Theatre

The slab of unattributed text that is Sarah Kane’s final work has been described as ‘a 75-minute suicide note’. It less resembles a play than a slice of someone’s consciousness, which some may find affecting, and some – like me – won’t. To this viewer, Christian Benedetti’s production is like being locked in a padded cell for an hour-and-a-quarter with an unhappy and self-absorbed adolescent. One isn’t unsympathetic to the poor thing’s plight but, after the first few minutes, one can hardly pretend to be interested.

Benedetti’s austere and confrontational treatment does the play no favours. Unlike the original production, which shared the text among three performers, Benedetti identifies the narrator as one young woman. He then spends the evening flinging her existential angst in our face. Actress Anamaria Marinca stands still for the whole performance, barking at the audience (‘Fuck you! Fuck you!’). ‘I have lost interest in other people,’ she moans; and, ‘my hips are too big.’ Insight into the psychotic mindset? Or a solipsistic bore? By the time the text belatedly gets round to being charming, perceptive or humorous, I was too busy furiously resenting its narrator to give those qualities a fair hearing.

That said, I don’t find Kane’s play offers an especially fascinating view of the suicidal mentality. The impatience with her doctors and with the clichés of care; the spiritual crisis (‘dear God, what shall I do?’); the sense of unluckiness in love – this is standard depressive fare, isn’t it? – it all might make fruitful raw material for a good play, but isn’t a good play in itself. It’s just a sick and sad person shouting at us. The play is about suicide, but theatrically, it’s murder.