[title]
Opening just a couple of nights after ‘A Little Life’, the West End’s unspeakably grim, female-authored misery fest about a group of men whose lives have hit rock bottom, here, for balance, is ‘The Dry House’: the off-West End’s male-authored misery fest about a group of women whose lives have hit rock bottom.
While Northern Irish actor Eugene O’Hare’s playwriting debut doesn’t ultimately plumb the depths of ‘A Little Life’, his production nonetheless has the whiff of misery porn to it, as what looks like a play about the agonising existence of alcoholic Chrissie (Mairead McKinley) slowly expands its focus to take in her sister Claire (Kathy Kiera Clarke) and daughter Heather (Carla Langley).
Alcoholism is, of course, a legitimate subject. One assumes it’s near to O’Hare’s heart. But there have been a lot of great plays about it, and while rarely happy, none of them are as grindingly dour as this. There’s the odd joke and some poetic language. The prospect of Chrissie going to the titular rehab facility does at least offer some light. But really it’s mostly harrowing exposition, as she miserably chugs her ‘final’ four-pack, while she and Claire forensically talk through how miserable her life is. She is occasionally visited by Heather, which would be a relief except it’s very clear that Heather is dead, and the same scene – the pair’s final meeting – is repeated throughout the play, to increasingly dark effect.
In simply presenting us with 90 minutes of largely unleavened anguish ‘The Dry House’ feels flat. It doesn’t start off happy then collapse into horror, like a tragedy. And although there are embers of hope, it’s not a story of triumph over adversity. It’s a description of one woman’s horrible life, that eventually turns into a description of three women’s horrible lives. It’s well-acted, but there’s just an inherent lack of range in the material.
I’m not sure ‘A Little Life’ is coming from a good place. I think ‘The Dry House’ is, and has an underlying message about how ruinous presentationalism can be, how all the characters would have been better off if they felt able to talk about their problems, and how that’s a problem with society, not them. Ultimately, though, it’s just too inert as drama: a raw slab of uncooked misery that desperately needs seasoning.