Sit on It, (Young and Hungry Festival of New Theatre 2009)
Bats, July 10 - 25
Writer Georgina Titheridge must have spent an alarming amount of time in toilets at bars and nightclubs to capture the excellent dialogue of Sit on It. Over the course of about an hour, the clientele of the club drop by the toilets to hide from others, make ‘private’ phone calls, primp, preen, argue, fight, vomit and have sex –in rapid succession. Oh, and a couple even go to the toilet – we are told about it in graphic detail. I’m just appalled by the number of people who don’t wash their hands – so that’s how swine flu is spreading! I’m not exactly OCD but I’m off to buy some hand sanitizer.
We are presented with a number of types. The sparkly girls come complete with glittering handbags and salon hair – Jenny (Eve Marina) wants to do some ‘nasty dancing all over boys and stuff’ while Jen (Prue Clarke) just wants to be nasty. The long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans girls are ‘obviously lesbians’ – Millie (Anna Pearson) aks her friend Bill (Ashleigh James) why they are there and I would have to echo that question. It’s Ladies Night, so they can get free drinks, but it won’t exactly be salubrious, as the plywood toilets (set design by Joel Cocks) indicate.
Mike (Daniel Watterson) who keeps straying ‘accidentally’ into the women’s toilets is a good character and maintains his level of insecure bluster throughout – so perplexed by his sexuality that he propositions anyone and everyone. Dan (Jonathan O’Kane) also seems confused, becoming awkwardly drawn to Mike moments after turning down Wendy (Gabrielle Beran) who was quick to whip off her top in a cubicle, because it was more romantic than shagging by the sinks.
True to stereotype, most of the characters arrive in pairs, including an underage kid Bell (Gussie Larkin) hiding from her big sister Carla (Zoë Towers), and the two slapstick clowns Tammy (Jackie Shaw) and Vanessa (Phoebe Smith). The Moaning Myrtle wallflower, Francis (Ana Clark) in a highly unlikely dress, tries too hard to be appealing because she hasn’t any friends of her own. The ladies loos can be a very lonely place, as Millie discovers when she attempts to get someone to stop and have a conversation.
Director Lyndee-Jane Rutherford uses the device of having the actors talk to themselves in the mirror, so they can face us as they speak to each other. This could involve the audience but the characters are all revolting so we’re simply not engaged (pardon the corny pun – it’s contagious). The only decent person in this club is Monica (Debs Rea) who is a total skank – Amy Winehouse style – with the beehive to match. She doesn’t blink when her implants pop out and blithely takes her knickers off (I can only assume because she worries they are giving her VPL), but she generously offers a complete stranger the use of her cell phone because she’s got lots of credit.
Parts of the action are incisive as the girls get increasingly dishevelled and unappealing – why do we think we’re sexy when we’re drunk? Others, however, betray a lack of insight, such as the cat fight. Those girls were spoiling for a fight, pumped with aggression and would have punched and kicked when they were down – to portray them as pathetic handbag wavers may get a cheap laugh, but there are already plenty of those and this is ultimately disappointing.
Incidents are played out for maximum comedy effect which conversely spoils the impact. Although the dialogue is perceptive, the stereotypical characterisation and over-the-top acting style leave the performers with nowhere to go. The screaming fever-pitch climax is intensely irritating, and although there are some good comedy sketches, there is not enough depth or development to really class as a play.
This has been done before and better (Willy Russell’s Stags and Hens is currently enjoying a renaissance) and Titheridge herself has trod very similar ground in the fantastic Babycakes with more style. If you’re that age and you know the actors, it’s probably a scream, but if the acting is toned down and the directing more subtle, it could reach a much wider audience.
Writer Georgina Titheridge must have spent an alarming amount of time in toilets at bars and nightclubs to capture the excellent dialogue of Sit on It. Over the course of about an hour, the clientele of the club drop by the toilets to hide from others, make ‘private’ phone calls, primp, preen, argue, fight, vomit and have sex –in rapid succession. Oh, and a couple even go to the toilet – we are told about it in graphic detail. I’m just appalled by the number of people who don’t wash their hands – so that’s how swine flu is spreading! I’m not exactly OCD but I’m off to buy some hand sanitizer.
We are presented with a number of types. The sparkly girls come complete with glittering handbags and salon hair – Jenny (Eve Marina) wants to do some ‘nasty dancing all over boys and stuff’ while Jen (Prue Clarke) just wants to be nasty. The long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans girls are ‘obviously lesbians’ – Millie (Anna Pearson) aks her friend Bill (Ashleigh James) why they are there and I would have to echo that question. It’s Ladies Night, so they can get free drinks, but it won’t exactly be salubrious, as the plywood toilets (set design by Joel Cocks) indicate.
Mike (Daniel Watterson) who keeps straying ‘accidentally’ into the women’s toilets is a good character and maintains his level of insecure bluster throughout – so perplexed by his sexuality that he propositions anyone and everyone. Dan (Jonathan O’Kane) also seems confused, becoming awkwardly drawn to Mike moments after turning down Wendy (Gabrielle Beran) who was quick to whip off her top in a cubicle, because it was more romantic than shagging by the sinks.
True to stereotype, most of the characters arrive in pairs, including an underage kid Bell (Gussie Larkin) hiding from her big sister Carla (Zoë Towers), and the two slapstick clowns Tammy (Jackie Shaw) and Vanessa (Phoebe Smith). The Moaning Myrtle wallflower, Francis (Ana Clark) in a highly unlikely dress, tries too hard to be appealing because she hasn’t any friends of her own. The ladies loos can be a very lonely place, as Millie discovers when she attempts to get someone to stop and have a conversation.
Director Lyndee-Jane Rutherford uses the device of having the actors talk to themselves in the mirror, so they can face us as they speak to each other. This could involve the audience but the characters are all revolting so we’re simply not engaged (pardon the corny pun – it’s contagious). The only decent person in this club is Monica (Debs Rea) who is a total skank – Amy Winehouse style – with the beehive to match. She doesn’t blink when her implants pop out and blithely takes her knickers off (I can only assume because she worries they are giving her VPL), but she generously offers a complete stranger the use of her cell phone because she’s got lots of credit.
Parts of the action are incisive as the girls get increasingly dishevelled and unappealing – why do we think we’re sexy when we’re drunk? Others, however, betray a lack of insight, such as the cat fight. Those girls were spoiling for a fight, pumped with aggression and would have punched and kicked when they were down – to portray them as pathetic handbag wavers may get a cheap laugh, but there are already plenty of those and this is ultimately disappointing.
Incidents are played out for maximum comedy effect which conversely spoils the impact. Although the dialogue is perceptive, the stereotypical characterisation and over-the-top acting style leave the performers with nowhere to go. The screaming fever-pitch climax is intensely irritating, and although there are some good comedy sketches, there is not enough depth or development to really class as a play.
This has been done before and better (Willy Russell’s Stags and Hens is currently enjoying a renaissance) and Titheridge herself has trod very similar ground in the fantastic Babycakes with more style. If you’re that age and you know the actors, it’s probably a scream, but if the acting is toned down and the directing more subtle, it could reach a much wider audience.
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