Dystopia is always inherently political. By taking a current issue and exaggerating it into the future, it imagines not only a worst-case scenario, but also offers a provocation: if you don’t like what you see, then do something about it now. So Beth Steel’s debut play, Ditch, imagines a Britain where climate change has resulted in catastrophic flooding and where a fascist government hunts down “illegals” at home and supports the United States in military adventures abroad.
Staged in the Old Vic Tunnels under Waterloo station, a dark subterranean space which stinks of damp and glows with eerie lighting, the play is set in a remote Peek District outpost. Here, the militia men are led by the grisly Burns, whose son is fighting for king and country somewhere on the other side of the world (well, Venezuela, actually – unsurprisingly, the conflict is over oil).
His small outfit comprises himself, the passionate Turner and Bug, a quiet Scot. The arrival of a newcomer, young James, allows introductions to be made both to the men and to the hardworking women who look after them: the strict 50-something Mrs Peel and young Megan. As they all await the longed-for recovery, there’s much work to be done. Well, that’s a familiar thought, isn’t it?
Life is hard, the livestock needs tending and a bare subsistence is eked out from the intractable soil, so there is not much fun to be had. The men get to rape the occasional illegal, but for the women there seems little on offer except endless graft. Although the arrival of James awakens something in Megan, very soon the great machine of geopolitics draws all of these hapless individuals into its maw.
Steel’s text is an evocative mix of farm metaphors, punchy dialogue and moments of dreamy wistfulness, but is better at conveying the fraught relationships between these six individuals than at convincing us about the reality of the world beyond the farm. This is a play that focuses more on human misery than on the politics that got us there. When the fascist government collapses, you suddenly wish we could see more of the offstage resistance movement.
Instead, we have Burns’ gradual disillusionment and growing need for drink, while Mrs Peel’s stern command of Megan, Turner’s dream of a better life the easygoing acquiescence of Bug and the callow uncertainty of James are all confidently drawn. There are tender scenes, such as when James teaches Megan tactical hand signals, and comic ones, such as when Burns bets Mrs Peel that you can get four cups of tea rather than three from one teabag.
Richard Twyman’s production exploits some of the atmosphere of this gloomy netherworld and adds a few fearsome sound effects. The set, designed by Takis, evokes the claustrophobia of this outpost, with its earthy floor and its ditch. Although some of Steel’s storytelling is a bit erratic, the cast is thoroughly committed, with memorable performances from Sam Hazeldine’s powerful Turner, Gethin Anthony’s mild James, Dearbhla Molloy’s forceful Mrs Peel and Matti Houghton’s downtrodden Megan.
Like most dystopias, however, this is a rather dark and gloomy evening with few jokes and precious little hope – but the message is clear: if you want avoid regressing to medieval times, do something about climate change now.
