113, a brand new play by Ethan H. M. M., has a premise decidedly reminiscent of Charlie Brooker’s long-running Black Mirror series. Two people, known only as 64 (George Loynes) and 49 (Isobel Glover), begin without memories, trapped in bare-walled rooms. If, in what becomes a kind of leitmotif, they can only remember, they will be able to escape. Director Rio Rose Joubert sets the scene with a green-bathed stage and a masked, Squid Game-esque officer, and these first impressions only serve to confirm the dystopia which the play’s premise offers.
But really, this is a play driven by the two people we see before us. Loynes, as new inmate 64, gives an admirably frenetic and at times deeply discomforting performance; Glover, old hat 49, brings a soldierly discipline befitting her treasured dog tags. Throughout the play’s hour, we see them open up and grow vulnerable, each changed by the other. This mutual exchange is illustrated by writer Ethan H. M. M.’s clever use of echoed verbal tics between the characters.
Their connection is a thoroughly realistic one, despite the literal wall between them, which offers an interesting point of immersion for those audience members sitting on the far ends of the Burton Taylor, as the on-stage wall partially blocks their view of one of the two characters’ rooms. Given this set-up, one has to wonder how 64 and 49’s greatest moments of intimacy come across to those at either end of the studio.
The two also become progressively more unified on their compelling joint quests to remember, bouncing off each other and their scattered props to dredge up increasingly cohesive impressions of their past lives. Loynes has arguably the more complex material to work with in 64’s fraught familial relations, but, equally, Glover’s tattered clothes hint at 49’s more existentially troubling history. Uncovering that history is what they’re here for, and their progress is ably assisted by Sali Adams’ impressive turn as the multifaceted J. Doe. Doe, like the intangible angel choir that greets 64’s arrival, gradually develops the strangeness of the play’s opening into a classically dystopian examination of the role institutions should play in regulating the individual. The question of what, exactly, brought 64 and 49 to this place is kept in the audience’s minds by recurring strobe lighting: every time it flickers on and off, another act of memory erasure seems to take place, and our characters are left a little more confused.
113’s plot threads are aptly interwoven: the characters fulfill the play’s title just as the true nature of their rooms is revealed, and the play seamlessly switches focus from these characters’ pasts to their futures. Ethan H. M. M. has delivered a very successful piece of writing here, and it is no surprise to me that 113 has been selected for the National Student Drama Festival. Strong performances from each of the three cast members and a seamlessly executed contribution from the lighting, sound, and designers ensure that the Burton Taylor’s tighter space is no barrier to a thoroughly enjoyable evening. This is a play that should stick in the memory even if you one day find yourself in a situation like the one which greeted 64 and 49
— The Oxford Blue
“If we want the rewards of being loved, we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.” This famous, usually misattributed, line, first appeared in an article by Tim Kreider for a June 2015 edition of The New York Times, but the sentiment has enjoyed an afterlife, reverberating around certain circles of the internet, undoubtedly well known to anyone who is (or was once) a Tumblr user. Those people (I’m sure there are many in Oxford) must see 113.
113 is a stunning piece of original writing by Ethan McLucas. It follows two people, ‘49’ and ’64,’ who find themselves mysteriously captive in two adjoining cells, unable to see each other but able to communicate. Are they imprisoned? Hospitalised? In purgatory? We don’t know. Crucially, they don’t either. Neither ‘49,’ nor ‘64,’ can remember who they are. Their names, memories, and identities are completely lost to them. Having been captive for some time (they are not sure exactly how long), ‘49’ knows the rule to the game: if they can remember who they are, they can leave. If they cannot (as she cannot) they must stay.
Over the course of the play, ‘49’ and ‘64’ experience life in a slightly-leaky vacuum, playing, despairing, falling in love, experiencing loss, in the absence of a firm identity and memory. The play asks some serious heavy-lifting questions. What is identity without memory? Can a person without memory experience life? Can they experience love? Are their experiences real, human, authentic, if they lack the memories, traumas, and accomplishments in which to ground them? Is it necessary to love oneself in order to be loved? And if so, is that even possible for everyone? Who is it possible for?
The two characters thus come into conflict, standing as experiments in who gets to recover, and how. Dialogue provides the driving force of the play, and it is pulled off extremely well. ‘64,’ played by George Lyons, is arrogant, rash, and impulsive, yet unexpectedly lovable and strangely endearing. A hedonist streak (hardly able to be exercised in the constraints of his small cell, but nonetheless evident) gives way to a surprisingly loyal core, in a moment which actually pricked my eyes with tears. ‘49’ played by Isobel Layana is sarcastic, defensive, with a trace of an indie movie lead about her. Nonetheless, she is never trivial, but completely captivating. She opens the play with an arresting moment of eye contact with the audience. Lyons’ first scene sees his eyes filled with tears. The emotional depth created in 113 is perhaps its greatest strength, and the chemistry between ‘64’ and ’49’ is extremely moving.
The intimacies of the world of ‘64’ and ‘49’ are periodically ruptured by the dream-like (read as: total nightmare fuel) character of J Doe, played (should I say, completely utterly inhabited) by Sali Adams. Doe is a seriously unsettling force in the narrative, mirroring and mocking the insecurities of ‘49,’ and attempting to ensnare ‘64’ within a sort of false-identity trap which would see him continually imprisoned. Incredibly, though a tormentor to both characters, she is also believably sympathetic in our final scenes, concerned for the well-being of ‘64,’ and seemingly unaware and untroubled by the harm she had routinely caused. A real ‘greater-good’ figure who was no doubt hard to write and act. Hats off to Adams, the fear was real.
The actors are extremely strong, but equally, McLucas' writing shines, particularly when it comes to writing love, sex, insecurity and heartbreak. I only wish he would give us more of that exact theme and perhaps dial back some of the world-building mechanisms at play here. The routines of the cell, the washing of laundry, the health inspections, the routine visits, feel a little shallowly dystopian (tropey?) given that the dialogue around it is so gripping and original. The added dystopian details don’t necessarily help us digest the world of the play. Turn away for spoilers (turn away!), but it is not immediately evident to me why temporary amnesia would be recommended as the ideal therapy for troubled sons. But those are not really the questions I’m interested in, nor do I think they are the questions the play concerns itself with. It is the interactions of selves and the problem of selfhood which really seems to move the play. If the key lesson here is to embrace oneself (however that looks) in order to reap the rewards of a full life, then, perhaps fittingly, my only ask for McLucas would be to lean in further to the strengths of his writing.
Oh, one more ask, which may read as cheeky. Please can we push the curtain back just slightly, for the viewing experience of the audience? Whilst I appreciate the (probably unintentional) artistic value in obscuring our vision of either character (putting us in the position of being incarcerated ourselves), I would have liked to be witness to all the moments in this play. Even sitting squarely in the middle, one struggles to catch every moment. Pushing our curtain back just an inch would surely help, and the acting and writing here is strong enough that a few inches wouldn’t break your disbelief.