"To What End". Burton Taylor Studio. Review by Josie Stern

“Look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under’t”. “To What End”, with its many nods to Shakespeare’s tragedy, heeds Lady Macbeth’s caution from the curtain-raiser. As a couple (Georgina Cotes and Luke Carroll) waltzes under a warm glow to the tune of Vera Lynn’s “We’ll Meet Again,” all RP accents and poised prose, the audience may very well assume they are immersed in a cushy love story set in the shadow of World War II. They would be mistaken.

The illusion swiftly curdles as two directors stride onstage, revealing that we are, in fact, witnessing a play-within-a-play. What follows is a shrewd deconstruction of the very machinery of theatre; its clichés, self-importance and rituals are all delightedly laid to waste, revealing the stark insecurity and self-consciousness that always seems to lurk beneath the act of making art.

If you managed to catch my previous review, you will be aware of my newly discovered favourite theatrical genre: the 60-minute, one-act play. That such an ambitious, dramatic experiment has the room to breathe, writhe and resolve within a mere hour is a testament to the precision with which the writer-directors, Billys Hearld and Skiggs, approached their debut play.

The audience’s main chaperones for the night, as they navigate the play’s many twists and turns, are self-recycling academic Albie (Peregrine Neger) and irreverent Bernard (Tomasz Hearfield) – a duo so carefully cast that it feels inevitable. The former, decked in a brilliant corduroy number, is an unapologetically broken record, spouting trite echoes of the Bard with delicious theatrical excess. Neger takes full ownership of his haughty monologues, approaching each with a near operatic vanity that is equal parts bizarre and hypnotising.

It is in such moments when Hearld and Skiggs’ writing shines; these introspective comedic breaks reveal two amateur playwrights who possess an uncanny eye for all the pretensions and absurdities that make theatre sometimes grandiose, but always human. They are unafraid to poke fun at the ridiculousness of it all – a somewhat rare find in Oxford drama.

However, if “To What End” is intoxicating in its buffet of archetypes and wit, it also occasionally overindulges. A little more time devoted to earnest conversation, and one fewer Beckettian plunge into the meta-sphere, might have served it well. To be sure, each eccentricity and caricature delights (Billy Skiggs’ cameo as the tape recorder, in particular, was thoroughly amusing) – only a touch more restraint could sharpen their impact.

Bernard is another familiar figure for thespians: melodramatic, coarse, and conceited, Hearfield channels the frazzled director flawlessly, a ready supply of vapes in tow. A standout moment comes to mind, when Hearfield jeers that actors are the “opposite of people”: a cutting indictment of how, in artistic zeal, performers’ humanity can be reduced to mere instruments of spectacle.

Cotes is equally on point in her role as the one touchstone amidst the chaos: she voices the audience’s bewilderment with quiet authority and grace, a much-needed respite from the surrounding farce. She slips seamlessly between the dutiful wife and the exasperated girlfriend, serving as the perfect foil to Caroll’s insufferable method-actor character. His Anglo-German accent was a surprising treat, which only heightened Carroll’s effortless knack for humour in each overblown gesture.

A round of applause is also in order for the stage crew, whose set brilliantly embodies the characters’ literary airs: James Joyce and T.S. Eliot books on proud display – take your pick. Generously furnished with textures and accessories, it was a relief to see that the Jamie Lloyd minimalism curse had spared this production. The lighting, too, commanded attention, meticulously punctuating moments of farce.  

“To What End” holds a mirror up to the process of creating theatre, sparing none of the gory details of ambition, pretence, and the absurd lengths we go to in crafting the perfect scene. It is no surprise that the play ends with Albie alone on stage, under a harsh spotlight; the audience bears witness to this confrontation between ego and artifice. You’d be forgiven for leaving the theatre unsure of the play’s ending – that is no accident. The play stops short of full closure, for where would be the fun in a tidy ending when the magic lies in the process, however messy it may be?