Author: Worsley Times

By Austin Keane. Year 3.

Images owned by LS6 Theatre.

Rating: ★★★★☆

“Are you a good person?” This is just one of the things writer and director Rebecca Harrison wants us to consider in her new play–a question that is as much a calling card for a certain audience as it is an actual plea for information. With dialogue sharp enough to cut a portrait–and acting convincing enough to threaten to disassemble it only a few breaths later–this production holds up a brilliant mirror to student life.
The title itself is a construction, an inversion. Like much of the show, things accrue meaning in their relationship to one another, in the patterns that wash over normal life, so that certain words may glimmer–if only under a certain light. All the action occurs in the smoking area of the eponymous bar ‘The Elbow,’ a favourite of our four friends, as they attempt to parse the things that bind them together: rent for a house they have all, at one point, lived in; love, or lack thereof; failing to clean the kitchen properly. The scenes themselves are these ‘asides,’ further punctuated by miscellaneous audio that gives us glimpses of other lives happening alongside the characters. At the same time, ‘to elbow aside’ is an idiom meaning to get past someone and take their place or to literally push someone away, an idea that is closely examined in the play’s main dilemma. Importantly, the narrative is always just off-centre from the pub. It’s a powerful frame to read lives with–to capture a person in motion, perpetually between drinks, always coming or going–but is subtly effective in rendering accurately the liminal spaces young people occupy.

The stage itself was comfortably sparse: an old-style dustbin, a single bench–giving the actors plenty of space to work with, each of them commanding it with a confident and unique attention. The characters are a glorious band of familiar types. There are brothers Sam (Charlie Crozier) and Chris (Matty Edgar), recently estranged after the latter mysteriously disappeared and the former took his place in the house. Crozier embodies the strained stubbornness of the average joe easily, challenging Chris’s elusive sulkiness with the perfect amount of sibling disdain. This tension is shared well between them, held tight enough to make the audience nervous without descending into pantomime. Edgar is persuasive in his delineation of the failed musician, smothered with embarrassment, managing to be surly enough to irritate his friends into argument but not quite the audience.
Joy (Lucy Yellow) and Perry (Carrie Clarke) are close friends and Sam’s roommates. We watch their dynamic play out, dominated at first by Joy’s sour imagination that is then put to the test. For Joy speech all speech is thronged with anger–as if she’s deriving meaning from her language the moment she produces it. Perry is excellent in response, and the perfect antidote to Joy’s ironic bitterness. Clarke proves herself the most versatile, conjuring bizarre monologues with an utter seriousness that’s as affecting as it is hilarious, while managing still to capture tenderness between the laughter. Her wide-eyed fervour appears, as the play progresses, just as much armour as it is artifice. (In response to her boyfriend cheating on her she remembers aloud how he had just said that he loved her; and, in the breath that she thinks about what it means to have two women beholden to you, shouts, ”Don’t you know there’s a recession James?”)

There’s always a turned hand, a flashing eye–ideas, both serious and then deadly funny, threaten to take root there, between them, in the hot air of the room. The intimacy the actors conjure together further aids a trick of perception–that we, the audience, really are among them in the space; that after a drink or two it would be possible to watch these very scenes unfold, unobserved. Here, artefacts of student life are sacrosanct: a borrowed lighter, that silly shuffle from the smoking area, bumping awkwardly into that old friend at the local. Everything glimmers with power–in the ritual of it repeated a thousand times outside the room, remembered and recorded each time they are acted out. And you find as you watch that it’s an utter pleasure to see them pay tribute to real life in this way.
The most stunning moment of the show for me was when Perry, in a therapeutic act, shouts at Sam and Joy pretending they are two people who have recently wronged her, making them co-conspirators. Here, the characters overlay each other in a double exposure, painful for the way in which it reveals rather than obscures them. Like those images plucked straight from normal lives, significance comes from the act being a shared one. There’s some sleight of hand here too, since although Perry does much of the obvious comedy for the show she is not in fact a joke. Perry ends up living the thing Joy is afraid of–and beyond it. She complicates the story in refusing to conform to it. Again and again, we watch the cast spin off of each other with startling ease, living out real fears–in love, in life, above all in belonging–with genuine skill.
I will say that, at times, the dialogue came a little too formed from the lips of the cast; its tenderness was lost in its efficiency. Similarly, the emotion expressed by the cast was at times unbalanced: Sam’s character is limited in his range of expression as his very struggle to communicate what he wants is undermined by how long he remains unmoved for–much of the play–and how relentless this characterisation is. Because of this, language that should glitter disappears the moment it is uttered, making him unfairly less compelling than the others. Even still, the production team of assistant director Ellie Mullins, producer Meg Ferguson and marketing producer Olivia Taylor-Goy, have conjured a moving study in the small but essential moments, powerful for its devotion to people acting out the quotidian tensions that occupy us all. We witness here a brilliant game of asking: the way we ask ourselves what matters, and without knowing demand it of each other.
In watching this excellent production unravel, I realised I had stumbled across another inversion. The question is not ‘are you a good person?’ but ‘are people good’–and that final condition–’to each other.’ Not an individual exercise but a collective one, mirrored and repeated like all these small acts the show pays wonderful attention to. And, just like real life, there is no answer given to us by the end of the play. But with as stunning a portrait of infuriating, silly, entitled, confusing, glorious student life as this, you leave remembering exactly what it is that’s important–that we keep asking it.

