Shows like this are the absolute heart of the Fringe.
Strong writing; empathic performances; and an articulate, accessible look at a subject that affects us all
Strong writing; empathic performances; and an articulate, accessible look at a subject that affects us all.
University student Alice is grieving the premature death of her mother. The play opens with a heartfelt monologue of her bemusement and visceral hurt, riffing on that horribly familiar trope that anniversaries and dates catalyse a fresh round of upset.
Alfie Pullum's writing is achingly real; and as Alice navigates her way through the unnavigable, she is absolutely speaking for all of us who have been through a similar situation. The strange, misty reality of life that cloaks us. The feelings of guilt for just getting through the day when our loved one can not. The stasis which cripples our ability to move on. The fact that no-one else can or will ever really get it.
As Alice, Freya McCourt - comparable to a fresh-faced Olivia Colman in her ability to switch between high emotion and throwaway comedy - brings a huge amount of humanity to the stage. This is a staggeringly good performance which never falters in its truth: and one of the most believably three-dimensional you will see this year. We are drawn into her world and her distress with such sensitivity and nuance that even at her most frustrating, we are rooting for her. This is not acting. It is that elusive theatrical unicorn: being.
Isabel Macintosh is Alice's long-suffering flatmate Jo. Less fanciful than the literature student, Jo's biologial studies give her a greater sense of logic and reason that the emotionally-drowning Alice. But then again, her mother hasn't just died, so things are naturally a little easier for her to compartmentalise. Jo is Alice's rock. But also, her hard place. Offering the support and tough love that she needs, but nearly at the cost of their long friendship. Macintosh's performance gives the audience a space in which to breathe and stops the piece from becoming too maudlin and sentimental.
Baby Steps is a sweet, profoundly felt piece about the price we pay for love. And the baby steps that we need to rebuild ourselves when that love has been snatched away.
