An intimate piece of spoken word that scrapes under the psyche of the everyday
At this moment, the theatre world is mad on book adaptations. The National’s production of Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane is on what it seems like is its twelfth national tour, the Harold Pinter are currently charging hundreds of pounds for James Norton torture porn with its adaption of Hanya Yanagihara’s A Little Life – but a subtler, less starry pick can be found not five minutes from Warren Street.
Rebecca Watson’s debut novel-turned-spoken word quadrologue little scratch comes to the New Diorama Theatre from Hampstead Theatre with direction from Katie Mitchell, after adaption from Miriam Battye.
The play takes place in the brain of a single woman over the course of 24 hours in her life. The four actors (Eleanor Henderson, Rebekah Murrell, Eve Ponsonby & Ragevan Vasan) speak every thought that crosses her mind as she stumbles through her tedious routine – every thought. These actors barely take a breath, overlapping thoughts on thoughts in a tremendous feat of stamina and precision, and the result is a very enjoyable reflection of our own internal psyche.
There is something of the Sarah Kane in Watson/Battye’s language; unending streams of existential apathy, not without bite. This, combined with the Fleabag-esque haplessness of mid-20s existence, makes for a fresh interpretation of a formula gradually approaching over-saturation.
In many ways, little scratch has all the hallmarks of a radio play. The four actors stand at their microphones for the whole show, they carry an intimate tone throughout – they even have Foley tables complete with hairbrushes, sandpaper and other noise-making paraphernalia. This is to its credit and detriment: having visual reactions to the protagonist’s daily minutiae allows the script to keep bubbling but how static the piece is, combined with the relentless dialogue (monologue?), does test our stamina as well as theirs.
Our surroundings accentuate the play’s intimacy. The New Diorama’s snug theatre lends an air of confidentiality, the set – four lamps casting haze on the actors from above – makes them feel like lost relics, holograms. Melanie Watson’s score is complex, layering the everyday with the eerie to push us further into our seats.
As the clock ticks towards midnight and the lead’s trauma begins to unravel, Mitchell and Battye weave a delicate and quivering thread of past suffering and present monotony. While this is a play that does require a level of endurance unusual for a night out at the theatre, its rich language and potent authenticity make it more than worth a punt.