New Writing Festival Review: Man Who Lo
Sami Ibrahim’s much-hyped writing debut for the New Writing Festival isn’t quite the next Arcadia, but the stylistic debt this morsel of intellectual titillation owes to Stoppard is clear. We have the one-room setting, the table stacked with books, the non-linear narrative peppered with academic in-jokes, the exploration of “scientific exploration versus spiritual understanding” - and, at moments, the sparkling wit of writing that is very clever indeed. Moments where the concision is muffled by clichéd foibles do occur, but they are few and far between enough to make this a strong contender for the NWF crown.
The plot, such as it is, revolves around Harold (Edward Wise), a fusty, greasy and aging academic, who has turned away from academic rigour to religious fervour as his health slowly declines. As his bemused friends and colleagues look for answers, Harold’s murky past and warped present enmesh, revealing his true, depraved motivations - warped lust for the fruity young evangelist (Emma Eastwood-Paticchio) who is guiding his proselytism. Not, then, an action-packed night of thrills and spills - this is slow-burn, cerebral writing. Ibrahim’s dialogue bears the intellectual content without too much strain, though. Dovetailing lovely bits of naturalistic idiom with stylised Beckettian stichomythia, the exchanges are always engaging. It is in Harold’s monologues that the pace drops - despite Wise’s convincingly repulsive turn, the long, tangential discussions of his academic work on “when the genetic becomes the psychological” are a bore. They tediously spell out the intellectual concerns of the play, properly conveyed in dialogue - having Harold dictate letters into a dictaphone is plain lazy. It is only the likelihood of Harold’s mildewy technological illiteracy that lets Ibrahim just about get away with the clumsy device.
Text aside, the production is certainly well-cast. Niall Docherty, initially a little fidgety, gets into his charmingly lilting stride to great effect as Harold’s young, ambitious colleague - our Bernard Nightingale for the evening. But it is Adélie Chevée as Harold’s past paramour, Sylvia, who steals the show. Ibrahim’s history of work for comedy troupes comes to the fore with her, and when in full, spectacularly smutty flow, she nails every line. It was all too quickly, though, that we drooped back into scholarly intellectual masturbation, and the revelation of Harold’s perversity in the closing scenes was too hackneyed to be shocking. Despite these shortcomings, this was a production with zing, originality, and a healthy dose of intellectual flair. The only question that remains now is whether the author of Man Who Loses will become the Man Who Wins.
