If Lucy Kirkwood’s first full-length
professional play were 20 minutes shorter and presented at a less
minutely scrutinised venue – the Arcola, say, or the Union, where other
of Kirkwood’s work has been seen – this piece would be seen as serving
notice of a young playwright who was well on the way. As it is, the
glass is more likely to be perceived as half-empty than half-full:
Kirkwood isn’t there yet.
She has a lively and fecund imagination;
Tinderbox is set in a near future
where global warming has submerged much of southern England and created
a Hadrian’s Channel. Illegal Scottish immigrant Perchik, finding
himself in the urban war zone of Bradford, takes refuge in a butcher’s
shop run by petty tyrant Saul and his formerly “trampy” wife Vanessa.
They are persuaded to take Perchik in, at which point he discovers that
the meat supply isn’t always what it could be and so… And so we’re into
a version of the eternal triangle that is out of
The Postman Always Rings Twice by
way of
Sweeney Todd, set
perhaps in the city of Sarah Kane’s
Blasted
as rewritten by the League of Gentlemen. Saul, moreover, has a
self-satisfied yet sadistic orotundity that suggests Joe Orton. Yet
Kirkwood’s writing is more than the sum of these references and/or
similar influences: when Perchik admits to Vanessa that he recognises
her from a “party political pornographic film” in which her Lady
Hamilton received a full Nelson, so to speak, the initial chuckle at
the idea of Tory porn gives way to a kind of poignancy as they court
each other by re-enacting fragments.
What is lacking so far is greater selectivity and discipline. Some of
the gags about the new configurations of Britain and the world skitter
over the line between satirising racism and inadvertently indulging it,
the plot is too obvious in the neatness and cyclicality of its
conclusion, and (especially on the Bush’s reconfigured seating, which
is at present poorly pitched) there’s simply too much of it to compel
throughout. But Josie Rourke has directed with her characteristic
attentiveness, even redecorating the entire front of house, and
Sheridan Smith gives another of her masterly only-partly-dumb-blonde
performances as Vanessa. Kirkwood will deserve this kind of attention,
and more, but on this showing she doesn’t quite.
Written for the Financial
Times.