Jonathan Oldfield is a performer, writer and director. He’s a Pleasance Associate Artist 2024 and finalist in the BBC Carleton Hobbs Award, and directed the award-winning Lorna Rose Treen: Skin Pigeon (5 stars Telegraph, Evening Standard, Observer, Independent).
His current project is One Way Mirror – an “alluring and poetic” (Everything Theatre) show that is “laced with tongue-in-cheek humour” (Fringe Biscuit) and Winner of the Brighton Fringe Trapeze Media Bursary 2024. Playing at the Soho Rising Festival at Soho Theatre on Saturday 17th February 2024. Tickets available here.
What made you want to tell this story?
I moved into this abandoned office with a one-way mirror during the middle of the pandemic. As soon as I moved in, there was something kind of magical about the mirror that made me think “oh, there’s a nice story in here somewhere”.
I think a lot of the things that I like to make have a feeling of wanting magic to exist in them, sort of magical realist or magic adjacent. So as soon as I got literally a giant one-way mirror in my living room, I had a feeling in my belly that this is a little bit magical.
So I got a little book. and started to write down people that I saw, and things that I saw go by. And as I did that, I started to build this odd database of characters, moments and things. Very quickly, it became clear that there was something in it that really fascinated me, and I felt like that fascination was a good place to start making a piece of theatre from: that there was something that made my belly go “ooh”, that made me want to explore it a bit more.
I like that idea, wanting magic to exist in an object. I think that’s a really interesting lens to view the world through.
I think so, yeah. I feel like mostly I’m quite a rational, grounded person. I’m not really very religious; I don’t do much betting or anything like that. But I really think a big part of me wants to believe in some kind of magic existing in the world. And so, if I can create a space in a theatre which makes people think maybe – just for a second – that there might be something like that, I think that’s really nice because those are my favourite pieces of art to consume as well.
Have you done much people watching before, or was it sparked by discovering the one-way mirror in your office?
It was definitely sparked by the mirror. I mean, I feel like everyone has done a bit of people watching in their time: train stations and airports are the classic examples of that, where if you get stuck on a layover you end up watching people in a very transitional space.
I quickly became aware during the pandemic that people watching was a bit of a dying art, because there was a period of time where we were only allowed out of our house to exercise. And so, the idea of sitting on a bench and watching people actually became illegal at one point.
I suddenly felt like that feeling of being in crowds was really scary. I’m a hypochondriac, so there was a real fear about being in a big group of people. But also, I had this odd duality where I really missed it. I missed being able to just sit in the quiet and watch a crowd go by, which is why the mirror became this perfect safe space. I had a few inches of thick, almost COVID-proof glass where I was able to people watch and not be seen and not be perceived and stay quite safe behind there.
In One Way Mirror, you’re playing a character watching people on the other side of the mirror, but then as an actor you’re being watched on stage by an audience. How does that feel?
I think my original intention was to really focus on the stories that I saw in the mirror. But as I was developing it, I think it became apparent that it felt almost like a lie to talk about the act of watching and being watched, without acknowledging that that’s exactly what is going on with the audience.
There’s a certain interactive element to the show as well, where audiences can get involved at various points. And so they have a choice: whether they want to watch or be watched. It felt quite nice that I was making a little cyclone of watching and being watched.
I hope it doesn’t sound as much of a headache as it feels in my brain, but I’m finding more and more parallels the more I build it, between describing the art of watching and the fact that I’m fully being watched underneath the lights.
Is that what you hope the audience take away from the show? That sense of what it’s like to be a watcher and the watched?
I think that’s certainly a central discussion. Quite early on in the show, I talk about the fact that when I first moved into the office, I made a bit of a pact with myself that I was going to watch and not intervene at any point. Like a voyeur’s blood pact, I guess. I decided that because nobody knew that I was here, it would feel disingenuous to choose when to help and when not to help. I would be impacting people’s lives in ways that they were not consenting to or were not expecting.
And then I think the show itself discusses that pact with myself and hopefully makes the audience question when they choose just to watch and sit back, and when they do choose to intervene and connect. The very nature of a show that’s about sitting back and watching means that you’re discussing connection. You’re discussing talking to people, and especially talking to strangers. And especially talking to strangers in London, which feels sometimes like an insurmountable mountain.
I certainly want people to walk away wondering and thinking about when they choose just to watch and when they choose to act or to intervene or to connect.
Do you have a favourite moment from the show that you can share?
There’s a section of the first ten minutes that’s almost like a child’s game between myself and the audience of fill in the blanks. And I deliberately have some questions that are quite closed and some questions that are quite open. It’s a way of me gauging how interactive the audience would like to be across the hour, and whether we’ve got people who really want to get involved, or whether we’ve got an audience who just want to sit back and let me do it.
I think I sometimes feel that a lot of interactive shows can be quite daunting for introverts, because they sometimes favour the people that are going to be loud and upfront and want to get involved straight away. So, I’ve really, really tried since the beginning to make a show that both extroverts and introverts can get involved with.
I think the first ten minutes is a really beautiful sort of dance, where I’m working out what type of audience is in front of me. Do we have people who are going to want to get involved, or do we have people that just want to sit back and or get involved in different ways? And I’ve had some wild and very different, diverse answers to some of the questions that I pose. I definitely think that’s one of my favourites.
You’ve spoken about the effect of the COVID lockdowns on the writing and production process. Do you think that the lockdowns changed the way that people go about making art?
I can tell you the effect that it’s had on me. My background is in improvisation and clown work as well as storytelling. So, I’m quite prone to leaving stuff to the last minute, jumping up on stage in front of an audience and really focusing on the joy of being in the moment. And I think that’s had many benefits to the kind of work that I make, which sits between theatre and comedy mostly. There’s nothing else like it.
It definitely meant that pre-COVID I found myself in danger of cycling through ideas very quickly, trying it once or twice and then moving on to a new idea. I think in an odd way, what COVID did was quite positive for me as a theatre maker: by taking the act of getting up on a stage away for a long time, it forced me to sit with ideas for longer, as opposed to the almost drug-like feeling of going in front of an audience and just whacking something out and trying it.
Is there anything else you want to say about the show?
With One Way Mirror, I’m interested to see what work that sits almost directly in the middle of theatre and comedy can do. I think it’s a really interesting, exciting space to exist in. When can I really make the audience laugh just for the sake of laughing, in the way that a comedy show does? And then how can I use that laughter to help fuel a story, and a journey, and a feeling of catharsis, and a space to allow them to think?