Skip to main content

The Panopticon

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh
Four stars

When the teenage schoolgirl in star-shaped shades that is Anais Hendricks steps out onto the stage as played by Anna Russell-Martin at the start of Jenni Fagan’s adaptation of her searing 2012 novel, Anais’ defiant swagger is a statement of intent that sets her up as rebel, vagabond, outlaw and anti-establishment heroine for our times. Her arrival at the care home that gives the play its title marks the beginning of the end of a journey she survives with a street-smart strength that others in the centre’s mini community don’t have.

Framed by Anais’ potential guilt for putting a policewoman in a coma, the play is actually more about a far more existential search for a sense of self as Anais attempts to shake off the demons that haunt her, with copious amounts of sex, drugs and after-dark nightmares en route. The latter are brought to life in Debbie Hannan’s no-holds-barred National Theatre of Scotland production through a fusion of Cat Bruce’s nightmarish animations, Lewis den Hertog’s shadowy video work and Mark Melville’s rumbling electronic score.

Played out by an exceptional cast of nine on Max Johns’ ingenious semi-circular set, the result is a fearless condemnation, not just of the broken system it lays bare, but as a far bigger metaphor for a society where everyone is under surveillance. With Fagan’s script updated to include the all seeing eye of the social media age, as Russell-Martin addresses much of Anais’ story out front, even the audience watching her become complicit in the conspiracy.

As Anais, Russell-Martin is a revelation. Onstage throughout the play’s two-and-a half-hour duration, she presents a young woman who is by turns angry, funny, vulnerable, desperate and, by the end, flying blissfully high on her own sense of reinvention. Amongst the pain, there is a sense too of the camaraderie, support, and, yes, love, she finds among her fellow residents of the Panopticon. As Anais takes on the world beyond it, she looks set to keep on burning no matter what.

The Herald, October 14th 2019


ends

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Losing Touch With My Mind - Psychedelia in Britain 1986-1990

DISC 1 1. THE STONE ROSES   -  Don’t Stop 2. SPACEMEN 3   -  Losing Touch With My Mind (Demo) 3. THE MODERN ART   -  Mind Train 4. 14 ICED BEARS   -  Mother Sleep 5. RED CHAIR FADEAWAY  -  Myra 6. BIFF BANG POW!   -  Five Minutes In The Life Of Greenwood Goulding 7. THE STAIRS  -  I Remember A Day 8. THE PRISONERS  -  In From The Cold 9. THE TELESCOPES   -  Everso 10. THE SEERS   -  Psych Out 11. MAGIC MUSHROOM BAND  -  You Can Be My L-S-D 12. THE HONEY SMUGGLERS  - Smokey Ice-Cream 13. THE MOONFLOWERS  -  We Dig Your Earth 14. THE SUGAR BATTLE   -  Colliding Minds 15. GOL GAPPAS   -  Albert Parker 16. PAUL ROLAND  -  In The Opium Den 17. THE THANES  -  Days Go Slowly By 18. THEE HYPNOTICS   -  Justice In Freedom (12" Version) ...

Edinburgh Rocks – The Capital's Music Scene in the 1950s and Early 1960s

Edinburgh has always been a vintage city. Yet, for youngsters growing up in the shadow of World War Two as well as a pervading air of tight-lipped Calvinism, they were dreich times indeed. The founding of the Edinburgh International Festival in 1947 and the subsequent Fringe it spawned may have livened up the city for a couple of weeks in August as long as you were fans of theatre, opera and classical music, but the pubs still shut early, and on Sundays weren't open at all. But Edinburgh too has always had a flipside beyond such official channels, and, in a twitch-hipped expression of the sort of cultural duality Robert Louis Stevenson recognised in his novel, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, a vibrant dance-hall scene grew up across the city. Audiences flocked to emporiums such as the Cavendish in Tollcross, the Eldorado in Leith, The Plaza in Morningside and, most glamorous of all due to its revolving stage, the Palais in Fountainbridge. Here the likes of Joe Loss and Ted Heath broug...

Carla Lane – The Liver Birds, Mersey Beat and Counter Cultural Performance Poetry

Last week's sad passing of TV sit-com writer Carla Lane aged 87 marks another nail in the coffin of what many regard as a golden era of TV comedy. It was an era rooted in overly-bright living room sets where everyday plays for today were acted out in front of a live audience in a way that happens differently today. If Lane had been starting out now, chances are that the middlebrow melancholy of Butterflies, in which over four series between 1978 and 1983, Wendy Craig's suburban housewife Ria flirted with the idea of committing adultery with successful businessman Leonard, would have been filmed without a laughter track and billed as a dramady. Lane's finest half-hour highlighted a confused, quietly desperate and utterly British response to the new freedoms afforded women over the previous decade as they trickled down the class system in the most genteel of ways. This may have been drawn from Lane's own not-quite free-spirited quest for adventure as she moved through h...