Blistering tale gives the victims of stalking an unignorable voice
Baby Reindeer
Bush Theatre
★★★★★
Such is the overwhelming nature of the Edinburgh Fringe that wild pronouncements of critical approval are made that, in the cold light of a London transfer, can look a tad unhinged. That’s not the case with Baby Reindeer, which won superlatives in August for Richard Gadd. A compelling first-hand account of being a stalking victim that draws audiences into a psychological maelstrom, it confirms itself as essential viewing.
The 30-year-old Scot scooped the Edinburgh Comedy Award in 2016 with a show – Monkey See Monkey Do – that felt like the last word in the brave airing of experienced abuse. Delivered in a sinister-surreal fashion, it contained closing revelations about being groomed, drugged and sexually assaulted by an older man while studying at drama school – and the damage done to his mental health and his (sexually confused) sense of self.
In this more nakedly theatrical piece, it emerges that prior to (and after what should have been) a decisive moment of personal and artistic triumph, Gadd had to battle additional trauma caused by another predatory older person: a woman obsessed with him.
By the time “Martha” (as he refers to her) was made subject to a restraining order – for an unambiguous threat of violence – after four years, she had subjected her quarry to more than 40,000 emails, 350 hours of voicemail rants, more than 700 tweets and more than 100 pages of letters.
What had Gadd done to “provoke” this? Given her a cup of tea on the house at the bar where he worked, and erred towards a teasing casual friendliness. Instantly besotted, his stalker (creepily dubbing him her “baby reindeer”) haunted his workplace, threatened his family and hounded his (trans) partner.
It’s the stuff of a Hollywood thriller, even a horror film. And without sensationalising the material, director Jon Brittain (a notable playwright too) ramps up the atmosphere of suspense.
We get a barrage of sharp, unpredictable lighting cues. And the 360-degree configuration of the space, with the audience bearing in on all sides, heightens Gadd’s exposure.
We hear remorseless, explicit Northern Irish tirades, punctuated by demonic cackles. We read a bombardment of, often illiterate, electronic messages, via projections. But we don’t see his nemesis – at most she’s represented by a spotlit bar stool. It’s as if she were lurking in the shadows, an invasive, invisible force, sending him into a fretful spin, and literally: Gadd twists and shrinks.
There’s remarkable intermittent sympathy for the she-devil; she’s lonely, and the treatment she needs is apparently only available if she goes too far. (We’re left wondering, and worrying, whether the coast is clear for this public confessional.) There’s much less admiration for the police and legal system, which gives manifestly damaged people so much room for manoeuvre to inflict damage.
The casualties of stalking are, horrifically, many. This blistering 70 minutes gives them – women as well as men – an unignorable voice.