The Last Man is a gripping one-person musical that unfolds like a psychological thriller – part gig, part video diary, part survival story. We sat down with dramaturg Jethro Compton to discuss their upcoming production.
The Last Man plays at Southwark Playhouse 8th May – 13th June. Tickets are available here.
This piece places a single performer at the centre of an entire world. As dramaturg, how do you shape a narrative that feels expansive and alive while remaining confined to one voice and one space?
Regardless of the number of characters or locations within a story, the rules of narrative structure can be applied in exactly the same way. That said, it’s definitely a more complex task to meet those narrative demands when the core concept imposes such strict limitations. The main focus for me was making use of characters beyond the physical space, whether that’s the memory of another character, of the emotional projection of another character onto items and objects within the space.
The show blends psychological thriller and social commentary. How did you navigate those different tonal languages to ensure they speak to each other rather than compete?
I very much focused on the psychological thriller and developing the internal tension within the character – which naturally support each other as key themes – rather than the elements of social commentary. For me, that commentary exists within the central concept for the show, and I think most audiences are pretty uncomfortable with any kind of social or political opinions being forced on them during an evening at the theatre. So I pretty much left it alone, knowing that the audience will identify it for themselves without us pushing it too aggressively.
This is a Korean work reimagined for English-speaking audiences. How did you approach preserving its cultural identity while making it resonate authentically in a UK context?
I’ve been lucky enough to visit Seoul on a number of occasions over the last decade, so I’ve had the opportunity to learn a huge amount about Korean culture, storytelling, and audiences. That was incredibly helpful when it came to reworking the script for a British audience. Working closely with the directing team to make sure the English adaptation retained the heart of the Korean production, my focus was on the character’s emotional
journey. I believe that a human story connects universally, regardless of its setting. That said, there are uniquely Korean themes conveyed in the piece, and I really leant into exploring these within the adaptation – it was very important to me that the show should celebrate Korean culture, rather than attempt to westernise it in any way.
At its heart, the story asks whether survival alone is enough. In developing the piece, what conversations kept returning to you about what it really means to remain human?
I thought often about the story of Christopher McCandless (made famous by the book and film Into The Wild). It’s an incredibly tragic story of a young man who isolates himself from society, believing he’s better off alone, only to come to the realisation that “happiness [is] only real when shared”. It’s that message that also resonated with me when I first read the Korean script of The Last Man. Despite overcrowding, I think it’s very easy to feel alone or experience loneliness when living in a large city, be that Seoul or London or anywhere. It’s increasingly challenging to make authentic human connections, and easy to feel like we don’t need them, but human connection is essential. I think that’s what The Last Man is trying to remind us.
With two performers offering distinct interpretations of the same role, how does dramaturgy support difference rather than standardise it?
There are some very minor differences in the scripts that the two actors use for the show that help support their two different interpretations of the character, but, primarily, the different interpretations come from the two actors themselves. While the narrative beats remain consistent across the two performances, all choices relating to backstory, subtext, and emotion are determined by each actor – it’s quite remarkable to see how differently they approach the same text with such variety.
The bunker setting is both physical and psychological. How did you work to ensure that the inner landscape of the character feels as vivid and shifting as the outer world has become empty?
I focused on the character’s emotional journey through the story – constantly shifting through memory, imagination, and a fundamental conflict between what they want and they need. Even though the world outside the bunker has collapsed, it’s the pressure cooker environment within the bunker, and within the character’s mind, that is transforming. The bunker is very much a character in its own right – a shelter from the world beyond, but also a hostile environment of its own – and I really tried to play with that duality.