Culture Whisper Review: Islands, Bush Theatre ⭑⭑⭒⭒⭒
REVIEW: For all its grubby humour and high-energy performances, for Ruth Mattock Caroline Horton's Islands is ultimately a wasted opportunity.
Caroline Horton as Mary
Tax evasion might not seem appropriate food for a Bouffon-esque comedy, but Caroline Horton’s Islands at the Bush Theatre drains from the dry inspiration a parade that drips and spits filth.
We’re welcomed by Mary, a grotesque little self-proclaimed god who has separated off a piece of ‘Shitworld’ - the world of normal working people - for herself and her cross-dressing disciples (admirably played by Seiriol Davies and John Biddle). Invited to share in the pleasures are an experimental pair of normal people, Adam and Eve (Simon Startin and Hannah Ringham).
Through a whirligig of foul-mouthed cabaret, a small revolution and constant deliveries of cherries, the ‘gods’ rule over the tiny floating island, occasionally peering down the drain at Shitworld below.
The scuzzy empty swimming pool of the island, a creative set design from Oliver Townsend, gurgles with the sounds of austerity measures below. The cherries, representing money, leave the munchers with horrid, gore-smattered chops, and every new delivery drips red ooze. Language races about, the slick and devilish wit of the glutinous Mary and her duo leaving dirty trails across the play.
Horton, who is magnificent as Mary, was determined to turn the statistics of tax evasion - which according to Christian Aid causes the death of 1,000 children every day - into a visceral horror. I certainly left with the feeling of grubbiness on the skin, and several audience members left well before the end, unable to stomach more.
But ultimately the play is a wasted opportunity. The divisions never get any more subtle than the rich gods on the island, and the all-suffering workers below. I could have forgiven, even appreciated, the lascivious and persistent scatology, the wielding of the ‘exploitation as rape’ metaphor like a blunt instrument, if it had been in the service of some other subtlety. But the ‘moral’ seemed to be that tax evasion is bad, and few people need a filthy play to teach them that.
There are endless layers to the question of tax evasion - the guilt of those who direct blame elsewhere, the selfishness most of us condemn but only avoid enacting from want of resources. But Islands touched on none of them. The wicked comic timing will get you through the night, if you like your humour grubby. For social commentary, give it a miss.
We’re welcomed by Mary, a grotesque little self-proclaimed god who has separated off a piece of ‘Shitworld’ - the world of normal working people - for herself and her cross-dressing disciples (admirably played by Seiriol Davies and John Biddle). Invited to share in the pleasures are an experimental pair of normal people, Adam and Eve (Simon Startin and Hannah Ringham).
Through a whirligig of foul-mouthed cabaret, a small revolution and constant deliveries of cherries, the ‘gods’ rule over the tiny floating island, occasionally peering down the drain at Shitworld below.
The scuzzy empty swimming pool of the island, a creative set design from Oliver Townsend, gurgles with the sounds of austerity measures below. The cherries, representing money, leave the munchers with horrid, gore-smattered chops, and every new delivery drips red ooze. Language races about, the slick and devilish wit of the glutinous Mary and her duo leaving dirty trails across the play.
Horton, who is magnificent as Mary, was determined to turn the statistics of tax evasion - which according to Christian Aid causes the death of 1,000 children every day - into a visceral horror. I certainly left with the feeling of grubbiness on the skin, and several audience members left well before the end, unable to stomach more.
But ultimately the play is a wasted opportunity. The divisions never get any more subtle than the rich gods on the island, and the all-suffering workers below. I could have forgiven, even appreciated, the lascivious and persistent scatology, the wielding of the ‘exploitation as rape’ metaphor like a blunt instrument, if it had been in the service of some other subtlety. But the ‘moral’ seemed to be that tax evasion is bad, and few people need a filthy play to teach them that.
There are endless layers to the question of tax evasion - the guilt of those who direct blame elsewhere, the selfishness most of us condemn but only avoid enacting from want of resources. But Islands touched on none of them. The wicked comic timing will get you through the night, if you like your humour grubby. For social commentary, give it a miss.
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