Friday 30th March 2018

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Some time ago, I co-founded a theatre company (that still feels weird to say out loud. Give me a minute). Its main aim was to give a platform to new and emerging playwrights (as well as actors and directors), as well as to provide another ‘pub theatre’ type experience, which I, perhaps unreasonably, thought there should be at least half as many examples in Brighton as there are in London. Actually, I still think that. And just as unreasonably.

 

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DICK JOKE, part of ‘A Pro Of Nothing’, featuring Marc Pinto, Matt Swan and Yvette May.   Performed 24th March 2018 at Sweet Venues’ DukeBox Theatre during HoveGrown Festival. 

 

There was at least one other reason why I sought to set up the theatre company, and it says perhaps more about my ego than it does about any high-minded intentions I had regarding Brighton’s theatre scene. Fact of the matter is, I’d recently entered a script of mine into a local short play night, and it didn’t get past the gate. Which is not particularly important or even relevant: I’m not arrogant to assume that any one of my scripts should absolutely be produced on stage, particularly when it’s in competition with at least five others, all of which may be more interesting or more exciting to an audience (or, let’s be blunt: simply better). I went along to see the show that showcased the more successful plays, and while there’s possibly no way to separate my own bruised ego from my critical appraisal of that night (or, at very least, successfully convince you that I was able to do just that), I do remember being intrigued by what scripts had made it through when mine had not. Not, you understand, because I automatically thought that my effort was superior – indeed, since opinion is subjective, such griping on my part is largely irrelevant – but because it appeared that I had fundamentally misunderstood what was being asked for, in terms of a short play.

 

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JOY, part of ‘A Pro Of Nothing’,  featuring Judey Bignell and Daniel Lovett (directed by Chelsea Newton-Mountney). Performed 24th March 2018 at Sweet Venues’ DukeBox Theatre during HoveGrown Festival.

 

To be fair, it seems lots of people misunderstand this. And you might have to trawl through a lot of opinions before you find the definitive one. Simply put, a lot of the plays that went on that night were what I might term as ‘sketches’, as opposed to short plays. There are a lot of critics online who (rather sniffily, in a lot of cases) state that short plays are exactly that – mere shallow sketches that don’t have enough elbow room to get under the hood of anything meaningful. As you might imagine, I don’t have a lot of time for that argument, but it does remain true that a significant amount of people – both those who generally dislike the short play format, and those who actually write a hell of a lot of them – think of the form as an extended sketch, and nothing else.

 

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WATCH US WRECK THE MIC, part of ‘A Pro Of Nothing’, featuring Atasha Goodenough, Judith Greenfield and Emma Howarth. Performed 24th March 2018 at Sweet Venues’ DukeBox Theatre during HoveGrown Festival.

 

It’s perhaps worth pointing out here what I personally think the difference between a sketch and a short play is, especially as that’s yet another point on which you’re likely to uncover a different opinion with each person you ask. It’s a deceptively complex question, to be sure, but I think that generally – with a few smudges round the edges – a sketch can be defined as being driven by plot or idea, and short play (again, generally), is driven by character. This, for me, is when the ‘sketch’ version of a play doesn’t work, and earns the bad reputation: the narrative essentially spins its wheels for eight minutes until the ‘gag’ conclusion (everyone’s dead!), or alternatively, the world-building weirdness set out at the beginning (everyone’s an egg!) gets repeated ad nauseum for eight minutes until a punchline that was trundling over the horizon from the opening line. So, it’s easy to see why – for some critics – short plays come across like sketches that are at least three times the length they should be.

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So, in some ways, setting up a short play night was a fit of pique: of throwing down the gauntlet and stating, quite firmly, that short plays were not sketches, that they could be richer, more involved, explore relationships and personalities, and did not have to depend on an artificially delayed punchline. We invited local talents – some of whom had never written before – and produced a night of some gorgeous short plays, which sold out, got great feedback, and firmly set out our intentions for the foreseeable future.
In all the excitement, I quite forgot to put my own play on.

 

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LAST SUPPER, part of ‘A Pro Of Nothing’, featuring Philippa Hammond, Barbara Halsey and Alice Hiller. Performed 24th March 2018 at Sweet Venues’ DukeBox Theatre during HoveGrown Festival.

