For all the excellent performances and wonderfully controlled aesthetic, this production amounts to nothing more than average; because it's Belt Up, that's disappointing. The Boy James returns for its second run at the Fringe this year, marking perhaps the drying up of the seemingly perpetual ideas-fountain that is Belt Up Theatre. The Boy James feels weary and stale, poorly scripted material wanly clipping the invention the performers offer when they had freedom to breathe. The script stifles what was an otherwise interesting conceptual framework, leaving the tenet of 'innocence' relatively undeveloped.A studio which was initially atmospheric became both uncomfortable and distracting as the play wore on. The first ten minutes consist of the audience running around chasing each other and playing childhood games. Although this served to integrate audience and performer, forging an immediate bond with Compton's consummate 'boy', there was never enough space to do anything other than fall over cushions, tables or strangers. It also tired the audience out as we proceeded to bake in our own juices for the rest of this soporific hour. Unfortunately, apart from making the occasional fart noise (and an intrepid reading of a letter at the end) this was the extent of the interaction that Belt Up offered during the main performance.This is still a Belt Up production. The studio space is carefully constructed with drapes and cushions, with no escape offered but for the entrance to the theatre. Props and set pieces are also well used, with a Narnia-esque wardrobe providing a hidden means of egress to the play's ethereal younger characters. The lighting too was carefully realised, with standard lamps and a hidden spot lighting the desk at which James feverishly mulls over the contents of his letter.Although focused on the tensions inherent within the young JM Barrie, it is to their credit Belt Up leave much of the evening unnervingly unexplained. This is best personified through the performance of Lucy Farrett, in an instant funny and dark, gentle and violent; there is a wonderful distancing effect when she quietly swears, typifying the excellent control of their audience Belt Up have at their very best. But these brilliant moments were few and far between. For all of these aesthetic touches, both the story told and the manner of telling felt tired. There will be many other, far better-developed shows from companies who receive much less attention. For Belt Up, it might just be time to set The Boy James to rest.
