It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment when I lost the will to live. It could have been four minutes in, or possibly four hours. The cast of five were improvising a relationship break-up in real time, over the course of five hours, while dressed as bananas. When people roll their eyes at the Edinburgh fringe, this is often the kind of thing they’re talking about. Except, the show’s not actually all that ludicrous. At times it’s pretty funny – and the banana costumes are not even close to being the strangest part of the evening.
Five droll New Zealanders – Ralph Upton, Joel Baxendale, Fiona McNamara, Rachel Baker and Oliver Devlin – make up the cast of Break Up (We Need to Talk) and the format is simple: four sit on the back chairs representing one half of the couple, while a single person sits in the front representing the other half. Over five hours, each takes a turn in the front seat, as they slowly improvise a scene about a couple who begin the night happy and in love and end it distraught and single. There is no script and the rules are simple: a break-up must happen at some point over the five hours, and each of the actors must speak in a specific order. Then it’s just a case of letting the romance and the chaos run free.
“It shows up all the worst flaws in ourselves,” says Upton, who also directs. “But we also get to show off.” He admits that, over the course of the evening, it’s hard not to take sides. However, since the cast switch from one character to the other and then back again, their bias is kept in check. “You have to do a complete 360-degree turn,” he says. “It’s actually a pretty useful skill for getting good at relationships.”
“Normally,” interjects Baxendale, “you aren’t thinking straight when you’re breaking up. In conversation, you’re trying to maintain the high ground, aren’t you? But because it’s such a difficult, emotive conversation, in the heat of the moment you say some ridiculous things. All that stuff that’s been sitting underneath just splurges out.” The result, both agree, is “so much fun” – a reminder that this show is comedy, not tragedy nor even therapy.
Before coming to the fringe, Break Up was performed in New Zealand and New York, never with the same scenario, though Upton says it has been interesting to note the patterns that emerge. For research, the performers trawled advice columns and listicle websites (“15 ways to know your man is cheating on you” or “8 ways to keep the romance alive”). “It’s been fun to find the cliches,” he says. “Money comes up quite a lot, and comparing lifestyles: you’re this kind of person, I’m that kind of person; I’m organised, you’re disorganised; I’m active, you’re lazy; I’m really social, you’re isolated and contained. Overall, people might not be so different, but they convince themselves they are.”
On the night I catch the show, the scenario that begins to unfold is pretty unremarkable: a couple are on holiday in Scotland, discussing what they might do that evening. Even for the fringe, the show is quite testing, because the thing about relationships is that they lend themselves to dull conversation, constantly talking about what they’ve just talked about, right before the shit really hits the fan.
Yet, for every dull five minutes, there is a flash of comic brilliance, often rooted in the absurd pettiness of the two characters (their gender is never specified). The company, Binge Culture, are also in no way precious about the theatregoing experience: audience members are encouraged to be on their phones, tweeting quotes, stalking ex-lovers or reading their horoscopes. They can wander in and out, snacking if they wish. Upton says he would be quite content for someone to bring their laptop and use it as an opportunity to get some work done, looking up occasionally to watch two people’s lives fall apart in real time.
I’m determined to stick it out for at least two hours, but a little over an hour in I succumb to hunger. I leave stealthily and buy a sushirrito (a monstrosity of Asian-Mexican fusion cuisine) and some bakewell slices, hovering over the whisky but deciding against it because that would be unprofessional. When I slip back into the basement, they are still arguing about the arrival of a younger sibling, which will “ruin the holiday”. I regret not buying the whisky.
A highlight comes at around 8.30, with the vivid description of an aquatic-themed sex toy that plays offputting dolphin sounds (purchased to spice up the relationship), but then a misplaced joke is made and we’re right back into angst. Finally, at around the halfway point, the break-up begins in earnest. Someone sitting behind me cheers softly. The insults, uncannily recognisable, come thick and fast – not to mention loud.
“How can you be this monstrous?”
“You are not a normal person.”
“I’ve just told you I hate myself, is that not enough?”
One key question remains: why are you dressed as bananas? “That was a last-minute decision,” says Upton. “We wanted people to realise it was, at its heart, a comedy, that we’re not taking ourselves too seriously. Plus the obvious visual metaphor – we’re a bunch of bananas, all splitting up.”
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Break Up (We Need to Talk) is at Summerhall, Edinburgh, on 21 August
