We sat down for a quick chat with William Osbon, winner of the ‘English Literature Play’ grant for 2025, awarded by the University of Edinburgh, about his latest play, JELLYFISH , a one-act, absurdist comedy coming to Bedlam Theatre this April in collaboration with Filfbag Theatre.
Jellyfish is described as a surreal, absurdist comedy, yet it’s rooted in something quite familiar—marital tension and domestic life. What inspired you to blend the absurd with the everyday in this play?
Absurdity, as far as I know, relates to that feeling we all have about the hollowness of systems. Systems of language, of social behaviour, of government – take your pick. People much smarter than I have recognised that the structures of power are illusionary; not real, invented. And so when we spend our everyday lives making food, watching tv, fixing our houses, saving up for better cars (or boats), these are just mechanisms to distract ourselves from a hollow truth. I suppose that truth could be “money money power power” but ultimately the recognition of a hollowness is recognition that the systems of our existence are born from nothing. Realising this makes doing every day tasks feel quite silly really. And that’s where I went with it; doing the laundry can feel quite silly with all that in mind.
The character of the Jellyfish is both destructive and strangely stylish. What does this anthropomorphic figure represent for you, and how did you go about writing it without relying on traditional logic?
I wrestle with this one a lot really! What I can say is the idea of the anthropomorphic jellyfish came from a quote – and I’m paraphrasing – that I heard from Pete Holmes along the lines of “all of you and your life is in your head and the rest of you just dangles”. We as humans don’t love the idea that we’re trapped in our heads. But that image sounded like a jellyfish to me – top heavy, dangling. It became a poem, then a short story, then a play. I think the jellyfish contains multiple interpretations in one image, but it represents first and foremost an unfair condition, a floaty non-thinking, all acting state. Stuff that in a suit, it becomes about the treadmill of life; not thinking, but always producing. It’s not fair is it? But the conflict is that the jellyfish is pretty okay with that. Writing the logic of the character became simple – if the jellyfish is all sensory, then their logic is only a series of tempers; anger, despair, fear and – most importantly – play. The jellyfish becomes this annoyingly ideal creature in the end, one that doesn’t mind dangling so to speak. And (for me personally) I reckon the jellyfish represents God – unthinking, all doing, and okay with the state of things.
You’re also performing in the show as Smiff. How has writing and acting in your own work shaped your understanding of the character—and do you find it easier or harder to separate yourself in performance?
In all honesty, I have to perform something while I’m writing it anyway, to make sure it sounds right and what not. So writing and performance are always hand in hand for me! As far as separating myself from the wider show goes, honestly I might as well blackout when I’m onstage. My approach as a performer is to know the character, embody them fully, so that it’s not about remembering lines or things to do once I’m out there. If you know your character, then that all comes naturally. Not to mention, I have a wonderful director, Tilda Seddon, who is always honest with me if I’m too much or too little or not quite right. And – if you want my two cents – while writing this show, in my mind it was a cartoon (all the best creatives secretly (or not so secretly) love cartoons). Then Tilda came along and made it this cool, stylish and surreal spectacle. I couldn’t have done that – I’m frankly too silly and don’t have the attention span. All this to say, acting in this feels totally separate to my initial hard work as a writer.
Filfbag Theatre champions bold, original absurdism. What do you feel absurdist theatre offers today’s audiences, especially in a time of global instability and information overload?
I think those last two things there are pretty key. There’s this pretty rife idea nowadays that working hard enough will get you out of struggle and into a better life – a paradise. Being productive has become next to religious practice. It’s sad. We all read the great gatsby didn’t we? The American dream is always related to big piles of money, but that’s quite unrealistic nowadays. The dream for most people I know is just owning a house. But we’re made to work just as hard for it. Anywho, the general idea is, things – in the broadest of terms – don’t and won’t make you happy. Neither will your yearly company-mandated holiday. True happiness comes from the invention of it between you and the people you love. Realising the importance of the self and the others around you drowns out all the rubbish. We live in a world where self care is more like competition, and we all buy NFTs and bitcoin and pretend like that isn’t insane. Absurdism, and theatre that tackles the absurdity of the new modern condition, can reveal what’s actually important, while exploding the myths of modern life. The bottom line is, the world is crazy, and we’re all pretending we’re fine – why not get a bit weirder in your art to show that?
Jellyfish has already evolved since its first performance in York. What changes did you make in this new version, and how have audience reactions influenced your development of the script?
My first few pieces in general always lacked a bit of dramatic structure. The first jellyfish was much crazier – things just sort of happened. And my very first piece, Grave, felt like an experiment from the start. In this new version of jellyfish though there’s a much larger sense of cause and effect; Willow wants out, Smiff wants to preserve and improve his life. These goals relate to the wider existential conditions of the characters in the original script, so it just gives it that little oomf it needed; something to follow along with. All the craziness is still there (I wouldn’t be doing it otherwise); tinned spaghetti, oversized suits and of course the jellyfish. These were things that even in the original version created laughter, and if not, clear entertainment in the audience. Some images just don’t need explanation; they are what they are. And it’s a delight to give them to the audience. Ultimately, the show has evolved and become more streamlined, but has retained its key strange element – a hybrid jellyfish person. It’s now, I think, a delightful mix of the odd, the funny and the upsetting. And I reckon I’ll keep changing it from here on out – I just can’t help myself! The audience really lets you know what they’re into.