Friday 18th July 2025
Blog Page 909

A disturbing worldview undercut by patchy acting

It takes me a while but about halfway through the play I recognise the pun in the title—contract, contractions, pregnancy—and it makes me chuckle slightly inappropriately. Written by Mike Bartlett for the Royal Court Theatre in 2008, Contractions is part of a tradition of plays that aim to provoke questions and to perturb the audience. The play explores the extent to which a company is entitled to invade the privacy and regulate the personal lives of their employees. Undergoing a process of what I can only term the bureaucratisation of romance the plot unfolds through a series of meetings between the unnamed Manager, played by Cat White, and employee Emma, played by Sophie Stiewe.

Walking into the studio, I was immediately struck by the layout of the space. There is no raised stage and the play unfolds between two banks of seats set up to face each other. It is a fitting set-up for a play about invasion of privacy, and as the audience watch it unfold we are made aware that we are not only watching, but that we are also being watched.

The minimalist staging is reminiscent of Lisa Blair’s 2016 production of Contractions in Sheffield, but sadly this production falls short of the sterile sleekness that Blair’s production achieved. Linden Hogarth’s (the set designer) decision to use a backdrop made out of a cardboard cut-out city-scape detracts from the professional polish achieved in the rest of the set, and White’s costume is, unfortunately, in need of an iron. However, the attention to detail that has evidently gone into matching the blue and black biros on the desk to the blue and black outfit the manager wears is impressive. It is this attention to detail, along with the decision to have White remain on stage between scenes, which adds to the sense that the Manager is so assimilated into the company that she is practically part of its material fabric.

The strong overhead lighting fits with the themes of exposure in the play, and shines not only on the stage but also partly on the audience, heightening the sense that we too are being observed. The production encounters some technical problems halfway through the play, as the dull purple lighting that has, up until this point, been used between scenes fails to turn on, but this difficulty can be attributed to first night hiccups.

The intimate two-person cast means that the roles are highly demanding. I enjoy White’s portrayal of the Manager; she achieves a mechanic sterility in her acting that is fitting to the role. The frank and indifferent way in which White poses increasingly personal questions to Stiewe’s character hovers between funny and disturbing, and at many points throughout the night provokes uncomfortable laughter from the audience. Stiewe’s portrayal of Emma, is, however, a little disappointing. Stiewe’s character has the potential to provide some counter-balance to the sterility of the Manager, and yet I found myself getting frustrated by the repetitive nature of her facial expressions and tone of voice. If this formulaic portrayal of emotion was a conscious choice on the part of Stiewe and director Lisa Friedrich then I think they may have missed an opportunity to imbue the play with a little more tension. The acting is, overall, a little haphazard, with both White and Stiewe stumbling over their lines on a few different occasions. However, this can again be attributed to first night nerves, and didn’t have too much of an impact on the quality of their performances.

Overall, I am left underwhelmed by this play, which has the potential to offer a perturbing and nuanced exploration of the nature of the corporate world. Although the set design and stage layout are promising, the slightly-inconsistent acting and the absence of tension between White and Stiewe mean that for me the play fails to provide the discomfort that a title like Contractions promises. To sum up the experience in a word: ‘flat’.

England Rugby in Oxford

 

This week, England Rugby are training in Oxford ahead of their remaining 6 Nations fixtures. They are the defending champions, and are currently top of the table after their 35-16 win against Italy last weekend. Yesterday, Cherwell Broadcasting went along to their open session at St. Edward’s School to see them in action.

Blind Date: Emma and Nicky

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Emma Leech (Second year, French & Italian, St. Anne’s)

Nicky tried to impress me from the off with talk about her upcoming ‘movement audition’ but her moves on this date left a lot to be desired. We treated ourselves to the local liquor of Balliol bar which proved only slightly more colourful than her language (see: “we need to work, bitch”). Our conversation flowed well, as we did a detailed character assassination of every other Cherwell staff member, proving true the old tale that Cherwell people are, in fact, very boring in conversation. The date was interrupted halfway through by a visit from her friend. I’m a modern girl, but the unsolicited addition of a third person to our date frankly put me on edge. The date was unceremoniously cut short with the proclamation of, “I was hoping you’d be gone by eleven thirty,” and her retrieval of her laptop so she could apply for an internship. And so I was ejected, drunk and alone, onto Broad Street. Lovely.

