Ajar

Corpus Playroom, 12th- 16th October, 7.30, £5-6

Directed by Matthew Topham

[rating:1/5]

The programme for Suzanne Burlton’s play Ajar states that ‘at the heart of this tense piece of new writing is Silence’. Within ten minutes of sitting down I was wishing for silence at the very least – capitalization would be a luxury.

Before my diatribe begins, let me quickly alert you to the only thing that was bearable for over an hour’s worth of theatre. Sophie Peacock, (in the role of Rachel, the confidante to the lead, Lottie) is a competent actress. She may even be more than that – it’s just a shame that she had nothing to support her potential talent.

Now that the niceties are out of the way, (let it never be said that I don’t try) I’ll get down to the dirty. This production was truly awful. Suzanne Burlton’s script defied belief at times – it was as though she had written one draft and not even bothered to ask a friend to proof read it. Even a particularly timid friend who wouldn’t have laughed aggressively in her face would have surely pointed out the painful inconsistency in simple points of characterisation and plot. I would love to say that it just ‘doesn’t quite hang together’, but that would be a horrendous understatement. Lady Gaga’s meat dress doesn’t quite hang together. If Ajar was a meat dress it would be mainly offal and it wouldn’t fit humans.

There is no narrative to speak of, so we are left with dialogue. Not a problem in brilliantly written minimalism, but I was bored senseless by the banal, endlessly repetitive droning between Lottie and Rachel. With no narrative, you’d think we might at least get interesting characters, development of thought, some progression in the topics of conversation – but alas, not so.

Sophie Peacock aside, the acting did nothing to add to the excruciating boredom in the room. Hang on – that’s a lie. Jagveen Tyndall, as Lottie’s dense and tragically insensitive husband, was actually very funny. The foot-stamping and the angst-ridden forehead rubbing combined with fabulously monotonous exclamations got me snuffling into my notebook.

That was nothing next to the audible giggles from everyone when he appeared on stage in a white t-shirt splashed with red paint (sorry, Blood) wielding a knife. His startling resemblance to an extra from Shaun of the Dead (no, not even Dawn of the Dead) steeped in creepy red light during a supposedly dreamlike sequence was the only proof in the production that there had actually been a Director. Frankly, I would rather have been left wondering.

There is regrettably little to say about Patricia Snell as the suicidal Lottie because she did regrettably little. The performance was implausible – she wasn’t depressed, she was just really grumpy. It was like watching someone try to kill themselves because of vaguely uncomfortable stomach cramps.

A young woman’s attempt to give us all an intense and meaningful insight onto depression turns out to be an insight into fuck all. That is unless you need a reminder that self-indulgent people write self-indulgent bollocks and expect the audience to share said indulgence. This is Cambridge, however; we’ve all learnt about bollocks the hard way. I certainly came out depressed though.