 

This was of course, a basic failure on my part. I mean, if you’re going to put a short play night on in order to salve your ego because another theatre company didn’t recognise your genius, the very least you should do is make sure you yourself accept your own script. After all, that’s lesson 1, surely? After a few times round, someone (I actually forget who), gently suggested to me that I should try putting on my own scripts alongside everyone else’s, otherwise what was the point? (well, actually, the point is to give a platform to upcoming new voices, etc, etc, but I get the point). To be fair, I had put my own script in one of the early shows, but subsequently, for about a year or more afterward, I didn’t. Which made me look all very magnanimous and generous and so on, but I was clearly missing a trick or two here.

Anyway, Cast Iron Theatre is now in its fifth year (as is often the case with such things, there’s a bit of blurring round the edges as to when exactly the fifth year kicks in), and we have produced over fifteen short play nights. Officially, it’s about eleven if you look only at our ‘numbered’ nights, but we’ve also done themed nights for Christmas and Halloween and so on, as well as any number of satellite shows – story nights, and so on. In addition, about once a year, we give a night over not to six different playwrights, but an evening of plays by one writer. For instance, a while back we showcased the work of Richard Hearn, who had been successful each time he’d submitted a play. I figured enough time had finally elapsed that I could get to put on an evening of my own plays without too many people accusing me (to my face, at least) of indulging my own ego.

Talking of which, I was suitably nervous about the night. I mean, I’m pretty good at championing the work of others, but less brassy about my own: I sort of assumed that very few people would actually come along to see my words (that was OK, though – we’d still have an audience full of people supporting the actors and directors). This, for any avoidance of doubt, is one of the main thrusts and reasons behind this blog entry: me trying to blow my own trumpet a little bit.

The six plays we selected, Joy, Last Supper, Babble, Watch Us Wreck The Mic, Dick Joke, and Will Of The People, are all suitably different from one another to let at least me believe that I have some range as a writer (I’ll leave it to the audience to tell me otherwise), but there are still connecting themes. Most are fairly light, but a couple hint at a mild anger – or, at the very least, upset bewilderment – at the world. I haven’t done the maths yet, but it’s fairly likely that there’s an imbalance of around 75% / 25% in the dialogue between genders in favour of female characters (certainly, out of sixteen characters on the night, ten are women, and two of the plays are entirely female), and it’s probable that for most – if not all – of the plays, I as writer am trying to unlock or decode a particular linguistic or narrative challenge. Which, as long as it’s not so self-indulgent as to ignore the audience, is not something I particularly have a problem with.

We got some nice audience feedback and reviews, including this one, and it seems somewhat odd that those six plays have had their own evening. It’s reasonably unlikely that they’ll get performed again in Brighton anytime soon, at least by Cast Iron – it’s not that they have a shelf life, but it is true that we have more things on the way, and increasingly little time to do them. But I am, despite my natural instincts towards self-deprecation, very pleased with these six little scripts, and very proud of the actors and directors who made so much of them.

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Friday 27 October 2017

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No, I haven’t binge-watched season 2 of Stranger Things yet. I likely won’t have a chance to see any of it until after Halloween, which somewhat defeats the whole point of having the release date when it is. My diary is pretty stacked up until then, despite the fact that my actual, physical diary has been lost.

I get through about two diaries a year, because invariably I leave the first one behind when I’m distracted by something else. On one occasion, I left a diary behind when moving a theatre set for a touring company. That was an unique situation, because in that case I knew immediately my mistake, and texted the director to explain that I’d left my diary – complete with appointments, rehearsal schedules, etc  – in his car. ‘NO YOU DIDN’T’, came the (rather swift) reply. I try not to be too combative in my everyday life (well, I try), so I responded – after a reasonable amount of time had elapsed – to ask him if he could check. After a while, he said he would. Then after a longer while, he said he had: no luck.

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Remember if you ever find a diary: you can’t trust anything if you can’t see where it keeps its brain.

I was perplexed, because it didn’t seem possible that there was anywhere else that I could have left my diary. I didn’t want to be all arrogant and prissy about it, but I think I attempted one more ‘could you have another check?’ plea before giving up. I was told – quite firmly – that I was mistaken, and there was no diary to be found.

