“Wilson and Bain are remarkable, deftly switching between the comedy and the subtler, more poignant moments”
Linck and Mülhahn is billed as an epic romance inspired by the true story of an 18th century gender pioneer. I expected it to be an interesting story, and an important one. What I did not expect, was for it to be funny. But funny it is. Very funny.
Much of this is down to Ruby Thomas’ script, which is both witty and bawdy, full of inuendo, and lightning-fast flirting. Owen Horsley’s direction pumps the play with energy, and it races along, aided by punk rock scene transitions by sound designer Max Pappenheim. Despite the heavy subject matter, the play rushes along with zest and spirit.
All that survives of this true story are the court transcripts, documenting Anastasius Linck’s life and their gender non-conformity. Ruby Thomas has framed this story as a romance between Linck and Catharina Mülhahn. There are shades of the screwball comedies in these lovers’ fast-paced flirtation. Both are radical, passionate about the contemporary political philosophy and enjoy a racy joke. Their sizzling romance begins with the feisty young Mülhahn (Helena Wilson) gawping at the dashing Linck (Maggie Bain) through a window. Her unabashed lust, and boldness, is refreshing in a period drama. Throughout the play the dialogue crackles out from the era, making the characters feel so real, it’s easy to forget they’re all long dead.
Both Wilson and Bain are remarkable, deftly switching between the comedy and the subtler, more poignant moments. A particular highlight of both performances is a quiet scene where they bathe one another. Their chemistry and connection are the heart of the play and there is no doubt that these two belong together.
Another stand-out performance is from Lucy Black, as Mülhahn’s mother. It’s a fascinating character, she is bitter, trapped in her internalised conventionality but hopelessly bored and lonely. Black seamlessly navigates the complexity of this role, making her at once both a villain and a victim of her own era.
Simon Wells’ set is modern and evocative. It is a revolving two-storey structure made of veiled screens and doors, which often light up in different colours, courtesy of lighting designer Matt Daw. This creates an illusion of privacy in more intimate scenes, but also the sense that their privacy is as flimsy as the screens themselves.
There are moments where the comedy muddles the emotional punch, especially in the second half. There is also a narrator, which at times feels melodramatic, and unnecessary given the strength of the story itself.
But it is a great story, and this play has spun it in a way which feels fresh, and vibrant. This is not the story of a downtrodden victim. It is the bold and unapologetic cry to leave shame behind and live your own truth.
“it’s a refreshing change, really, to find a musical that doesn’t shy away from unpleasant truths of contemporary life”
Public Domain is the Southwark Playhouse’s latest production, live streamed from the theatre so that we can view it safely in our own homes. It’s a peppy, up to the minute, musical take on the joys and pitfalls of social media. And appropriately, in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, the whole piece is performed by just two actors, Francesca Forristal and Jordan Paul Clarke. Clarke and Forristal also wrote this piece, taking as their inspiration, words and composite characters posting on social media over the last year.
The show opens with a couple of everyday millennials enthusing about the joys of Facebook. They’re looking for connections—with just about anyone. “Just like that we felt a little less alone” they sing, and ironic tone apart, much of the theme of Public Domain seems to be focused on this generation’s fears of not getting enough attention. The show ranges from deftly amplified scenes portraying vloggers on Youtube talking about the anxiety of posting enough, to uneasy musings about whether they would really be better off on Instagram. Francesca Forristal’s manic vlogger is particularly well done, and nicely contrasts with Jordan Paul Clarke’s perennially depressed one, wondering aloud whether all this soul baring to the camera is just free therapy.
All this manic depressive zeal can’t last, of course, and Public Domain soon starts examining the more problematic side of social media. Who manages, and thus controls, all this deeply personal data? Forristal and Clarke switch to American accents, and in an instant, Mark Zuckerberg, earnest CEO of Facebook, and his equally earnest physician wife, Priscilla Chan, are on stage singing “how lucky we are”. Their fervent declaration that “Tomorrow is gonna be better than today” seems unlikely, however, given that their portrayal of happy family life is in-terspersed with scenes of Congress grilling Zuckerberg on rights to privacy. How safe (and how true) is all that data that people upload onto Facebook? From themes of Fake News and data misuse, Public Domain takes an easy leap from Youtube, Facebook and Instagram into the unglued an-tics of TikTok. As Clarke gives us a musical tour of this new social media app, Matt Powell’s video wizardry superimposes TikTok examples on Clarke’s performance. This is a departure from projecting onto a simple backdrop on stage, as one would during a conventional production, and it works quite well. It is, indeed, just one example in Public Domain where the creative team become mothers of invention through the necessity of having to live stream theatre.
Public Domain is a bold attempt at a new kind of theatre forged in irony for our uncertain times. Its sparse lines are seen throughout with a cut down cast, economical direction (Adam Lenson) and in set and costume design (Libby Todd). The songs and lyrics allow more extravagance of expression, but most of the work in this show is carried on the capable shoulders of Clarke and Forristal. And it’s a refreshing change, really, to find a musical that doesn’t shy away from unpleasant truths of contemporary life, even while it celebrates the madness of our angst ridden era.
