There are plenty of writers and academics exploring the idea of terrorism as a form of performance in the wake of 9/11, whose perpetrators created a massive and terrible spectacle in the heart of New York.
It’s an idea toyed with in the latest show from multimedia theatre-makers Breach, which puts rehearsing for a play in parallel with the notion that it’s possible to rehearse for disaster. Which, of course, the most anxious among us do on a daily basis: envisaging the worst and hoping that, somehow, daring to think of it will stop it happening.
Governments also try to prepare, with large-scale disaster training exercises, and private companies offer people the chance to take part in hypothetical scenarios and learn skill to help prepare you for a disaster or terrorist attack. Breach have been on some. They demonstrate tripping gun-wielding terrorists on to crash mats; they give CPR to dummies and point out the emergency exit in case we are feeling nervous.
Breach’s first show, Beanfield, involved a re-enactment of the encounter at Stonehenge in 1985 between new-age travellers and armed riot police. With solemn absurdity, that piece acknowledged the difficulty of re-enacting the past. But now they’ve been on a course they should be better prepared for the future.
Or are they just more frightened then ever? This hour-long show from one of the smartest young companies around mixes video snippets with live drills and fragments of stories about young people negotiating their way through a world in which we are told to report anyone behaving strangely.
It’s easy to see why Breach were drawn to the subject, but they never quite find the form to make it compelling drama. Too often it is merely illustrative rather than provoking. The documentary footage of catastrophe trainers talking about their work is more revealing than the performers on stage or the underdeveloped stories of a dancer who spots someone behaving strangely, a woman unready for parenthood, and a lovelorn young man having a sexual encounter with a stranger. This feels like a missed opportunity.
- At Battersea Arts Centre, London, until 17 February. Box office: 020-7223 2223.
