A monologue that’s raw and candid, but lacks dramatic oomph
Sessions Soho Theatre, London W1 ★★★★★
With suicide remaining the single biggest killer of men under 45 in the UK, and a mental-health crisis looming in the wake of Covid, Ifeyinwa Frederick’s new one-man play about depression and masculinity has a definite urgency. The raw candour of this Paines Plough and Soho Theatre co-production will prompt some necessary conversations – but it’s less effective as drama.
The title refers to therapy sessions: Tunde, a British-nigerian man about to turn 30, has entered therapy on the advice of his ex-girlfriend, Rochelle, following his frequent bouts of crying. Those tears now recur during sex, and interfere with his player image (about which he boasts to his unseen therapist). Frederick’s script shows the gulf between Tunde’s swaggering projections and the scared, emotionally starved person within.
An affecting Joseph Black handles those distinctions sensitively, toggling between the boisterous, flirtatious Tunde and his strained inner voice. He also fills in several supporting characters, both in the present day and flashbacks, while others are introduced via sound recordings. The former method is more illuminating, as it shows us Tunde’s interpretation of those relationships and his crippling concern about how other people view him.
The problem is that Tunde is almost too perceptive and self-aware, even before he embarks on therapy. It’s fairly obvious to him, and certainly obvious to us, that his issues stem from a fraught relationship with his father, who scolds him for showing vulnerability – men don’t do that – and, when Tunde was a child, once punished him for crying by throwing his birthday cake in the bin.
Unfortunately, the father depicted here is too lacking in nuance, in his complete refusal to offer emotional support. Other characters are thinly sketched, too, such as Tunde’s cosseting mother, and his cheeky younger sister (who calls when she needs money). In particular, we really need a clearer portrait of Rochelle, who plays such a pivotal role in his story – and whose actions fuel a revelation that deserves careful unpacking. There isn’t enough here to support an 80-minute play.
But Tunde’s growing isolation after he loses his job and is essentially imprisoned in his flat has wider resonance, as does the generational tension about expected milestones. At 30, his dad already had a house, a wife and children. Should Tunde?
Simisola Majekodunmi’s lighting changes help to track shifts in time, location and mood, with angry pulsating orange during a panic attack. More expressive beats such as the latter, or greater use of music, might enliven Philip J Morris’s precise but bare-bones staging, which unfortunately emphasises the more plodding moments in Frederick’s script. Sessions may effectively tell us the problem – but we don’t always feel it.