(As featured in the KCL English Society Journal)
A kitchen bizarrely like my own
Preston-based Grandma’s and a family as northern as can be to go with it – The
Bush Theatre’s rendition of Wells’ ‘The Kitchen Sink’ captures the north of
England with all the grit of real life that drama can contain.
The kitchen sink style takes on
an interestingly direct manifestation on the stage in this play, the kitchen
literally created by a fully functional kitchen unit. Used for the copious
brews made, the preparation of meals, eating of biscuits, - and even as an emotion-cooling
fountain: the kitchen and it’s blocked sink are truly at the heart of the
drama. Realism does not replace artistic subtleties here, as our
fly-on-the-wall audience status lurches the audience right into the domesticity
of family life in a place where old societal systems are fading, and the
trustworthy milkmen of the old days such as Martin are becoming a memorial of
the past.
The south, London, art and
‘boys from Eton in pashmina’s’ are ostracised from the rural town only alluded
to from within the kitchen walls. Withernsea is stuck in the customs of the
past whilst the characters with their individual eccentricities attempt to
escape. Slight claustrophobia ensues from the staging in the round chosen for
the performance, yet rather than an intruder one comes to feel welcome in
Martin and Kath’s home. As dimmed lights are all that accompany scene changes,
the family members visibly clear the debris of props away as if tidying for
visitors- you almost expect someone to reach over and offer you a mug of
Yorkshire tea. Their kitchen becomes a place of unity where the working class
characters meet, eat, chat, argue and celebrate: a welcoming hub of familial
love.
Comedic as well as
compassionate, the trivialities and absurdities of everyday life are greatly
drawn upon in order to create pure laugh-out-loud comedy - ‘dead funny’, one
might say. Sampson consistently brings hilarity, from his dancing and yodelling
along to Dolly Parton in karaoke duet with his mother, to his expostulation
about the necessity of sequins covering the star’s nipples in his portrait of
her. Coming from a town where Preston seems exotic, one can understand why the
his dreams of London seem outrageously inappropriate to his father, who can
barely even come to the terms with his son’s sexuality. Whilst hilarious,
Sampson’s characterisation of Billy begs sympathy. Nevertheless, with Rhodri’s
portrayal of his stubborn father and our proximity to the intricacies of the
family, one is also drawn to feel strongly for a man whose narrow-mindedness
alongside his own problems only manifests itself into upset and a level of
self-loathing.
At a time when our own
professional futures are uncertain, the poignancy of the father’s ending
“There’s life after milk – I hope” sets an optimistic endnote undermined and
somewhat unsatisfying in its attempted reassurance. Dashed hopes of urban
migration are all the more resonant when watched from a London theatre, the
city that shattered Billy’s creative dreams and only holds limited offerings
for fledgling professionals in the present day.
A performance for anyone needing a pick-me-up and a reminder of the joy in life’s simple things, take your chocolate digestives along and enjoy.
No comments:
Post a Comment