"Why start gouging up the past?" What sort of headshrinker would ask a question like that? The sort who finds himself closeted with family at a wake; the sort who, it is alleged, is strangely uncaring outside his office; the sort who ends up going at it hammer and tongs with his rootless, disillusioned brother while Sis makes vain soothing noises. Some perceptive snapshots of alienation crop up early on, but the more the tension rose, the less I found myself gripped by the old ritual. It ends up as the intellectual theatre-going equivalent of naked women wrestling in mud.
Written for City Limits magazine.
Copyright © Ian Shuttleworth; all rights reserved.
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