It’s Not A Sprint – Vault: An existential race to the finish line of life

I’m 35. It’s terrifying, obviously. It’s a bit like when you’re 21 and you’ve just graduated from university and you announce: ‘Here I am world! Employers! form an orderly queue to snap me up’ and no-one does and the infinite possibilities and choices flood in and you Just. Can’t. Decide what to do with the whole of the rest of your life.

While life has a bit more of a regular, self-determined shape to it at 35, in some ways that confounding array of infinite possibilities opens up again. Get married? have a civil partnership? co-habit? explore the joy of being alone? Kids, No Kids? Adopt? What kind of person do I want to be in five years? or ten? will those life choices be compatible with my career goals? Will I be a bad parent? What if I can’t have children? What about the environmental impact of those choices?

And then you start doing the maths. Like Rachel in Friends on her 30th birthday:

“If I want to have a kid when I’m 35 that means I don’t have to get married until I’m 34, which gives Prada four years to start making maternity wear.”

Maddy, played with superhuman levels of energy by Grace Chapman is celebrating her 30th birthday by running a marathon – tied to a balloon.

Turning 30 and the balloon of doom

It’s an interesting coincidence that the ominous thirtieth birthday balloon appears elsewhere – in the new reworking of Sondheim’s Company at the moment too, with a confused female Bobby (Rosalie Craig) looking at her smugly coupled friends and wondering what she’s missing.

Maddy, like Bobby, is feeling the pressure. The pressure of the ClearBlue adverts on her YouTube channel, of her best friend not seeing her any more now she has a family, of her boyfriend of five years proposing – and she doesn’t know whether to say yes or no.

Like most of the shows at the Vault Festival, It’s Not A Sprint, directed with tongue firmly in cheek by Ellie Simpson, doesn’t have a mega-budget to play with. Yet with a balloon and some glitter, and oodles of superb physicality and a really genuine warmth from Chapman, it conveys a similar message to Marianne Elliot’s Company – women have been told they can have it all, yet at 30, they’re discovering a glass wall is being thrown up in front of them, and running away from it won’t make it disappear.

Counting Sheep by Belarus Free Theatre – review

Belarus Free Theatre have long established themselves as a company making engaging, innovative and educational work which never sacrifices its entertainment value while offering insights into political struggles and human rights movements.

Founded in 2005 by Nikolai Khalezin, a playwright and journalist, and Natalia Koliada, a theatre producer, the members of the company operate in exile, as art in Belarus is state-controlled and their chosen themes speak out against the authoritarian regime of President Alexander Lukashenko.

Their most recent work, Counting Sheep focuses on Belarus’s neighbour Ukraine and the Kiev uprising of 2014, in which official figures claimed 113 deaths and 1811 injuries and which set of a chain of events leading to the annexation of Crimea by the Russian Federation and the removal of the president, who fled to Russia.

While the details of what happened and why are impressionistically shown by grainy wordless camera footage, projected on the walls, the plot follows the real-life love story of musicians Mark Marczyks and his wife Marichka who perform on stage and who made the work written in collaboration with Khalezin and Koliada.

The audience are served with snacks to start – adding an initial lull before the action begins. Everyone wants to add food to a show now, but very few do it well enough to justify having it. In this case, it just added an unnecessary layer of complexity and a slow start to a well-formed show. While we nibble, we learn of Mark, a Canadian who visits Ukraine and gets pulled into the protests. I would have liked more character building here, if only to add more power to the story later as we follow him through the horror of the fallout from clashes with police.

However, we are quickly whipped up into a folk dance, and seamlessly, the space transforms from dining room to dance hall to Mariinsky Park, with tires and crates and sandbags passed from hand to hand between performers and audience and built into towers and pyres where the actors grandstand and we – the protestors – cheer and march along to their beat – quite literally – a huge drum beats the rhythm to the rioting and a violinist highlights moments of tension and pathos. as the lines between performers and audience blur, we sing, dance and yell protest slogans in Ukranian, and while it’s sometimes unclear sometimes exactly what we’re saying or even exactly what we’re protesting about – the energy and exuberance of the actors propels us through.

While factual details of the Kiev uprising are sketched rather than hammered home, the feeling of being part of a political uprising is captured with clever minimal sets and lighting. At one point we are handed blankets and sat on sandbags and told – you can sleep now, and a hush descends as smoke fills the air and the walls show images of the protestors in Ukraine laying down on top of each other on the tough ground of Instytutska Street.

Once the dust settles and the bodies have been mourned, Mark and Marichka’s tale is a touching reminder that even in the darkest, most frightening of times the human spirit is still capable of reaching out and finding love.

Until 17 March, from 7pm. Tickets: £28.50 – plus £1.50 Booking Fee, Launcelot Street, The Vaults, Waterloo, London.

Bodies – Royal Court

Bruntwood prize-winner Vivienne Franzmann updates the ‘barren woman’ trope for the 21st century with this new work exploring the hidden costs of surrogacy

Justine Mitchell (Clem)
Justine Mitchell (Clem)© Bronwen Sharp

It can appear lazy for a writer to pin the madness of any female character, in film or on stage, on the character’s inability to conceive, so it’s testament to the skill of playwright Vivienne Franzmann (Clean Break, Royal Court), that this age-old trope of the barren woman is successfully given a gripping twist in bodies.

The play opens with Clem (Justine Mitchelle) chatting about kale chips with her articulate pre-teen daughter (played by a precocious Hannah Rae) in Gabriella Slade’s simple Scandinavian style living room set (IKEA, methinks), with sliding glass doors that act as both scene dividers and a physical representation of the compartmentalisation of Clem’s mind.

But as banter between mother and daughter transcends into metaphor, we soon discover the daughter is in fact a projection of Clem’s hopes and fears for her unborn child, who is growing in the womb of a woman in India, and made possible by the eggs of a woman from Russia, both thousands of miles away.

Clem’s husband Josh was played on the night by Jonathan McGuinness, who had heroically stepped in to replace Brian Ferguson only the day before. Despite performing with script in hand, he conveyed an endearing chemistry with Mitchell that brought a much-needed lightness to the action.

While their relationship is rock solid, Clem’s relationship with her dad, David, who has motor neurone disease, is falling apart. She can barely understand his effortful speech and he seems to prefer the company of his new carer Oni (played with great comic timing by Lorna Brown) to that of his own daughter.

The scenes between the father and Clem are intricately woven and Jude Christian‘s direction builds tension with subtle layers, until you suddenly realise you’ve been chewing your nails off all along. These moments speak to the sometimes complicated need for love between parent and child, and the chasms that can come when neither understands the other’s choices.

As the layers of lies Clem has told herself to morally justify this transaction are peeled back, we see increasingly more of the surrogate, Lakshmi (played with fragility and fierceness in turns by Salma Hoque) a young woman whose story is not as rosy as the surrogate agency might have led Clem and Josh to believe.

An engrossing allegory for the modern age, where we consume things at the click of a button, this new work forces a consideration of what happens when we want something so badly that we try to pretend there are no consequences.

bodies runs at the Royal Court, Jerwood Theatre Upstairs, until 12 August.

This first appeared on