A rather amusing “no animals were killed in the making of this smoke” type announcement preludes the opening of this play and then the curtain rises to reveal a dark, brooding, half-lit miasma that remains throughout.
And yes, it’s smoky.
The darkness is entirely appropriate as this is a tale from the early 18th century when dark deeds were done, folk lived in smogs of half truth, rumour and mountains of religious guilt. And we’re not even talking Catholisism here. No, welcome to the dank, scary world of Calvinism.
YE WILL NOT HAVE FUN. YE WILL NOT FORNICATE. YE WILL NOT SMILE. YE WILL NOT DAE ANYTHING THAT THE LORD WOULD FROWN UPON.
Because the Lord, back then, was all seeing, all telling, all rule making.
This was a land of ignorance and powerful religious figures. The meenister was all.
Yep, it’s a fascinating allegory (or is it a metaphor) for our times today where religious extremism, east and west, is a licence for abhorrent and inexplicable sinning.
The early days Obama (Mc)Bin Laden of James Hogg’s novel is played at just the right side of lampoon by the truly terrifying Kern Falconer and he is the axis of evil that the play revolves around. It’s into his house that the naive Robert Wringhim is brought, with his mother, to “enjoy” a life of strict religious instruction. And enjoy it he does, to a point, until the Meenister sets out on a campaign to “justify” his pupil. To make him immune to sin on earth and guarantee him a place in heaven, no matter what. In time, the Damascan moment arrives and Wringhim is indeed (apparently) granted that place in heaven.
His ticket safely tucked away in his inside pocket the charming young Wringham is now granted the right to exact retribution on all wrongdoers that cross his path; and there are plenty of them.
The central premise of the play then unfolds around this – that if a place in the afterlife is guaranteed, rather than has to be earned, where does one draw the line?
If one can sin and not be called to task then surely sinning will follow. And if this sinning is not actually considered a sin then the atrocities that might result are presumably acceptable. Is this not exactly the point that appears to be brainwashed into suicide bombers the world over (because Wringham is essentially Calvinism’s suicide bomber).
Is he mad? Is Gil-Martin his voice of conscience – or the devil? There’s certainly a thin line between schitzophrenia and devotion in this play.
The “11th man” of this astonishing performance is the set. It rocks. Built on a rotating platform the oblique monoliths that seemingly stretch to the sky are variously abstract tables, beds, tombstones and pulpits, but mainly they are dark foreboding skyscrapers of the future. They are the metaphoric twin towers that I believe this play alludes to.
Ryan Fletcher is stunning. He does not overplay his quite considerable hand. Iain Robertson as Gil-Martin nails it. Lewis Howden is a scream. and John Kielty plays his parts with restraint. This is a blokes play. Sure Rae Hendrie carries her part beautifully as the Mother but all the lines belong to the men.
Mark Thomson has to be lauded for both the writing and the direction of this very superior night of theatre. And I’m certain he will be.
It’s brilliant. It’s funny. It’s electric. It’s dark. It is an absolute must see.