Amy Matthews
posted 14 March 2005

Mercury Fur leads us by the balls right into the centre of a post-apocalyptic mess. Two brothers, Elliot and Darren, run a business realising the sexual fantasies of rich clients at private 'parties' and supplying addictive hallucinogenic drugs, the creation of which may or may not have led partially to the implosion of society.

Theatrically, it is almost as surreal - this is a world where characterisations are reminiscent of the restoration comedy of Congreve, and language is either a complex satire on the modern obsession with offending cultural minorities or a food-processed, X-rated combination of Shameless and Grange Hill.

After starting in the cosy, womb-like bar of the Menier, the audience processes, drinks in hands, out of the building and back into the theatre, via a dodgy back-entrance, and down some exceedingly dark passages. Finally to reach the theatre, we are led through a room which will later house scenes of such violence that the audience are shielded from the sight of these acts, if not the sounds. By teasing us with this theatrical hors d'oeuvres, the work simultaneously tempts and confuses our imaginations; as passive audience members, we are very happy never to observe the horrors that take place in the dilapidated children's bedroom, and yet being forced to pass through the set places the scene firmly in our minds against our wishes, adding sinister subconscious depth to our consequent understanding of the action.

The rest of the evening plays out in a single room, representing the main living space of a disused, run-down tower block flat. Because of the contained and static nature of the set and the theatrical space, we rely on the actors to provide all the information about the outside world and make us understand their consequent behaviour. Ben Wishaw's performance as Elliott grips the audience from the moment he starts the play by smashing a window, breaking into the space and confirming the feeling that we are irreversibly trapped within the very hell inhabited by the characters. It is a credit to all the actors that their twisted memories, both of the unexplained breakdown of society and their happier lives before, seem as 'real' to the audience as if they had been acted out in front of us. Some of the stories they relate are so horrific, so inhumane, that it is almost inconceivable that we are able to suspend our disbelief so far, to let actors place in our minds such pictures which come through a multi-filtration of imagination: the writer's, the actors' and our own.

There is no respite, either from the tension or the horrific plot developments and revelations. Indeed, without an interval, the play almost represents a two-hour onslaught of continued horror, violence, and despairing, bitter ponderings on the ultimate destructiveness of human nature. But it also contains strange moments of beauty and humour, as well as some thoroughly breathtaking performances. It is occasionally hard to relate the innate sense of societal cynicism to Ridley's apparent faith in the basic goodness of the individual and, well, the (sometimes destructive) power of love, but, in a piece of consistent intensity and sophistication, his writing, the acting, and the design of the entire production make Mercury Fur theatrically intriguing, instead of just a shock-driven piece of sci-fi futuristic pessimism. There are some questions about the specifics of the story which remain unanswered, but not in a frustratingly obtuse manner - they merely provide for damn good post-theatre bar conversation.

Till 27 March 2005.