Before the lights went up on Gemma Prangle’s debut play Splinter, there was already a sense that they could only illuminate so much.
It would have been impressive if you had made it to your seat without hearing about the play’s subject matter. With a plot description keen to stress its troubling themes and further efforts made to caution the audience with a trigger warning for ‘scenes which some might find upsetting’, I had suitably braced myself to be swept away by a bleak wave of misery.
And what followed was undoubtedly a raw and vigorous exploration of tortuous loss, but on reflection, I think the prevailing expectation of oncoming doom and gloom did the play a disservice. Is Splinter dark and at times, emotionally distressing? Sure. But is it also, frequently, a whole lot of fun? Absolutely!
There’s an electricity in the air from the off, a finely honed current conducted via Nia Gandhi and Rhys Parry Jones’s charismatic performances, Gemma Prangle’s truly energetic text and creative direction from Matthew Holmquist and Nerida Bradley that prioritises filling the space with tangible kinetic energy.
There’s no doubt about it, hovering above the despair is a blatant sense of humour which is admittedly off-beat, peculiar and frequently absurd, but unquestionably present. Just take for instance, the fabulously inventive opening scene in which Mali (Nia Gandhi) explores the various ways in which she could kill her father (Rhys Parry Jones), who plays along with giddy obedience. This is a perfect introduction to a totally perplexing but somehow joyous game which instantly establishes the feel of the entire play. It’s clear that the audience are invited to join in on the unexpected fun that can be had in the darkness.
Much of the play takes place in a dream-like space fuelled by memory. Prangle said of the setting that it was inspired by the sensation of feeling in a place almost otherworldly when grieving. This is well-illustrated by April Dalton’s set, with an overhead canopy representing a tree-like cosmos. It’s littered with nostalgic paraphernalia from these character’s lives, with socks and shoes to teddy bears and bunting, all wrapped up amongst the branches.
Nia Gandhi excels in the role of Mali, a daughter so consumed with grief that she delves into denial to the point of madness. Sometimes she’s sweet and playful, other times she’s relatable and broken, but perhaps her most impressive turn comes when she embodies a kind of childlike malice – a cutesy-evil demeanour that is both unsettling and thrilling to watch.
Co-star Rhys Parry Jones too dips into a bit of insanity, but mainly he plays a father content to appease his daughter, and perfectly encapsulates a parent embracing a brave face to ease his child’s pain.
Image credit: Kirsten McTernan
In the wrong hands, this play could have easily been inaccessible to casual audiences, but directors Matthew Holmquist and Nerida Bradley draw a line between reality and absurdity and place a foot firmly either side of it. They strike a satisfying balance, bringing out naturalistic performances from the actors, ensuring the unnatural world they inhabit doesn’t hinder their ability to appear authentic and relatable. Because of this, you never feel at odds with the world of the play, despite it being undefined and bordering on magical.
Prangle’s script – mostly spawned from improvised movements by the writer herself – taps into a little discussed trait that can be provoked by grief: selfishness. Mali is so blinded by her own pain; she barely notices her father’s. It’s heartbreaking to see how this death has fractured their relationship and somehow illuminated the flaws of the surviving parent whilst exaggerating the virtue of the departed. She discusses openly how her mother wouldn’t have to queue for heaven, her inherent goodness would allow her to skip to the front, whilst her father is so ‘useless’, he would probably ‘get lost on the way’.
It’s no accident, I think, that both characters regularly find themselves staring intently into blank space. I wondered if these may be longing looks for another set of eyes to stare back at them. Afterall, Mali bemoans that the world goes on without a care and cries that she ‘just wants to be seen’, which makes it all the more tragic that she rarely takes the time to truly see her own father, surely the only one who could truly relate to her suffering.
Prangle conveys her message by playing fast and loose with reality, so it is often unclear what is intended to be a real experience or simply a metaphor redressed as dialogue. This does mean you are somewhat required to scrutinise the story as it’s being told, and as a result, Splinter can occasionally feel like a puzzle to solve. But thanks to consistent nudges towards where each piece should fit, the reward of a complete picture by the curtain call is assured.
Whatever your views on trigger warnings, it would be difficult to argue against the creative team’s decision to caution the audience about the dark places this story takes them, but with a vibrant sense of humour and sheer vivacity, they guarantee the path is well lit. All of the charged emotion is rightly utilised to provide catharsis for both the characters and the audience, meaning that no one should leave this play disturbed, but instead, elated, perhaps now better able to reflect on their own experiences with a greater clarity than before.