When I was a very young critic, there was a certain kind of drama, worthy, pretentious and mind-numbing, that I would go out of my way to praise, even if I had to bat my eyelids at the review. Had to write. Open with matches, because I thought it would make me look very clever.
A revival of Sophie Treadwell’s bleak and nihilistic 1928 work by Richard Jones mechanical A story about a woman gone mad on the treadmill of life would definitely fall into this category. I would have admired Hyemi Shin’s German Expressionist set design and the manic intensity of Rosie Sheehy’s central performance. I would also have appreciated Jones directing such a joyless performance with such single-minded determination.
Of course these days I try to think about the audience as well and whether a show is really worth their time and not an excessive investment, and that’s where, in all honesty, mechanical Just doesn’t cut it at all. Despite being an accomplished actress like Sheehy, I never found myself caring about her at all. Tim Francis also, as her bovine husband, seems like such a comedic villain that I wasn’t the least bit surprised that they defeated him in the end.
What there really is to admire is an endless succession of visually striking but ultimately empty set pieces and general evocations of claustrophobia. It’s all very prevalent, but not at all involving.
From time to time an actor comes on stage and writes out in capital letters the name of the next scene – business, domestic etc – and, even though it is a relatively short show lasting barely two hours, I found myself looking forward to it. . Read the end.
My advice is to tell your more pretentious friends that you saw it and liked it a lot, but don’t go through the ordeal of actually doing it.
At the Old Vic, London, until 1 June