Out of 10? 3.6

Looks? Increasingly fuzzy with time

Personality? Funnier in print

2nd date? Like a Balliol Blue, this was fun but never again

 

Nicola Dwornik (Second year, AMH, Balliol)

Emma was one of those ‘I’ll drink my cider with a straw’ kind of gals. I suppose I should have expected such animalistic behaviour given that she’d just expressed an overt desire to order a Balliol Blue—something Emma liked to call a ‘cocktail’. Yet, despite wearing edgy sky blue creps, letting a crisp topple from her mouth (only to later eat it from her lap) and spilling her drink twice, Emma definitely surpassed my initial expectations. Her conversational topics proved impressively varied, spanning from bitching about Cherwell staff, to bitching about Cherwell staff some more. But, with time catching up with us, and sparks still flying, I quickly realised I had to make my sentiments known. Living out of college, I expressed a deep regret at the impossibility of showing her a Balliol room. This disappointment was overcome quickly though—with half-price vodka shots.

Out of 10? A solid 5

Looks? Like she should learn table manners

Personality? Funnier than in print

2nd date? Perhaps if her taste in alcohol improves

A bloody nightmare

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Nearly every woman in the country shares the experience of one day, usually in the early teens, pulling down her trousers to find a suspicious brown smear in her underwear. The teenage brain flicks through all the possibilities, ranging from pen (but how?) to poo, until it finally reaches the answer: the first period.

From that fateful day onwards she learns to become a mistress of discretion and picks up tips on how to avert the most embarrassing situations. Yet, there are some moments that one cannot preempt.

A favourite question of Year Nine boys was the classic “Have you started your period?” that was usually hurled at you, without warning, when you were standing in a large group. When your teacher asked you, “Why were you late?”, you couldn’t say “Well, last night I was kept awake from excruciating stomach cramps and I wasn’t actually sure whether I’d be able to move today.” Instead, you mumbled something about oversleeping and hope he bought it. When, at a job interview, you find you can’t respond to the missile question of “Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?” because of the heaving contractions and somersaults in your stomach, it doesn’t take a genius to work out why you may have not got the job.

This brings us to the biggest obstacle: pain. Those who have not experienced it love gloating about a kick in the balls being the unchangeable trophy-holding winner of the Pain Olympics. I bring a worthy competitor.

Two iron fists clamping onto the centre of your stomach, squeezing and twisting, opening and closing, before dragging your insides slowly down. The whole of gravity concentrating itself to your lower-half, drawing your guts to the ground. Persistent and echoey dull aching somewhere between the skin and bones of your back and legs. It’s painful.

It’s not all bad, I admit. Many female friendships are founded on the ‘Period Bonding Conversation’. A classmate or co-worker looks uncomfortable. “You ok?” you ask. They throw you a small smile and whisper the allusive “Stomach cramps.” You respond with hardly-concealed enthusiasm, “I hate that!” Often, other female ears in the vicinity prick up and before you know it five of you are discussing the woes of being women and the injustice of the uterus. Together you express your grievances whilst indulging in the exclusivity of the Period Party, a club in which every woman is a member, bonded by the common experience of our bodies.

But aside from the occasional glow of bonding, periods are a pain. And not being able to discuss them openly can have serious implications and damage opportunities. It’s a tucked away issue that needs to be opened up.

Let’s get the conversation, ahem, flowing.

SLAM: Poetry that isn’t afraid to make an impact

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“Ghetto children never remember how to smile”. It has already been four years since the death of Nelson Mandela. Anger, inequality and corruption in post-Apartheid South Africa have reached new summits. Angry voices, unheard by the media and ignored by the State, are joining forces. The cry for social, economic and racial justice is stronger and more essential every day. South Africa’s recent history is marked with upheavals, repression and conflict, but what is happening right now is more than what will be featured in the history textbooks. As I write this, the black South African underprivileged youth is reshaping not only the history of empowerment movements, but the history of poetry.

Not just written, but performed. This is what defines slam poetry. Accessible on YouTube, these poems are more than just spoken word. They are on-stage cries, thoughts and reflections, set to a beat and a rhythm. Borrowing from various art forms, slam poetry addresses controversial topics such as the inherent racism of culture and literature: syllabuses upholding a white-male-dominated canon, or the aesthetic association of black with evil,

“Little black girl ba re o maswe [they say you are ugly]

well I say, you are beautiful

you are a gift wrapped in brown skin”.

