Tuesday 4 February 2014

RETURN FROM THE DEPTHS. Review...ish Blurred Lines, National Theatre Shed, 3rd February 2014.

First things first. Hello. It's been a while. Right. Pleasantries over, let's go...

Don’t get me wrong, there’s so much that I loved about this show. How bloody marvellous it is to see a stage occupied solely by woman without bearing the warning disclaimer that you’re about to endure an ‘all female’ production (I know…can I get you a glass of water?). How often do you sit in the theatre for two hours and the only woman you see is in your peripheral vision, and it’s the mate you turned up with. Yet you’ll receive no warnings, you won’t have to sign any forms, don a radiation-proof jumpsuit or go into quarantine to attend one of these ‘all male’ productions. Whilst some might harp on condescendingly about how traditional Jacobean theatre was always that way, I might barricade entrances to the foyer bathrooms and invite members of the audience to find a suitable corner to defecate in at the interval, because clearly, when in the theatre, do as the Jacobean’s did…no loo roll? No problem, use the corner of your tunic…

Anyhow, I digress. The point I’m trying to make is that, in the theatre, you don’t usually get a fanny-fest onstage, and it’s great to see one without having been extensively warned of it beforehand. In fact the greatest thing about Blurred Lines is the immediate and sad realisation that this particular collection of genitals onstage is an unusual one. My niggling problem is that I wanted to feel significantly less comfortable. Half the audience was bopping away in their seats to Robin Thicke’s bestselling single of 2013, and I have a feeling that they’ll do the same thing next time it pops on the radio.

The production creeps forward with claws bared in its last scene, but retreats before any real confrontation materialises. Compare that with the audience member who was asked to cough up some change or requested to publically admit whether they’d touch a homeless person in ‘Protest Song’ last month, and the confrontational chasm is exposed. ‘Blurred Lines’ has incredible content, but feels a little incoherent in places, which would be fine if we were wrenched out of our seats into the chaos. I just wanted to hear more, I wanted to feel compelled to kick off, start a protest, ANYTHING. The reality is that last night’s performance felt like a quickly resolved pub kerfuffle that fizzled with no need for intervention, when what I really wanted was an all-out brawl, a chance to emerge with a bit of a sore brain and a sense that I was being dealt a strong dose of injustice. Maybe I just enjoy a bit of a barney. I’ll indulge my temptation to flog out a tiresome metaphor further, I just wanted to feel a bit of a punch in the head, something buzzing through my head on the train home…instead I looked up pictures of cats wearing hats on tumblr.

I’d love responses on this one. So if you’ve seen it. Go, go, go. 

Now.

PS. Sorry for saying ‘fanny-fest’, I tried a number of alternatives but they just weren’t as good.

PPS. ‘Fanny-fest’, sorry? Nah.