Playwright, film-maker and polymath Philip Ridley has had a great couple of years. All over the place, there have been revivals of his 1990s classics, such as The Fastest Clock in the Universe. His 2000 play, Vincent River, enjoyed an outing in the West End and his 2005 shocker, Mercury Fur, got a new and exciting site-specific production. Now, Tender Napalm, his first new play in three years, breaks fresh ground and represents an imaginative leap of the gleaming dark of his wild, wild imagination.
Like Vincent River, Tender Napalm – the oxymoron is typical of Ridley’s sensibility – is a two-hander; unlike his previous work, the writing is more abstract, more tantalising and more sexual. The story is the oldest one of all. Two teenagers meet at a party. They are drawn to each other; they exchange a few words. They have sex; they fall in love. They compete with each other; they fantasise. They tell each other stories. They fear death and disaster. In this one meeting, you can glimpse their whole relationship. Except that Ridley presents all this in a fractured, allusive, mysterious way.
On a bare set, with one chair on either side of a very wide traverse staging, Man and Woman begin the dance of love. As the pounding music sets the scene and both actors flex their muscles, you feel the beads of sweat gathering on your brow. A quiet voice deep inside tells you that this is going to be a good one.
And it is, from the opening lines – “Your mouth”; “I could squeeze a bullet between those lips” – this is a piece that explores the language of love, mixing desire with fantasy and blending contemporary fears with deep human needs. Soon both actors are hitting the floor and criss-crossing the space, electric with mutual attraction, skirmishing with words.What Ridley understands perfectly is that sexual relations between two people open up their psyches, like a tin-opener prizing apart a closed tin, allowing a flood of our deepest fears and most intimate longings. The rush of being in love involves both a desire to be part of the other, and a need to prove a point. Between this Man and Woman, there’s a struggle, a grapple, a competition. Sexual love is poetic, yes, but there’s also aggression and power play. And the Woman gives as good as she gets.
With love, as Freud taught us, comes death. Here, both the Man and Woman imagine each other’s death or disfigurement. There’s an eye-wateringly excruciating castration scene. There is some disturbing weird stuff that links genitals and explosives. Then there are the little deaths that follow sex and the small death of parting. Out of these erotic clashes between nurture and destruction rolls a Pandora’s Box of images and symbols: a dolphin, a snake, a horse and unicorn, monkeys, a grotto, kings, queens and blood. References abound to super-heroes, sci-fi situations, ancient legends and fairy tales. Yes, Ridley is a master storyteller.
As one narrative melds into another, positive feelings tangle with negative images: a paradise beach becomes a tsunami-struck shore. Everyday events (like Man coming come pissed after a night in the pub) jostle with different versions of the same past event – memory becomes a battleground. Both like to be boss; both worry about infidelity. Fathers are dying or absent. A child is mentioned; both youngsters fear that it might come to harm. A song is sung, maybe a mutual stroking of each other’s subconscious.Directed by David Mercatali, the acting is engrossing, exciting. Jack Gordon’s Man contrasts beautifully with Vinette Robinson’s Woman. He is muscular, dynamic; he punches the air and sweats. She is cooler and not averse to the occasional knowing look. Between the two, there’s a real emotional tension and sparks fly. With its swift-footed physicality, its wonderful verbal flights – capable of provoking spontaneous applause – and its intuitive sympathy for the world of the teen, this is a fabulous piece of imaginative writing. Long live Philip Ridley.
