Writer: Jessie Doyle
Director: Michael Curran-Dorsano
The scene is one of disarray; grubby sheets hang from the ceiling, there are chalk marks on the floor, a suitcase strewn open, and the bottom half of a manikin is rooted to the floor, upside down. Suddenly, Amanda Doherty springs from underneath a sheet, and begins telling us about the seagulls that plague her life, barricading her in her lonely flat, with just the mushrooms in the kitchen for company. It’s a beguiling premise, and the space is effectively grotty, reflecting the character’s state of mind, but unfortunately Jessie Doyle’s show never fulfils this early promise, and is consistently marooned between the comedic and tragic, without coming close enough to touching either.
Doherty is the sole performer, with Maria Quinn playing the voice of her ex, which we hear over voicemails and several phone calls. Doherty is an engaging stage presence, but allows her intense physicality to overcome and obscure the intricacies and ambiguities of her character and her situation. It feels like every part of her is constantly in motion, with legs, arms, hair, and facial expressions pummelling the audience. This kinetic, hectic style is at odds with the sombre reflection on loneliness and the loss of a relationship that Bird About Town, eventually, wants to become.
That isn’t to say there isn’t much to enjoy here. There are some comedic moments up front; Doherty is an undeniably strong performer, if unwisely cast; the character’s seagull-and-heartbreak-induced paranoia is all too real; and the moments in which she discusses and interacts with her ex are brutally effective.
But there is a lack of awareness of what it wants to be – is it a meditation on the loss of love? Or a wacky story about dead seagulls, urban living, and the slough of despondency you can fall into when young and heartbroken? None of this is ever clarified, and there are too many overwritten moments in the early stages where the character describes interactions with other people that amount to too little. There will be people who connect with this better than I do, and who appreciate the poetic, mournful crescendo, but overall it failed to cohere into a satisfying whole.
Runs Until 21st September 2024.
The Review's Hub Score
Frenetic