These opening lines from Bafentse Ntlokoa’s ‘Hush’, when performed, are set to a very soft violin which becomes louder and louder as the poem progresses in intensity. Subverting cultural values, reversing poetic paradigms and transcending stylistic boundaries, slam poetry is a flexible, musical form relying on key rules.

Richard ‘Quaz’ Roodt, on the Word N Sound Live Literature Company blog, outlines six guidelines for the aspiring slam poet:

You are a writer first.

Drafting, confronting and working out the appropriate devices to use are a poetic priority, according to Roodt.

Study, don’t imitate.

The slam poet can seek inspiration in others but has to make the final product his own.

Respect your craft and its audience.

The aspiring poet won’t go far if his motivations are purely commercial, to be accepted as cool and trendy. Only poems with true meaning will actually be successful. Audience is the ultimate judge.

Slow Down Bone thugs, slow down.

Reading fast isn’t the way to go.

Get to the point, bro.

Roodt advocates a simplistic, clear, concise style.

Relax and Enjoy yourself.

“If you can’t, we won’t.”

In this respect, Slam poetry is a lot like rap. Emerging from feelings of dismay, injustice and frustration with the way a political system silences voices, cleansing public opinion and producing illusions to skirt around the problem rather than acknowledge it and address it, slam poetry shares its roots with rap. When performed, slam poetry is, again, very similar to rap: dialectal and accentuated, resonating with outcast groups. ‘Hush’, for example, unites English with Setswana, a Bantu language used by 8 per cent of the South African population and part of a vast family of mutually intelligible languages used across Africa:

“Little black girl ba re o montshô [they say you are black]”

Not only does this new poetic form take subject matter to a new level, tackling the nitty gritty core of prejudice and tearing it apart in the hope that society will do the same, it also raises artistic and aesthetic questions about the poetic genre—what is the role of poetry? Should poetry be political?

Tying back with the musical and lyrical origins of poetry by performing it as if it were a song—hence my analogy with rap—it also seeks to present itself as innovative and radically new, independent from previous forms.

Black South African voices were never given the chance to develop a movement: the value of their art, music and creations were wiped away in an age of white supremacy and cultural imposition. Now, in an age where black culture is increasingly appropriated and viewed as ‘cool’ (hip hop and rap being adopted by and providing success for white artists, for instance), slam poetry affirms itself as a distinctly black, South African type of poetry and performance. Codified like all arts, it seeks to create its own canon, its own cultural legacy in an underprivileged environment marred with conflict and racism. By doing so, it rejects appropriation and meaninglessness. Thabiso “Afukaran” Muhare chants:

“Your blackberry tweet is not a haiku

Your facebook status is not a poem

Your blog is not a novel”

Playing on the concepts of legacy and value by appropriating Wilfred Owen’s British poem in the title, ‘Anthem for doomed poets’, Muhare confronts the futile and the superficial. Going beneath the surface, extricating the true source of the problem, slam poetry truly decolonises linguistic and cultural paradigms in South Africa by subverting the means of expression, the type of poetry and the platform on which it is delivered. That’s what slam is all about.

Old&New: Songs of displeasure

Mathematical and objective music can often be devalued because it lacks emotion, but much like the definition of art and its ‘emotional power’, the image of the composer pouring their heart out onto the page is an overly romantic idea and often not the reality. Sometimes compositional processes are logical and mathematical, and this is impressive in its own way. For example, I was sitting at home watching Einstein on the Beach, an opera by Philip Glass which runs continuously for five hours. I was told to turn it off , because admittedly his extensive repetition and extreme durations can be difficult to endure, and my family were fed up with it. However I’ve been challenged by music teachers to alter my expectations and to explore new ways of listening. It is durational, repetitive music, but if you open your mind you can get into a zone when you listen, and you begin to notice the additive rhythms and subtle shifts in harmony, which weren’t immediately appreciated.

In the 60s and 70s, anti-art movement Fluxus aimed to challenge definitions and ideas about art and music. A number of composers raised questions in their work about the role of listening and imagining in music. Cornelius Cardew’s ‘Song of Pleasure’ could be likened to a poem, describing the sounds of someone rowing a boat: “The small creaking and thudding sounds of the oars…” I can understand why someone would be hesitant to label this as music, but like Einstein on the Beach, this work sparked important discussion about what constitutes music.

