It feels like falling. The Pitchfork Disney sweeps the legs out from under reality to land you in slow-motion, into Philip Ridley's dystopian landscape, which neither a cockroach eating dandy nor a possibly murderous pair of disturbed twins can prevent - oddly enough - from providing, on your way out the theatre, with quite a lucid and fog-clearing view of the very present. Let me explain.
Twenty-eight year-old twins, Presley (Chris New), and Haley (Mariah Gale) have lost their parents some ten years previously. The child-like, decrepit pair live alone in a filthy home "the only one standing... a dark tower in the middle of a wasteland". Protected from this dark outside by a multi-bolted door, they spend their days eating chocolate, medicating with a drug-soaked baby's soother, sleeping and tearing each other to bits. Presley provides, on his sister's prompts, a post-apocalyptic vision of the world through the letterbox; "no heavan visible. No stars, no moon, no sun. Nothing". She adds her own fantastic vision where she is chased by "dogs with maggots in their fur. Foam on their lips. Eyes like clots of blood.", and ends up kissing "the lips of Christ and they tasted like chocolate". But it is a narrative. One of a vicious present and a perfect "comfy" past that they must repeat, re-inforce perhaps because "something made me a naughty girl once". Yet the outside world is not quite as described because there's a clear supply of chocolate, shops which are visited, with mention of hairdressers, the postman and the police. So what world is this really? Before you have time to consider this, along comes Cosmo, a sparkling red-coated Dandy (Nathan Stewart-Jarret) invited into the home by the over-awed Presley, "a perfect pretty boy without a filling in my head" whose only fear is homosexuals. A man of relative wealth, he throws his money to the ground demonstrating his particular gift, eating live creatures; in this case, cockroaches (a cringing crunch accompanies), but eating whole canaries, worms and snakes form part of his repertory he tells us. He eyes the sleeping, Haley, tolerating the childish fascinations of Presley for an opportunity with the girl. Then there's the menacing masked Pitchfork, friend of Cosmo, dressed head to toe in a latex suit who, on command, stands on a chair to sing hauntingly but beautifully.
The entire effect, the sensation, is an assault on all fronts. Its repetition pokes at perceptions, undermining them, re-establishing norms, reinterpreting society as one of "ancient children addicted to their chocolate... with no vocation". The feeling is one of inversion, like standing on your head, taking you out of the repetitively asserted societal view of the world into a very personal one. This is the oddity, the crazier the world described, the more I felt it invoked a sense of normality; that being the very personal acceptance of reality. This is best asserted by Cosmo; "You know what is incredible? How easy it is to stop living. Not to die but to stop being alive... we all need our daily dose of disgust".
But how does this 1991 play with its repetitions, abstractions, contradictions and mirrored worlds - common tropes in today's post-dramatic theatrical landscape, mire us in confusion to paint with such clarity? Two ways; doused-in-diesel fairy-story structure (think Hansel & Gretel's in Dante's Inferno) and outstanding performances by Ms. Gale and Mr. New. At times, Ms. Gale seems to lunge out of her own skin, her features in profile like a wild animal, her entire body writhing when even the smallest element of her routine is disturbed. Mr. New is, at all times, that convincingly insecure and dangerous creature we all know. Fleeting looks portray deep fear, rage and confusion at once while his voice sweetly asserts his "comfy" desires.
But, there's a cost to this play; despite it's multi-layered themes of reality and adulthood there is often a single pitch (i.e. singular conflict) that whines at you and its overcompensating packing of ideas into monologues can be smothering. The single conflict veers into to the 'shouting play' format, and the repetition of situation is, well, repetitive. The audience squirmed in their seats at times, signalling a need for director Edward Dick to get on with it. But this is a small price for the clear insights gained from being swept, falling, through the residue of a fallen life, a fallen world.
