Theatre Review - 2401 Objects

2401 Objects is neither judgemental nor dictatorial, nor, surprisingly, is it even sentimental. It is simply a curious story, sensitively and expertly sculpted into a performance.

Told from the perspective of a neuroscientist (quite literally; the real-life doctor has pre-recorded a blurb detailing his involvement in the case) who visits Patient H and learns about his story. In 1953 experimental surgery was undertaken on Henry Molaison in an attempt to cure his acute epilepsy. A portion of his brain was removed and while the epilepsy appeared to be gone, he was left with severe memory loss and an inability to form new memories. He had also forgotten the last two years of his life. In 2009 Henry’s brain was dissected live online to an audience of 400,000.

The narrative is complex, jumping back and forth in time from Henry’s younger days at home to his post-surgery gloomy hospital room and to our narrator. The story is seamless, slick and imaginative and the tone quietly ominous as we know how Henry’s story must end. A large netted screen rotates like a swing door around the entire stage allowing actors re-position themselves and their props. Behind is another screen on which moving images or facades appear. Impressive enough, the entire structure can be moved back and forth, towards or away from the audience and is accompanied by a loud and jarring scanning sound, as one would hear in an x-ray room.

The medical, scientific aspects of the story are tempered with an unyielding respect for the individual himself. Never is Henry acknowledged a specimen, but rather a (near) fully-functioning individual who seeks an ordinary existence which those around him strive to create. Our empathy is aroused for his family, in particular his mother whose endless patience is admirable and touching.

Beautifully presented, expertly narrated and intensely touching 2401 Objects is a wonderfully gentle piece of theatre you are unlikely to forget.

Why I Write

I feel compelled to write this. I’ve been reviewing solidly for just under a year, during which time a number of questions have arisen; questions critics finds themselves asking about their work. Now feels like the right time to address them.

Having studied journalism as a post grad there was a great deal to be learnt in a short period of time. Reporting, research skills, online news writing, features, shorthand - it was all covered. The basics were certainly learnt for a newbie news reporter but there was little, if anything, in the way of arts writing, nevermind reviewing. Most likely because such work rarely results in a paid, full-time position and the dreaded freelance often goes unpaid too. The one class that seemed most useful, Arts and Entertainment writing, lacked any clear mapping, enthusiasm or quite frankly, attendance on the part of the tutor who took a Buddhist approach to his teaching when he did show up.

As such, I can confidently say what I have learnt has been trial and error. I’ve been serendipitous in receiving a great deal of support and guidance from editors I’ve bumped into on my way. When you’re new to anything, having someone to advise and steer you in the right direction is not only invaluable, it also helps you forget your inexperience and enjoy the learning part.

My first real taste was spending three weeks writing for the Skinny as a performance critic and resident ‘specialist magic writer’ at the Fringe. I was watching shows, battering out reviews or waitressing. It wasn’t until the dust settled that I was able to reflect on what I had learned.

I love language and expression and honestly this is why I write. What’s odd is that I’ve not met another journalist or arts writer who says the same thing. I used to question my reason was in some way inadequate but I now believe it to be the best reason to do what I do. Studying English helped with critiquing and having enjoyed literary debates, they morphed into film and theatre ones once I left the comfort of the lecture halls.

Without my realising, my work has taken its own shape. It’s a curious feeling to discover you have a voice you never heard before. I was aware of avoiding certain style aspects in my work, rather than specifically include them. Nastiness and callous commentary I find self-indulgent, unpleasant and boring to read. Hitchcock once said the mark of a good director was never to feel his presence and I think there’s a similar thing to be said of reviewing. Perhaps my inexperience discourages me from delving too deeply into a performance and I often worry about my inadequate or sketchy knowledge when reviewing a piece.

I’m learning not to worry about this. As with anything, the more you find out about something, the less you feel you actually know. I let the performance wash over me and if it makes me feel anything, I talk about that; if it doesn’t, I try to reflect why. I’ve realised it’s important to watch anything you’re asked to review. I recently wrote a piece on Japanese narrative cinema with almost no prior knowledge. I’ve discovered this makes unknown subjects fun and often I find these reviews turn out rather well.

Subject and style aside, I find myself wondering about the job of a critic. Who are we? Where does this inherent authority come from and why should anyone listen? A better way to think of it may be to consider the critic’s relationships: the most obvious and important being that with the audience as we sit together, responding and experiencing the same story. Then there’s the creative nature of the writer. Are we another artist too? It is a form of art though a strange one it be; commenting on other people’s creativity using your own but not really creating anything artistic yourself. I certainly feel a sense of duty to explore the piece I’m writing about whether I think it’s good or not, so there’s a relationship with the performers and the subject too. This is only polite. Maybe I’m wrong. Perhaps we ought to be detached, mere voyeurs who quickly type-up two-hundred words of information and instruction for what to expect. I’ve never been able to get on board with this one, but I’m a bit romantic when it comes to movies and theatre. I think great writing is born from passion and a review is no different.

