In theatre and other media, narratives usually focus on the viewpoint of one or two central protagonists as the world, and other characters, are understood from their perspective. 113, written by Ethan McLucas, fully embraces this concept by immersing the audience into the gripping world of either of two inmates.

The set design makes this intent very clear. The stage is divided by a large wall into two prison cells; taking a seat on one side will completely block the other from view. The audience will therefore choose which inmate they observe and which one they will know only as a voice from the other side of the wall, as their chosen character does. What follows is part live performance and part audio drama.

Inmate 49 (Isobel Glover) already occupies one cell; the mess of papers on the floor and her frayed, striped prison uniform suggesting that she has been there for some time. The cell on the other side is empty and tidy, until inmate 64 (George Loynes), his fresh uniform signalling that he is a new arrival, is escorted in by a sinister masked guard (Sali Adams). 49 calmly explains the situation to a frantic 64; their memories have been erased, a process which will continue at regular intervals. They will be released if they ever remember the truth of who they were, so their cells contain various artefacts to provide clues to their forgotten identities. The two must work together to uncover the truth and win their freedom.

McLucas’s script and Rio Rose Joubert’s direction are well crafted to ensure that equal time is given to 49 and 64, whilst also enabling the performances to be effectively experienced both visually and audibly. The unique personalities of the pair are quickly established, as is their camaraderie. From both sides of the wall, Loyness and Glover masterfully convey a spectrum of recognisable emotions throughout their plight. Both have scenes of frustration as they thrash around their cell; it is just as distressing to witness their anguish firsthand as it is to merely hear it. When they have unsettling encounters with prison staff, the audience shares the anxiety of one of them not knowing exactly what is happening to their friend.

The production design supports the script in leading 49, 64 and audiences to question the unbalanced reality of life in the prison. Lingyi Wang’s atmospheric sound design includes recurrent choral voices; an ever frustrated 64 shouts out for it to stop, which it suddenly does. This immediately calls into question the nature of the music which has been perfectly attuned to match the mood of the characters, whether frantic, calm or triumphant. Is this background music to support the performances of the show? Or does it indicate a prison overseer moderating mood music whilst they observe the inmates?

Matty Ara’s lighting effectively conveys unease with unnatural green, changes in temperature, and it subtly flickers to indicate when routine memory erasures occur. This device adds intriguing depth to the various roles (guard, laundress and others) portrayed by Adams, who has great versatility to make each one distinct. Is it simply the case of one actress portraying multiple roles? Or is it one character acting the part of different roles to deceive the inmates as they are forced to forget that they have previously met her?

The story of 113 is compelling and accessible whichever side you choose to observe. The tight hour runtime is perfectly managed to establish and maintain the tension and mystery at full pace. The unveiling of the mystery is as satisfying as the attempts to unravel it.

— Everything Theatre

“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. 

- The President’s Husband

64, George Loynes, is shown into a dimly lit room, wearing a large face mask that covers his head. Standing there in the near-dark, he removes the mask, only to be unsettled by the situation he is confronted with. Eventually, he hears a muted voice from behind a thick concrete wall, which identifies itself as 49, Isobel Glover. As 64 begins to relax into his new reality with the guidance of 49, he slowly begins to piece together parts of his memory he's lost. As a bond of trust between 49 and 64 gets tighter, a creeping division sets in, leading to an inevitable outcome for one of them. 

Hope Theatre is, at the best of times, a tight squeeze, offering an interesting, intimate space. The boldness of this set is ambitious, earning it 113's first point for bravery. No matter where an audience member sat, their view was going to be restricted, even for those sitting in the front row. A little insight into taking one's seat at a theatre: it's always a dance, as we don't know what to expect, so we try to find the "best" seat. But when a production splits the stage in half, those few seconds to find that good seat flash by very quickly. 

This is why a thrust stage is particularly good for a production like 113; it allows audiences to gain different perspectives from different angles, and when the stage is sliced in half, it takes having a 'restrictive view' to a whole other meaning. I decided to sit at the far left, which would be 64's cell, and I had no memory of what the other side of the wall looked like; this, I found, would have an incredible impact on how I connected to the piece. 

Loynes and Glover bring an urgency to playwright Ethan McLucas's text that adds a great deal of believability to the situation their characters are faced with. Loynes gives 64 a boldness and arrogance that is underpinned by a natural innocence, which is touchingly honest. Glover, on the other hand, portrays 49 in a much more precarious way. On one hand, she's resigned to her fate, but there is also a stubborn refusal to help herself. On the other, 49 shows a resounding strength, support, and unwavering commitment to her fellow prisoners that provides them with an invaluable lifeline. The moment 49 speaks, there's a monotone in Glover's delivery that instantly makes you feel how repetitive this has become for her. Without seeing 64, she guides him through those first moments, allowing him to find his footing and get used to his new surroundings. In every word Glover utters, you feel a sense of care and despair from 49. 

From where I was sitting, I couldn't see Glover, and I could only imagine what her cell looked like. And, owing to the size of the brick wall that divided 49 and 64, this also had an impact on the sound of their voices. I was able to see the power of 64's emotional realisations, anger, and frustration, but wasn't privy to 49's. The only thing I was able to see was the dehumanisation she had experienced, briefly seeing the condition of her pyjamas. 

There is a reason why 113 was selected for the National Student Drama Festival: McLucas' text is rich with ideas, and the play's conclusion is less than predictable. There is a whole generation that won't know who Montel Williams, Jenny Jones, or Rikki Lake are—the icons of trashy American daytime talk shows. One of the recurring items on these shows usually involved a mother or father with a teenager who was either into drugs or crime, etc.—standard stuff for late 90s daytime TV. On a basic level, what these shows did was underpin the lengths families would go to in order to try to save their loved ones. What McLucas explores beautifully is that, in reality, it's 50/50: in order to be saved, we first need to take responsibility and then save ourselves. There are no quick fixes, but the extremes families and friends go through to try to get this message through to us are very real. And, as McLucas shows with 49, even when that truth is known, and she's offered an opportunity to regain control, her refusal to do so leaves her in a perpetual pit of despair. 

Walking away from 113, I kept thinking of Beckett's Waiting for Godot and the scathing reviews the show received when it was originally staged. French playwright Jean Anouilh's comment that 'Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it is terrible' on the play's first production is just the tip of the iceberg in how Waiting for Godot was viewed. And yet, even in the face of such hostility, the play continues to be revived. What makes Waiting for Godot unique is that it's brave. In 1953's postwar British theatre landscape, rationing was still in effect when the play premiered. The pain of war was still being felt, and yet Beckett comes along with a brave, mind-boggling, original piece of theatre that challenged his audience.

Theatre is boring if it cannot take risks or be brave, and I saw some bravery in 113, but unlike Beckett, McLucas, and director Rio Rose Joubert, while tinkering on the edge of this bravery, they don't quite take the leap. Some choices, such as 64's swearing and his initial resistance to J. Doe, Sali Adams, and the rather uncomfortable striptease, add little to the piece. Another aspect I thought they could have taken much further is when they're forced to hand over their pyjamas to J. Doe; having them be much more naked would have added greatly to the inhuman situation they are in. It would have also humbled 64 much more and removed the need to explore, or exploit, the sexual element between the two characters.

113 is bold, intriguing, and powerfully engaging, but at times it seems unsure of itself and holds back from truly imagining its full potential. If it didn't, 113 would be a masterful piece of new British theatre.

- The New Current