★★★★★
Ché Walker’s Wolf Cub, debuting at Hampstead Theatre, is an astoundingly poetic performance. Although it may be unusual for Walker to direct his own writing, this first-person narrative has been handled with adept care. With a steady pace and seizing storytelling, Wolf Cub pulls us through a narrative of feral adolescence. This isn’t your usual coming-of-age; it’s dark and unflinchingly raw.
From the depths of America’s south to the shadowy underbelly of Los Angeles, Maxine (Clare Latham) grows up before us. We bear witness to her wolf-like transformations, under the thumb of her abusive father and the Regan administration. She runs hot and lives by animal instinct, which gives the play a unique view—from her perspective—on the turbulent socio-political events of the ’80s and ’90s. The Contras, the crack epidemic and the 1992 Los Angeles riots, just to name a few.
Latham is intoxicating, attentive to the sustained monologue and her inflamed performance. She moves about Amy Jane Cook’s post-apocalyptic set like a game of hide-and-seek, often peeking through cracks and around jagged corners. When she ‘transforms’ into a wolf, we understand her wild fury: “Eyes turn yellow. Fur springing out all over me and the fangs snapping out from my gums”. But there is also a control to Maxine’s untethered existence of neglect, violence and the tendrils of love—at least in the way her story is told.
Are characters like Maxine becoming a fascination? These complex women are built up and moored to trauma—the seismic reverberations of their childhood spill out in welled up eyes, but also a dark smile. They can hold intense eye contact but also look through you. Their rage is uniquely feminine and darkly humourous. Why are we drawn to them, even when we witness the damage they cause as they spiral? Throughout the performance, I had to pull myself back after leaning unconsciously and uncomfortably closer.
Walker’s writing and the production fit neatly together, as Maxine ‘ages up’ at the perfect moments, marked with striking lighting by Bethany Gupwell, sound by John Leonard, and music composed by Sheila Atim. With each shunt forward in time, revelation or unexpected turn, the storytelling and atmosphere tighten their chokehold.
Wolf Cub is a gripping example of playwriting and storytelling at its best. It powerfully pulls off the challenge of a solo performer and 90-minute monologue, and its grip is staggering enough to lift you from your seat.
Words by Jessica Saunders
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