I think you’ve probably already worked out where this story is going. The director bumped into me a while later in the coffee shop that we both seem to use as our office occasionally, and told me – ha ha – an amusing story: he had found my diary – it was under a coat, or something. Did I still want it back?

I declined: this chapter of the story was a little over two years later. I suspected that most of the deadlines in the diary had passed.

Anyway, I can’t blame a refusing-to-listen director on the loss of my 2017 diary: I have no memory of what I did with it. More worryingly, there’s literally not a single second (seriously, not even a second) where I could have left it somewhere. I wrote in it, got up, walked five feet, and –

and that’s it. I must have blacked out, thrown my diary into the sea, and come to again. It’s genuinely bizarre.

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It never occurred to me before that Reginald Perrin could be written by Mark E Smith.

Luckily, I kind of know what I’m doing over the next few days. This being Halloween, the Brighton Ghostwalk Of The Lanes has extra events on this Saturday and Halloween (Tuesday) itself – a walk at 6pm and the regular walk at 7.30pm. On Saturday, I’m doing the 7.30 one, but on Halloween – and on Monday night – I’m doing two Ghost Walks on the i360, which will be called ‘Fright Flights’, which will certainly be a unique way to see the city and tell some spooky tales.

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I spend a lot of my evenings having the walk the streets for money. Not only are my parents disappointed, but I have to pay Sting copyright.

But I’m nowhere near the lanes on Sunday evening. As part of the Brighton Horrorfest, Cast Iron Theatre are performing their first ‘scratch night’ of a work in progress – 1 Woman Alien: a parody solo version of the 1979 Sigourney Weaver film. Playing Ripley is Heather Rose Andrews, who was a guest on the latest episode of the Cast Iron Theatre Podcast along with Laura Mugridge and Judey Bignell.

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Heather considering the intelligence of doing AvP as a one woman show.

So, it’s pretty busy here. And I haven’t even finished the edits on a thing I’m not allowed to tell you about yet.

Twelfth Night

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Scene from 'Twelfth Night' ('Malvolio and the Countess') exhibited 1840 by Daniel Maclise 1806-1870

Today is Twelfth Night, which apparently is the exact day that you’re meant take the decorations down (although I believe I’m yet to find anyone who’s managed to adhere to that curiously dictatorial tradition). It’s also the name of a play by William Shakespeare – also called ‘What You Will’, and if you’re only vaguely familiar with the works of Shakespeare, you just need to know that this is the one where a girl dresses up as a boy. And there’s a shipwreck. And a long lost brother. Plus, there’s an argument / swordfight in the middle of the town.

No, not that play; the other one.

No, the other one.

No, the other other one.

There you go.

Anyway. When it comes to youth theatre and schools, Twelfth Night doesn’t get much of a mention, which as far as I’m concerned, is missing several boxes of tricks. Since we can already accepted that Shakespeare – particularly when it comes to kids – generally works better watched as a performance, or actually acted in , as opposed to having to read the scripts, which – to a significant number of teenagers, is going to be in a irrelevant and archaic language. Many kids – and then consequently, the adults they become – find Shakespeare boring and irrelevant.

This is why, I imagine, many youth productions or the school curriculum decide to put some glitter on the chore, and sell the kids one of the ‘exciting’ Shakespeares. Problem is, they often make a really fundamental mistake on what is going to be a relevant or interesting Shakespeare to young people today. Listen, the kids know that we’re trying to get them to eat their vegetables, they won’t care/listen if we claim we’ve sexed it up with bits of streaky bacon: the main meal is still cabbage.

One of the most popular choices is to try and make Shakespeare interesting  is A Midsummer Night’s Dream, mainly because it’s got a magical world of fairies in it, and partially because there’s a fair amount of knockabout comedy with a couple of cute couples. Problem is, it’s a deceptively complex plot which many adult casts get badly wrong – there is many a production that manages to make all the interludes with Bottom’s company of actors pretty tedious, which is a neat trick. The problem is that it’s easy to think that, because MND has all the fairies, silly actors, and fighting lovers lost in a forest in it, that there’s no need to do anything else. But fairies, silly actors, and fighting lovers lost in a forest are not things that happen in the day to day life of a teenager.