‘Asides from the Elbow’ is showing at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival (Perth Theatre) from the 5th to the 14th of August–get your tickets here: https://tickets.edfringe.com/whats-on/asides-from-the-elbow

By Austin Keane. Year 3.

Illustrated image by Milly Fern Parker.

Rating: ★★★★★

“C’est moi!”—two indelible syllables and Oscar Wilde appears before us, reminding us not so much who he is as what he is—iconoclast, critic, decadent—as what he does: Oscar Wilde (Jack Glantz) has something to say.

A Chevron Theatre production, “A Wilde Life” has imminent dates in Cambridge (Town and Gown) before running at the Edinburgh Fringe from the 15th-27th of August. Created by Andie Curno, George Marlin, Alex Boulton and Mia Ruby, this is a musical chronicling Wilde’s life—a Herculean task, but one that this team has executed brilliantly; glittering with barbed charm, this production is as bold as the man himself.

The scene opens in a sleazy Parisian café, thick with the honeyed misery of a dying age: sex-workers flirt with each other and the audience; bartenders and regulars gossip with distinct ease. Rather sensibly, no French accents are attempted. The space hums with potentiality—a piano and two tables, a handful of glasses, everything smothered with red cloth—sparse enough to allow the actors to establish much of the physical context. It is effectively done so that there is a certain volatility to the scenes, as if they might come apart at any moment. Accordingly, the movements of each actor becomes crucial. Thankfully, they prove themselves more than equal to it.

With a swaggering grandeur Glantz made his entrance to the stage, slow and posturing, possessed with all the calm of someone who knows how to capture a room. Immediately we were grounded with ‘Oscar in Paris,’ a thrumming jazz number that remained for me the most memorable. Alex Boulton as the pianist for the café is a permanent fixture, lending real warmth in his attenuated focus as he lets the rest of the ensemble perform. Boulton, with Julian Schwarz, managed to effortlessly capture the zeitgeist. The entire score is a mixture of blues and jazz to express Wilde’s fractured history, swollen with rich melodies and eddying rhythms.

The characters onstage required some further attention before they revealed themselves to us. Wilde as we know him does not exist in a vacuum. Rather, he is a cultural emblem, predicated on the idea of an audience (“A Wilde Life” grasps this well). In the very same way, we conjure Wilde through this act of assembly: the ensemble is transformed one-by-one into members from his past. The metaphysics of the display are as funny as they are perceptive. Wilde once demanded an audience that would receive him—tonight it is only right that he commands one to tell his story. This conveys something else as well, that we are in good hands with people who understand this history, and why exactly they owe a duty to rewrite it.

Ajay Sahota as Robbie Ross is the first figure summoned from Wilde’s past, and his first paramour that we are introduced to. Sahota plays the ingénu with stunning ease, constantly fumbling for meaning without verging on the ridiculous. A scene in which he drinks whisky for the first time had the whole room nervously laughing, such was the real physical tension between Sahota and Glantz; in the charged stillness there was a latent sense of danger. Wilde appears to tease Ross with his lack of restraint (“I see much of myself in you.”) and in doing so teases us, the audience, with the subtext, revelling in the error of our logic—that what is hidden must continue to be.

The next characters to appear are Ada Leverson (Imogen Chancellor) and Lady Jane (Dalia Kay), a fellow writer-friend and Wilde’s mother respectively. Chancellor is just as clear in her acerbic control of language as Kay is dominating when employing her own. Here, the creators emulate well that archetypal Wildean mode of speech, its searing musicality; bracingly unsentimental, everything is set hard and bright in its paradox. Chancellor‘s ability to match perfectly Wilde’s desire to shock is a thrilling thing to discover in real time as she, the bar patron, assumes her role as Ada.

The next two songs (’Love and Art’ and ‘Careful Darling’) capture Wilde in his reflections between Glantz, Chancellor and Kay—we cannot have him whole. Indeed, not even his wife—as we are often reminded—could. I especially appreciated the time given to the women in his life. Being able to see them in context and talking to one another is invaluable when it comes to understanding our protagonist. Too often they are made bloodless and dull in the face of Wilde’s character; here they exist just as brashly, are just as vividly with arguably comparable limitations, entirely to the show’s credit.

Not long after, the most moving scene from the show occurs between Wilde and Bosie (Zak Muggleton-Gellas) who embodies the spoiled youth impeccably, his features suffused with an almost caffeinated sheen. They sit and read to one another silently throughout “Eternal Youths,” the faltering melody drawn out between them in the starkness of their intimacy that needs no other framing, no other distraction but themselves. For Bosie, innocence is an instant away from entitlement, a transformation made even more likely with each giddy breath. Because of this dichotomy, as the show progresses Muggleton-Gellas’s performance changes radically, a contrast that is both comical and at times distracting. Further, there is that incessant poisoned lyric: Narcissus, Hyacinth. For some, these are images attended by tragic stories of metamorphosis—a man paralysed in his reflection, another struck dead by a god, both taken then into new flower; for others these are just the flowers themselves. Death by Beauty, or rather death to Beauty, in surrendering to the beauty of other men, or to just their image—this is what Wilde warns us of; this is what the audience knows to fear. This is what Wilde’s wife Constance (Freya MacTavish) knows she has to compete with.

