Drink Rum with Expats
I first came across Sh!t Theatre at the Edinburgh Fringe in 2015 doing a show called Women’s Hour. Commissioned by a man for his festival of feminism, I reasoned the production was probably self-indulgent, introspective and too clever by half, without anything as inconvenient as facts to test my reasoning. I crossed it off my long list and didn’t go, but neither did I entirely forget them. They’ve since done something about letters, and then something else about Dolly Parton. Despite being intrigued I’ve managed to obstinately fly in the face of overwhelming critical acclaim, unwilling to let go of a prejudice that wasn’t very sensible in the first place. Why, if these people weren’t for me, did I keep noticing what they were doing? What exactly was my problem with them, anyway? It was time to go find out.
Drink Rum with Expats dressed the Arts Centre as if it were a pub – not a pub, you understand, but the definitive article. The Pub is the watering hole for expats in Malta, its where Oliver Reed bought his last round, and the hub around which Louise Mothersole and Rebecca Biscuit base their show about a show. The evening kicks off before the formal start time, with free beers all round. Lumps of cheese get lobbed into the audience, more in hope than expectation that a piece will land in a mouth (though one piece does, to universal applause). Simply Red’s Thought of You plays on an endless loop while projected karaoke lyrics seduce a few brave souls into joining in. There’s smoke everywhere, amidst which the pair Dad dance. Whether this is great fun or a newly discovered circle of hell is probably down to personal inclination, but I’m already worried that my prejudice is going to be confirmed rather than confounded.
And then it happens. The performance proper starts, and though I’m watching something meandering, discursive and episodic, there’s something interesting going on. For all the seeming flakiness and chaos, it quickly becomes apparent that Louise and Rebecca are presenting a tightly choreographed duologue, with the action ping-ponging between them as near subliminal images of dogs, friends, newspapers, homes, websites, boats and texts buttress and confuse the narrative in equal measure. What follows is the show they were commissioned to perform in Malta, including the bits they had to leave out, as well as the reasons they were left out, what happened instead – keep up – and what turned out to be far more important anyway. And if a show about a show sounds just the sort of self-regarding nonsense I had feared, I can only say that the performers were both such personable, jolly folk that they swiftly had me, and their audience, hanging off every word.
How they came to be in Malta gradually took a back seat as the issues and outrages that confronted them swallowed up the performance. Sandwiched between the crowd searching and the boozing were heart rending scenes of refugees refused entry. Concealed within jokey inventories of Oliver Reed memorabilia were revelations of profound government corruption. I can’t speak about earlier productions, but I’m guessing juxtaposing the absurd with the obscene is Sh!t Theatre’s great trick. The maxim of not knowing whether to laugh or cry never seemed more apposite and the effect was unnerving and disorientating.
There are other performers that mix autobiographical comedy and tragedy to make a wider point. I was reminded of Daniel Bye’s Instructions for Border Crossing or Bryony Kimming’s I’m a Phoenix Bitch. Those performers, however, still favour a linear narrative and a defined direction of travel. What sets Sh!t Theatre apart is a willingness to flip humour and horror back and forth – sometimes recklessly so. A case in point was after Rebecca Biscuit brought her impossibly cute dog on stage (he had previously had a cameo role in a rubber dingy). It was a lovely moment, compounded by Louise Mothersole grappling with a fake dog grotesquely constructed from a set of Maltese bagpipes. This was funny, and got a laugh, but I wonder how many in the audience caught on that she was telling the dog off by chillingly repeated the words of a Libyan kidnapper.
After a fittingly bonkers and cathartic end, the performers tinkered behind the bar as the audience filed out. I had half a mind to go up to them and apologise for being an idiot, expressing my regret at all the shows I had consequently missed. On reflection, this seemed weird and creepy, so I just went home. It did leave me wondering why I had so taken against them – a pinch of shameful misogyny, perhaps, mixed in with straightforward jealously at their youthful talent. In any event, it taught me a lesson. If there’s something or someone who simply aren’t for you, yet strangely you can’t quite dismiss, why not go back and take another look? Otherwise, you may just be missing out.
