“Nancy Sullivan delivers Leah with warmth and an immediate likeability”
“I’m revolting,” Leah says, opening the play. Her and her husband, Ben Cavendish, meet when he comes in for a suit and she, in the words of her disapproving mother in law, “serves” him. On the third date he calls her “potential wife material” and sure enough, soon Leah is picking out dresses and planning her wedding. But this is not the narrative of a happy marriage. It is a story about sexual assault, within and later, outside of marriage, how rape is justified by its perpetrators, and the failures of an unbelieving judicial system.
Within this, the show also comments on the roles women are expected to play in society, the trajectory women’s lives are supposed to follow and the confusion that disillusionment brings. Clothing, as the title suggests, weaves a strong motif throughout the show, a reflection of the societal and judicial obsession with the clothing worn by someone who has been raped. Class is also underlying in Leah’s depictions of her mother in law and of Ben.
Abi Zakarian is a beautiful writer, leading us from light to dark with ease. The accounts of rape have such an impact that they are difficult to focus beyond – we leave the theatre still reeling – although the foreboding answer machine messages that pepper the play feel a little unnecessary.
Nancy Sullivan delivers Leah with warmth and an immediate likeability, giggling away, genuine and familiar. Her journey across the play, and the horrific and graphic accounts of rape, are incredibly moving and impactful, an unflinching performance from a very impressive performer.
Anna Reid’s set is scattered pieces of furniture, chairs mainly, which connote different spaces across the narrative, a visual map of Leah’s story, though I’m not sure how much they add.
This is a topical, and vital piece of theatre delivered by a clear talent, that discusses rape as well as the society that so often justifies and perpetuates it.
“Their precise delivery of the fast-paced dialogue is matched by their energetic and purposeful occupation of the in-the-round stage”
If I had a pound for every time I heard that originality is dead, I’d put the Arts Council out of business. There is a myth that persists which claims are no new modes of expression, that Plato, Shakespeare and Pinter have covered the lot. It persists, in spite of the adventurous new work that challenges such an assumption.
Speaking of adventurous new work, The Political History of Smack and Crack is fresh from Edinburgh and newly in Soho. It arrives with the intent of showing how the introduction of heroin to the streets of Manchester affected a generation. This “lost generation” of addicts is represented by Neil and Mandy, two friends bound together by love, fate, and opiates. Their struggle to stay clean, as well as their complex personal relationship, provide the emotional backbone of the play. But writer Ed Edwards takes things a step further by exploring not only the addiction of his protagonists, but the addiction of the whole country. The political context behind the rise in heroin addiction is explained; Thatcher’s government is exposed for its role this process; a series of statistics evoke the dissolution of the country before our eyes.
On its own, the story of Neil and Mandy would make for an enjoyable play. This is thanks in part to Neil Bell and Eve Steele, who capture their inner conflicts perfectly. One minute they are infusing dialogue with dry wit – ‘Why did you tell me it was good?’ ‘I didn’t want to die alone’ – the next this humour has given way to the depths of repressed feelings. Their precise delivery of the fast-paced dialogue is matched by their energetic and purposeful occupation of the in-the-round stage.
But the political content of the play is what truly elevates it beyond a straightforward addiction story. The moments when Bell and Steele break character and delve into the facts of the political situation are as captivating as they are shocking. It gives Neil and Mandy’s story new depth; simultaneously, it exposes an important historical event that the audience (or at least ignorant Southerners like myself) may be unaware of. Ultimately, it shows that we are all part of something bigger, that no story can be isolated from its context and expect to be understood.
Perhaps that’s why this play feels so timely, in spite of the fact that it takes events three decades previous as its subject. In a time where personal stories are championed over political context, Edwards’ union of these two aspects suggests that individual narratives can be a springboard to understanding rather than a final statements on the subject.
And (for the record) if a situation ever arises where I do get a pound every time someone says originality is dead, I will gladly give every last one to projects like this, and hope that it births more work that explores sensitive issues with the same rigour and poignancy that can be witnessed here.
