A powerful study of persecution and how it poisons our DNA
Cordelia Lynn’s Love and Other Acts of Violence, which kicks off the refurbished Donmar Warehouse’s post-lockdown season, hinges on the concept that trauma, such as genocide, slavery or famine, can change its survivors’ genomes in such a way that it can be passed down to their offspring for generations – it’s a legacy that scientists call “transgenerational trauma”. At one point, the Jewish, female astrophysicist – half of the nameless couple at the heart of the play, portrayed with riveting assurance by the newcomer Abigail Weinstock – bemoans “how our genes betray us”. Lynn further emphasises this trope in the script with an epigraph by the Jewish-american writer Isaac Bashevis Singer: “The past generations are dybbuks [malevolent wandering spirits]. They sit within us and usually remain silent. But suddenly one of them cries out.”
The real-life anti-semitic atrocity that triggers the trauma in question here is the pogrom that took place in the Ukrainian town of Lemberg in 1918. Its genetic repercussions begin to manifest immediately when the aforementioned astrophysicist (Her) and Tom Mothersdale’s Left-wing activist poet (Him) first encounter each other as postgraduate students at a party that takes place “roughly now” in a country that roughly resembles Britain.
Him is leaning over Her, in full-on activist mode, as he attempts to hit on her over loud music. It’s an overbearing physical gesture that, along with a few others, will become very significant for Lynn’s general notion of inherited trauma for both the descendants of perpetrator and victim, in the epilogue set during the pogrom. When the designer Basia Bińkowska’s wooden platform descends from the lighting rig to reveal the historical setting of the epilogue, it’s an exact replica that overlays the one the actors perform the contemporary scenes on, and a metaphorical reiteration of the notion of inheritance.
The couple embark on a relationship, roughly over the duration of a decade, that is defined by its raw, physical attraction. Along the way, they discover that their families can be traced back to Lemberg, although Her is quick to point out that their families are unlikely to have been friendly because Him is not Jewish.
Theirs is a dystopian world, captured in fractured snapshots of the relationship, in which tertiary education has been defunded, the political party in opposition has been designated a terrorist organisation and Jews are persecuted. By making her protagonists a Jewish woman and a Left-wing activist, Lynn appears to be referencing the allegations of antisemitism that have fractured the Labour Party in recent years.
The couple’s powerful sexual interaction is also their undoing because “skin is an organ of memory”. In visceral interludes that collapse the intervening time and function like the ghosts of their ancestors in their DNA, Her tongue poisons Him and Him makes Her ill. They do violence with their words, assumptions, expectations and omissions, all in the name of love. Soon, the distrust in this passiveaggressive relationship descends into physical violence.
The production, directed by Elayce Ismail, is whiplash fast, dictated by Lynn’s short, punchy lines of dialogue. This speediness is very effective in the dystopian contemporary scenes and is handled with aplomb by the two excellent lead actors. However, it’s more detrimental in the naturalistic, historical epilogue, which it makes feel rushed and underdeveloped. Nevertheless, this is a thoughtful and intriguing play.