MacTavish, finding herself caught between institutions and the will of a man determined to both defy and entertain them, makes easy work of the spurned lover. A curdling exhaustion marks her performance of “Silly Connie,” for me, the most impressive of the entire show. The control she assumed over the space was unimpeachable with an equally undeniable vocal performance. It is at this point that our villain made an appearance: the Marquess of Queensberry (Millie Fern Parker) is coming to take Oscar down with “Make Him Pay.” These songs together explore different responses to Wilde’s actions and the effect he had on them in return. Opposing the two characters emphasises the phenomenal diversity in opinion surrounding Wilde among his contemporaries. Parker provides the majority of the comedy for the show with her coiled wit lashing at Wilde and anyone else who dares oppose her (Dirty fruits!) culminating in his famous trial and ultimate sentencing.

Though the trial itself is heavily truncated—the effect of an arrow sprung perfectly to hit its mark barely a foot from its release—it is no less convincing for the exacting puncture mark it leaves. That Glantz can conjure a real sense of loss in “De Profundis” without the context of a long battle is a testament to his performance and the definite choreography of the scene. It is in this song that Glantz best assumes Wilde’s character, with strong vocals thronged with bitterness as he writes to Bosie from prison. Everything has the impression of careful consideration. Even in its ending.

One of the most impressive aspects of the show was the attention paid to its characters’ costumes by Daisy Fox and Emma Wilcox. These are subtle marks of genuine passion and a clear demonstration of the intelligence of the team in their effort to conjure genuine people with fine qualities of taste and appearance: a darting red is woven into hair at the crown; a dress hemmed with fine red thread stirs in response. Everyone wears that same red and black. To change a single costume is unimaginable—the incredible details mark them as seamless in each individual case.

The production itself, headed by Ben Nuttall with Kate Matthews, is of the most immense quality. Perfectly balanced, like the fine movements of a clock’s machinery, you hardly notice the achievement for its subtlety. The lighting delineates the scenes perfectly without muddying them, always remaining clipped. It is only when you remember that there must be a construction, that the production is itself organised, can you hear that steady ticking and perceive each immaculate movement. The well-coordinated dancing of the cast (joined necessarily by Caitlin Etheridge and Casiah Palmer Sterling as Cyrille and Vyvyan, Wilde’s children) was a surprising aspect of the show for me. Dynamic and playful, the choreography accentuated the show with a level of professional ability that was a genuine pleasure to witness. Etheridge and Sterling deserve further recognition for joining the harmony of babbling voices for the duration of the show while never seeming to take up unnecessary space on the stage, holding their own even when underutilised.

By this I mean Wilde’s children remain largely unexplored beyond their naming, and that considering their relationship to youth, beauty and legacy, there’s much fun that could be had here both musically and otherwise. In addition to this, slowing down the first couple of scenes would help to clarify some of the dialogue that remained indistinct. Glatz too would benefit from this in “A Wilde Life” that was, though visually engaging, more difficult to follow. Each of these seem to be the most obvious effects of a shorter running time however, and something easily resolved.

The other thing I noticed is that, at times, Wilde’s prose falls a little too quickly from the mouths of other characters. The final act of summoning Oscar to himself is done using this very device, powerful in its utter sense and conviction—what other man would trust to save himself? Elsewhere however, it can at times feel like an act of smug puppetry on behalf of the writers. Similarly, “Sodomite” being misspelt by the Marquess—a pivotal narrative moment—was not clearly explained, requiring the audience to already be acquainted with Wilde’s story. Finer details like this may help to broaden the audience in engaging with the narrative.

Ultimately, the great effect of Wilde’s characterisation is that the creators emphasise the importance of expression within queer identity—that there must remain a necessary distinction between liberation and assimilation. In capturing Wilde’s commitment to excess the writers are showing the audience the value of audacity, in demanding what you are owed. Art for art’s sake is radical because it is a commitment to the self, beyond utility or influence. We must commit to the beauty of an image—our own image—without its interrogation. With magnificent dexterity, much of Wilde’s philosophy bleeds through the show: here Aestheticism, the commitment to beauty alone, fits snugly alongside domestic drama, and some truly excellent musical numbers. This is a phenomenal achievement that the entire team should be incredibly proud of. Lydia Duval’s work with marketing is also a distinct feat, capturing the wit of the show and helping to broaden its access via social media. The gorgeous illustrations for the posters further emphasise the professional nature of the production. Created by Parker, the broad-edged black and red lines help to establish the dark, rich tone. The cast and crew of “A Wilde Life” have captured the tragicomedy of the world’s first modern celebrity with all of the vigour and vim it might ever be possible to summon, culminating in the single best show I have seen all year.

 ***

My final thoughts linger on that first act of construction, of being called to act out this history. And the miracle of it, leaving each audience member wondering at that same possibility, whether they might be called to live out a story—of beauty or anguish, of tragedy and humour?

After all, “It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.”

“C’est moi!”—no Oscar: c’est nous! It’s us!

Either way, you’re in for a Wilde ride…

[Tickets available on FIXR: Search for ‘A Wilde Life’]

Austin Keane, Year 2 

All images by Joe Fenna.

“In the beginning…”—and so we begin, met with the incipit from Genesis 1:1 that informs creation. A bold start, I must admit, but one that this production delivers on.

