Wednesday 4 October 2017

In Bed with my Brother presents We Are Ian at The House, Plymouth - 3/10/17

The advertisements for this show were already crazy enough, but little did I know just how much crazier things could get. Not one for the epileptic, gluten-intolerant, or shy, We Are Ian took audience participation to a whole other level. A genuine 'you had to be there to believe it' experience, which I am glad I didn't miss. I hope I can give you at least a taste....imagine the taste of Maria or Rich Tea biscuits, it's the best I can do - besides this review, of course.

If you follow the trail of biscuit crumbs back across campus, past the raucous group of golfers with limp inflatable clubs, duct-taping each other’s legs together, down past the library, and into The House, you will find their source: a catastrophic biscuit massacre scattered across the main stage. But why such a bizarre scene, you might ask? Well, because We Are Ian was there, of course. 
In a bid to discover a better youth, the youth that Ian had, Nora, Dora, and Kat (the three ladies of performance group In Bed with my Brother) transported the audience back to 1989 in a trippy cocktail of lights, 80’s beats, clowning and chaotic dancing, and lip syncing; back to the last real era of youth culture. With attentive ears, they listened to Ian’s cynical yet nostalgic voice pulse through a single lightbulb suspended within reach of the stage. He told them about the illegal raves and acid parties which, only five minutes into the performance, got not just Ian’s protégés bombastically dancing their LED high-tops off, but the audience too, the immortal ‘hot potato’ and ‘cold spaghetti’ slowly infecting everyone present. However, this was only one level of crazy, as Ian went on to introduce them to the wonder of ‘getting wankered on brown biscuit’. Even if you aren’t fluent in street terms for ecstasy, the world you were presented with made the drug reference very clear. Taking the name literally, the ladies apprehensively wield a packet of biscuits, first rejecting the proffered novelty before individually succumbing to temptation, stuffing their faces, dancing with euphoric frenzy, and showering the front rows in partially-chewed biscuit crumbs. Again, audience participation was required. Although initially possessive of their newfound diversion, they coerced only a few people into eating with them, but were soon depravedly forcing handfuls of biscuits upon us as they raved in the strobe lighting. It was the most bizarre performance I had ever seen as Nora, Dora, and Kat paraded and bounced about the room, grinning inanely and miming for us to eat; having had at least ten biscuits forced upon us, my friend and I modestly obliged before trying to pass the rest along: no one was interested. Had the biscuit’s metaphorical significance sunk in already? Were they afraid of getting addicted? When the small pile on my knee reached its final two, I started to think maybe I was.
Unfortunately, all good things, they say, must come to an end, and soon Ian was reminiscing about the slip into club culture and football hooliganism and how things just weren’t the same. Frantically, the ladies began prodding at the lightbulb as if to change the channel back, but it was too late. This slip was mirrored in the seemingly interminable dancing which began to take its toll, their once ecstatic and inane grins slipping into pained and exhausted grimaces as the projected images in the background took on a familiar and contemporary tone: Theresa May, Donald Trump, Brexit. They eventually sank to the biscuit-strewn floor, silent once more except for their tired breaths. And then, just when we thought the whole thing would start over, we found ourselves prompted to dance for them, as if to symbolise a refusal to let modern society drag us down. One by one, we were compelled to take to the stage, ‘hot potato-ing’ and ‘cold spaghetti-ing’ to rainbow lights, mad beats, and Margaret Thatcher’s face plastered across the projected screen. And when the ‘party’ was finally over, we found ourselves looking out to our seats. We were at first observers, we were now participants. The three ladies looked back at us as if to say, ‘You are the future; don’t let it get you down.’ And you know what, despite the struggles of university life, when the rambunctious beat kicks off again in my head, I can’t help but smile and think ‘Don’t worry – I won’t.’   

1 comment:

  1. What an insightful review. You should do this for a living. x

    ReplyDelete