There is an ambition to this performance that is admirable. The original music by Peter Copley, played by the Bergeson Sextet, is remarkably powerful. The setting of the old police cells underneath Brighton Town Hall has the potential to invoke sensory and psychological terror, and there’s an expectation that this will be something out of the ordinary. From the crumpled, stained bits of paper that constitutes the programme, to the instructions that the audience ‘needs to be on their guard’, as they might be asked to move quickly, or change location at any time; there was a sense of mystery and danger. Unfortunately, the moment the guide slammed the door shut; locking us into the room, all promise of presence and atmosphere was left outside.
The main content of the piece is a long – a very long – monologue. The actor who performs the work was also the author, and there was something slightly jarring about the space he has given to his own work and the sheer length of time the audience are expected to stand and watch him perform. The words are almost meaningless, billed as a ‘psychotic’ journey; there are allusions to mental disintegration, biblical quotes, descriptions of the eponymous scrublands and a refrain about breakfast. The effect was sub-Beckettian. Follow several ludicrously banal expressions ‘Here’s meat, sweet deliverer, here’s meat’ and ‘Thrust up to the piss-taking air’, some audience members left. The guide’s occasional movements through the packing crates, on which we were invited to lean, were haphazard and unrelated to the main action. It was difficult to suspend disbelief.
As a work in progress, it has several great moments. The music is evocative and works well in the space. The visual art is also effective and the show has the potential to be interesting and challenging, however, last night’s performance needed more work.
