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Two girls, one wall, (and thankfully the resemblance to a certain YouTube clip possibly invoked by such a description ends there). 

This new writing by Tim Keily is his exploration of the forging of relationships. Whilst Mona’s in the middle of a breakup, Bea’s embroiled in an affair. As the two next door neighbours live side by side, they begin to sense and affect one another. In a simple, symmetrical pair of rooms, separated by an invisible wall, a stark atmosphere is evocatively created. Watching this play there is the potential for an audience to feel as self-aware as the exposed minds of the characters and when Bea’s mobile rang several people sheepishly silenced their own- certainly a testament to the effect theatre can have.

In this play, the more well-established fourth wall takes a relative backseat, while the imaginary bedroom wall takes centre stage (both literally, and, well, not…). This exists as a conceptual barrier rather than a literal representation, giving the actors the opportunity to convey its existence more creatively than if there was a real barrier. Unfortunately this opportunity seems to have been missed in the extracts shown, with Mona (Georgia Waters) and Bea (Olivia Madin), both of whom give very watchable performances in other respects, doing little more physically than ‘connecting’ with a painfully wavering and often repeated palm-to-palm gesture in order to locate each other. 

Imaginary paint and plaster aside, Waters and Madin create a startling contrast between their characters. Mona’s psyche is as cluttered as her room, her movements feverish and tense; Bea is ever-composed, simultaneously languid and wiry, with a confidence which becomes slightly sinister within the context of the landscape of exposed thought. The play opens with a duologue composed of disjointed phrases, well timed in order to produce occasional phrasal links between the two sides of the wall. The separation of their dialogue furthers an impression of the remoteness of their connection; Mona’s subsequent shrieks of “No understand! Yes?” in pigeon English serve as a testament to the impossibility of true communication.

These extracts served to showcase the germination of a set of great ideas. There is an overall impression of the potential to propel the two women towards something fascinating and disturbing, and I very much look forward to finding out what. 

When I find myself in a (non-matinee) audience surrounded by white hair and bald heads, I cannot help but ask myself: is this really a play for me? 

Such was my concern at the opening of Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell, essentially a two-hour lock-in in late 1980s Soho, spent reminiscing with the notorious drinker, gambler, womaniser, and sometimes journalist, of the play’s title.

The pub-interior scenery, alive with detail, prepared me for something like the recording of a sitcom, which was not at all the case, as the characters of Bernard’s anecdotes sprang from corners like invoked spirits, to colour and illustrate his words. Racing through various accents, voices, costumes, wigs and walks, the cast of only five skilfully evoke the entire population of Jeffrey Bernard’s London and beyond.

Although several references were lost on me (Lester Pigot, I hardly knew you) Jeffrey Bernard nevertheless makes an engaging protagonist, by no means alien. I could well imagine him stumbling into an episode of Black Books, lighting up a cigarette and defying anyone to drink more than himself.

Robert Powell’s stamina in the lead role was tremendous. I was impressed with his ‘drunk’ acting – not as easy as it sounds – that was undermined at first by the articulate confidence of his voice, implicitly revealing his prestigious acting experience, but I quickly and gratefully changed my mind when I realised he would be narrating for the next two hours, and a slur might lose its novelty before the clock at the bar reached 7am.

As Jeffrey Bernard plies himself with endless cigarettes and alcohol, Waterhouse’s play maintains an inexhaustible flow of jokes, anecdotes, puns, and ‘proper’ swearing – not a single white hair flinched at the ‘f*cks and c*cks’ flying about, and I ate my words (thankfully not Jeffrey Bernard’s) about this play being for oldies only.

Made interesting by the anachronistic feel for which it could also be criticised, Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell literally passes the time, as we wait for the landlord to arrive and rescue our anti-hero. This play is worth watching for the actors’ spectacular performances, and the execution of a pub trick that I shan’t attempt – at Bernard’s advice – until I am 50 years old and plastered with booze.

Nihilist is that kind of word that we all misuse and love at the same time. In order to set my mind clear about the term I went back to the good old dictionary (Google) for a clearer definition. Strictly speaking, nihilism is the doctrine of negation of all or many aspects of life. The definition becomes more interesting when Russian politics gets involved. Nihilism then became a political movement, developed in a time of unrest, to reject all authorities, it was a movement close to anarchy in its use of violence and bombs in aiming to stir social change. However, what does Oscar Wilde, the nation’s most famous late Victorian playwright, have to do will all those definitions?

Well, Oscar Wilde’s The Nihilists (or Vera as it is sometimes known), does not come even close to the expectations raised by a dictionary definition of the title. Written in 1880 this melodramatic tragedy set at the Russian court was both the author’s first play and his first theatre fiasco: ‘Never mind, Oscar; other great men have had their dramatic failures!’ stated Alfred Bryan at the time. Indeed as all great men sometimes fail, it is all the more interesting to observe the good and the bad they have produced. Matthew Perkins, the director, has certainly decided to take on a challenging play for St Anne’s Art Week. But why did the author not strike a success with his first show? Maybe because the text is over-literary and the writing not adaptable to the stage? That perhaps doens’t seem too bad a fault now when many, including myself, are addicted to the mythical figure of the most famous English dandy. If you are under the spell of Wilde, the epitome of wit and literary talent, you will love The Nihilists and affectionately forget about the unsuccessful monologues just as you would do with an old friend who tells you the same story over and over again.  

The Nihilists as a play is not just the exotic story of a Russian court, it is the mirror of Wilde and he is everywhere in it, showing himself in different characters, from the paranoid Tsar, to the puns of the machiavellian prime minister who states: ‘To make a good salad is to be a brilliant diplomatist – the problem is so entirely the same in both cases. To know exactly how much oil one must put with one’s vinegar.’

What would the playwright himself feel about his first play being lovingly undertaken by a ambitious group of students daring to stray off the map? He once stated ‘Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.’ Let’s hope that the audience of The Nihilists isn’t too tempted to join the revolution, drawn in by great sentiments, beautiful slogans and invectives. Towards the end of the play Vera Sabouroff, our protagonist and hero, eventually chooses the path she is going to try to walk as a nihilist and a woman. What will you decide to do? Will you follow Wilde for better or worse, through his very first steps?