An attempt at exploring masculinity that doesn’t reach its potential.

Berlin is billed as a “dark comedy […] that explores grief, toxic masculinity and betrayal.” The story, inspired in part by the suicide of Ian Curtis, is the reuniting of a once-prominent britpop band after the death of their lead singer three years earlier. 

It begins well. Holly Whinney’s dialogue is sharp and dry and the conversations between Harry Berry’s James and Owen Walton’s Martin, with an understated chemistry, are reminiscent of Pinter—Dumb Waiter with more swearing. In these early moments, the assumed intentions of the show succeed. The tension of the meeting remains bubbling in the background and we understand that these men are avoiding their vulnerability. When the show’s conflict takes centre stage however, it doesn’t land.

The moments of drama seem contrived and the resolutions, coming about as quickly as the clashes, are not earned. It’s difficult to find impactful bombshells to drop in a show of this kind, but I can’t help but think the power of this show should have been in what wasn’t said, in what wasn’t revealed. Ramping up the action by unveiling more and more secrets might work if the choices were less Eastenders and the audience wasn’t left thinking, “wait… so which one’s the father?” The result of these, and other, unnecessary extras is that the play is cheapened and the intentions diluted.

The fact is, this is a play written by a younger playwright and it shows. There’s a subtlety that’s increasingly missing and I’m not entirely sure who the play is for. Sometimes the dialogue is laugh-out-loud funny, and the bandmate banter is something Whinney captures well, but the show repeats its patterns over and over again, and often at the expense of believability.

There’s only so many times a character can be called a c-word. I think it happens to everyone in the play, including the talked-about women who seem like the playthings of both the characters and the playwright (sure, there’s a point here about the behaviours and language of these kind of men, but it feels gratuitous). Unfortunately, it’s been done before in most shows I’ve seen from younger playwrights and the lack of originality in the choice does it no favours.

The cast themselves are hit and miss. They are certainly more comfortable with the banter than the heavier moments. Harry Berry does well to capture something dark simmering under the surface of the troubled drummer, and Owen Walton is well-received with his quick and comedic delivery. It’s a shame, though, that the play’s problem with indulgence seems to seep into the performances, too, and the aforementioned leaps to conflict and back are seldom deserved. And unfortunately, Aidan Harris’s Ben does the writing a disservice in some key scenes, speaking much too quickly and with poor diction.

They aren’t helped by some static direction from Cerys Baker and Holly Whinney—mostly forgivable in a venue like this—who seem to bring the actors to the front of the stage purely for dynamism and not because of an organic motivation from the characters. The lighting is also confusing with flashes of red to show a jump to a different location that seem more like a lighting-desk malfunction than a crafted decision.

So the audience understands what the show is trying to do, what it’s exploring, the points it is trying to make. But getting the idea is not the same as being moved or affected by a work, being changed by it. I believe Whinney has potential as a writer, but this production is lacking in originality and gives the impression the team are working from a memory of shows like this they’ve seen before. “As rich in wit as it is in suspense”, the description claims. Wit? Sure. Suspense? Not after the first fifteen minutes. It’s a good idea but that might be one of the best things about it.