Another choice is Macbeth, which in theory isn’t a bad idea at all: it’s one of Will’s tightest scripts (it’s certainly his shortest), it feels the most cinematic, it’s got a ghost in it, and some good fights, along with a murder or two. And most importantly (and this is the gateway drug) it’s got three fun witches in it. But again, there’s not much there that’s relevant to kids today. The royal linage of a Scottish king isn’t something that many children care about.  

The other choice is Romeo And Juliet, which does have the advantage of being about kids being in love with someone that the parents don’t approve of. But Doing Exactly What Your Parents Tell you is something that started going out of fashion ever since James Dean whined about being torn about. And anyway, Romeo And Juliet is usually foisted on the kids by way of a hot young Leonardo DiCaprio. For kids who snapchat their relationship status in between

Which leaves us with Twelfth Night, which after everything else I’ve been talking about, may not sound like a good choice to bolster my argument since it mainly involves dukes and ladies, and men with titles over their names, all of which are not exactly going to feature in the average thirteen year olds life. But what it is about is this: getting drunk, being noisy, dressing up in stupid clothes, fancying someone who’s probably never going to fancy them back, and above all, an immature kid who keeps on listening to music when rejected by a loved one like a kid who’s just discovered his dad’s vinyl collection of Smiths albums. Which, to my mind, is very relevant to the life of most teenagers. The action is very snappy, as well, switching rapidly through a variety of quick-paced scenes that are confusing for the characters, but won’t lose the audience. Plus, there’s a subplot (which admittedly doesn’t always get interpreted this way in many productions) where the zany, silly gang of kids bully someone and take it too far. The fact that Malvolio is evidently something of a humourless prig doesn’t excuse the behaviour of Belch, Aguecheek and the rest: he doesn’t deserve the card he has been dealt. He, like many of the characters is very lonely, and so makes the wrong choices, which again is something that people are prone to do when they’re young. Being a teenager, Tori Amos tells us, is the loneliest place on earth, and for all its bawdiness, noise, and rude jokes, Twelfth Night is exactly that. Give it a chance above Romeo And Juliet and the horrifically overdone Midsummer Nights Dream. It might bring you good luck.

Keeping Stationary

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I had a work meeting last night, which overran slightly, as such meetings are wont to do. I wasn’t too worried, however, because I had temporarily forgotten about the trains. Until about this time last year, I was a regular commuter on the coastal route on the trains. I generally didn’t suffer too badly with the service, even though it was obviously bad: often overpacked with customers, almost never blessed with functioning toilets, often late, and occasionally cancelled altogether.

There are people reading this who can hardly dare imagine that the service was once that good.

I had occasion to change jobs around this time last year, which means that around this time last year, I no longer had to take the train every day. Also what happened around this time year was that the train service switched from merely bad to quite breathtakingly awful. There are a myriad of reasons for this, and you can choose which side you support another time, but it’s enough to say that I managed – via sheer dumb luck as well as anything else – to avoid the real misery of travelling by train in 2016. It simply didn’t affect me, even though I was reading enough news reports (and friend’s tweets) to understand that things had got really quite terrible.

So when my train home last night was delayed by an hour and a half, while it was annoying, I was reasonably nonchalant about it: after all, it wasn’t the sort of thing that had happened to me EVERY GODDAMN DAY. And anyway, it’s rare that I have an hour of enforced relaxation, so it would probably end up being quite healthy for me. Alright, yes, the first thing that occurred to me was that I should find a seat in a pub and catch up on edits on the current script, but that’s about as relaxed as I get, so I consider that a win.

There was a pub directly opposite the train station, which I stepped into, and then out again in about three minutes. There was a nice relaxed snug bit to the pub, but that section was closed. The open section was the bit with about five pool tables, three one armed bandits, one very loud jukebox, and at least ten people who certainly would have had to carry their proof of age with them at all times in order to continue drinking there. It wasn’t for me.

