Theatre

Things that go bump in the night: Hotel Medea and Ghost Stories

Alan Hindle | Thursday 22 July, 2010 19:07

Shortly before midnight, a group of confused travelers disembark on the wharf to be processed in stages by strangers. Under the jolly, slightly menacing eye of our ferryman host, Jorge, we are alternately cajoled and scolded. Suddenly we find ourselves in a mythical land, dancing, singing, conspiring to bloody war and witnessing the betrayal of a people by their queen. Having been thus initiated and assimilated we become children, change our sex, turn spies, are war refugees racing in confused gaggles under a dawn sky, clutching our favourite toys. We are a wounded people, and when revenge finally arrives it is ours, on behalf of our queen, Medea.

Medea is one of the bloodiest of Greek myths. Jason of the Argonauts lands on the shore of Colchis, ancient Georgia, to claim what he sees as his birthright, the Golden Fleece. The “barbaric” people living there with their powerful witch queen, Medea, see things differently. Medea falls for Jason, however, abandoning her people to be with him. Killing her own brother who protects the Fleece she gives it to Jason to found his political empire. He’s a cheating prick, though, and Medea’s broken heart revives her devastating power with disastrous consequences.

Hotel Medea, a joint project between Para Active, Zecora Ura and Arcola Theatre, is a five or six hour epic (time becomes vague after the first four hours) in the far east of London, and quite unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. The Greek myth is kept loose and given a uniquely Brazillian twist, producing images and emotions impossible in a traditional play because the audience are living the story. Extremely loose. Given the impenetrable accents of the performers and the lack of concrete narrative, the evening is a series of lived moments rather than a coherent play. It felt a little like being a character on Lost. Am I still a visitor? One of the Others?

The production is presented as a trilogy in two uneven halves. I recommend leaving your fears and egos at home and stay for the whole evening/morning. The first act, Zero Hour Market, is a whirl of Brazillian energy and colour, and nearly incomprehensible, but you get to dance, sing, wash a naked man and have a bad cup of coffee at the end. The second half is when the adventure truly begins, culminating finally in a subdued breakfast at sunrise amongst friends across from the O2 Lump, or whatever it’s called.

The fear of death is universal, but it doesn’t stop us climbing into the Drop ‘o’ Doom at the funfair, a rickety contraption maintained by inbred, transient carnie folk, and letting ourselves fall hundreds of feet to the ground, passing our own vomit as we plummet. Why? Why pay good money to shit yourself and waste all those overpriced hotdogs, clods of cotton candy, and greasy donuts by puking over yourself from on high?

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We need to be scared, as a way of dealing with the unknown. Going to Alton Towers 13, watching horror movies like The Grudge, or just sitting round a campfire telling ghost stories are ways of exploring our fear of eternity, of oblivion. When I was a kid we had parties in which we watched six scary films in a row until numb, scratching up a body count but hardly caring if those dumb cheerleaders and jocks are decapitated under the bleachers. Serves them right! Stupid kids. Now, how do we break into the parents’ liquor cabinet?

Ghost Stories, playing at the Duke of York Theatre, employs brilliantly all the archetypal devices of the shock flick, plus basic crowd psychology, to deliver cheap thrills and barely stifled gasps. On stage, Professor Phillip Goodman expounds upon his research as to why people, who ought to know better, still believe in the paranormal. Gradually we are drawn in, lulled by long periods of quiet inactivity, until—BANG! Flash! Monster! Weird… thing… I can barely make out! Scream! Shit myself! There go the hotdogs! Why did I climb in this damn contraption in the first place?

Ghost Stories is pure crowd pleaser, but I came away disappointed. Written by League of Gentleman co-creator Jeremy Dyson, and Andy Nyman, the mentalist collaborator of freaky Derren Brown, I was expecting something more subtle and menacing than a mere live-action The Ring. I wanted my head genuinely fucked with, and fucked with permanently. Having said that, the play definitely delivers, judging by the delighted shrieks of the audience. Employing bright lights and loud noises to spark a thrill might be lazy, but it works, and chances are you will get everything you desire out of the show. You won’t learn anything about the nature of fear, but if your date (female or male!) hops into your lap you won’t care. Just don’t go to some damn dark park afterwards to make out under a full moon, for Christ’s sake, people! Jesus!

HOTEL MEDEA
QE II Pier, Greenwich
Until 14 August , 2010

GHOST STORIES
Duke of York’s Theatre
To 7 November, 2010. Dark Mondays.

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