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Smartphones might well be destroying our brain cells, memories, and concentration spa… sorry, excuse me, I just have to watch this video of a drunk man trying to stand on an egg.
Okay, I’m back.
Phones are potentially civilisation’s downfall. But somehow every piece of theatre that tries to expand on this theme comes out seeming old-fogeyish or trite, because representing technology effectively on stage is nigh-on impossible.
Jean Cocteau’s 1930 play ‘La Voix Humaine’ was pioneering for trying to explore how the then-cutting-edge development of home telephones was shifting relationships: it’s a monologue by a woman who becomes utterly dependent on hearing the distant voice of the man who’s dumped her, even snuggling up to the receiver at night. Staged at the Gate Theatre, Daniel Raggett’s ‘The Human Voice’ tries to update the story for the era of 4G, but doesn’t go nearly far enough to ring true.
It’s performed by a Liverpool-accented Leanne Best, who’s holed up in her flat, obsessing over a man who’s about to marry someone else. Sarah Beaton’s set design puts her behind glass, in a nightmarishly accurate vision of a mid-heartbreak living room, strewn with blankets and empty coffee cups. The audience watches her through this room’s windows, made into voyeurs in what could be a comment on the smartphone era’s devastatingly public social media break-ups. Or what would be, if Raggett’s production didn’t stick so maddeningly closely to Cocteau’s original text. It seems baffling to make a show that’s all about how technology makes loneliness lonelier, and heartbreak heartbreakier, and not reference twenty-first-century developments like Instagram stalking or the slow agony of being left on read.
And although it makes a degree of sense, the fact that Best is stuck inside a large box for the duration of this performance means that her pain feels distant and disconnected. Especially combined with the effects of the headphones issued to all audience members, which don’t add much in the way of sound, and, like the set design, seem to be preparing you for some kind of big reveal that never comes.
Cocteau’s text has its moments: it’s perceptive on the lies we tell to shield ourselves from emotional pain, and the utter desperation that comes with thwarted obsession. Much is made of the fact that people can use a telephone call to deceive – the play’s protagonist pretends to be wearing her best dress, while the ex on the other end of the phone hides his true location. Still, in an era of weapons-grade selfie-editing and work emails sent from toilets, its satire feels less than biting.
French composer Francis Poulenc turned ‘La Voix Humaine’ into a devastating one-woman opera. This tech-heavy, headphone-based setup would make way more sense if there was music involved – but it doesn’t allow Cocteau’s words to resonate.