Written by Harry Daisley—the Worsley Times’ very own, if we may dare to point out—and assistant directed by Alicia Edwards and Sam Adlam, “The Velvet Veins” (Open Theatre) ran from the 17th -19th of March in the Pyramid theatre. Producers Ellery Turgoose, Sam Cooke and Ellie Gelber ensured the space was utterly transformed: pastel-coloured lanterns swelled the air above the stage, falling and rising as you passed your eye across the room; a desk and a throne were only vaguely conspicuous aside a cell; two drapes hung from back wall, spiderwebbed with black illustrations, designed by Rosie Margree. Lines bisected and overlapped—torsos, snails, almost-human things, were deformed and spun in ink, to later significance. Here nothing has true borders; nothing is clear, except, perhaps, for one thing: in the beginning, it seems, there was fashion. 

The play straddled comedy and drama with impressive consistency, examining the relationship between two siblings: the Empress (Marta Vittoria Fiorini) and the Chancellor (Beth Crossley), and the way their lives accommodate for the kidnapping of  (the fabulous) Lord Leonard Ludwig Bazaar (Erin Cooke) from the power of one to the other. We soon establish the rules: vegans and drag and gays are exports from the Empress’ domain, and that there exists a cultural distance between the two kingdoms, mapped snugly to the geographical and emotional estrangement of the siblings. Further, there are some laws of nature (that is to say culture) that cannot be broken: avocadoes, as ever, remain universal.

The play’s focus on dualities—and their contradictions—was most clearly demonstrated in the nuanced performances of Fiorini and Crossley as our two sovereigns: they navigate each other’s stories and contexts deftly, carefully sidestepping the suggestion that they are victims of a certain creation and preferring to opt for rivalry instead. Crossley’s performance especially showed remarkable development as the play progressed, sweetly contrasting the increasing fever of Ludwig’s will to escape with subtle venom and unsubtle rage. Meanwhile, Cooke’s Ludwig managed to act as the Chancellor’s twisted mirror, a constant contradiction to further both their characterisation whilst retaining a whole image herself. They carried the weight of the emotional context for the first act in this way, simmering perfectly together; they challenged each other in inches with the hope of unravelling miles.

The Duchess’ performance was something else entirely—dropping my pen halfway through the first act, my hand itched to pick it up. I looked down to find it shook for a moment, and made the sensible decision to wait until the Empress had stopped talking. Fiorini was brilliantly expressive, entertaining a shrill control of language and a caustic, fluid motion to make even the slightest interaction deliciously entertaining. These courtroom scenes were further ornamented with the help of two aides, Alicia Edwards as Quintus and Isla Delfy as Helene. Each vying to be more tolerably-unconvincingly demure in a competition for the Empresses’ affection, they bicker and chide with an almost Wildean musicality. If, especially with the opening sequences, the plot meanders a little, sometimes too pleased with the hectic loveliness of its minor characters—it is convincing enough to be enjoyed, even at the expense of the wider narrative. 

Later on we met the painfully earnest Mr Alexander (Barney Milton), refreshingly unaffected, and commendably so, in the face of his company, the brilliant Kurt and Burt (played by Maisy Dodd and Ruby Sparks respectively). Their dynamic presence on screen was a perfect antidote to the increasing misery being summoned by both siblings. Selene, played by Iris Webster, we glimpse little of and then much, providing us a nice sense of expansiveness within this ecosystem—we come to know her as first a spectator, much as we are, then a tired lover, then an agent within the actual operation on stage. She is possessed by her own desires and impulses, and we watch her compel the others to do the same, challenging their ideas of conduct, and of taste—much to the Empress’ disapproval.

Designed by Rose Margee, the detail pertaining to each costume was immense. With everything from a ruff to flares, still nothing was amiss. Opulence and hedonism could be spied in each swath of the Empress’ fabric, and the close attention paid to everyone else’s outfits, though less singularly dramatic, was no less effective. It cultivated a very material reality to our characters as well as emphasising the role of presentation and the power of appearance within the wider play. We critique them for the same reasons that the kingdoms they speak of critique them. Selene’s honesty about her clothes—predominantly woollen—and her literal hand in their creation challenge the authenticity of both our leaders, even the Empress who is well served by her appearance and wider performance.

With each narrative revolution the actors change places, much as a bead of water twists and cleaves itself down the knife; lights flicker off and we are transported again to a place of unreality, where our opening sequence unfolded. This is the real jewel at the heart of the show. An in-between space where monologues can unravel without the fetter of reality. It happens only a few times but consistently to powerful effect, conjuring stillness without awkwardness. I felt my blood for a moment, roiling inside me—the lights dimmed as if to wick the noise that swelled the room. My veins flickered, hummed. The hanging art lingers, always behind them, starched, still.

The central conceit of the play is delightful, silly within the realms of this world. Dramatic irony is employed exquisitely to full effect, as we laugh at them figuring it out. It’s thrilling and feverish and well done. The script holds for the most part in this same fashion (badum-chhh), wavering only slighting with regards to pacing in the second act and some of the dynamics—obscured and not—between a few of the characters.

For example,  I wanted to hear more of Timon (Samantha Cass), who in the final act was possessed with a vulnerability and fierceness that we have come to suspect Timon is troubled by. Cass’s sensitivity is an unutilised force elsewhere, visible only at the periphery of their scenes. The other  was the romance between Mr Alexander and Selene. It comes a little too easily, or obviously, his passivity welded to her directness; a moment or two of stuttering contact and they perceive the other with the sly understanding of new feeling. Selena’s “I belong to nobody” sounding a little pained by virtue of how quickly we might be expected to forget it. Of course, love is not possession. I mean more that it felt a little incongruous: they are drawn together like magnets, with little emotional interest, even if it is sweet enough, and funny, to watch. (They are both—undeniably— very skilled at making us laugh.) 

