Tonight With Donny Stixx
The Bunker
11 November 2016
5 Stars
Book Tickets
This is about as perfect a production of Philip Ridley’s scary monodrama – a kind of ‘The Events’, except with loads more jokes, and much less singing – as anyone is going to see in a while. The director, David Mercatali, is the expert in the world of Ridley (with six world premieres to his name, including the original Soho/Edinburgh production of this text. With Sean Michael Verey recreating his original interpretation of the role of Donny Stixx, one could not ask for anything more. Except there is more: William Reynolds, an old hand at Ridley stagings, designs a cool, uniform grey space to showcase the virtuosic ‘turn’ that is the 70-minute long monologue of the script (and I surmise he has also created the lighting, too).
And what a script. In a crazy, warped sense, Philip Ridley is Howard Barker with jokes. He’s also quite a lot of Steven Berkoff. And a generous helping of The Young Ones (a character referenced in this play is even called, if my hearing serves me correctly, ‘Kelvin Turvey’). So, he’s a lot of fun. And dangerous. And, in this perfect production of his chilling one-man-show (where the Ghost of John Osborne’s ‘The Entertainer’ stalks the ramparts… and, yes, there are references to ‘Hamlet’ in this play, too), there is everything to enjoy that one associates with those writers, and plenty to fear, as well.
So, here, George Warren and Martha Rose Wilson for Metal Rabbit Productions bring yet another fascinating and beautiful work into the new powerhouse of surprising theatre in Southwark. And their lone actor loves every minute of it. In full post-traumatic mode, Verey turns on the nervous, terrible-act-trying-his-best-to-please, while intermittently lapsing back into his shattered, angry, helpless state, about which we gradually learn The Awful Truth. Meanwhile, in what is probably a kind of one-sided therapy show, Verey assumes the 10- and 12- and 14- and 15-year old versions of his impersonation, and we see just how Donny came to be the thing that was worth writing a luridly sensational play about.
Along the way, Verey gives us a catalogue of Friends and Family: the neurotic and self-destructive mother, always known as Yvonne; the self-destructive but well-meaning dad; the lovely but ineffectual aunty: all these encourage little Donny’s obsessive interest in magic tricks and ‘becoming an entertainer’. Then there is aunty’s ghastly squaddie son and his best mate; and the neighbour, and his daughter who attempts to befriend the unbefriendable Donny. But, somehow, no matter how kindly people are, there is an emotionless gulf prising him apart from the rest of the world. And, indeed, he appears to be far from the only one thus afflicted. While his relentless march into horrid notoriety gathers momentum, we pick up some clues which might help explain, or to a degree rationalise, the fragmentation of his personality: the roots of his suffering seem to lie in the experience of a congenital defect. It is during the treatment – very successful treatment, it has to be admitted – for that condition that he acquires his love of illusions and pretending.
Once assumed, he is too noble and dedicated and committed to his chosen path ever to put down the mask of his calling. And then we see how his unflinching adherence to it – so comical in its dogmatism, and so pathetic in its lack of ability – forbids any escape. When, finally, the neighbour’s brother, who is glamorous and celebrated and an idol to hapless Donny, firmly pulls down his precious scaffold of make-believe, then the deluge follows.
In its aftermath, Donny finds the capacity to begin to open up about how he has lived, and what he has thought. Yet, although we, as the audience, see him experiencing emotions, we really have no idea whether he is even aware of them himself. It’s a ghost story in which the only character is the ghost of himself, haunting his own life instead of living it. Faded to grey.
Until 3rd December