Then there’s the problem of opinion. A review is an argument, a set of opinions which must be justified and explained to be worthy of contemplation and a writer can’t help but ask, what side am I on? Am I rooting for a performance because it’s brave and bold, or if it’s been done before, should I be harder on it and expect new things? If the budget for the movie is huge does that mean I expect better? What if there’s a modest budget, a shoddy final production but some real talent buried beneath? How do I write that up…

The creative nature of writing can be a burden and while any number of thoughts, emotions and opinions ricochet around the confines of my mind, I have to present them in an honest, thoughtful and readable way. A blank word document is a daunting thing. This is often the hardest stage of the process. People have little patience for bad writing (as well they should) and the author has a mere handful of words to engage our interest and keep it - I say ‘our’ because I’m a reader too and mustn’t think of myself exclusively as a reviewer. Distance and all that. Seems obvious, but all-too-often I think writers get caught up in the ‘art’ and forget that in essence, all they’re really doing is advising people on whether or not a film is worth seeing. Sometimes my words cannot be teased out and I am simply unable to communicate what I mean. For me, this is the most unpleasant aspect of writing and while these moments are becoming fewer, they continue to exist; I’m not sure they ever go away.

There’s no manual and there are any number of different ways to write. No editor has told me the definitive rules of a great piece. These ‘rules’ I do think exist are often obliterated in some fantastically rebellious or experimental articles and I find myself back at the drawing board. All I can do is keep thinking and typing and experimenting and watching in the hope of producing work that readers find informative, entertaining and with any luck, memorable.

Review - Cabin in the Woods

Writing this would be a good deal more fun if I were willing to divulge more of the plot but I’m not going to do that because this film is best discovered for yourself.

Watching horror, it’s less about considering the merits of the film as it is reflecting on the ninety-minute experience itself. Drag me to Hell, Rec and Insidious are some of the few films of late that have provided its audience with the unsettling mixture of horror, discomfort and laughter in varying extremes and this film rivals each and every one.

Cabin laments classic horror, dissociating itself from the torture-porn films that have dominated cinemas for the last few years. Rather it shows these films to be tired, formulaic and boring and expresses a sense of, ‘Look at me!’ as it romances the age-old scares of Nosferatu, Evil Dead, Romero and psychological horror while at the same time injecting fresh ideas of its own.

A cleverly layered film, Cabin not only relies on the usual unexpected scares to entice its audience; it actively generates them itself with a witty and cutting script so as to elicit a deluge of laughter punctuated with genuine jumps. The writers have had fun with the audience too. The obligatory sexy teen couple drunkenly wander outside the cabin and the scene abruptly cuts to a room filled with fifty or so employees watching them over CCTV before one member of staff says matter-of-factly, ‘Engaging pheromone mists’. Our couple then find themself in passionate embrace on the forest floor.
We’re often immersed in the horror, devouring the story as an audience ought to but there’s another dimension to the narrative, a voyeuristic position through which we observe events free from emotion, actively laughing at their peril in our own safe environment. Eventually these two positions collide to explosive effect.

While the film pokes all kinds of fun at the genre, shamelessly painting every scene with horror tropes, there’s an equal respect for what really gets under the skin of the viewer. I cannot help but think this is a particular skill of Whedon's as there’s a potent sense of the horror-meets-humour of the Buffy series to the tone of the film.

I could talk about how I loved any number of scenes, witty exchanges or gory moments but as I mentioned before, this would ruin the fun. Suffice to say every emotion is stirred through the insane series of events which spin out of control through phantasmagorical monsters, a sharp script, bewildering plot and a killer ending. Cabin in the Woods absolutely claws its way into my top five horror films and I think it may lurk there a while.

2.8 Hours Later - Glasgow

2.8 Hours is, in essence, a terrifying orienteering adventure. It’s the zombie apocalypse and you have just under three hours to work your way around a series of locations to reach the safe area. And the zombie disco. At each location is a ‘survivor’ who provides the next co-ordinates and along the way are, of course, the undead. Kitted out in apocalyptic attire they are exceedingly fast, malicious and desperately rabid in their attempt to generate more of their kind. The streets of Glasgow have never felt so fraught with terror (which is saying something) and while a few zombies roam about, the larger, more determined hoards are skulking in car parks, abandoned warehouses, alleyways and kids’ play areas; all of which the participants must frequent.

'Cuddles'

I’ve taken part in similar horror walk-through events which delight and terrify and 2.8 Hours was no different, in fact it was rather more manic. Having grown up in Glasgow, I’m at home there and a large part of the fun was this obliteration of the ‘known’ as streets and buildings were transformed into a horror set. The freedom of walking, running and racing for your life becomes all-too real and within our group, we were each surprised at how determined we became at succeeding in our task.

High points of the evening included our three-storey adventure in the NCP car park behind Union Street, racing up and down flights of stairs trying to reach the zombie cowering with a bag of sweets; we needed one for the next clue. Another was finding ourselves up against five zombies in an enclosed maze-like space set apart with metal fencing whilst our ‘survivor’ yelled at us to hurry up and reach her for the next clue. My heart sank when one of our group became trapped and the zombies descended. Three of us who had made through sped off round the perimeters of the fencing and danced provocatively (and ridiculously) in their direction. I flashed my midriff taunting one interested female zombie, ‘Come and get the flesh!’. Amazingly our efforts paid off and our straggler was able to race to safety. Just. It felt wonderful and I smile now as I write this.

my infection

Six of our group of seven were infected along the way and after the final gauntlet through a slippery and narrow cobbled lane, we were sorted accordingly. Fitted with our brain inhibitors to quench our thirst for human flesh we then embraced our new zombification at the disco.

2.8 Hours is one of those nights you never expect to experience and it’s all the more fun for it. The intensity is a major buzz, though our group agreed we’d have felt more on edge had we bumped into more zombies in the streets, rendering the experience a bit more debilitating and unpredictable. Still in its infancy, the makers of 2.8 are scouting potential cities for further apocalyptic adventure. All I’d say is that if you get the opportunity to go, I’d strongly encourage you to take it.



Rich and I devouring Douglas, our only survivor