This incongruity was made even more obvious by their centring in place of Ludwig and the Chancellor, whose dynamic was arguably both more complex and interesting. On this point special notice should be given to Callie O’Brien, the sound designer. The majesty of a royal court was conjured effortlessly with a springing up of strings, and later on the atmosphere was transformed again with the song “Yes Sir, I Can Boogie.” It’s this that the Chancellor and Ludwig danced with each other to. Their bodies seemed softer under a new shifting light, turgid with warmth—the illustrations behind them coming alive, guttering in and out of focus, some vivid, some wild, all for the first time possessed with inertia. Some classic homoerotic tension hovered in the air, unwritten but unimpeachable, much to the barely-stifled pleasure of the giggling audience. (Significantly, I include myself among them on this matter.) For their subtext to be made vernacular, however, their silent conflict rewarded, would have been more hard-won and more satisfying. I know this is too simple: mutual isolation is no basis for a relationship; nor is kidnapping!. But to name the broken thing would clarify to us its power, and not muddy why exactly it is that they can’t be together—not a certain love but a certain pride; for a man obsessed with dress, a certain mask of pretending. Then the love may dare to speak its name, after all.

In the closing scenes there are several stunning moments of actualisation: the Chancellor wears his art as his own, revealed earlier to be those same drapes, a sardonic elegance employed as violence so now the Empress can see the truth of her cruelty. We watch as Timon leaves, abandoning the pursuit of love as transformation, and Mr Alexander claims his forename (though it will remain unrecorded here) being recreated under his new love. But best of all is the ultimate monologue—where Ludwig leaves, abandoning both siblings. He violates the rubric that had been established, releasing himself from his choice of two in search of another, of the Other; to a place “where clocks strike thirteen,” to a place where he may know even better what it is that he has now just for the first time understood—the force of his will, his existence in all its potentiality—and leaping, there—within his “velvet veins.” It expressed perfectly the tensions that had been amassing throughout the play, and the necessary release from them, whatever the cost.

*

Our clothes afford us agency in expression; we can reinvent, accommodate certain aesthetic exports to substantiate ourselves, our feelings even. We wear them in the hope that they imbue us with something greater than ourselves. Or to be even more dangerous: that we might approximate our true measure in them and demonstrate this, without affectation. It is, it seems, a creation story after all, compelling us—as both Timon and Ludwig do in the end—to think about what it is that we might do; to eat the apple or not; whether we might leave a garden dictated to us—choose to—and forge a place where our creation is our own.

An excellent team of actors and crew brought to life a genuinely compelling and thoughtful script. If what the Chancellor extols to us is true, and “art never sleeps” then, with this production as evidence, the cast and crew of The Velvet Veins may be—for a while yet—content in their insomnia.

Harry Daisley, Year 1

All images by Abby Swain.

My dad was in Leeds for the weekend on a work trip when I got a message asking whether I would be interested in reviewing Theatre Group’s production of ‘Things I Know to be True’ by Andrew Bovell. I punched in a text asking if he wanted to take a break from the antics of work and watch a bit of theatre. Now, for context, my father is not one to typically enjoy theatre. In fact, it has become quite a common occurrence that he falls asleep during shows. He would much rather get absorbed into a James Bond-esque thriller boxset or a Netflix true crime documentary but that evening he took a chance on director Jamie Walker’s take on ‘Things I Know to be True,’ and it did not disappoint.

Bovell’s play takes an intimate look at a grown up family in crisis, where four children Pip, Rosie, Mark and Ben and their parents Bob and Fran uncover their own secrets and flaws piece by piece. Each has their own unique struggles that redefine the family dynamic, one member at a time. And when tragedy strikes, the family unit is forced to wrestle  and come to terms with the things they know to be true. 

The play begins with an introduction to Rosie Price played effortlessly by Niamh Walter, who is planning to return home after a gap year in Europe. Immediately, the production appears smooth and professional. Each move, sentence and emotion seems choreographed and considered, assuring the audience that they are in for a slick performance. Niamh captures the whimsical nature of Rosie beautifully and keeps the audience hanging onto each line despite the length of the monologue. This is complemented by Walker’s directorial style which shines from the word go. Simple yet effective physical theatre components, similar to those used in Frantic Assembly’s take on the same show, give Rosie’s lines weight and a sense of journey, immersing the audience into the drama that is to unfold. 

We are later introduced to the family as a whole and enjoy impressive performances from the cast. From her entrance, Meg Ferguson’s portrayal of Fran is striking, capturing the layered nature of the character, including her role and motives as a mother, wife and friend to the characters around her. The level of detail and precision in her character helped to bring the plot to life. Characters seemed to orbit Fran’s large persona to the extent that Ferguson’s portrayal became the beating heart of the play, only making the play’s final moments all the more tragic. Ferguson’s performance was accompanied by a delightful performance by Josh Murphy as Bob. The married couple were convincing and delivered tender performances throughout, adding to the realism of the family dynamic being observed. 

