The Glow
The absence of speech. The absence of light. Alistair McDowell’s sci-fi/horror/fantasy, The Glow, begins through the absence of perhaps the only two senses we should always experience in the theatre. As a former professor of mine once said, “When we go to the theatre, we should expect -at the very least- two things: to see you, and to hear you.” Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence so immense that it makes me smile uncomfortably behind my mask. A single lantern that only illuminates bits and pieces of the set—a set, which I might add, appears to be a void, a hole, an empty space. The absence of space, shape, form. And the character enveloped in the darkness, which will (surprisingly) become known as our main protagonist, has no name. She is given a few throughout (Sadie, Brooke), but she is identifiable beyond this name. Spoken language is gradually resurrected out of this nameless character, and we begin to feel the sense of dust being cleared from the throat with every new phrase uttered. It has been a long, long time.
She is taken under the wing of a medium, Mrs. Lyall, played by the incredibly capable Rakie Ayola, and here lies the first interesting casting choice. Ayola’s character (a Black woman) “bribes” the mental institution so that she, along with with her lackey boy of a son, may keep the woman (a white woman) in her house to use for her own experiments with the “thin veil” between our world and the great beyond. At one point, I believe Mrs. Lyall even said something along the lines of “I bought you”? This dynamic was one that sat somewhat uneasily in me throughout the production, and, moreover, it led to a longer line of questioning as to what the playwright was trying to communicate through this labyrinthian story. The set quickly turns into one of fathomless depths and endless possibilities, as geometric shapes magically transform the space from a drab 19th century house to a medieval forest; from a bookstore in 1979 to a beach in 1999. Why the jumps and transitions between time periods, especially as they speed up and snowball in the second half?
Time is, just like the set, nearly infinite in possibility, for it ranges from 50,000 BCE to 1999. As the true action unfolds in the second half, Sadie/Brooke begins to realize who she is. “I’m not like anyone else,” is as far as she gets. She knows she is from another time, but she has no idea which, and she has no control or agency over the time period in which she exists. Here, I presume, McDowell is making a statement about the impossibility of translating the stories of lesser-known historical figures across time. And he would be correct in conveying this as a process that frequently happens, but why should the audience care? In the midst of all the beautiful ambiguity of this protagonist, her identity, and her mission, it appears that something far more important is lost.
I will have to admit that, despite the author’s message flying over my head, his scenes are ably constructed. As we drift from era to era, the contemporaneous nature of the dialogue remains just enough to keep us engaged without flouting the rules of the given time period. It’s believable enough, but also, it’s incredibly quick-paced, tight, and witty. McDowell is skilled at what many playwrights all too often fail to do: get out early. While the ending of the second act somewhat ripples, I didn’t mind this, for just as she was trying to figure herself out, I, too, was trying to figure Sadie/Brooke out. Ultimately, she finds that she is, indeed, “not like anyone else.” But then again, “everyone thinks they’re not like anyone else.”
The Glow is on at the Royal Court Theatre in London until March 5, 2022.
