Maybe it's the chain that hangs from the ceiling, maybe it's the drain in the centre of the floor but – bearing in mind Summerhall's past incarnation as a veterinary school - it's hard not to muse on what used to be shown in the close quarters of the Demonstration Room.
Maybe it's the chain that hangs from the ceiling, maybe it's the drain in the centre of the floor but – bearing in mind Summerhall's past incarnation as a veterinary school - it's hard not to muse on what used to be shown in the close quarters of the Demonstration Room.
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mary brennan
The thought then occurs that, whatever Clout Theatre get up to in the course of their show, it will probably look bizarrely at home here. And it does. What Clout's trio of sinisterly shabby, scabrous grotesques demonstrate is a gleeful engagement with the Absurdist writings of Daniil Kharms. They clown around with murder, contort themselves into paranoid panic (and a suitcase), and create a vivid jump-cutting shorthand of freeze-frame tableaux, projected phrases and rude drollery that deftly echoes Kharms's own style. All three are as slippery as eels, shifting in and out of moods and situations with such pleasing ease that when Kharms's watchword "That's enough of that" flashes up, you want to yell "Oh no it's not!"
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