LEAVES OF GLASS
Soho Theatre + Writers' Centre, London W1
Opened 8 May, 2007
***
Philip Ridley once joked that a recurrent theme in his work was
"mutilating children". Another, only slightly less obvious,
preoccupation is brotherhood. Since his screenplay for The Krays, Ridley's work has been
peopled with pairs of boys or young men in relationships that are both
protective and abrasive. In Leaves
Of Glass, what at first seems to be Steven's concern for his
half-cracked artist younger brother Barry is gradually revealed to be
the culmination of a history in which Steven is probably largely
responsible for his bruv's current condition. Their accounts of reality
compete, both in the present (why has Steven's pregnant girlfriend
Debbie left home?) and in the past, with radically differing accounts
of the time around their father's suicide ten years earlier, when they
were aged 15 and 10. Our senses of the respective characters'
reliability and sympathy shift ever and anon during the two
uninterrupted hours of playing time – probably half an hour too long.
Sometimes Ridley must feel damned if he does and damned if he doesn't.
His last play Mercury Fur
(also starring Ben Whishaw, who here makes a darkly compelling Steven)
drew both wild plaudits and outraged condemnation of its supposed
degeneracy; in contrast, the problem with Leaves Of Glass is that there is
too little of the writer's characteristic poetically grotesque vision,
as if he were the offspring of Garcia Lorca and Clive Barker. The
childhood violence at the core of this tale is not only relegated to an
indirect account by Barry (Trystan Gravelle) from a distance of years,
but the act itself – sexual abuse – remains unnamed, only the details
around it being obsessively recalled. Too much of the rest of the play
is scene-setting of one sort or another: instead of creating a shadowy
fantastical world for his characters, Ridley locates them in prosaic
east London, and as a result too much of the family banality feels not
even as dramatic as an average episode of EastEnders. Lisa Goldman, in her
first direction since taking the helm at Soho, gives the piece a dark,
spare production devoid of fripperies except for twin stage revolves.
Written for the Financial
Times.
Copyright © Ian Shuttleworth; all rights
reserved.
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