Exemplar performances continued with Erin Carney’s depiction of Pip. Carney transmitted Pip’s desire for freedom and passion over simplicity and regret remarkably. This coupled with daring choices made by directors Walker and Poole made Pip’s performance all the more vivid. A particularly distinct moment was the heart breaking reading of Pip’s letter to her mother. Here, Pip sheds light on her mother’s unorthodox parenting style and the mark this left on her psyche. Both Carney and Ferguson stunned the theatre into silence with their sombre characterisation. These subtle moments, peppered throughout the fast paced script were certainly highlights. If anything, I would have liked to have seen more of these instants of stillness to give time for the audience to digest the progressive crumbling of the family at hand. 

The cast certainly rose to Bovell’s challenging script, tackling difficult themes such as drug abuse through Ben’s (Seb De Pury) narrative and Mark’s (Evan Harris) wish to live as a woman. Both actors delivered such plot points with maturity and skill, injecting the production with a much needed sense of intimacy. 

But what really elevated Walker’s vision and the skill of the actors was the design. The team (Dec Kelly, Hannah Rooney, Liv Taylor-Goy and Annie King-Ferguson) turned the play into a fully realised production. The stage was beautifully set to resemble a suburban home, complete with a rose garden and kitchen, elegantly abstracted by hanging wire bulbs that descending onto the stage. It gave a strong, sleek impression on audience members as they entered the theatre. Kelly’s lighting design aided moments of intense emotion while the existing score by Nils Frahm used kept scenes fresh and dynamic. In short, the production was excellently crafted for a student production, taking all the best bits from Frantic Assembly’s version of the play. 

In essence, Theatre Group’s ‘Things I Know to be True’ truly was a triumph. The mature acting coupled with skilled directing and seamless production design led to the striking telling of an expertly written script. The team should be very proud of their accomplishments. 

Harry Daisley, Year 1

All images by Abby Swain.

Amongst the business of our daily lives, the chaos, the pressure, the hilarity and all that comes between, it may seem difficult to stop, find a moment and ask yourself the simple question, why? Lulu Racska’s ‘Nothing’, gives audiences that time to pause and ask that very question through a series of gritty monologues that directors Sophie Apthorp and Jess Payne have seamlessly overlayed. The product was a striking production, that showcased the exceptional talents of Leeds’s student theatre community.

 

It is difficult to summarise the plot of Rascka’s ‘Nothing’ into a brief paragraph. The play has no clear narrative, and rather takes the form a series of monologues delivered by disparate characters that occasionally touch on similar themes, including nihilism, existentialism and trauma. However, what they do have in common is poignancy. While the monologues are written in a witty, colloquial style that appears subjectively conversational, they all contain this intrinsic darkness buried under the surface that grabs attention and asks all the right questions. Racska’s fearless writing amounts to a production that is both raw and intimate and hugely stimulating for audiences. 

Such intimacy was underpinned by the talents of the cast. Each delivered highly captivating and compelling performances that elevated Racska’s writing. Take Charlotte McKenna’s portrayal of ‘Porn Girl’, a woman torn apart by her filthy obsession with pornography. McKenna’s performance is hilarious, using all the right physicality to accompany her punchlines, all of which landed with oomph. What is more is that McKenna took audiences on a journey—a skill that is not easy when it comes to lengthy monologues. While the monologue was superficially about one woman’s odd obsession with pornography, McKenna tapped into the nuanced areas of Racska’s script, adding depth to her character. The monologue tells of this woman feeling disconnected from the world and those around her and McKenna elevated such theme through her sullen delivery towards the end of her speech. While audiences laughed along, McKenna successfully drove home touching messages about the importance of in person relationships and the extent to which they make us who we are. 

Exemplar performances continued with Lucy Lawrence and Alice Waller’s depiction of ‘Stalker’ and ‘Vandal’ respectively. Like ‘Porn Girls’ narrative, the monologues were humorous in nature with alluring dark undertones. Lawrence’s portrayal of ‘Stalker’ tells audiences of a young girl’s first-hand reaction to a violent attack on a bus who was thrilled at the idea of something significant happening in her life. The characterisation here was fantastic. Lawrence captured and transmitted all elements of the monologue with ease, amounting to an enjoyable performance. Similarly, Waller kept the laughs going with her monologue describing her characters tendency to vandalise the doorsteps of her enemies with her own faeces. Waller successfully turned this insane narrative into something with substance through her impressive use of comedic timing and pacing. In essence, the cast successfully brought to life Apthorp and Payne’s bold visions in a way that was hard-hitting, captivating and most of all, impressive. 

Though, a special mention has to be given to Jacob Greaves’ heart breaking performance of ‘Patient’. Their nonchalant telling of a man’s childhood sexual assault left audience stunned into silence. With monologues with difficult content such as this, there is a tendency for actors to overplay emotions, leading to artificial performances. However, Greave’s avoided this with their beautifully subtle characterisation and wry delivery. Greaves’ let audiences in with their raw performance, perhaps making it the most memorable of the evening. 

From the set to the acting, ‘Nothing’ was slick and well-done. The production team (Apthorp, Payne, Lexi Prosser, Grace Elcock and Arthur Bell) demonstrated that there really is no limit to where student theatre can go. Their bold directorial and production elements coupled with the compelling acting brought a refreshing, whirlwind of a play to Banham Theatre and I wish I could witness it all over again.

Alice Barber, Intercalating

TW: bullying, suicide

Earlier this year a series was released based on the book by ex-doctor Adam Kay—This is Going to Hurt (BBC. 2022). Although I’m sure most people have heard of this series by now, the series follows Adam, a trainee obstetrics and gynaecology doctor, as well as younger trainee Shruti as they work on a busy London labour ward (this will contain some spoilers so don’t read on if you haven’t watched yet).

