Author Archives: Honour Bayes

Junction 25: I Hope My Heart Goes First

An army of teenagers throw themselves around on stage as an operation takes place to dissect the concept of love. I Hope My Heart Goes First is an impassioned look at this most powerful of emotions from those who are its starting blocks. They dance it out, fight it out, sing it out, even whisper it to us. Adam who’s ‘never had any experience of romantic love’ makes a list of the other things he loves and holds a real heart all the way through. Justin Timberlake is delivered with the passionate abandon of a hairbrush bedroom singer, and heart rates are measured in a pogo jump competition.

It’s undeniably rough and unsophisticated but that’s what makes I Hope My Heart Goes First such an emotional experience. This is a piece that has actually been devised by its young performers. Unlike the smooth and knowing Once And For All We’re Gonna Tell You Who We Are So Shut Up And Listen the adults in this process (Junction 25 artistic directors Tashi Gore and Jess Thorpeare) have acted merely as assistants in getting the casts’ message out there, in all it’s naive and occasionally heartbreaking glory.

The concluding work is ambitious, audacious and occasionally feels messy, but isn’t that how love feels? In all its silly wonder I Hope My Heart Goes First is deeply moving and breathtakingly successful in its complicity with its audience; it is because they care so much and so genuinely, that we do to.

www.junction-25.com

David Greig: The Monster in the Hall

There’s a monster in the hall and it bites, but it’s not what you think – or is it? David Greig’s delightful modern fairytale blends fantasy with reality in a piece of pure, joyous poor theatre. Using only four actors and four microphones kingdoms are created and battles fought and won.

The daughter of a biker King and Queen, Duck Macatarsney is a princess looking after her widowed father who suffers from MS. When he goes blind from the disease the waves of calamity (provided by an Evil Fairy Godmother of the same name) that have been threatening to engulf Castle Macatarsney almost drown Duck as she hears that The Lady from social services is coming to take her away. Duck begins to weave an increasingly complex web of lies to try to stem the flood in a musical narrated by a 60s girl-group pop band who act like a deliciously camp Greek chorus.

The childish imagination that powers this energetic piece of storytelling is complimented perfectly by Nigel Dunn’s peppy score and a soundtrack so sophisticated it melts into the background. The versatility of this ensemble of actor-musicians smacks of the impressive ease of virtuoso performers. David Carlyle, Beth Marshall, Keith Macpherson and Gemma McElhinney slip from the sound of growling motorbikes one minute to melting harmonies and potent emotional encounters the next. McElhinney shines as Duck and, perhaps most impressively, Greig’s writing avoids being sentimental whilst providing everyone with a fairytale ending. Pitch perfect.

Nigel Barrett and Louise Mari: One Man Show

There is one moment of One Man Show when Nigel Barrett mouths off about the horrific attraction of the self-obsessed actor. His face is covered in a bandage with only his wide eyes showing, whilst a projected and grotesque set of lips and teeth move with disturbing urgency and a rumbling voice proclaims how charmingly terrible he is.

It strikes a chord with this performer-heavy audience but it’s also a sharply funny theatrical moment that anyone can relish. When at their best this is what Barrett and his Shunt and Edinburgh collaborator Louise Mari do best, creating work that pleases theatre types and the general public alike. But it’s a fine line to tread. If only all of One Man Show could be as entertaining and daring as this satirical monologue.

A deconstruction of the idea of performance itself, and in particular the monologue-led form of its title, this is a surprisingly safe exploration for the wild twosome of Barrett and Mari. Words flash up and Barrett obligingly does the corresponding Garrick-like party piece facial expression. ‘Anger.’ Grrrr. ‘Fear.’ Whimper. ‘Happiness.’ Grin. He gets naked on stage, literally striping away the layers of performance, revelling in its exposing nature.

Fast-paced projections of dirty iconic men flash up behind him and we are given a stunning sunset and even some treats for the interval. Barrett handles his tricky audience with the blasé skill of a pro and gives us lots of rope to hang ourselves with as we rustle sweets and cough, albeit on cue.

But for all its bangs and whistles where is the new ground being covered here? It’s all a bit neat and pat and the questions it asks feel familiar. For a genuinely piercing exploration on the form and function of performance, the role of a performer and their audience, there are more dangerous and ultimately interesting places to go looking this Fringe.

www.shunt.co.uk/louise_mari/index.html

Nicola Gunn: At the Sans Hotel

‘See me,’ a sea of ordinary faces asks us. ‘See me’ – two little words packed with such meaning. So begins Nicola Gunn’s At the Sans Hotel, a fractured prism of a performance looking at an increasingly unstable self. It ends with her staring out blinkingly at us, the same sweet expression on her face as she welcomed us in with. What happens in between is some fresh kind of madness, but it’s an insanity which hangs together in a Lynchian way, leaving a holistic stain on those who braved it all the way through.

Gunn delights in pulling the rug from underneath us and her persona is in a constant state of flux. She is breathtakingly personal and at the same time desperately contrived. Shocking us on purpose she looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and then tells us about an obsession with masturbating in public. She draws complex diagrams about what this story is supposed to be about, turning her narrative arc into a sad woman’s face, and sitting behind it as it stares out at us and she stuffs herself with cake. A German woman sits behind a desk berating a film version of herself as she sobs.

If this sounds pretentious the genius of At the Sans Hotel is that it isn’t at all. Whilst asking dangerous questions and putting herself into uncomfortable places Gunn is also inherently likeable and down to earth; her ability to laugh at herself whilst maintaining the integrity of her exploration is masterly. It is this personability that remains a constant anchor in the middle of a postmodern squall. We may not always know where we’re going but we know she’ll see us through.

At the end one can’t help but wonder what it was all about, our minds desperately searching for reason and rhyme. There are no easy answers, but the way in which Gunn has played with form and identity is a constant source of rich contemplation for days after.

www.nicolagunn.com

Fish and Game: Alma Mater

A little girl is sat looking up at you with crystal-clear blue eyes. A moment ago she wasn’t there, and neither was the canary cage at the head of her bed or the yellow bird hoping and jumping from perch to perch. A second later she’s gone again and we’re in a forest. Knowing teenagers stare you down, their hands slowly beginning to move to the side of your head as you fight an increasing sense of foreboding and fascination. Now we’re back in the room as a woman’s head is kneaded into shape.

The world of Alma Mater is a discombobulating experience: things change and shift with the magic of a virtual reality while you stand and walk firmly in the present one. A solo experience, it all takes place in a sparse bedroom that you never really see with your own two eyes. From the start you are taught to see only through the glassy eye of an iPad where anything can occur.

This place is delicate but laced with danger. You feel constantly on edge. Unable to settle in the actual world, you move around the room following each character, spending your time chasing shadows but dealing with concrete feelings as they look at you with reproach, beckon you with a grin.

By the end of the twenty minutes I am exhausted; they ask a lot from you these silent apparitions but your complicity only serves to heighten the stakes in what is a powerful emotional work. Alma Mater feels fragile and desperately complex, filled with potent imagery that makes no narrative sense but hits you somewhere much deeper. By the end of it I had a strange lump in my throat that rises again now, even as I remember it.

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