Believing that art and music must be detailed, beautiful and created by a skilled individual leads to both elitism and a hierarchy that excludes everyday people. “Even I could do that” is used as a criticism, when it should be used as motivation to actually get creative and give art a try. I believe that being optimistic and accepting when coming across new art and music leads to a more rewarding and positive experience. Perhaps instead of criticising art and music which we aren’t used to, we should challenge our own mode of listening and thinking. For example, if you come across a pile of bricks in an art gallery, instead of thinking, why the hell are these bricks in this gallery when I could barely scrape a B in art, you could challenge yourself to consider these questions: what are the colours, shapes and textures? What was the artist’s motivation in creating it? Is there more than meets the eye or am I overthinking it?

I believe it is far more refreshing to be open minded about the art that challenges your notions of what art should be. When I first visited the Tate Modern, I laughed at what I saw. I used to mock contemporary classical music, too. Now, I am mocked for my extreme inclusiveness when it comes to defining art and music. But I’m not complaining.

Lords votes to sever HE Bill link between tuition fees and TEF

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The House of Lords has passed an amendment to sever the link between tuition fees and the Teaching Excellence Framework (TEF), defeating the government on its Higher Education and Research (HE) Bill.

The amendment, which passed by 263 votes to 211, removes the proposed right of universities to set tuition fees based on ranking in the TEF. Top-performing universities would have been allowed to raise fees by up to £250 per student per year.

The amendment states: “The scheme established under Section 26 must not be used to rank English higher education providers as to the regulated course fees they charge to a qualifying person; or the unregulated course fees they charge to an international student; or the number of fee paying students they recruit, whether they are qualifying persons or international students.”

The amendment, proposed by the crossbench peer Lord Kerslake, accepted both the government’s case for a educational quality framework and the need for tuition fees to rise with inflation. However, Lord Kerslake argued that the TEF was “not ready” to calculate teaching quality with sufficient certainty to justify fee increases.

Noting that “the TEF rating will relate to the university, not the subject or course,” he pointed out that the possibility of mediocre courses at top-performing universities could lead to an unfair assessment of fees for individual students.

The former principal of St. Anne’s College, Baroness Deech, also spoke out against the bill, claiming that if the link between the TEF and fees became law, students from poorer backgrounds would be less likely to attend “more established” universities.

The HE Bill has faced substantial opposition in its previous passage through the Lords, and was criticised by Oxford Chancellor Lord Patten as “ham-fisted” and threatening the “true value of an independent university” in an article for The Observer.

In recent months, OUSU and numerous college JCRs have supported an NUS boycott of the National Student Survey (NSS), in an attempt to undermine the TEF. The Universities minister, Jo Johnson, planned to use NSS scores to rank universities as part of the TEF.

Writing on Twitter, Eden Bailey, OUSU’s VP for Access and Academic Affairs, wrote that “ALL THE LETTERS WE WROTE, EMAILS WE SENT, NATIONAL STUDENT SURVEYS WE DIDN’T FILL IN – IT MADE A DIFFERENCE!!!”.

She also thanked OUSU volunteers who lobbied Lords by mail over the Christmas vacation.

Ana Oppenheim, NCAFC National Committee member and candidate for NUS Vice-President Higher Education, said: “This is a huge victory for students, and it could not have happened without pressure from the student movement.  Demonstrations, occupations, and the NSS boycott kept this high on the political agenda.

“We now have a task on our hands to make sure this passes through the Commons, to maintain and extend the boycott, and to escalate the campaign against the wider higher education reforms.”

The bill will now return to the House of Commons, where it is likely that the government will strike down the Lords amendment.

 

“More gentle slap than sucker punch”

The words “We want sex equality” should be a rousing chant, especially in today’s political climate, but Made in Dagenham is a musical known less for its sucker punch and more for its gentle slap. The 2015 musical, adapted from the 2011 film, tells the story of the female workers at the Ford plantation in Dagenham who went on strike in 1968, after being classed as unskilled workers, but somewhat sidelines the political grit, instead focusing on the lives and relationships of the women. Ambriel Productions’ Made in Dagenham is no different.

Cat White is every bit as strong as her character, Rita,the musical’s lead and the women’s leader. She is an extremely capable actor who succeeds in bringing Rita to life, both in her role as wife and mother, and as woman and activist, capturing particularly well her character’s combination of insecurity and bravery.

