‘We Were Promised Honey!’ Trespasses the Choices We Make, Have and Create: Review

★★★★✰

Are we, as a people and a planet, the sum of our choices?

As the writer, performer and somewhat spiritual guide, Sam Ward starts his play with its conclusion. Tucked up in Soho Theatre’s ‘Upstairs’ space, We Were Promised Honey! turns us—the audience—towards each other. First, we are confronted physically. The traverse staging makes for quite the face-off when Ward quickly turns the tables on us. Having heard how the story ends, and being guaranteed it will be glum, we must choose to continue. Someone, Ward tells us, must say so out loud. And so, we are confronted in another sense: with our choices, our presence, and our shared moment in time.

Over the course of an hour-ish, human awkwardness and compliance win. In the debate between ‘Free Will v Determinism’, the latter is evident. In a room of eager theatre-goers, immersion comes naturally. And the production’s almost complete reliance on audience interaction is not a total challenge. People eventually pipe up. Because prolonged silence in a theatre stings.

And, of course, we also want to hear more from Ward and the tales he spins, as he unwinds reams of emotionally charged and imagined futures, which are cut around one true story. The tragedy of Richard Russell, an American baggage handler who illegally commandeered a Bombardier Q400 in 2018. The tragedy we were warned of, with the unchangeable ending.

Produced by award-winning theatre company YESYESNONO, We Were Promised Honey! is minimal but mighty. Ward’s storytelling is markedly underpinned by David Doyle’s lighting and Carmel Smickersgill’s sound design. Each add new shades of wonder. And when the performance creeps towards feeling too rehearsed (or conversely too rambled) the technical team pull it back from the edge.

Yet still, with such an expanse of time explored and so many topics touched upon, little seems to linger. There are gratifying conclusions, like when we circle back to the exposition, finish up threads of thought, or smile at a participating audience member proudly re-taking their seat. At the same time, these little gratifications are lightly tinged—like toast that errs towards burnt. It’s still good, and definitely edible. The over-toasting is worth the crunch.

Words by Jessica Saunders

Support The Indiependent

We’re trying to raise £200 a month to help cover our operational costs. This includes our ‘Writer of the Month’ awards, where we recognise the amazing work produced by our contributor team. If you’ve enjoyed reading our site, we’d really appreciate it if you could donate to The Indiependent. Whether you can give £1 or £10, you’d be making a huge difference to our small team.