★★✰✰✰
The Real, performed at The Cockpit Theatre, is a play with big ideas. But, within a mishmash of narratives, the tall ambitions of creating and critiquing dystopia fall slightly flat under the weight of a bombastic through-line: Society with a capital S. Hyper-surveillance, government control and capitalist greed are only a few of the topics brushed up against; sadly, the loose plot that strings itself around these dystopian ideas is not pulled taut enough to bring it all together.
The premise is still strong: how do we find meaning and be real within the confines of dystopia? Writer Linnea Langfjord Kristensen provides sufficient moments of interest to sustain this thought experiment for its hour-long span, and Alan Fielden’s direction provides steady momentum. Together, they fashion the ‘Big Brother’ state into a worthy antagonist. Four inane characters, each with their own complex relationship with reality, live out their strange little existences in a world where keeping busy is enforced.
We begin with Drew (Drew Sheridan-Wheeler), an amnesiac of sorts, who has taken to folding cabbages out of paper napkins. His methodical folding and the origami-strewn stage are a nice visual touch. In his opening monologue, we learn that Drew forgets things; and, mentally trapped by unfinished thoughts, he has turned himself into a recluse. Sheridan-Wheeler’s excellent and nuanced performance—and an eerie relatability to Drew’s plight—make for such a promising start. This speech proving his incoherent mind was, ironically, the most coherent part of the entire play. The stellar cast, as individuals and as a unit, are laudable. Their commitment helps eke out more overall coherence. With the spirit of a burnout corporate girlboss—and a pink power suit to match—Henriette (Henriette Laursen) makes weekly visits to her old friend Drew, although he always forgets them. Tom (Tom Cray) is a writer, or a failed writer, or just someone with a notebook. And his flatmate Meg (Meg Lake) can only be defined as concerningly chipper; she’s very pleased to be a cog in the machine, although the exact nature of her role is genuinely baffling.
There is a fifth presence also—the state itself, personified as a child (Lucy Spreckley), whose chalk drawings and sudden fits of yelling are more distracting than they are necessary. Equally distracting is the lighting, with sudden floods of pink or near darkness that don’t seem to marry with the onstage action.
The worldbuilding that does exist mostly comes from Henriette. In making a boogie man out of society, she drops jargon like “progress” or “record and report”. She also drums up the threat of government “fines” for slacking on self-improvement. Within this, there is something intriguing about Langfjord Kristensen twisted vision of today’s world. It’s just a shame, then, that this world doesn’t translate to the stage and is instead bubbled within verbose dialogue.
Ultimately, The Real is reminiscent of those deep conversations you share with dear friends at 3am, when you’re perhaps a little inebriated. It has all the energy of something great, with little lasting substance.
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