Whilst it was a widely popular show which has had exceptional reviews for its realistic portrayal of the medical profession (Mangan, L. 2022), I think it is important to reflect on some of the more troubling revelations from the show, as well as the impacts that this could have for the many many students and prospective medical students who watched the show alongside the nation. 

Issues that it raises

There were many issues raised both directly in the series, and in conversations started by the programme. I will try to address three of the issues—whilst these are not necessarily the most important, they are the issues which made me think the most personally. 

Firstly, an issue which was clear from the offset was the ridiculous amount of hours Adam worked, and the effect that this had on his ability to have a personal life. In multiple episodes he was seen being called back into work after going home for the evening, having to leave important personal events in order to do so. He was also seen falling asleep multiple times in the car due to being so exhausted from the hours he worked. Whilst policies have changed since 2006 when the series was set, it is still frequently the case that doctors work long hours, and often have inflexible rotas that mean they struggle to attend important life events—sometimes even their own weddings! (BMA. 2016) Also, although doctors are now required to work no more than an average of 48 hours a week (BMA. 2022), this is still significantly more than what is usually considered full time (35 hours) (UNISON. 2022), and leaves the possibility for longer weeks since it is a yearly average. There is still much that is needed to change with working patterns for doctors, and This Is Going to Hurt highlighted the importance of this.

Another issue raised was that of workplace bullying, and belittling of juniors, in the medical profession. On multiple occasions we see Shruti, the younger junior doctor, being belittled and in some situations bullied by senior staff. A picture was painted of an NHS where juniors should be worried about approaching their seniors rather than comfortable approaching them with their worries. Whilst this is a systemic issue which again, I think has improved since the series was set, most medical students or juniors will still have seen this on the wards in some form. Stemming from what I believe is a sometimes toxic hierarchy and the culture of competition in medical training, the issue of seniors intimidating their juniors still desperately needs addressing. 

The final issue I will address is that of doctor’s mental health, and the rapidly increasing precedence of mental illness amongst doctors and medical students. A BMA report on 2019 found that 40% of doctors who responded were suffering from a mental illness, with 90% saying their work contributed to this. 80% were also at risk of burnout—with junior doctors most at risk (BMA. 2019). This is a massive problem which has only been amplified by the covid-19 pandemic. This Is Going to Hurt highlighted this problem with the suicide of Shruti—a moment which I think will stick in the memory of everyone who watched it. What amplifies the distress of this is Shruti’s suicide is not a one of case—doctors are known to be at a much higher risk of suicide, with female doctors being at 2.5-4 times the risk of the general population (Gerada, C. 2018). This issue needs urgently addressing to reduce the risk for doctors and medical students. Not only does there need to be better support for doctors, there also needs to be a drastic change in working conditions for doctors to protect their mental health.

Impact on medical students and prospective medical students

Whilst I am glad that This Is Going To Hurt raised these important issues and highlighted the desperate need for change, I also think it is key to acknowledge the impact that seeing these issues played out on national TV could have on medical students and prospective medical students. Medical students are not oblivious to the challenges that a medical career poses, but we are also not immune to worrying about the future and how we will handle the challenges. Prospective medical students are also not immune to being put off of a career in medicine by only seeing negative portrayals of medicine. 

Seeing these challenges dramatised and publicised nationally also amplifies the potential to negatively impact the mindset and worries of medical students and prospective medical students. In order to counteract this negative impact, I therefore think it is so important to also highlight how things are changing and people, like the BMA, are fighting for conditions to be better in the future. It is key that the positives of a career in medicine are publicised just as widely so students can see the full picture. 

What should we do now?

The issues shown in This Is Going to Hurt are big issues ingrained in the medical profession. Whilst they are going to take time and effort to change, we need to start discussions to make this happen. These discussions need to happen not only to make change, but also so that students can see that there are not only negatives to a career in medicine, and that there are people who are fighting for change.

In addition to discussions, there are also many campaigns currently fighting for change in working conditions for doctors and medical professionals, such as the Doctors Vote fighting for pay restoration for junior doctors (Doctors Vote. 2022). It is also important that medical students are involved in these discussions and campaigns, not only so that we can be involved in making change for our future careers, but also so we can see that despite the challenges, there is positive change happening that we can contribute to. If, like me, watching This Is Going To Hurt made you want to make positive change in the medical profession, make sure to get involved in organisations such as the BMA, or your medical school council,  so you can be involved in making change happen to try to ensure our experiences are different to those of Adam and Shruti. 

Support Resources:

• https://youokaydoc.org.uk
• https://www.mindhealthuk.org
• https://www.bma.org.uk/advice-and-support/your-wellbeing/wellbeing-support-services/sources-of-support-for-your-wellbeing 

References

BBC. 2022. This Is Going To Hurt. [Online]. [Accessed 29th March 2022]. Available from: https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p0b6k6kx/this-is-going-to-hurt-series-1-episode-1

BMA. 2016. Twitter: ‘Junior drs are missing their own weddings despite months of notice b/c of poor employment practice’ #junioraction. [Online]. [Accessed 29th March 2022]. Available from: https://twitter.com/thebma/status/686482329636855809 

BMA. 2019. Caring for the mental health of the medical workforce. [Online]. [Accessed 29th March 2022]. Available from: https://www.bma.org.uk/media/1365/bma-caring-for-the-mental-health-survey-oct-2019.pdf 

BMA. 2022. Doctors and the European Working Time Directive. [Online]. [Accessed 29th March 2022]. Available from: https://www.bma.org.uk/pay-and-contracts/working-hours/european-working-time-directive-ewtd/doctors-and-the-european-working-time-directive 

Doctors Vote. 2022. A new era for junior doctor representation. [Online]. [Accessed 29th March 2022]. Available from: https://www.doctorsvote.org 

Gerada, C. 2018. Doctors and Suicide. British Journal of General Practice. 68(669), pp168-169. 

