As is tradition here at edardaily, I've gone and got another guest reviewer for today's new theatre write-up. And who better to explore Crooked Piece's production of 4:48 Psychosis than son and heir to the Twattersly throne, released for one day only from St Andrews Mental Asylum, The Right Honourable Terrence Twattersly. It took a ton of bribery, extortion and hired goons to convince the administration to let him out for this, so you'd better like it. Enjoy!
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| 'Neuron' to a winner with this design guys |
Hello. They said I could come out today if I promised to be good. Mum and Dad asked the wardens if it would be ok for me to come review a play for their friends blog. The wardens didn't like it at first. Warden Graham especially felt I didn't deserve this because of what I done to his testicles two weeks ago. He said I was still too much of a danger to the general public. Their lobbying meant nothing in the end though, the administrative staff said it would be good for me to experience modern culture after all these years of years of solitary incarceration. There was a distinctly tangible note of duress however, one that I couldn't help but feel showed a humanist aspect to their otherwise conservatively by-the-book approach to my personal torture. They locked me up, you see, the FUCKING lot of them, they locked me up because of what I saw. They subjected me to - sorry. The review. We, you, me, I, I must review.
So the van pulls up after a long journey outside this beautifully decadent pub/theatre in South Kensington. The fading evening sunlight nearly blinded me as the wardens pulled open the van doors and dragged me out. My eyes hadn't been subjected to natural light for longer than I can try to remember, but I could still make out the happy, normal people stood out the front, smoking, drinking and staring worriedly at me, this straight-jacketed, lank haired mental patient surrounded by clinical wardens and doctors ready with coshes and ketamine filled syringes designed to knock me out should I make one false move. I was led through the bar area and taken upstairs to the theatre space, forced into a back row seat so as not to disturb the other press members and manacled to the bars riveted behind me. As was au fait with every other press member in attendance I was offered a free glass of Pimms and lemonade, one which I readily accepted and had Graham pour into my mouth as and when I felt like it, fruit and all.
The auditorium lights faded and the minimal set was revealed by bare bulbs hanging over a stage decorated with three stacks of boxes and a lady stood on centre stage. Due to the supposed nature of my incarceration every doctor, nurse, warden and administrative staff I had come into contact for the past quarter century had been male and this was my first time seeing a female since not long after my puberty had begun. As she began monologuing several more ladies and one gent burst from the boxes to provide further narration to her internal diatribe. I was reminded of my fourth year of solitary confinement in St Andrews, when the voices started, when the past, present, alternative and future versions of myself began whispering into my ears. Their was a kinship felt at that moment, one which my fading memories of childhood visits to major productions in the West End could never hope to recreate, one that touched me deep within my internal psyche and awoke the Terrance that had once been. Here was a competent array of actors who were able to express the workings of the mind which mainstream theatre dares not to tread. The supposed thoughts and feelings which make us human yet which must be quashed and silenced by your rotting World were laid bare for the tiny closed minds of South Kensington. I knew what knew what must be done, but onwards with the play.
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| The resemblance to childhood sweets is almost uncanny |
A common misjudgement within the outside World is that places such as St Andrews operate on a therapeutic, reformative approach to rehabilitating patients as propagated in your major Hollywood films. The actual truth could be nothing further from this, we live in a confinement warehouse fed on a diet of drugs and belittlement. This production of 4:48 Psychosis truly managed to get this unfortunate truth across through not only clever set design which lighted the numerous amount of medicinal bottles surrounding the protagonist at appropriate times but the interaction between doctor and patient. I was reminded again of my own specialists who feed me a regular diet of all sorts of medications washed down with a liquid supplement of natural proteins who couldn't be further away from the actual requirements my disintegrating brain needs. This was mirrored almost perfectly by the therapists portrayed on stage, who seemed more concerned with the female protagonists realignment of character through medicinal intake than getting to the root cause of her mental state, a residual problem within not only my personal experiences of St Andrews but I'm sure throughout the psycho-analytical field.
