Watkins writes with comedic flair and a healthy edge of nihilism in an emotive and passionate exploration into the messiness of human beings.
‘It’s actually a beautiful thing to be able to not have to search far and wide for meaning.’
It was a privilege to attend the Camden People’s Theatre to review Linsey Watkin’s Spirit guides and Shit Eaters, a beautifully written two-hander that captivated its audience with witty dialogue, philosophical musings, and emotionally stirring performances given by Lucy Buncombe and Kieran Robson.
The play (directed by Lucy Campbell) follows Jude and Ash, as they become an influential presence in each other’s lives following a meet-cute in a very unlikely place – a graveyard.
Jude and Ash are initially portrayed as each other’s opposite; Jude lives a life filled with excess and feels overwhelmed by choice, while Ash feels a debilitating lack of self-assurance and direction. Within these contradictions, they live and breathe as intricately developed characters who connect, oscillate, and unravel one another’s sense of self, leaving the other stripped back and vulnerable. We learn as the play progresses that what truly binds them together is fear; unequivocal, all-consuming fear.
The play often oscillates between sharp realism, whimsical musings, and raw, truthful meditations on mortality. Its non-linear form worked well, and the use of space and lighting to show connection and detachment was effective. Buncombe and Robson gave powerful performances, skillfully delivering lengthy monologues with a rhythmic elegance while allowing space for human hesitation, both capturing the woefulness and indulgence of the characters as well as their vulnerability and sincerity.
The plot then swerves, taking a direction that is unexpected and heightens the drama and intrigue, as Jude and Ash begin to live vicariously through the deceased subjects pulled from Jude’s research. They begin to memorialise the people who lived their lives before them, building mosaics of people made up of romanticised ideas and fragmented pieces of their former lives. Mortality thus stands out as a key theme at the forefront of this play, as through death, the characters find ways to live – and to feel alive.
Spirit Guides presents a litany of creative, clever and bold ideas; perhaps it could be even stronger if some of them were further fleshed out. I felt that the concept of the protagonist living a day in the life of a different deceased person per week was an incredibly interesting one, and one that would have been nice to explore further. However, it sometimes felt like a subheading of sorts, serving as a means to bring the characters together, but not a completely developed and explored idea.
Thus, the relationships of the character forms the play’s core, which sometimes felt a little unsatisfying due to their relationship never truly feeling completely authentic. Their connection felt intense, but built upon unreliable and easily demolishable foundations. Perhaps this could be an encapsulation of the irrefutable passion young people navigate the world with; with vigour as well as a fickleness, occasionally flimsy in their convictions as they build upon their sense of self.
Thus, I felt that the dramaturgical shape of the play could be reworked to centre the plot point aforementioned, which would allow for more space for their journey as individuals. As Jude poses to Ash,
‘Choose someone – who do you want to be?’
I felt invited to wonder who I would be, if I could live as someone else. What kind of life I would choose for myself, and what that choice would say about me.
I was therefore somewhat perplexed when the female character becomes a stereotype of what she seemingly didn’t want to become – but perhaps we as the audience are witness to the circumstances that teaches her what she does want – something that is sure, and a fulfillment in looking after others and being loved.
Ultimately, I felt that Spirit Guides was insightful, entertaining and very relatable. It captures the feeling of helpless desperation upon seeing a bookshelf full of books, knowing you want to devour them all but that you somehow won’t get round to it. It captures the pain of not feeling enough, and too much, all at once. It paints with the colours of loneliness and the confusion of being young, the anxiety of not feeling like you have many, (-if not any-) of the answers of who to be and how to be. It touches on what it means to need someone else’s clarification that you exist, and not just that, but that your existence is meaningful. That one’s existence only matters if it means something, to someone.
Watkins also meditates on this within the ideology of making and of creating art; touching on the impact of art when profiting off of someone else’s accomplishments, and the ethics of artistic collaboration and ownership. Watkins writes with comedic flair and a healthy edge of nihilism in an emotive and passionate exploration into the messiness of human beings.
