“I’d have rather left disturbed than bemused, and allowed this genuinely brilliant and terrifying idea to come to full fruition”
It’s possible I’m out of the loop, but until this year, I’d never heard of a one-on-one production, and this month I’ve seen two. It might sound a bit mad, and I’m not suggesting that’s the way theatre should be moving, but I like it as a format. Although it means you can’t go along with a friend, it creates the possibility for an intimacy and intensity that just isn’t possible in a normal audience set-up.
Patient 4620 invites you to a private guided tour of the artist Gretel Sauerbrot’s life’s work and her eventual permanent stay at an insane asylum. Sitting in a wheelchair, you’re rolled about by an unseen host from one painting to the next, each spot-lit in turn in the otherwise entirely blackened space.
The narrator (Kaz Brown), heard through a speaker, is an intimate friend of the artist who knows exactly what personal troubles and traumas drew the artist to paint. The build-up to her ultimate psychological break-down is well-paced; the works have an ominous foreboding, and the art is good enough that I’m happy to buy into it.
The second half, however, in which I meet my creepy helper, doesn’t quite work. As it turns out he’s a doctor (Robb Wildash) and I’m the patient. But whilst his demeanour is erratic and genuinely a bit terrifying, the plot doesn’t hold so well, and the final moments are disappointing. It feels a bit like writer and director Victoria Snaith was a bit too conscientious of the effects of the close, dark space, not wanting to frighten the audience-of-one, and so decided to lighten the mood, just when she might have scared the bojangles out of them. Personally, I’d have rather left disturbed than bemused, and allowed this genuinely brilliant and terrifying idea to come to full fruition. This year’s run is over, but I look forward to experiencing it in its next and, hopefully, far more terrifying iteration.
“an amazing and unique service to offer in a town that often feels indifferent to your wellbeing”
London is a hard city to crack. Even for those certain this is the place they want to be, for those deeply in love with its turbo pace, beauty and anonymity; it’s still tough. But in a shipping container round the corner from Waterloo station, Love In’s Amanda Grace offers a refuge to all, somewhere free of cynicism and defensiveness. Somewhere to have a truly sincere conversation about where you’re at in your life, how you’re feeling about the decisions you’ve made of late, and what you want for yourself. She also offers a cup of tea or coffee if you fancy.
It functions as a kind of therapy session, except Amanda responds to everything I tell her with unabashed enthusiasm and empathy. There’s some reflection on what we talk about, but nothing even close to critical. Also, unlike a normal therapy session, I’m allowed to ask questions about her, and she answers honestly and openly.
As we talk, she’s writing a letter addressed to me, and at the end of the session she pops it in an envelope, along with an English Rose teabag, a hand-written playlist and a little excerpt from Alfred de Musset to George Sand professing his unadulterated love.
The letter itself is as personal as its possible to be after a half hour conversation with a stranger, but it’s full of positivity and encouragement, and I’m truly delighted reading it on my commute home on a crammed London train.
I think Love In is slightly mis-sold, because it’s not really an attempt at showing ‘love’ or anything so disingenuous. Instead, it’s an opportunity to have a chat, free of judgement, to present yourself as you see yourself and receive only assurance and kindness. It must be an exhausting undertaking for Amanda, but she seems willing, and it’s an amazing and unique service to offer in a town that often feels indifferent to your wellbeing.
