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Pornography at the Tricycle Theatre |
Militancy, Metro and ‘horror of the grind’
PORNOGRAPHY
Tricycle Theatre
PORNOGRAPHY, the title of Simon Stevens’ play about contemporary society, is defined as the “obscene... with little or no artistic merit”.
The action takes place in July 2005, between the highs and lows of the Olympic bid success and the 7/7 bombings, told through eight expertly interwoven monologues. These are agitated individuals, frustrated by the indecency of their peers, the glut of artless artists, tasteless sandwiches, dull dressers – all reported in the Metro.
The daily free-sheet takes a pummelling in the script – “a paper,” one character laments, “with no editorial bias whatsoever. I hate the f***ing thing.” The man bound for London with the bomb, casting a cold eye on all around him, concludes: “I’d blow it all up and start again.”
He springs about the stage like a mischievous Puck, whispering in the ears of the other characters, tugging on a dress, passing a young cockney boy his joint.
While there is no central character, he appears to embody some sort of Devilish temptation. He is clever, calculating, desirable even. The bombings, it appears, were not borne out of Islamic fundamentalism, but a different kind of militancy: an assault on the horror of the daily grind.
Stevens could probably be charged for incitement under Terrorism Act for his script because you sympathise with his destructive inventions – even the incestuous brother and sister, who spurn what is probably society’s last taboo, giving in to a lifetime of pent-up lust. It is in this mini-narrative, however, that the playwright draws a subtle line. The sister – who argues that the “joy of beating up your lover” or “molesting your child” has been lost to political correctness – is rejected by her brother lover. Some rules are there for a reason, to stop things falling apart altogether.
Intricate, subversive and with a first-rate script and exceptional pool of actors, Pornography is staged on a barren, featureless set, beneath neon lights that flicker and flash as the tension boils to a tragic conclusion.
Recommended.
020 7328 1000
Until August 29 |
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