The townsfolk suspect the doll’s house maker has murdered his brother. His daughter asks him to confide in her and, when he does, it is as if a great burden has been lifted. So he and his wife set the girl up as a miracle worker.
Soon the entire town are demanding to unburden themselves to her. While their confessions bring them lightness, the child becomes increasingly anxious. Perhaps some secrets are too terrible to be kept, and the responsible thing to do is reveal the truth, whatever the consequences.
In a month when the behaviour of Harvey Weinstein has been talked about in terms of being an open secret in Hollywood, Angela Clerkin’s fairytale for adults should have real traction, as grim as it is Grimm. But it never feels urgently necessary. That’s because, for all its gothic atmosphere (delivered courtesy of designer Simon Vincenzi), the storytelling is as baggy as an old shirt. The first half in particular is too repetitive and the show should really be reduced to a trim 90 minutes.
It is neatly performed by Clerkin herself as the daughter, and a splendid cast of three others – Niall Ashdown, Hazel Maycock and Anne Odeke – who play all the inhabitants of a town that makes Twin Peaks look normal. There’s also a chorus of beaky, ominous crows. But the show feels like a short story that hasn’t found vivid life in performance. Some strands – such as the mother’s greediness and the significance of salt – are broached but never properly explored. The fact that the father is a doll’s house maker has visual currency but nothing more.
Drawing on the imagery of the Roman Catholic confessional, spliced with gothic fairytales, the play successfully creates a creepy sense of foreboding as both secrets and blood are spilled. But the excessive frills surrounding the storytelling obscure its focus, and it never glistens as a sharply contemporary metaphor for the responsibilities and burdens of keeping secrets. Nor does it shine a light on why whistle-blowers such as Edward Snowden are viewed by some as heroes and by others as villains.
• Ovalhouse, London, until 21 October. Box office: 020-7820 0990. Then touring.