I knew that the next train station, the main train station for this town, was only a couple of minutes walk away, and that that train station also had a pub directly opposite it, so I thought I may as well give that one a go (I did have over a hour to fill, after all). Before too long, I got to the second pub. It’s a proper old style Opposite-A-Train-Station pub: huge, clearly doubled as a hotel back in the day, lots of gleaming brass and polished wood. It’s a genuinely beautiful pub. And it was pretty much empty.

I ordered my drink, and the landlord got the price wrong about three times, almost as if he wasn’t used to serving drinks all that often. Turns out, that may actually be the case: with a grim ghost of a smile, he asked ‘Waiting for a train then, are you?’ I admitted that I was, and he nodded with the air of a man for whom a single customer waiting for a single (delayed) train buying a single drink was going to dramatically improve his sales tonight. Which, bluntly, well may have been true.

The main problem for this pub was that it was directly next to the train station, which is a very bad location. This may seem somewhat counterintuitive, but think about it: train stations are generally on edges of towns or cities. Even if it feels like they’re slap dead in the centre of town, they’re not really: all the businesses, shops, cafes and pubs are normally – for the sake of argument – in front of the station, and then everything else – houses, smaller shops, etc – are tucked away behind. And there is very often a pub sitting next to the station, but since you generally only go to the station to go somewhere else, the pub is a place that you are literally passing on your way somewhere else. It’s not often that you’ll stop for a drink at the station pub unless you’re waiting for a delayed train (see also: buying anything from WHSmiths), and if you’re on your way out of the station – in other words, if you’ve just arrived – you kind of want to get your journey done, finished. And even if you do intend to go for a drink, that usually does mean getting as far away from the station as possible.

Over in Brighton, there’s a pub next to the station that has just closed down its upstairs theatre space and replaced it with a cocktail bar, mainly because the landlord apparently doesn’t understand this fundamental truth, universally acknowledged: those in want of a good cocktail will either travel a fair bit or not at all for it. Which is a clumsy way of saying that if you stick your cocktail bar next to the train station, almost nobody is going to come along to it: if they’re going to make the effort to go all the way to the train station (on the edge of town, remember), and they’re in a cocktaily kinda mood, they might well just jump on a train to London (as long as it’s not delayed, of course), and if they’re arriving in town, they want to actually visit the town, not stay at the pub that signifies as the city walls.

This has happened before: I remember a vegan café in Brighton a couple of years back that held regular comedy and spoken word nights. It wasn’t exactly in the middle of nowhere, but it was literally just off the beaten track: it didn’t get a lot of passing trade – you either knew about it because it was about the only café in Brighton that was entirely vegan (yes, I’m as surprised as you are), or if you’d made the trip to see one of the performers. And of course what happened was that audience members – occasionally ones that lived only a few minutes away – would declare that they’d never heard of this place. But then they’d become regular customers. One hand washes the other, etc. 

A new owner came in, and decided what the place really needed to be was a champagne bar. Despite the fact that nobody walked past this place without already knowing what it was. The vegan café was shut down, the comedy nights and spoken word events ceased. Now, I’m not saying that there isn’t a place for cocktail bars and champagne bars in Brighton, obviously there is (West Street needs a bit of a sprucing up, for instance). But you can probably see where this story ends: the champagne bar lasted less than six months (possibly a hell of a lot less). It’s perplexing watching it happen from the outside, when one is avowedly not a business person, watching a business make a fundamentally poor decision, thinking, ‘well, even I know what’s not gonna work ..’

Anyway, I got my train. And I managed to relax for a hour. I mean, I wrote this blog entry, but apart from that …

Mailshot: Cast Iron Theatre January 2017

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This is the mailshot I just sent out to people on the CAST IRON THEATRE and IRONCLAD IMPROV mailing lists:

OK, we have a couple of things coming up, which we’ll try to spend very little time telling you about: Firstly, the IRONCLAD IMPROV drop-in classes return to the DukeBox Theatre on Sunday the 15th of January at 7pm. As ever, beginners are welcomed along with seasoned regulars, and we’ll be exploring all manner of shortform and longform improvisation exercises and games every Sunday. We look forward to seeing you there! (we will also be returning to the Printers Playhouse in Eastbourne on Tuesday nights at 7.30, but check out facebook for confirmation regarding the actual Tuesday we’ll be back). Here’s the facebook page for the Brighton classes: https://www.facebook.com/events/1715385535443776/

