Theatre review: Glass. Kill. Bluebeard. Imp.

Caryl Churchill’s later career has been typified by her enviable ability to make her point incredibly succinctly – her plays tend to be short and sharp, culminating in her writing Love and Information in the format of a sketch show. Her latest premiere at the Royal Court is a more loosely connected quadruple bill of plays: Glass. Kill. Bluebeard. Imp.’s stories are self-contained and varied in style, but all share a theme of deconstructing legends and fairytales, bringing the fantastical into an often comically banal light and finding the dark truth behind the magical fiction. Each play is slightly longer than the one before, so the first act consists of the first three stories, opening with Glass in which Kwabena Ansah, Louisa Harland, Patrick McNamee and Rebekah Murrell tell the story of a girl made of glass (Murrell,) trying to navigate her teenage years and a romance with a boy (McNamee) who may be as fragile as she is in his own way.

Her parents often put the glass girl on the mantelpiece with the other ornaments (in one particularly surreal scene the other three actors become a clock, a vase, and a china dog holiday souvenir) and Miriam Buether’s design follows this suggestion to put the actors precariously balanced on a shelf above the stage.

Also floating above the stage, but on a fluffy cloud, is Tom Mothersdale as all the Greek gods thrown together; but the cheesy cliché of a god on a cloud is undercut by his story: Kill sees him relate first the story of the Oresteia and eventually a whole raft of interconnected myths, focusing on the more bloodthirsty elements and the curses laid on entire families by the gods. Mothersdale’s Gods is gleefully capricious, dooming generations because someone failed to make a sacrifice to him, or because they did make the sacrifice but he decided he didn’t like that one any more, and revelling in the carnage that ensues. But if he should actually appear cruel and destructive he’s got the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card: He doesn’t really exist.

Deborah Findlay, Toby Jones, Sarah Niles and Sule Rimi are Bluebeard’s Friends, dealing with the fact that those many wives their friend accumulated didn’t all have affairs, die in tragic accidents or move to Australia, but were all murdered and piled up in a secret room. The opening sets the tone as they try to work out the most appropriate Facebook update (“horrified to learn my friend Bluebeard is a serial killer,”) worry that they’re culpable for not spotting something was wrong, and are conflicted about the fact that since he’s not quite dead yet maybe they should visit him in hospital. It doesn’t take long though for them to start looking for ways to cash in (he did have a very nice castle after all, which would be perfect for tours and themed events; and should the replica wedding dresses be sold with or without bloodstains?) before eventually the whole thing becomes mundane, a Hallowe’en costume idea.

After the interval the Pinteresque Imp is the most oblique and indecipherable of the plays: Dot (Findlay) and Jimmy (Jones) are ageing cousins who’ve shared a flat ever since their respective marriages ended. Her physical disabilities and his psychological ones keep them from working, so they’re bored and lonely and when distant relative Niamh (Harland) moves from Ireland they gleefully take up the role of aunt and uncle who’ll welcome her to London. Through them she meets Rob (Mothersdale,) a homeless man they’ve befriended, and they get into an on-off relationship. Depending on how they feel he’s treating Niamh, the cousins wish the best or worst on Rob – literally, as Dot has a bottle she claims stores an evil imp that can grant wishes. While Imp is cryptic it certainly turns on themes of control: Whether she genuinely believes the demon is in the bottle or not, the story gives Dot a sense of control she feels her life is missing; and Niamh is positively phobic of her own impulses, her fears including that she’ll jump in front of a Tube train, or say a phrase out loud that automatically converts her to Islam.

Regular Churchill collaborator James Macdonald directs a production that plays with the stories’ mix of fairytale and naturalistic styles: Buether’s bare black box sets are surrounded by vaudeville lights, and in a choice that feels especially surreal given the venue, the set changes in the first act feature entertainment from a juggler and a contortionist. Glass. Kill. Bluebeard. Imp. ticked so many boxes for me: Satisfyingly deep and thoughtful but presented so entertainingly, a script that balances darkness with often hilarious lines, delivered by a cast with brutal comic timing (“Am I still an attractive woman?” “…You know you’re not”) and just so downright weird at times you can’t help turning it over in your mind. A shame it’s only getting a very limited run, I loved this accomplished, gleefully theatrical show.

Glass. Kill. Bluebeard. Imp. By Caryl Churchill is booking until the 12th of October at the Royal Court’s Jerwood Theatre Downstairs.

Running time: 2 hours 30 minutes including interval.

Photo credit: Johan Persson.