Pity at the Royal Court has big ideas but abject execution
Last year was a difficult time for the Nationals Olivier theatre, with a run of less-than-brilliant productions that was enough for some to speculate it had lost its touch. A case in point was lacklustre modern fairytale Saint George and the Dragon written by Rory Mullarkey, a kind of Brexit pantomime for adults that was both silly and sanctimonious.
Not to be deterred, Mullarkeys latest play, Pity, covers similar ground, presenting a primary-coloured slice-of-life in Small Town, England. Only this time his worst creative impulses are utterly off the leash, with the political satire breaking down into an absurdist rumination on the nature of humanity, complete with a disco murder-montage, graphic cannibalism and giant inflatables.
Its like Monty Python directed by Ken Loach, except nowhere near as good as that sounds.
Theres a loose narrative, but it follows dream logic: a couple meet and within minutes theyre married. Her father is struck by lightning. Theres a terrorist attack at the local department store and the town becomes a focal-point for politicians and the media. Then theres all-out war, with militia groups and refugees and pyrotechnics.
Each scene involves a rotating troupe of actors playing multiple roles, giving the evening the feel of a vaudeville show. There are music and dance numbers, acrobatics, comic skits, a brass band, and serious monologues. Its like a direct-line into the mind of a theatre student in the midst of a candy-floss binge. A pig-stys worth of shit is thrown against the wall. Little of it sticks.
There are occasional flashes of brilliance. Francesca Mills proves to be an excellent slapstick actor, carrying large portions of the play with her wicked comic timing. Theres a tear-jerker of a monologue by Siobhán McSweeney, which feels entirely out of place but is masterfully delivered. There are a couple of good jokes.
But boy does it drag. It takes some doing to make a play this full of ideas feel so interminable, but 100 minutes and several lifetimes later, I was bemused, shell-shocked and unsure if there was a point to it all.
Some in the audience were howling throughout; others refused to offer so much as a clap when it was finally over. Pity is about as polarising as a mainstream play can be, and Im afraid Im on the end of the pole that says “avoid at all costs”.