Mangan, L. 2022. This Is Going To Hurt review – Ben Whishaw stars in a realism-packed adaptation. [Online]. [Accessed 29th March 2022]. Available from: https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2022/feb/08/this-is-going-to-hurt-review-ben-whishaw-stars-in-a-realism-packed-adaptation 

UNISON. 2022. Part Time Working. [Online]. [Accessed 29th March 2022]. Available from: https://www.unison.org.uk/get-help/knowledge/working-patterns/part-time-working/ 

Shruti Chawla, Year 3

For everyone who is currently practising for OSCEs, you may have realised that ICE forms are an integral part of the mark scheme here at Leeds. 

The concept of ICE (ideas, concerns, and expectations) was first articulated in The Consultation, the 1984 text, and is a consulting tool implemented within the Calgary-Cambridge Model (the gold-standard for consulting). This tool was created with the aim of emphasising a collaborative consulting model, actively involving the patient within the process of diagnosis, whilst also taking the all-important holistic approach—therefore, allowing a clinician to understand what the patient in front of them is truly thinking about the issue at hand. 

Through the curriculum, ICE is usually taught through the form of three short questions: 

1. What do you think may be causing this “issue”? 
2. Is there anything you’re particularly concerned about regarding this? 
3. What can I help you with today? 

Through these three questions, the desired take-away is a greater understanding of patient-affecting factors. A prime example of this is a mother with three children who may be concerned about her long-standing cough being cancer; perhaps due to her having dependents. The beauty of this model is that patients are given the space to express the background behind the presenting complaint, alongside the opportunity to communicate questions they previously may have disregarded as “minor”. 

It is often said that a quick ICE at the start of the consultation can guide the whole process, tailoring your examinations, prescriptions and general advice towards what the patient is looking for. But what is what is the genuine patient opinion of ICE? Does it come across as helpful as we presume it to be? 

Recently, I came across a BMJ article entitled “I never asked to be ICE’d” (Snow, 2016) which piqued my interest. To summarise the article, ICE can come across rather negatively—in being asked what “you” think is wrong it may place pressure on the patient, leaving them feeling as though they’re being tested. Worryingly, some patients may even see this as a sign of the doctor’s training falling short since they expect clear answers, rather than counter-questioning. 

What is the gold standard of communication, if not ICE? 

A suggestion made would be to make an effort to create genuine rapport. Instead of using a set standard, the focus should be on answering the patient’s questions, giving them plenty of time throughout the consultation to ask these. 

Forming a clear line of questioning, with explanations as to why questions are relevant, does a better job of creating open communication pathways which are essential to a collaborative consultation style. 

One way to think about ICE is more as a template to help when you’re unsure of how to start a consultation. If you’re comfortable with spontaneous conversation then it might be better to develop your own set of phrases that cover the ICE topics, but are less likely to recieve a confused response from the patients. 

Now this all sounds rather negative, but there must be a reason why ICE is such an integral part of the OSCE. 

The cross-sectional study by Matthys et al. (2009) looked at the impact of ICE on prescribing in general practice. Thirty-six GP practices in Belgium showed a mean of 1.54 of the ICE components being used per consultation, from a baseline of 0. They concluded that the presence of ICE (albeit a few components) led to less medication prescribing. 

Whilst this relationship hasn’t yet proved to be “causal”, it may suggest that exploring the patient’s views more thoroughly could lead to less prescription use. A prevalent example would be assessing why a patient is worried if they have a viral respiratory infection; providing them with the reassurance they seek, rather than the unnecessary antibiotic prescription. 

It’s clear that the NHS is moving from a model of continuity to accessibility. In this scenario, ICE may be the quickest and most effective way to ascertain the basic concerns of the patient, and a few more social points about their lives. It serves as a good reminder throughout the consultation to ensure that we treat the patient, not just the condition. 

However, whilst I will definitely be using ICE for those all-important OSCE marks—perhaps more through my own choice of phrasing—reading around the subject has left me with a few points to ponder: 

1. Has ICE become a paradox?
   1. By turning this into a box-ticking exercise, have we lost the true idea of the holistic approach?
2. Has ICE made us lose our interest for genuine connection through it being the component of an 8-minute exam station? 

To conclude, theoretically, ICE is a fantastic, easy consulting tool that allows a clinician to access the wider picture. However, with freedom of information, and patient’s understanding this system, it may soon lose that charm. It is important to assess as future doctors whether this textbook method may require some personalisation—as I think we can all agree that medicine is far from a transactional or impersonal discipline. 

References

Matthys, J., Elwyn, G., Van Nuland, M., Van Maele, G., De Sutter, A., De Meyere, M. and Deveugele, M. 2009. Patients’ ideas, concerns, and expectations (ICE) in general practice: impact on prescribing. Br J Gen Pract. 59(558), pp.29-36.Snow, R. 2016. I never asked to be ICE’d. BMJ.354, pi3729.