We don't experience much in the way of Canadian drama over here, the grisly urban despatches of Brad Fraser and the metaphysical epics of Robert Lepage excepted. It indicates a short-sightedness in our cultural appreciation. But it may also have something to do with the idea that Canadians are incapable of doing anything dramatic.
Morris Panych's parochial play seems to reinforce the stereotype. The action occurs in a suburban front room in an unnamed town, miles from anywhere, significant only for its canning factory.
The piece is a memory play related through the eyes of Iris, a flaky pre-teen struggling to come to terms with the death of her goldfish. She seeks solace from her parents' roster of dysfunctional lodgers, the most recent of which is Lawrence, a distracted chap suffering from seizures who turns up naked in the middle of the night.
Iris begins to fixate on the idea that Lawrence could be a reincarnation of her goldfish. Naturally he remembers nothing about it, which only serves to underline the point. Yet once Panych has introduced this goldfish-bowl atmosphere, it's inevitable that the characters begin swimming in circles. "You're terribly naive," Iris tells her new friend. "It's charming at the moment but it wears pretty thin after a while."
Still, the off-kilter visual touches of David Newman's production are appealing and Ultz's design features a bubbling air supply and a raft of water weed to prevent the rest of the set developing algae. Ferdy Roberts' convincingly suggests that Lawrence is neither fish nor flesh, while Kirsty Bushell turns in a wonderfully wide-eyed performance as Iris.
Yet the surrounding characters never become more than the sum of their particular quirks. Panych intends to stir up a rich soup of human eccentricity, yet ultimately there are too many kooks spoiling the broth.
· Until April 9. Box office: 0114 249 6000.
