It’s fair to say there is quite a lot I don’t comprehend about Carly Churchill’s latest four plays. 

I consider her one of  the greatest - if not the greatest living British playwright - so I place it more in myself that I don’t understand.

A few reflections:

The incomprehension seems to be a reflection of where we are in Britain. To me, Churchill has written of the times we are in and reflected that lens - often through a socio-political lens and typically feminist and socialist. 

The actors are serious. Their words and intentions seem serious to me. Their execution is exquisite.

There is a fragility present. A fragility embodied in the first play Glass and continuing through out. The fragility is direct in Glass from the moment you figure out the conceit of what the actors

are playing until the shattering end.

“There should be no attempt to make the glass girl look as if she is made of glass. No effort making her seem invisible etc. She looks like people look.” (Stage direction)

This seems an instruction that suggests directly the fragility of humans. 

In earlier works the incomprehension was embodied in form. Half sentences. Metaphors.

Here the confusion and fragility is more direct in both character and story. Bluebeard. Friends of Bluebeard seemingly can’t comprehend what Bluebeard has done and yet they are a mix of complicit, contradictory, supportive and excommunicatative - as in would preach an excommunication of friendship. 

What friend hasn’t done a bad thing? 

But what does it mean to be almost complicit in misogyny and murders.  We should have known. All of us. (Cf. MeToo) 

Kill.  Places the gods amongst us. I can’t figure out humans.  I definitely can’t figure out gods. Neither can anyone else. Does it reflect the fragility of humanity ? Our need for stories, myths both the mundane and the divine. 

The interludes have a juggler and a form of clowning mildly acrobatic contortionist. 

I’ve juggled probably a few hundred hours in my life.  4 clubs is hard. She has a fifth but after a couple of drops I didn’t see her take it on. Shame as I expect it would have been breath taking. 

It reinforces the fragility of life, a little nudge here or there - a slight over and under spin and boom it drops on the floor in a splat. 

The audience is generous. We’ve all been there before. 

Imp. This is a concentrated piece of life.  Lies. Or not. Fantasy. Hopes. Dreams. 

The older woman - Dot -  is always in her chair. She’s full of rage that she keeps bottled in. Once she let it out - it ruined her life.  Once a nurse she now lives on medications and benefits. She keeps a magical imp in a bottle. It may or it may not exist. 

The older man needs to run constantly to keep his depression at bay.  Related to the woman, they co-exist in a way that reminds me of early Pinter or Beckett.  It’s absurd in that the reality seems so concentrated. 

Their niece has arrived in town and drops in for regular visits. 

A semi-vagrant somewhat nomadic man drops in for tea. 

A story that reflects an atomised city living tangentially commenting on addiction, work, benefits, rage, the lies we tell ourselves, secrets we keep or don’t, the nature of love

And still a fragility and a reflection on who we are. 

Is it clear to me ? No.  But the tangled threads reflects how I don’t understand a lot of what I see around me. That feels true to me. 

A complex work with no easy classical dramaturgy by a writer who has written an astonishing body of work.  That’s important as well in a world looking for simple easy answers this set of work defies that.  

Want more? This is Churchill’s agent - Mel Kenyon in conversation