On Friday 20th January, CAST IRON THEATRE and IRONCLAD IMPROV will be having their New Year’s Party at Presuming Eds coffee house on London Road, Brighton at 8pm. There will be a cheap bar, lots of munchies, a mini-cinema, and beautiful people. It’s a chance to catch up with fellow actors/writers/improvisers/directors/producers/painfully awkward people in a gorgeous environment, and it would be delightful to see loads of you there. Plus, if you want to get mercenary about it, particularly with the Brighton Fringe coming up: if you want to network with potential new creative partners, we’re hoping this will be an ideal opportunity to mingle and meet new people. If it goes well, we’ll do it again! For our interest, if you already know that you probably will be coming, let us know either in response to this email, or via facebook. By the way, here’s the facebook invite: https://www.facebook.com/events/528558790667109/

Our second evening of Cast Iron Shorts – an evening of short stories, read live at the Sweet Venues DukeBox, will be performed on Friday 24th February. Therefore, we are seeking submission: stories between 1,500 words and 2,000 words on the theme of YELLOW. The deadline for submissions is Friday 10th February, and can be emailed as a word document (not PDF) to cast_iron@outlook.com. There are more details on the facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/events/1476305909076437/

And finally (for now), we’re pleased to announce that CAST IRON 9 will be part of the 2017 HOVE GROWN FESTIVAL. As ever, we are seeking scripts for ten minute plays on a huge variety of subjects. The deadline for scripts is Monday 23rd of January, and you can check out the website for guidelines. Alternatively, here’s the facebook page for the Submissions Call: https://www.facebook.com/events/1611104319197203/ We look forward to receiving your scripts. Plus, if you’d like to be involved as an actor or a writer, let us know by responding to this email or chatting to us on facebook.

Thursday 25th August 2016

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Have recently finished writing a ten minute play for the next round of CAST IRON. It’s an odd little thing, one that I wasn’t too sure what I was saying with it until at least halfway through writing it. Possibly I still don’t. Largely this is because the play has been dictated more by location than narrative; at least to begin with.

Of course, it’s reasonably often that stage plays have their narrative shaped by a single location. It’s a naïve playwright (or one confident of a large budget) that will have the location switch every few minutes, as if it’s cinema. Obviously a smart director will not panic too much about scene one being set at the edge of a volcano, and the next scene being in an airport departure lounge – hopefully good dialogue will hold the audiences hands through such willing suspensions of disbelief. When scene three is set in an airplane cockpit, a swimming pool, or even somewhere as apparently banal and simple as a driver’s car seat, the location can be something of an irritant.

Having said all that, I’m currently fascinated by the possibilities of such restriction on location. Not exactly a ‘locked room mystery’ so beloved of the likes of Agatha Christie, but in the same ballpark (ooh! Ballpark! Another location!). Partially this is because I can see the next series of Inside No 9 coming over the horizon. Created and written by Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton, Inside No 9 is a series that – for me at least – revels in unpicking a conceptual problem, and seeing how a story works. Despite the reputation to casual viewers, the series is much less interested in so called ‘twist endings’ (although a great many of the episodes have literally that), as much as it’s fascinated by unknotting a technical, or narrative conceit. So there are stories told in (mostly) silence, stories told in strictly edited segments of time, and stories told purely through the screens of (unmoving) CCTV cameras. So it’s clear that Shearmsith and Pemberton enjoy setting up storytelling challenges for themselves, and it’s always interesting to see what path they wander down: with or without breadcrumbs.

And while a fixed location isn’t always exactly the challenge they’ve set themselves, it’s something that comes up in their DNA a lot, and I became intrigued as a writer to see what would happen if you set up the location before even considering the content, or the narrative. Partially, this was inspired by a throwaway comment in an interview that may not even have been accurate (in fact, I’m pretty sure I saw it denied subsequently): that if a third series was commissioned, there was a possibility that there would be a spin-off, online only series (perhaps called Inside No 9a) of ten minute plays that could be entered by aspiring writers and filmmakers. And since, as I’ve alluded to already, one of the things I’ve admired most about Inside No 9 was the refusal to tell stories in an ‘easy’ or complacent way, I began to think about restrictive spaces, and throwing together people that wouldn’t usually share that same space.