Her delivery of the impromptu speech at the trade union conference was perhaps the best moment of the production. Her performance was made even more impressive by the fact that she recently lost her voice, unfortunately hindering the final song where the strain on her voice was evident. Benjamin Ashton, playing Rita’s husband Eddie, is another highly talented actor, making the best of an unsympathetic role.

Despite casting difficulties, largely caused by competition from Anna Karenina, who also beat Made in Dagenham to the Keble O’Reilly Theatre, some of the supporting cast were also very strong. Camilla Dunhill was fantastic as Barbara Castle, and in a gorgeous wig, as was Rachel Jones as the ditzy Clare. Joe Peden never failed to raise a laugh in a multitude of roles, commanding the stage whenever he was on it, and neither did Michael Crowder as Hopkins, whose expressions during ‘This is America’ were especially memorable. Rory Booth and Joe Peden also deserve a special mention for their sheer versatility, playing several roles each and all equally well.

It was also impressive that the large majority of the cast managed to sustain the Dagenham accent throughout, even in the songs. Unfortunately, the casting difficulties, which led to frequent confusion over doubling of roles, and Cat White’s loss of voice were far from the production’s only problems. Issues with the microphones were a problem: several of the characters’ lines, both in dialogue and song, were lost because they simply weren’t audible. The production also felt sloppy at times, as problems besetting choreography and stage management disrupted the audience’s experience and enjoyment. The moment when Rita agreed to accept a lift home from Barbara and then exited the stage in the opposite direction, was particularly memorable.

Similarly, Rita accepted Lisa’s offer to wear her red Biba dress for her speech at the trade union conference, and then didn’t wear it. This was made even more painful when both Mr Tooley and Eddie complimented her outfit, which was the same as it had been throughout the production.

The Simpkins Lee Theatre was far from full, and this is perhaps indicative of the musical Made in Dagenham itself. This production had a lot of potential, but unfortunately both the choice of musical and the problems plaguing the production seemed to hold it back.

A night for dancing and jumping

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Last Saturday night I saw White Lies play the O2 Academy as part of their current Friends tour. The result was one of a pressure cooker, with chorus unleashing fresh waves of momentum onto the low-ceilinged room.

They began with a triumvirate of their most powerful tracks. ‘Take It Out On Me’, ‘There Goes Our Love Again’, and ‘To Lose My Life’ opened proceedings at blistering pace, causing me to genuinely worry about how much voice I’d have left the following morning. I was also concerned about how evenly spread the setlist would be, fearing some lulls due to a potentially top-heavy set.

I needn’t have worried. While the set was, predictably, reliant on the newest album Friends, the band wisely stuck to the much stronger first half, which grounded the set with the dancey neo-80s vibe that Friends channels so well at its best.

Curiously, the band’s sophomore effort, Ritual, was largely ignored, with only live mainstay ‘Bigger Than Us’ closing the encore. Ritual was always more meditative, not a natural fit for a night which was very firmly one for dancing and jumping: never has the line “this fear’s got a hold on me” had such a euphoric tinge.

The placid, tropical pink lights which accompanied their opening tracks faded into a vitriolic red to accentuate the desolation of the lyrical content—one thing for which White Lies can always be relied upon is poetic grandeur.

But not everything was perfect: ‘Farewell to the Fairground’ had some tech problems throughout, rather crushing the level of the guitar. When the noise came up to the right level, frontman Harry McVeigh made the most of its throaty roar over the last few bars, but that zeal lead to a rather uncharacteristic squeak on the final note of the song. Bassist Charles Cave was damning in his on-stage verdict: “That’s the fucking worst fucking bum note I’ve heard in my life”.

However, it was actually quite nice to hear White Lies in a more unpolished state than usual. For a band whose synths are sleek and whose live sets are meticulous, it was nice to glimpse the chassis beneath their neon chrome.

The supreme quality of the night rather took me by surprise, as someone who’s been following the band for years. I now realise that White Lies’ music only really makes sense live.

Sure, the lyrics are eschatological and take straight lines of romance and warp them into something more complex, but when people come together to dance to their sound, theirs isn’t a prism of misery, but more of realism—a unifying confrontation against the darkness of the world.

“We had a break after Big TV,” McVeigh said before they left the stage for the first time. “Three years. That’s a long time in music. We weren’t sure what we’d find when we came back when we got back out playing shows, so it means so much to see you all here.” The end of his sentence was drowned out by the crowd. Friends indeed.

