Half Cut’s ‘Shelf Life’
Marylebone Gardens, 29/10/2012
“Life: You’re born. You learn. You grow. You die. Great, isn’t it?”
My life begins on the second floor of No. 35 Marylebone High Street, the previously disused headquarters of BBC London. Greeted by a nurse in scrubs, I am handed a ‘Record of Achievement’ and an inflated white balloon, which I soon discover is to be my avatar throughout the performance. Props in hand, I am then nudged down a neon pink corridor and told to “Go toward the light!” Turns out, this ‘light’ is actually a six foot felt vagina through which I have to squeeze, like mince through a sausage stuffer. Upon birth, a midwife wipes the imaginary placenta from my clothes and directs me towards the lobby bar to grab a drink. This is only the second time I have ever been pushed through a vagina and FYI, the experience doesn’t get any less traumatic. Needless to say, I needed the drink.
But such is the intention of the Half Cut theatre company. The experience is traumatic, it is absurd. Every stage of life we’re guided through is significant but fleeting, at times frustratingly so. Each familiar scenario – from sitting cross-legged on the sticky carpets of primary school, to swigging Strongbow on the equally sticking floors of university halls, and dancing to Rick Astley at a friend’s rather kitsch wedding – catapulted us into the next at an alarming and sometimes disjointed pace. I often caught myself yearning for more time (university, I’m looking at you), but as Half-Cut demonstrate so hauntingly, such is the ephemerality of life.
Whilst the ratio of actors to audience members isn’t great (a larger school party may have proved harder to control), the exuberance and energy of the cast must be acknowledged. Appearing in an assortment of outrageous attires, ranging from life-sized panda costumes to wedding tuxedos and of course the ever dubious nurse’s scrubs, the actors possess the ability to effortlessly integrate themselves amongst the audience, poking and prodding us; dancing and drinking with us and at times, even coming onto us (much to the excitement of my friend Adam whose balloon avatar was on the receiving end of one drunk actresses’ snog). However, whilst the energy of the cast was the driving force of the performance, I felt the later stages of life were glazed over – the notion of starting a family wasn’t even touched upon. I wonder if this was simply due to the actor’s age – most of whom were fresh out of drama school and hadn’t yet hit their midlife crisis.
The evening is shrouded by an ever present sinister throughout; indeed, the performance takes place in the organs of a previously abandoned recording building and amid the excess of barren staircases, out-of-order lifts and plethora of eerily enthusiastic nurses guiding us from one life experience to the next, there was a conscious sense of inevitability throughout – how many more staircases will we climb until the final stage comes? Just for reference, Half Cut definitely delivered in the whole ‘death department‘. After a brief visit to a retirement home, we are led out onto a balcony overlooking central London, a mere stones throw away from the glittering BT tower. On the count of three, we hold up our balloon avatars to the heavens and reluctantly let go, gazing in awed silence as they are carried by the winter breeze, up towards the stars and out of sight. This is death, and a hauntingly beautiful climax to the short and frankly bizarre journey of a Half Cut ‘life’, but one that offered me a certain contemplative warmth on the cold, drizzly walk back to Bond Street underground.
If you’re looking for a quiet night out to the theatre, Half Cut’s Shelf-Life is probably not for you. But if you fancy being pushed out of a six foot vagina, reciting your times tables, partying with a bunch of stoned students, toasting a happy bride and groom and growing old in retirement home all in the space of 90 minutes, this immersive promenade performance (perhaps ‘experience’ is more apt here) will not disapoint. Sure, it’s not perfect, but that’s life. Great, isn’t it?
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