If you believe that the devices by which playwrights reveal their characters’ thoughts are the very essence of theatre, then Sam Holcroft’s bitter, black, cruel, and outrageously funny play is for you. According to Stanislavski 90% of what lies in our heads is unspoken, and exposing this hidden information has preoccupied theatre-makers throughout the ages. The most inventive playwrights develop methods of doing this that lead to specific genres and ultimately we employ proper adjectives to describe similar work: hence Ibsonian, Brechtian and Ayckbournesque. It is too soon to tell whether we will be calling work Holcroftian one day, but in her first major production for the National Theatre (Holcroft has had several smaller-scale ones) she has made a damn fine start. Like Ibsen she is interested in how the sins of the father are visited on the sons, but like Ayckbourn she chooses comedy as her vehicle instead of tragedy. She then uses an alienating device that even Brecht would have been proud of.
Don’t read the programme beforehand if you want to really appreciate Holcroft’s brilliant structure. A shed-load of dramatic irony propels the play and the resulting humour is brutal in its honesty. Sometimes it’s almost impossible to watch as the characters are forced to behave in ways that are increasingly absurd. Imagine Ibsen meets Ionesco on speed. Holcroft manages to escalate the action beyond anything Ayckbourn ever does, which would have been impossible to achieve using naturalism. Suppressing our innermost rage and fear leads to anxiety, which in turn leads to us creating ‘rules for living’, as the cognitive behavioural therapists call it. By employing gross exaggeration Holcroft invites us to envisage what life would be like if everyone stopped suppressing things. Bedlam!
The NT’s production values are up to their usual high standard; Marianne Elliott’s direction is super-slick, and the performances from an exceptional cast are faultless. Stephen Mangan and Miles Jupp do what they are best at as Adam and Matthew, the emotionally damaged sons; Mangan is loathsome yet touchingly vulnerable, while Jupp exudes equal measures of geeky desperation and odious niceness. Maggie Service brings warmth and courage to the immensely physical role of Carrie, while Deborah Findlay and Claudie Blakley are both more brittle than cheap nail polish.
But the best thing about this groundbreaking play is the fact that at least 90% of the audience have no idea that they are looking in the mirror. You know you have succeeded as a playwright when you create your own genre, and maybe with this piece, Sam Holcroft has done just that. Fight for a ticket, but don’t sit on the front row.
Rules for Living runs at the Dorfman until 8 July