Maria Roberts Coitophobia doesnt know what its about. Ostensibly concerned with domestic violence, it heavy-handedly tries to lump in comments on sex, radicalism, capitalism, disability, tranvestitism and teenage pregnancy. The result of this odd combination is a structurally-confused melodrama that frustrates as much as it irritates.
Clichés abound as Coitophobia rampages through its various narrative strands, the central one being aspiring writer Katies affair with Clive, whose publisher wife burns him with cigarettes. The fundamental problem, though, is that as an audience we have no sympathy for these characters. We just dont care. Perhaps the only exception to this is the relationship between Katies cross-dressing son, Tom, and his friend Jo-Jo, which is played tenderly and shows promise. However, these people are basically a group of power-and-sex-obsessed, opinionated morons, whose lack of integrity negates any emotional or ideological connection.
If this play hadnt tried to approach quite so many Big Contemporary Issues, if it had side-stepped trite, clichéd and at points insulting dialogue (Im not stupid, Im disabled), and if it had taken us through with significantly more structural clarity, there may have been something worth watching. As it stands, there is not.
There must be talent here. The programme biographies show that the vast majority of those involved are trained professionals. Corinne Handforth, Freddie Machin, Helena Coates and Allie Bell are all clearly capable actors. But, whatever talent is present, Coitophobia is a poor showcase. Nor does it adequately explore the issues it sets out to discuss.