As it turned out, Inside No 9a never happened (although series three of the parent programme was commissioned, and returns to the BBC in October), and I didn’t write the short films. However, when I began writing my next short play for the next Cast Iron night (that semi-regular evening of short plays we produce at the DukeBox Theatre) the same preoccupations surfaced.  Obviously, it’s slightly different, since – again – it’s more logical to keep a stage play in the same place, particularly if your play is only ten minutes. So I wrote a play entirely set in a karaoke booth, pushing the people into the location before I thought too much about why they were there. And while the play that I ended up writing ended up being more interested in the characters than the restrictions of location (which is probably a good thing), I’m grateful that the brilliance of Inside No 9 inspired me to write something new, even if it is entirely unrelated.

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Well, I say entirely unrelated: once I’d emailed the script off to the director and writers, I started writing an article previewing the upcoming series of Inside No 9. Which is when I discovered that they have already written an episode set in a Karaoke booth. No doubt their one will be scarier than mine. In the plus column, the other three ‘restrictive’ locations I have in mind aren’t included in the episode list. I’d better get writing …  

A Week Before The End Of Summer

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Well, this is it: the final furlong of our Brighton Fringe show – or at least, the rehearsals. The first night of Year Without Summer is a week away: Monday 30th May, to be exact. Everything is clicking into place satisfactorily, and all that remains is the actual audience. Have spent the last few days distributing posters and fliers in local coffee shops and the like. There are, of course, roughly three thousand other posters and fliers all jostling for attention. I’ve always been cheerfully convinced that posters – for a show, for a gig, whatever – are reasonably doomed to failure, but I’m equally convinced that as doomed failures go, it’s about the best you can go for. I reckon one ticket sale on the back of around 400 fliers is about as good a return as you can hope for. It is of course pretty difficult to get any sort of audience in for a show, particularly if there’s hundreds of other shows also opening at the same time, and particularly if there are no famous ‘names’ attached to your project: either as performers, writers, directors, or even the actual name of the piece.

We’ve got some things going for us: the play deals with (amongst other things) Mary Shelley coming up with the idea for Frankenstein, which should pique the interest of at least a few people – especially as we premiere the play roughly 200 years after it actually happened (give or take a month, but who’s counting?). I imagine we might be able to wave sweetly at some potential audience members with the promise of Lord George Byron being – well, like Byron. I’ve been a little bit cheeky about the timelines of events (at least two events, or the suggestions of them, didn’t actually happen until significantly after the ‘year without a summer’, but I’m hoping most scholars will grant me a pass on narrative freedoms).

Somehow, I’ve managed to catch a few things in the Brighton Fringe (equally, I’ve missed a spectacular amount). Blackbird, at the Rialto is an impressive and tense two hander, depicting a reunion (if that word doesn’t suggest too cheerful a scenario) directed by Sam Chittenden. It’s best that you know little or nothing going in, which I appreciate is something of a gamble at the fringe, but rest assured it’s a bet worth taking.

Also impressive is Am I Fuckable (no, don’t type that title into search engines), which depicts very human and humorous (as well as moving) responses to modern dating in the era of tindr. It’s on at the Globe (no not that one) and has two performances left, scattered across the fringe. I understand that both performances are officially sold out, but it really is worth rocking up just before the start time just in case of no-shows.

Plus, there’s Un-Titled (also at the Rialto), whose tagline – ‘A play about art, told by art’, pretty much does what it says on the tin: an artist in her 80th year, is visited by the pieces of art in her studio, including a depiction of her earlier self (portrait). As well as being witty and moving, it’s also directed by Judey Bignell, who is Mary Shelley in Year Without Summer, which sort of brings this entry full circle. I’m not sure how Judey found the time to direct one show and be in another. I haven’t dared ask her, either: she may hit me.

Tickets for all those shows can be booked via the Brighton Fringe website, but obviously I’m going to draw lots of attention to the link for my show (it’s called Year Without Summer, did I mention?) and you can avoid booking fees but clicking on this link here image