'The Glasshouse' stands strong on the front lines of London fringe

by J Sydney-Leigh

White light seeps in through a hole in the roof of a wooden building, caressing swirls of smoke that envelop around the dim edges of the stage. As my eyes adjust, I see a floor of hay, wooden crates, rolled up turf, a metal bucket, old lanterns and iron wheels. I search the stage for a baby in a manger. It is nearing nativity season after all. Instead I find a young man, slumped in the shadows and barely noticeable. A set piece in himself, he is as dirty and neglected as the objects around him. Violins introduce a tasteful soundtrack as the wooden doors open and a nurse enters, ethereal and brightly lit. She seems to me the angel in this biblical setting, pleading empathy from a world of philosophers and politicians, and urging others who reside safely on the edges of war to observe this poor boy in the shadows, ‘who feels death running beneath his feet’.

It is WWI, and we are in the battlefields of France.

A chilling sequence of bombs and strobe lighting brings the nightmare setting to life, and we watch the mental torture of shell shock physicalized in the twisting and desperate fitting of the young man, played faultlessly by Sam Adamson. The bombs stop. A baptismal rain pours into a bucket from the roof, in confirmation that DoBo Designs have created the best set I’ve ever seen in the fringe. We are then introduced to a Corporal, played by Simon Naylor, who brings a refreshing physical strength albeit weary humour to the dismal scenario. War is his language; yet he speaks it with strained mockery and a penchant for irony, adopting the French ‘Compris?’ after every command. He announces to the young man that another prisoner is coming, who is brought in by Blythe, a Private who finds a sadistic strength in the inevitable ill fate of his imprisoned comrades. Max Saunders-Singer plays the newcomer, Pip Truman, and he is ordered to bolt his own shackles to the ground, a symbol of how his own hand has created this destiny. The stage is set: two war prisoners on trial for desertion. ‘Cowards’ in the eyes of the war, and they are held here in this makeshift prison, the ‘Glasshouse’ to await trial.

Pip employs himself in building a one-way dialogue with the seemingly muted young man, who gesticulates in fear and mental turmoil. His name is ‘Moon’, which reminds English teacher Pip of an image in Byron’s ‘We’ll go no more a-roving’. As Pip recites the moving poem by heart, I prepare myself for the catharsis that is to be expected of a play with such a setting. However, the script masterfully avoids plunging us into irrevocable sadness too early. As Moon relaxes somewhat through Pip’s kindness, he produces an injured Dove that he has been caring for, shot through the wing and fallen through the hole in the roof. Much like the soldiers themselves, she has ‘done nothing wrong except being in the wrong place at the wrong time’, and serves as a symbol of hope that it will be possible to one day fly out of this hell. But the hole in the roof is a tease; the heavens are visible but are disguised by gas and the residue of warfare.

Naylor plays the Corporal with stunning confliction; he claims the bombs ‘soothe [him] to sleep every night like a lullaby’, but then allows his indoctrination in warfare to falter as he desperately sings ‘When this lousy war is over’, in attempt to sedate Moon. His character becomes the ‘good cop’ dimension to Blythe’s evil, returning objects that Blythe confiscates, and somewhat accidentally, he allows himself to befriend the prisoners under his command. Distant worlds connect as Corp and Pip share a taste for tea with milk and two sugars, and discover that they have mutual friends from Pip’s hometown, Conisbrough. I found myself heartened by the humanness of their interactions, but Saunders-Singers’ gripping script carves a dreaded tragedy: if found guilty, the prisoners will be executed by a ‘Loyal Battalion’. A Battalion such as your man Corp here.

Raphael Verrion brings utmost conviction to his character of Bertie, Pip’s brother, and makes two powerful appearances in this play. As an Officer still fighting for his country, his gripping confrontations with Pip facilitate an explanation as to why the prisoner refuses to fight. His pacifism is rooted in his staunch Christian faith, undeterred by Bertie’s shame and the anger that calls him to disown Pip as his brother. Saunders-Singer is compelling in his role, as he remains relatable in spite of sanctifying his arguably redundant religion. He endears as opposed to frustrates us. The meaning of their family name comes into subtle effect when Bertie says ‘you don’t deserve the name Truman,’ to which Pip responds, ‘You and me have a different idea to what makes a real man’. Bertie tests his brother’s ‘sentimentality’ through violence and urges him to fight back, demonstrating fight direction by Matt Gardner that feels instinctive and suits the mood of desperation in its ungraciousness. But Pip refuses to retaliate, and even through a mouthful of blood, he defends his brother’s actions. ‘It’s because he’s afraid and he loves me’.

The second act gives voice to Moon’s vulnerable character, as the verdict for his trial comes in. Adamson is impeccably cast in the role of the 19 year old, perfecting Moon’s Irish accent and convincingly slipping from acceptance to a childlike denial of his fate. Tears choke the audiences’ laughter as he tells a funny anecdote of the girl he promises to marry when he returns home. He seeks assurance that his dove, Olive, will be set free when her wing heals, and Pip and Corp promise that she will fly to a beautiful place called Messapolonica, filled with laughter, sunshine and choirs. As Moon closes his eyes to hear it, the silence renders space in which the audience can share the last moments of peace before he is carried away; himself a broken bird in Corp’s arms.

Askew manifests pure evil as Blythe in the culmination of the play. He ties Pip up beneath the hole in the roof, creating an image that renders Pip the Christ-like martyr of his own volition. Pip is bullied and physically tortured in scenes that earn Sebastien Blanc a medal for bravery as a director. It is uncomfortable to see such suffering, but the setting of war deserves truth and grit, and no amount of pain is superfluous to this tale. Askew’s performance is electric. As abhorrent as he is magnetic to watch, this actor is a master of his craft. In a scene that curdles the blood and fills the audience with hateful gasps, he kills Moon’s dove; leaving promises unfulfilled and the dream of Messapolonica but a memory. Sonnie Beckett brings a heartfelt benevolence to her role as the nurse, and the play closes as it begins with her angelic presence. She leaves us with words that tug at the core of the play’s significance, asking us to consider the forgotten soldiers, who were ‘Left unfriended—unrecognised— unrewarded and unknown’, and in doing so, ensures that they no longer are.

This is not a play about heroes and villains. Nor is it about love, hate or fate. It is about humans in the most adverse circumstances, pushed to the brink of their ethics. It is a test of character when it is all you have left. It is religion rendered hopeless and the ultimate sacrifice made for your weaknesses, fears and strengths. It is a play about the war outside and the war within.

I wonder what people reflected on during Sunday’s two-minute silence, proudly presenting their poppied chests in a semblance of remembering… and then I wonder how quickly they forgot. Perhaps it is only Veterans themselves, and now those who have seen this outstanding piece of theatre, that never will.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

’The Glasshouse’ by Grindstone Theatre Company

Written by Max Saunders-Singer

Directed by Sebastien Blanc

Produced by Sonnie Beckett

Photo - Vincent Rowley

28 Oct – 22 Nov 2014. Tue - Sat, 7.30pm & Sun, 3pm.

Tickets £16 / £14 concs.

Buy tickets here: http://tristanbatestheatre.co.uk/whats-on/the-glasshouse

NOMINATED: 2014 OFFWESTEND AWARDS for BEST ACTOR, BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR and BEST SET DESIGN.

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