Peter Tate writes, directs and stars in this cacophony of self-indulgence. The unnamed man wanders into the performance space and babbles on without direction for 25 minutes whilst staring into middle-distance. He covers the stench of humans, the moon's selfishness, a reluctant cat to whom he wishes to feed its own eyeballs and his ex-lover who has left him (a wise choice on their part).I was the only member of the audience and not once did the performer make eye contact with me, making it very difficult for me to connect with him on any level. Usually when I am the only member of an audience I feel sorry for the performer(s), this time I only felt sorry for myself. If I had to compliment the piece I would have to settle with 'blissfully short'. At 25 minutes you can be thankful that though the man's monologue verges on unbearable, he doesn't keep you that long, leaving you to get on with more worthwhile things in your day.What is most disappointing is that while Tate is an accomplished actor, his talents as a writer or director are clearly far less developed. I am left entirely bemused by the critical acclaim he has received elsewhere. Perhaps Odd Man Out is a blip on what could be a very successful career.From any piece of theatre I want to be able to take something away with me, even if it is just a single thought. I failed to detect the purpose of Odd Man Out. If we were supposed to feel sorry for this solitary character, this is quickly overridden by a distracting sense of unease which pervades from the moment he starts talking about the aforementioned cat.Consider yourself forewarned.
