The ObserverTheatreReviewYoung Vic, London
Mike Bartlett’s follow-up to Cock is a masterclass in the workings of collusion
The surprising twist in Bull is that there is no twist. In Clare Lizzimore’s sharp, outstandingly well-acted production, Mike Bartlett’s new play drills into the head and heart like a screwdriver. It attacks its subject from slightly different angles but always presses on the same tender spot. You keep hoping for a reversal that will save things. It does not come. There is no relief, no escape. This is a riveting and really uncomfortable 55 minutes.
Cock and Bull stories. Six years ago, Bartlett’s Cock (everyone has made jokes about the title) was put on at the Royal Court: a dazzling evisceration of a young man’s uncertainty that used a cast of three men and one woman. Bull, which uses a cast of the same composition, will presumably one day be staged alongside the earlier play. Meanwhile, it is strong enough to stand alone.
“Bull” may be short for bullshit. But also for bullying and for bullfighting. The stage is set up like a boxing ring, around which some of the audience stand, draping themselves over the ropes. Yet the dialogue is all baiting and response. Not gladiatorial combat but goading.
The set-up is distilled Apprentice; concentrate of capitalism. Three youngish business people meet near a water cooler, waiting to hear which of them will lose her or his job. Eleanor Matsuura, black-suited with a flicking pony tail, looks as if she might be patrolling the Gagosian Gallery. She strides on high, spiky heels. Adam James is contained and trim. Sam Troughton comes on cracking his knuckles and clicking his fingers. He is overdoing the can-do but he is not self-evidently hopeless. Yet instantly the other two are on him. Is that the suit you’ve chosen? Mmm. Is that something on your face? Haven’t you brought sales figures with you? Tiny bits of malice, some caressingly dispensed, are built up until the attack becomes full-throttle and wide-ranging. What sort of school did you go to? Oh. What did your father do? Ah. By the time the boss, brisk and focused Neil Stuke, arrives, Troughton looks not just vulnerable but guilty.
Here is a masterclass in how collusion works. Troughton, for whom this is a career-making performance, invites sympathy but not entire identification. As he crumbles and sweats and lashes out, he makes an audience feel for him yet see him through the eyes of his horrible adversaries. Is he perhaps “strangely proportioned”? And is that something on his face?
Bull is at the Young Vic, London SE1 until 14 February
ncG1vNJzZmivp6x7tbTEoKyaqpSerq96wqikaKuklrSme5FpaG5nmpa7cH6UaJmupJxiv6bCyJ6uZqWZoLJursCrq6WdpKl6urvUp55mrpmYerO11Z6roqaXYsKvr86mnaiqpJavrbE%3D