This is a Welsh play, so why is that lad
sporting a fez? And do Welsh policewomen really wear microskirts? Then
realisation strikes: 21st-century Wales’ principal export is
Doctor Who, and Liam and Jen have
just returned from a fan convention. In Gary Owen’s play, Liam’s
Whovian geekdom is only the first of many factors distinguishing him
his biological father Rick, whom he never knew until his mother died
six months earlier leaving him nowhere else to live. Liam’s accent is
Lancashire whereas Rick’s is broad valley Welsh; David Moorst gives the
son a camp cynicism whereas the father is by nature a rollicker; and,
of course, Rick is an alcoholic whose nickname is Violence, shortened
by his loving partner Suze to “Vile”.
Hamish Pirie’s production takes place in a circular living-room walled
off to thigh-height. It could be intended to suggest the TARDIS control
room (an octagonal overhead lighting rig is occasionally brought into
play), or more likely it could suggest a fighting pit, as seen in this
space a few years ago with Mike Bartlett’s
Cock. Yet there is no sustained
fighting, only a couple of brief outbursts. Jason Hughes adroitly keeps
Rick mostly affable, albeit that kind of affability that’s a little bit
too invasive and unrelenting, until something gets his dander up.
Owen’s writing is equally deft at mixing comedy and a persistent
undertow of menace.
In the final phase this blend first resolves itself, then grows
horrifyingly stark, and is ultimately overworked. After an evening of
Liam making ineffectual plays for Jen (Morfydd Clark), they finally
spend a night together, after which the issue of sexual consent rears
its head in classic grey-area mode (which Owen rightly makes clear
isn’t grey at all). This episode and its even more sinister aftermath
seem to suggest that there can be all the differences in the world
between individuals, but a prick is a prick is a prick. However, once
the issue of heredity has been raised, the suggestion cannot be avoided
that such behaviour is in Liam’s blood. I hope this is unintentional on
Owen’s part, because after two hours of deceptive thoughtfulness such a
conclusion would be crassly unthinking altogether.
Written for the Financial
Times.