“Riml’s comedic writing is good, though decidedly safe”
Sexy Laundry feels like familiar territory; it is a story of a couple’s attempt to rekindle their relationship. But familiar stories are hard to do well but Felicity Duncan and Nick Raggett’s sensitive performances bring this relationship to life. With shows like the BBC’s Wanderlust airing, a play about difficult marriages and unfulfilling sex seems timely. So let’s talk about sex, between ordinary people.
Written by Michele Riml and staged in the US, Canada and across Eastern Europe, Sexy Laundry’s themes have had a wide appeal. Alice (Felicity Duncan) and Henry (Nick Raggett) have found themselves growing apart, a vast chasm of daily chores, children and work troubles lying between them. To relearn intimacy they must talk, something that turns out to be quite hard and humorously so. With some wonderful lines (‘I think you’re confusing a sexual fantasy with a tampax advert.’), the comedy plays with the differences between two people that can go unspoken for years.
The Tabard Theatre’s small performance space provides for an intimate setting as the actors are on stage for eighty minutes, alone, in a hotel bedroom. Indeed, the space takes on that alien luxury of a hotel, equipped with outrageously thin towels, absurdly plush flooring and an array of settings for ‘mood’ lighting. There are also some wonderful moments of physical theatre (and of dancing) in which the lighting transforms the set and Duncan and Raggett’s comedic prowess really comes to the fore.
Riml’s comedic writing is good, though decidedly safe. Sexy Laundry is a play about some very ordinary middle-class and middle-aged people. Other than the fact that we know that Henry is an engineer and Alice an estate agent, they are characters who seem devoid of any idiosyncrasy. Though this makes their squabbles relatable, it also makes their relationship one that is stunted by rather stereotypical gender norms.
Sexy Laundry is a careful comedy about disappointment, fantasy and intimacy. This is a tight production in a great little theatre. The cast’s performances are consistent and convincing, with some moments of real flare. Together, they tell a story of two people who struggle to talk about sex because they have, it seems, always played it safe. Unfortunately so does the comedy.
“There are some side-splitting one-liners in this play, as well as some hard-hitting ones too”
Hugo wants to kill himself, but he doesn’t necessarily want to die. Schrödinger’s Dog is a dark comedy about male suicide. It follows a young man’s chaotic night as he tries to make some difficult decisions. What ensues is a sequence of hilarious events that are just about fantastic enough to be believable. Hugo (Monty Jones) reaches out to unhelpful friends and unsuspecting strangers, from Chucks (Aaron Phinehas Peters), the pizza delivery boy to Barbara (Lindsey-Anne Barnes) from the call centre. There is hysteria, there is an accidental kidnapping, there is despair and there are moments of true kindness.
Actor and writer Monty Jones has perfect comedic timing. His portrayal of Hugo as a simultaneously charismatic and narcissistic young man carries an incredible vulnerability and humour. Equally, Aaron Phinehas Peters’ performance of Chucks is focused, an amiable and calm presence to Hugo’s unravelling. Their initial conversation kindles a friendship and is among the most touching and uproarious scenes in the play.
Director Dom Riley manages to turn The White Bear’s small and flexible stage into a space of intimacy and claustrophobia. With some well chosen, and often ironic, chart toppers added to the mix, Hugo’s flat feels like a space in which anything could happen. As the gathering of strangers increases, however, there is a feeling that the stage is about to burst. There are nine actors in this play. Though they are all in tune with one another, the sheer number of people on stage does detract from the most poignant points in the play. Some of the tenderest moments are skipped a little too quickly. And then, of course, there is Schrödinger’s Dog, which, despite being the title, seems like the least important part of Hugo’s night.
This is the work of a young and promising theatre company, Break the Verse. It has set out a distinctive LGBTQ agenda, and, in that respect, hits the mark. There is a brilliant subplot with Simon and Nick, a couple in the midst of their own problems. It is so refreshing to see members of the LGBTQ community who are written and performed as fully fleshed out characters and not there to just drive the plot.
There are some side-splitting one-liners in this play, as well as some hard-hitting ones too. Monty Jones’ writing bears resemblance to the wit and absurdity of Almodovar’s Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakdown. Though the chaos may get a little out of hand, at no point does the play make light of pain or sadness. Instead, it inspects the unbearable lightness with which depression can be treated or misunderstood. ‘I don’t feel how I’m supposed to feel,’ Hugo tries to explain. But Hugo reminds us how hard it is to talk about depression, particularly to those who haven’t the tools to listen. Schrödinger’s Dog’s comedic value is not in making fun of something serious, but in looking at the ludicrously funny things we do when we at the end of our tether.