The interesting and almost unique aspect of a play such as this is that without a clearly defined narrative structure, with no austere antagonist, story arc or even placement of time or causality the audience is given, even required, space to really analyse how the the production reflects on their own experiences. In the absence of what we normally expect from a story, we are left with filling in the gaps with our own interpretations. I cannot begin to express what lurking horrific memories this ignited within me. Believe this, they almost won. They were so close to convincing me I was wrong and the lies they fed me since the original incident were true. I entered 4:48 Psychosis an almost broken man. The years of solitary confinement, the constant mental and physical abuse from the staff, the scattered diet of downers and protein supplements had begun to take their toll and I was ready to accept I was in the wrong, just to be released from this living nightmare.
It was a clear, autumnal afternoon, back in the old family estate, almost 20 years ago now. I'd returned from prep school early, a fellow student had started a fire in the chemistry lab as a prank with the old bunsen burner sets. The gas had pulled back in unexpectedly and caused an explosion, meaning we were to all be evacuated. With no one else being contactable at home our chauffeur was asked to collect me and take me back home. Havig dropped me off he went to park the old Bentley in the garage, whilst I entered to explain to my mother my mother what had happened. She was in the drawing room, a place me and my father were told to never enter and usually obeyed due to her formidable nature. I walked in because I felt it necessary to explain my early return from school, and witnessed what no child ever wants to see their own mother doing. There was an open jar on her wooden desk filled with some kind of viscous liquid, and she was performing some unspeakable acts to the contents within. Upon noticing myself she turned and viciously screamed for me to leave, shouting that I should never have entered. Nobody, not even my own father believed my story afterwards. She denied it to the last of course. My final memory of that house was being strapped up and taken to St Andrews because of the supposed lies I tried to explain to him, and of my mother's final fleeting glance to me through the barred windows of the van. A mixture of remorse, guilt and relief, as her own son was taken away to hide her disgusting secret.
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| Terrence Twattersley |
If I told you the full story of what happened to me in the years following in that damned asylum you wouldn't believe me, as much as every therapist refused to believe my own story. How pathetic, how weak willed of my own father to pay these people to hide me and the shameful truths I possessed about mother. They told me I was schizophrenic, that I suffered from acute Oedipal fantasies and was an embarrassment to the good name Twattersley. And it had almost worked dear reader, they were so close to breaking me and getting me to confess to my sinful lies I almost believed their lies. Nietzsche's famous line of staring into the abyss and the abyss staring back? True to a point. What he failed to expand on was the horrifying extent to which the abyss stares back at everyone you've ever known, how it's empty void infiltrates their minds as well. It was only having witnessed the female lead's struggle in this play against her own internal doubts and the institutional degradation of the spirit that I was reminded of my past inner strength and was able to formulate my escape.
Once the play had ended and I was being escorted back to the van, I put my plan into action. As Graham turned me round to place me inside I spat the concealed lemon pips from the Pimms I had been given earlier straight into his eye. In the ensuing panic this created I was able to slide the saved cucumber rinds from under my tongue and use them as makeshift lockpicks on my handcuffs, years of rolling on the floor of my padded cell had given my body the extra suppleness to complete this task. They came at me with everything, but I was ready for them. As I tore apart my straightjacket I grabbed at a handful of promotional flyers one of the other wardens was holding and executed two perfectly timed paper cuts to the faces of the other oncoming nurses. As the flailed back in shock and pain I made good my escape through South Kensington, over the spiked fences of several inner city mansions and off into the vast expanse of London.
Freedom, finally I taste her nourishing flavour. Dear reader, words fail me as to the bounteous beauty of what it means to finally be freed from that terrible torment. I've travelled far now, although I know they search for me. Don't worry, I've found a safe place. It's warm here, nicely furnished. There's an inhabitant, sat in front of their computer, reading a review in the pale glow of their screen. Ignore that flicker in the reflection of your monitor, it's nothing. No, please, don't...turn...around...
Thanks Terrence for that lovely review, we hope to hear from you again soon. If you too would like to awake the twisted repressed memories in your internal psyche, Crooked Pieces production of 4:48 Psychosis is showing at the Drayton Arms Theatre in South Kensington until the 29th September 2012, 8-10pm, tickets £7-10 and available from box office number 0844 8700 887
