Hotter
I know what you’re thinking – a show about what makes people hot under the collar? How can that be emotional? I thought the same thing… Boy, was I wrong.
Simply put, if you have a pulse, see this show. Devised and performed by ex-girlfriends Mary Higgins and Ell Potter, it’s actually got far more to do with bodies and society and the very nature of existence than sex (although the bits about sex are honest, refreshing and funny – women don’t talk about masturbation nearly enough, and a dance piece on it is the perfect tonic to that. Mary’s references to her struggle to orgasm are also moving and vital).
The show revolves around audio recordings of women, trans and NB folk aged 11-97 discussing what ‘hot’ means to them (obviously, the pair asked the 11-year-olds very different questions), which Ell and Mary mime and dance to – a sort of euphoric, verbatim disco.
As they respond to individual interviewees; frankly chat about periods, poo, and boobs, with the hilarious help of balloons; and write letters to their past selves, discussing their relationship with their bodies, and with the other, they uncover tensions between self-image and how others view them – and a need to rally against society’s pigeonholing of bodies as mere symbols of desire. Ell considering the moment one elderly interviewee, who has experienced epilepsy and mobility issues throughout her life, told her that her body was perfect, is devastating.
Mary and Ell saturate the piece with intelligent, feminist humour, introducing us to the only instance it is ever acceptable to dance to Blurred Lines. What a brilliant takedown of Robin Thicke.
Even though it is clearly rehearsed, it always feels believably spontaneous and immediate, as if we are watching a series of intimate moments – as when Mary asks Ell, ‘Why did you leave me?’ and walks offstage upset. The image of the two girls perched on the edge of the stage as a recording of Ell chatting to her grandma, who is sick, plays and Mary rubs her shoulder comfortingly, will stay with me for a while yet.
Edinburgh opened me up to the beauty of physical theatre (Spies Like Us’s Murder On The Dancefloor being another prime example), and dancing on stage with the pair and the audience in a jumbled mess of sweaty bodies at the end was an honour, and empowering as heck.
Bobby and Amy
As someone who grew up among Cotswolds farming communities, went to a comprehensive across the road from a Co-op, saw the tragedy of foot-and-mouth disease firsthand… and, yes, was a devoted mother of a Tamagotchi, this two-hander hit me hard with its poetic portrayal of early Noughties nostalgia.
Will Howard and Kimberley Jarvis put in deft performances as loners Bobby and Amy, who become firm friends after meeting in the folly of a farm and later helping to deliver a calf. They have to contend with bullies, the potentially isolating nature of rural life, domestic horror (violence, and sickening unwanted attention from Amy’s new ‘Uncle’, permeate the piece, unspoken) and the impact of foot-and-mouth, as Farmer Rodge’s cows burn.
Playing multiple characters, including the fish and chip shop man; a clique of three mean, popular girls (an impressive feat); and, a particular highlight, Howard’s posh horse-riding lady – every village here has one – the pair paint a worryingly accurate picture of Cotswold life: a deeper, darker version of the BBC’s This Country.
Writer and director Emily Jenkins builds suspense with the piece’s energetic, dance-like movement, which works beautifully in the compact space of the Pleasance Upstairs. Her illustration of the pair's resilience in the face of a gentrifying bid to build over the rural landscape, when the economic climate gets too much, is breathtaking.
In Caitlin McEwan’s gripping show, four female work colleagues bond over their secret obsession with a true crime podcast about Glasgow’s Bible John, the serial killer who murdered three women after they went dancing at the Barrowland Ballroom in the Sixties. The women, played wonderfully by Ella McLeod, Laurie Ogden, Lauren Santana and McEwan herself, become desperate to solve the crime themselves, piecing together clues on their very own evidence board, as paper scatters across the stage. The deeper they go, the more the play delves into the questions: why are women so fascinated by true crime, and at what point does your interest become too morbid?
There is a lot of detail to take in at the start of this fast-paced show, directed by Lizzie Manwaring, and I struggled – perhaps because my brain isn’t attuned to true crime podcasts (as they said, if you’re not a true crime fan, Bible John probably isn’t for you). This weighty information overloads the play, distancing us from its more human element, and it lost my attention slightly in the middle – the repetitive dance sequence, where the women dress up as those involved, including a police officer investigating the crime, and the victims themselves, feels a bit too overwhelming and detracting.
There is a lot of detail to take in at the start of this fast-paced show, directed by Lizzie Manwaring, and I struggled – perhaps because my brain isn’t attuned to true crime podcasts (as they said, if you’re not a true crime fan, Bible John probably isn’t for you). This weighty information overloads the play, distancing us from its more human element, and it lost my attention slightly in the middle – the repetitive dance sequence, where the women dress up as those involved, including a police officer investigating the crime, and the victims themselves, feels a bit too overwhelming and detracting.
In comparison, the following segment of frantic movement, crafted by movement director Ogden, is where the show really takes off. The girls realise they must break out of their ‘rabbit hole’ and confront what true crime actually means, for both the victims and the women interested in it. McEwan’s monologue pulls apart the anger and fear that women learn to live with, acknowledging that they listen to true crime podcasts in a bid to almost learn the signs to look for in a serial killer, as most victims are women.
The fact that the police gave men a sign that said ‘I am not Bible John’ once they had been eliminated from inquiries, but did not put in place enough safeguarding for the women of Glasgow, places much of the blame on society’s gender divide. So, too, does the play’s exploration of the sexual shame felt by the women who went dancing under pseudonyms at the Barrowlands – we are told the victims ‘just wanted to dance’.
The powerful denouement which examines the ‘non-specific aura of fear’ felt by women, mentioned briefly at the beginning, pulls the play together rather well. As audio of women discussing this fear plays out, you can feel those in the audience silently acknowledge their own experiences of it.
However, the show never quite becomes defiant against that fear – the one that leads us to carry our keys between our fingers – a fact heightened by the chilling acknowledgement that Bible John hasn’t been found, as the group contemplate what he could be doing now.
However, the show never quite becomes defiant against that fear – the one that leads us to carry our keys between our fingers – a fact heightened by the chilling acknowledgement that Bible John hasn’t been found, as the group contemplate what he could be doing now.
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