If you go to see a show called
Watching Alasdair Tremblay-Burchall list everything – for an hour – just reminded me how depressing dead theatre can be.
But strange things happen in this show. Time warps and stretches. I came out thinking, ‘That’s one hour of my life I’ll never see again.’ It wasn’t and it was. Seven times I looked at my watch. Seven times it seemed to be slowing down at an increasing rate. Those sixty minutes are right up there in the Top Ten Longest Hours Of My Life. At least paint dries unevenly: there was nothing uneven about this show, just one man, one mic and one endless list of nothing. It was interminable. Except it did end and I could escape, following those who had walked out some time before, and some time before that. I don’t know when: I lost track of time. Somewhere around, “having your left foot amputated.”
I tried to use it as a meditative exercise, except Alasdair kept interrupting. I tried to just let the sounds flow over me, but there was nothing beautiful or lyrical about any of it. I tried to watch the audience, but the blank faces offered nothing. So I just watched and I listened. “Over-chlorinated swimming pools… the sourness of banana skins.” Someone tittered, more than once. That unnerved me.
I’m sure some might argue this is a serious existential piece. Others may find it hilarious. I like the concept: in the right hands it may be side-splittingly funny. But watching Alasdair Tremblay-Burchall list everything – for an hour – just reminded me how depressing dead theatre can be. Just as well he didn’t have a bucket at the door – I might have dipped in.