“A bold and unapologetic production”

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Luckily for avid theatregoers, the Oxford theatre scene is full of first-evers. Last Hilary, the first-ever student production of Nick Payne’s Constellations was staged at the O’Reilly Theatre. In Michaelmas came the first production of Nick Dear’s Frankenstein since its original run at the National Theatre in 2011. Earlier this term, the first-ever theatrical adaptation of Four Lions was staged at the Michael Pilch Studio.

This week, the Pilch continues its trend of filmic first-evers with Suspiria, adapted from Dario Argento’s 1977 classic. The production was perhaps spurred on by the recent news that the film is being remade, with Luca Guadagnino at the helm. Guadagnino’s last film (A Bigger Splash) was one of 2015’s most unfairly overlooked gems, so fans of Argento’s original can sleep well at night – the remake is in good hands. But is this stage production?

Argento’s film is thoroughly stylised. It makes heavy use of a musical score. Nearly all its shots are very thoughtfully composed, with a particularly arresting penchant for high angles. Close-ups are deployed to emphasise and isolate moments of horror. This makes a stage adaptation rather problematic, and perhaps explains why in the forty years since the film’s release no-one has attempted a theatrical transposition. The question here is: how do you convey these effects on the stage?

Thankfully, the film’s most distinctive visual motifa pervasive, eerie pink glow – has been preserved by lighting designer Sarah Wallace. The film’s score, by Italian prog band Goblin, is also retaineddemonic chanting and all. Whilst director Hannah Kessler is listed also as having ‘adapted’ the film, script changes remain remarkably minor: the psychologist plot tangent is cut and the protagonist, Suzy Bannion, is switched from American to British. Generally, this production approaches the original as sacrosanct.  

This is not to say Kessler’s staging lacks innovation. Some use of body movement was always to be expectedit’s set in a ballet academy, after all. But what stands out is the intelligent use of bodies in scenes which would otherwise be awkward to stage. Black ballet leotards are here useful due to their inconspicuous, allowing actors’ bodies to become dynamic aspects of the set. They swarm obnoxiously towards Bannion to recreate the storm which opens the film, they freeze in angular poses to form the forest that early victim Pat Hingle scampers through. In the now iconic scene where Hingle is murdered, the problem of creating both a window and a balcony is handled in a similarly ingenious manner.

With all this ingenuity, the doubling of Pavlo and Mark is handled in a nonsensical manner. Having the same actor play both roles is not a problem in itself, indeed the same actor plays Dr Mandel. The problem here is of clarity. When playing Mandel, Connor John Warden dons a brown coat – a simple touch, but one that distinguishes the character visually. But Warden has the same simple all-black costume when playing both Pavlo and Mark, a decision sure to bewilder those less familiar with the film. First we are told Pavlo speaks only Romanian, but soon after Warden reappears, effortlessly conversing with Bannion in English. It is not immediately clear that he is playing a different character.

Despite this, Warden is a standout among the cast. Whether playing Mandel or Pavlo, he is adroit when it comes to producing laughs from the audience, and slides between roles with ease. Anusia Battersby’s stern turn as Miss Tanner is reminiscent of Alida Valli without being merely an imitation, and her authority over the girls is palpable throughout. Jessie See, playing Sara, has perhaps the most difficult role, having to go from cool and collected to paranoid mess in what could easily be an abrupt, jarring shift. But See thoroughly inhabits her character, and the shift is as natural as the over-the-top acting style allows.

The Pilch can be a difficult space to work with. Lazy design means that doors slam, and the fire escape sign over the stage right door means that you can never fully black out the space. Given that, perhaps as a stipulation of obtaining the rights, script remains largely untouched, the production is made up of many short scenes in varying locations. The reliance on cumbersome items such as tables, chairs, and an upright electric piano, is frustrating given that set-changes between scenes were under-rehearsed. Things were dropped, the translucent psych hung towards the back of the stage was pulled up and out of shape, and at one agonising point the carefully painted screen was knocked over.

It is a shame that these things negatively impacted an otherwise bold and unapologetic production. But some solace can be taken in the knowledge that opening night is never the most fluid experience, and things will get better as the run goes on. Fans of Argento’s original will be more than satisfied by this show, whilst my companionan Argento virginassured me that even for those unacquainted with the giallo classic there is still much terror, creepiness, and fun to be had here.