Carly Tarett & Howard Whittock
Theatre Review
Written by
Daniel Thackeray
Directed
by Alex Shepley
The Met,
Bury
Reviewed
on 13th July
Review by
Brian Gorman
4 stars
Lawrence
Dodds is a run-of-the mill stage medium, a mix of Peter Falk's
crumpled detective Columbo, and Ken Stott's down-at-heel Inspector
Rebus. Dodds seems to be a dead man walking, a guy at the fag end of
his career, and lacking the starry charisma (shallow though it is) of
a Derek Acorah. In a perfectly-pitched opening scene, we find Dodds
downing more than his fair share of cheap whiskey, whilst schooling
nervous new assistant Rachael Connor (Carly Tarett) in the dark arts
of audience exploitation. We are told everything we need to know
about this amoral charlatan. He's a complete fraud; and he appears to
have no shame about it. Using simple word play, Trump-esque self
confidence, and NLP (Neuro Linguistic Programming) – owing a debt
of gratitude to the likes of Derren Brown, Penn & Teller, et al,
he elicits crucial snippets of personal information from audience
members, and makes them believe he is actually channelling deceased
relatives. Rachael duly plays her part, pretending to be an innocent
punter, but the evening takes a very dark turn when an unexpected
(and, as we discover, rather unwelcome) guest threatens to humiliate
Dodds, and uncover the spiritual shennanigans.
Lawrence Dodds (Howard Whittock)
With only two actors
on stage, this is a tight, atmospheric, and unsettling piece, which
utilises the minimum of props and stage set to maximum effect. As the
story takes place in a theatre (on this occasion, the lovely new
'Box' studio at The Met, in Bury), and part of the action has Dodds
inter-acting with members of the (real) audience, we are sucked
gently, and efectively, into the unquiet world of writer Daniel
Thackeray. Chilling sound effects, effective use of complete
blackouts in the confined space, and a quite terrifying, yet simple,
onstage ghost effect makes for a nervy evening for those of a
delicate disposition. Howard Whittock plays Dodds with the distracted
air of a man barely conscious of the physical world around him. He is
disturbingly placid, and distinctly unmoved by the emotional and
spiritual wounds he is delicately fingering. Carly Tarett grounds the
piece, with a realistic and wholly sympathetic performance as the
callow young Rachael, who grows a backbone when things begin to fall
apart. Anne Baron plays a third, rather chilling and unsettling,
character in the play, but I won't spoil anything by saying any more!
Writer Daniel Thackeray with actor Howard Whittock
Thackeray
channels the great Nigel Kneale (creator of tv's 'Quatermass', and
cult classics 'The Stone Tape' and 'The Year Of The Sex Olympics') in
his sparse, unshowy script. The dialogue is lean, crisp, on the nose,
and sharply effective. Alex Shepley's directing avoids the pitfalls
of trying too hard to scare her audience, and wisely allows the
actors to inhabit their respective characters, and let the story
gradually unwind to its chilling conclusion. The scares are subtle,
and the atmosphere grows naturally, rather than being delivered
fully-formed. This is a hugely enjoyable piece, which certainly
leaves the audience hungry for more. My main quibble with the
production is the short running time (just under an hour), and the
fact that things end rather abruptly. However, one shouldn't really
complain too much, as there are far too many shows that shamelessly
outstay their welcome. Scytheplays' 'The Dead, Live' is short and
sweet, but delivers a heck of a sting.
