Eight is a controlled and witty debut from Fringe First winner Ella Hickson, and suggests a writer who knows exactly what she wants to write and just how to write it. Whilst so many young playwrights are seduced into writing showy but awkward prose, creating shocking characters and spiralling plots, Hickson has kept things simple with a series of light and lively monologues. She has found some familiar but nuanced characters with this low-key but persuasive piece, which asks some sharp questions about the shaky values instilled by a (now fading) boom culture.

The one gimmick Hickson succumbs to is the production’s weakest element. There are eight monologues on offer here, with an audience vote determining which four play each night. The aim of this, writes Hickson, is to reflect the ‘choice culture of the boom generation’, but in reality it reflects the audience’s superficial leanings. I am willing to bet the prettiest characters get picked most nights. What might have been more useful is to subvert the audience’s wishes – to turn their expectations and prejudices on their head – but as it is, this ploy adds little to the play. Some scenes are much better than others and, next time round, I’d rather see the best monologues in a meaningful order.

Somewhat predictably, it is pretty blonde ‘Millie’ who kicks off the show, with a poised and endearing performance from Isabel Macfarlane. MacFarlane plays a high-class prostitute – a yummy mummy in the business of ‘marital supplements’ – for whom trade is now booming in the face of unemployed men, shattered consumerist dreams and broken egos. Millie’s housewife values, slightly archaic diction (‘our boys need us now’) and persistent snobbery (‘I will never bed a Beckham’) instil her initially glib monologue with a strange wistfulness. She comes across as awkward and out of place, doomed to defend values that no longer exist and chase after a lifestyle she will never have. It is a slow-burning and cheeky piece, marred only slightly by the closing emotional confession, which feels unnecessary and a touch laboured. 

The other monologues follow a similar pattern – all sweetness and light initially, only to descend into something sadder and deeper as the stories progress. Some of the monologues stretch too far and the language starts to feel overplayed, the dramatic devices over-used. Hickson’s extensive use of metaphor is both her strength and undoing. Sometimes it works wonderfully, as is the case in the final monologue, when a resilient but heart-broken art-dealer (played with delicate vibrancy by an impressive Michael Whitman) relates the recent suicide of his partner, who hung himself using a Hermes scarf. The line ‘Who knew Hermes could carry a man’s full weight?’ is a funny one, but also suggests the precariousness of a life that looks to fashion – to Hermes - for support and salvation. At other times the metaphors work less well and one suspects Hickson is slightly skewing the scenes (and sacrificing their credibility) in order to suit her writing.

Still, the fact that Hickson is able to sustain four monologues, without over-exposing her writing or losing her rhythm, is impressive indeed. She is funnier than she realises – the audience were chasing down the laughs from the opening scene and hungry for more – and it’d be good to see this talent pushed further. It is in her finely detailed observations and delicate use of language that Hickson’s comedy and characters are found and in the moments she doesn’t try too hard to be profound that her writing really flourishes.

Till 25 July 2009

See also Fight and faith, Ella Hickson’s essay on twentysomethings and the recession (19 June).