Fringe Review

It’s a unique experience, where Langridge works with Jayne McVeigh on supple fluid movement through the barge’s space, and Lisa Goldberg’s dramaturgy perhaps helps to tighten and interrogate the appalling assault of real events on the heart of an already powerfully-freighted play.

Transparently about an actor who really does get arrested for protesting the massacre of trees outside her home and the destruction of that home, there’s small space for Langridge to hide. So she doesn’t, coming out voluptuously funny and undeniably sexy …

Again Langridge is particularly fine at evoking this, a quiet overlooked moment of poignancy …

Langridge moves well, eyeballs the audience and rolls in imagined duvets with ever-disappointing men with cheerful aplomb. There’s briefer delicacy as Langridge hauntingly crisps the memory of soon-squelched leaves, a description of a tree with no rings in it. Quiet devastation at the loss of her house early on, and the eggshell dust of its crushing are moulded to flinched elegy. Her voice though uncertain in the acoustics of the barge rather often explodes into shoutiness as if not sure yet of register or effect. It’s something soon trimmed in later performances. This is a fine, necessary work inevitably in progress. Let it settle in the water a bit more, and glitter.

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