MARYS SEACOLE THE BURNT CITY ★★★
Donmar Warehouse, London until June 4 Tickets: 020 3282 3808 Woolwich Arsenal until December 4 Tickets: onecartridgeplace.com
Regarded as the founder of modern nursing, Florence Nightingale pioneered the care of wounded soldiers in the Crimean War. But far fewer people have heard of Mary Seacole, who did the same thing at the same time in the same place.
Is it because Seacole was black? Jackie Sibblies Drury’s ambitious play seeks to redress the balance while asking hard questions about why Seacole’s contribution was largely ignored.
It opens conventionally with Kayla Meikle’s Seacole, dressed in Victorian garments, delivering a monologue explaining who she is. But, after an older black woman removes Seacole’s dress to reveal blue hospital scrubs, conventional theatre is jettisoned for something far more experimental.
The narrative ricochets back and forth in time and location with giddying speed, embracing all nursing staff of colour who are in some way invested with the spirit of their robust forebear.
Two nurses chatter in Jamaican patois while cleaning up their elderly charge (Susan Wooldridge) in a nursing home; on a park bench in modern-day America, a single white mother attempts conversation with two uninterested black nannies. Finally, Seacole is snubbed by a condescending Nightingale (Olivia Williams, effortlessly versatile) in Crimea, the soldiers represented by dismembered mannequins. While vibrantly imaginative, the structural audacity disrupts a narrative that could have painted a more forensic portrait. But it is an intriguing, higgledy-piggledy work that swings from the hectoring to the incendiary, held together by a towering performance from Meikle.
The term “immersive theatre” sounds like something performed in a swimming pool. Mercifully, there is nothing watery about the latest production from Punchdrunk, the masters of interactive theatre.
This is their most expansive show to date with the cavernous space of the Woolwich Arsenal decked out as the ancient city of Troy – all mixed up with contemporary bric-a-brac. For three hours, we silent spectators (talking is forbidden) wander through the dimly lit space, wearing the Venetian-style white masks issued at the door. Part installation, part theatre, it is almost literally a museum piece.
Encountering masked audience members in dark corridors is as startling as scenes by the performers. We are ghost-like witnesses to the horrors of the Trojan Wars, from murder after ‘orrible murder – including a bride’s throat slit on a set of huge cross-beams – to an elaborate marriage feast descending into bloody chaos, complete with a horse’s skull and loops of bloody entrails.
It’s creepy and atmospheric but our freedom to wander makes it easy to be in the wrong place at the right time, creating an increasing sense of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out). The choreography is variable, ranging from acrobatic twirling to the slow intertwining of bodies. The details of the accessorised rooms are astonishing, with photos, domestic items, stuffed toys and scores of tiny terracotta heads of goddesses suggesting an explosion at a particularly interesting car boot sale.
Disconcerting, frustrating, fascinating and intermittently engaging, it is a magical mystery tour that becomes less magical as it goes on.