It captures the imagination with both the arid aesthetic of the dried-out sea, and the practical horror of being completely stranded in the middle of nowhere with no fresh water to be found. Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite come to fruition.
There’s definitely a growing sense of dread throughout, but it seems misdirected: The two last crew members on board this particular ship- the captain (Andrew Callaghan) and his loyal steward, Garson (Jack Flammiger) – busy themselves with pointless naval tasks, playing out some sense of normality, until they’re interrupted by a mysterious stranger (Caleb O’Brien), claiming to be a stranded whaler, in need only of food and water. But his motives become suspect as he tries to manipulate and turn the captain and steward against one another. The reason isn’t entirely clear- he seems to desperately want the captain’s much prized jar of sea water- but the menace he poses doesn’t seem to add up to the apparent goal.
Julia Sullivan’s set is appropriately sparse, a platform serving as Captain’s desk, topped with only a ledger, a lamp, and the precious sea water. Sullivan’s costumes have a little more flare, mirroring the bizarre contrast between the bleak, lonely circumstances, and the captain’s refusal to give up his naval rituals: Garson is smartly attired in a striped blue collarless shirt, always tucked in, and similarly the captain is never without his naval jacket, scattered with what looks like glittering, gold seaweed, a sign of his eternal pledge to life at sea.
The performances are strong on the whole, though the script seems to let O’Brien down a bit; the uncertainty of his character’s purpose seeps into his performance. Callaghan is jarringly spectacular, a massive fish in a small pond (pun intended). His eyes bulge with exhaustion, and his false jocularity is maybe the scariest part of the show.
If Atesh were to rewrite this and come back to the stage with the exact same cast and crew, I would absolutely come to see it. There’s enough that’s excellent to know that she could make this genuinely spine-chilling if she were willing to kill her darlings and rework the plot.
“There’s definitely a seed of an idea here, with plenty of potential for empathy and humour”
Writer and performer Christopher Wollaton has absolutely found a gap in the mental health discussion. Whilst there’s a lot of chat about body positivity for women, there doesn’t seem to be much about men, despite society being over-saturated with images of topless hunks with eight-packs, even, as Wollaton notes, the Chris Pratt-types who were supposed to be the clumsy loveable ones. So it’s totally valid and important for male body dysmorphia to become part of the discussion.
But the trouble with a play about someone obsessed with their gym habits is that, by its nature, it’s boring: you can’t socially eat, you can’t go for a drink, you can’t really engage in any extra curriculars. You just go to the gym, eat your chicken and broccoli and, apparently, give yourself very embarrassing pep talks in the mirror.
Which is what we watch Wollaton doing for just under an hour. Nothing really happens because nothing can happen by definition. The point is that his obsession has taken over his entire life, blinding him from the possibilities that might present themselves.
Only a couple of years ago, he was getting good grades in his final school year, he had big plans to study Science at University and he had a crush on his physics partner. But then she started dating the buff school jock, who called our hero a “lank cabbage” and after that, he learned one thing: Girls are only interested in big muscly men.
Since then, he’s pretty much locked himself in his parents’ garage and stared at his physique as he pumps weights, surrounded by aspirational magazine cut-outs and nothing else.
We’re teased with the possibility of a richer life waiting for him: a girl, Becky, keeps calling, worrying about him. She’s recently been encouraging him to go back to school, to reignite his old passions for astronomy. But that’s all kept at bay by his complete and singular focus: his muscles.
With an hour of exposition, and no narrative twists or other characters to jostle against, Wollaton hasn’t given himself much to work with. There’s definitely a seed of an idea here, with plenty of potential for empathy and humour, but after several outings for Brawn, it still appears to be very much still in the making.
