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The Last Incel

 
Stuart Mckenzie Review by Stuart Mckenzie 4 Published: 15 Aug 2024 Underbelly, Bristo Square Show Dates: 31 Jul 2024-25 Aug 2024

Jamie Syke’s eloquent drama is a marvellous leap into the pernicious ends of the incel subculture as it plumbs the depths of the grimy forum world with fresh eyes. We open with a cacophony of laughter as Ghost, Crusher and Einstain launch into a frenzy of vulgarities in their chatroom, drawing parallels with Macbeth’s witches, their rhythmic chanting a downward spiral of morbid self-loathing. All is well in the incelsphere, their toxic ecosystem in perfectly morose equilibrium, until a hungover Cuckboy stumbles online to announce the loss of his virginity. Worse, his one-night stand Margaret is still in his room, sparking disruption of the hive mind that prods rather than shoves the misanthropic community into critical self-reflection.

A fine balance of comedy with the nuance demanded of a play regarding several highly sensitive topics.

The fast-paced dialogue helps to vividly portray the virtual world’s harsh, unforgiving terrain, complimented by use of black portrait frames and matching outfits to reflect anonymity. With interplay between humour and somewhat lengthy dance routines, the act delves further into the machinations of the incel quartet. Behind each one lurks deep-seated insecurity and the faint hint of a person once not so embittered by life’s tribulations before their tumble down the Reddit hole. Gradually, their masks of bravado are slowly stripped away by Margaret’s common sense and the belief that one does deserve happiness, all save the belligerent Crusher.

The play examines the extent to which one willingly sacrifices self-improvement for a sense identity and belonging. Crusher’s refusal to accept help, spitefully banning his now enlightened cohorts, bleeds into a dance of the aptly chosen Only You by Yazoo as his initial relish of king-nothing status dissolves, collapsing under the weight of the chain-like black frames as his moniker ‘The Last Incel’ is sealed.

Sykes finely balances comedy (“I own no less than seven fedoras” is a ripping inclusion) with the nuance demanded of a play regarding highly sensitive topics such as self-hatred, misogyny, and violence. Perhaps some irony is lost in the heightism gags and penis puns that, rather than reclaim a sense of collective insecurity, emboldens audience laughter of male shame that risks undoing the intended message for self-acceptance and improvement. This is a delicate bridge to gap, and minor inconsistencies like this risk credibility. But as Margaret reminds us, self-care begins at home and it is nobody else’s responsibility to save you.

Fittingly, Syke’s triumphant piece doesn’t seek to unravel the innumerable idiosyncrasies and circular logic of inceldom. Rather, with wit and tightly bound writing, it conveys the layers of one’s haphazard journey into the odious philosophy and, crucially, affirms the all-important tenant of choice in response to life’s misfortunes.

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The Blurb:

Log into the world of the incels: a terminally online community of toxic men that blame women and society for keeping sex from them. That is until one of them sleeps with a woman who invades their group chat. And all hell breaks loose. Strap in as this wild satire turns over one of the darkest stones of the internet to reveal the strange fleshy humans wriggling underneath.