Ben Occhipinti

The Brenda Line

13/11/24

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

Harry Mould’s debut play is an exploration of a little-known aspect of the Samaritans’ work. Until today, I hadn’t even considered that there might be any need for ethical debate around the simple kindness of providing a ‘listening ear’, offering comfort to the desperate, company to the lonely, a glimmer of hope to the suicidal. But – through their own mother’s experiences – Mould has uncovered something weirdly problematic in the organisation’s past: the eponymous ‘Brendas’, designated volunteers, who (between 1958 and 1987) consented to hear out those men who called seeking sexual gratification, wanting someone to talk to while they masturbated. Anglican vicar Edward “Chad” Varah founded the Samaritans on the principle that it should be a non-judgemental organisation, turning no-one away. But of course, these particular callers pose a moral conundrum, rife with contention.

Mould positions the issue as a debate between two chalk-and-cheese volunteers. Anne (Fiona Bruce) is an old-hand with a pragmatic approach to the work she does. She’s warm but gruff, confident but self-effacing, and perfectly comfortable listening to her “befriendable regulars” talking about the knickers they imagine she’s wearing or telling her about their erections. Karen (Charlotte Grayson) is only eighteen, and she’s Anne’s polar opposite: an engaging, opinionated character whose lively charm belies her brittle reserve. She’s innocent, prudish and very defensive about her lack of life experience – and she certainly isn’t going to hold back from telling Anne exactly what she’s doing wrong. In response, Anne smiles, shrugs and offers to make tea.

It’s a winning formula and, directed by Ben Occhipinti, the actors infuse their characters with disarming likability. This makes sense; they’re good people, giving up their time to try to help others, spurred on by the urge to make a difference in a troubled world. Mould’s dialogue is very well-written, and I especially enjoy the allusions to the women’s backstories, rendering them convincingly real: Anne’s unrequited love for her former colleague, Gracie; Karen’s inability to make friends and her struggle to deal with the prejudice she encounters as a mixed-race woman.

The detailed, naturalistic set, designed by Natalie Fern, clearly evokes that particular ilk of workplace claustrophobia, where everything outside seems oddly unreal and diminished, in this case heightened by the blacked out windows and emphatically locked door.

However, while Karen’s argument is well-defined, Mould seems on shakier ground with the older woman’s reasoning – we never hear a lucid explanation as to why Anne accepts her role as a Brenda. She has had many years to consider her position, so it seems logical that she would be able to put forward a compelling defence. Instead, she’s strangely reticent. Nonetheless, by the end, Karen seems to have accepted Anne’s line of thinking, which I find a little confusing. I don’t know what Anne has said to change Karen’s mind.

Despite the subject matter, the writing is also a little coy: although Karen refers to the inherent power dynamic between the male caller and the female listener, there’s no deeper consideration of what this means – of how Anne might derive a sense of power herself from these calls, for example, or even feel somehow that she deserves the degradation. What drives the men to call these anonymous women and is it okay for “Chad” – the leader – to ask his workers to comply? I can’t help feeling that there is more to be explored here.

Nonetheless, Mould has created two engaging, memorable protagonists and, through them, they have shed light on a fascinating piece of recent history.

And now it’s time for me to call my mum and tell her what I’ve learned tonight about her name…

3 stars

Susan Singfield

Sunshine on Leith

08/06/22

King’s Theatre, Edinburgh

In Edinburgh, you’re never more than six feet away from a Proclaimer. Or, at least, from someone proclaiming their love for the Proclaimers. The affection is well-deserved. Craig and Charlie Reid are responsible for a multitude of absolute bangers: deceptively simple tunes, combining heart and anger, warmth and sadness. It was inevitable someone would say, ‘Hey, we could make a musical from these.’ (Cue: Stephen Greenhorn.) And equally inevitable that the resulting project would be a hit, a regular on stage since its 2007 debut, with a successful film adaptation to boot.

So there are no surprises here. We’re familiar with the show; of course we are. Nonetheless, there’s a palpable thrill in the air, because we know we’re in for a treat. This two-venue production – co-directed by Elizabeth Newman and Ben Occhipinti – is laden with symbolism: the first show since Pitlochry Festival Theatre’s revamp, and the last before Edinburgh’s King’s Theatre closes for its own refurbishment. It’s the perfect choice for both, a celebration of Scottish talent and a love song to the people of Caledonia.

There’s a low-key, homespun ambience, which works well, creating a sense of familiarity between the performers and the audience. There are no flamboyant costumes here, no fancy pyrotechnics. Instead, like the Proclaimers’ songs, it’s quietly clever – no showing off. The band doubles as the ensemble, and they appear to be a happy team, grinning at one another and at us, and vibing unselfconsciously. There are no barriers, which cements that feeling of intimacy, enabling us to empathise with the characters. This is no mean feat in a large, traditional theatre like the King’s, with its proscenium arch and imposing loges, all designed to accentuate the separation of stage and auditorium. It’s really very impressive.

The story is a Willy Russell-esque account of working-class life, told with affection and a strong sense of place. Ally and Davy (Keith Jack and Connor Going) are back in Leith, having been honourably discharged from the army, just in time for Davy’s parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary party. Ally’s been going out with Davy’s sister for years, and he’s hoping now’s the time to settle down, but Liz (Blythe Jandoo) isn’t quite ready for that. She’s been stuck at home while he’s been away, and she’s restless, keen to stretch her wings. Her nursing pal, Yvonne (Rhiane Drummond), meanwhile, has fallen for Davy – and what is Davy’s dad, Rab (Keith Macpherson), hiding from his wife, Jean (Alyson Orr)? It’s a simple tale, but surprisingly affecting, and I find myself tearing up on more than one occasion. No spoilers, but the line “Because they wanted me” just hits me every time, and Orr’s rendition of the titular song is genuinely heartbreaking.

Adrian Rees’ set looks great. A miniaturised Edinburgh skyline is mounted on stilts, while the action occurs below – a neat representation of Leith and Edinburgh, the city looming over the town. There are ladders leading up to Blackford Hill; from here, we join the characters looking down on their home turf, trying to get a handle on their place in the world. The set comes apart, so that sections can be moved to create walls, but this is a distraction for me. It seems unnecessary and, although the transitions are thoughtfully choreographed, there’s too much clutter and stage traffic for very little gain.

In the end, this is all about the music (directed by Richard Reeday), and it’s a fabulous combination of the raucous and the refined. There are some issues with the sound – mics occasionally cutting out, and some imbalance between the vocals and the instrumentals – but none of it really detracts from the serious talent on display.

Sunshine on Leith has a relatively long run, so you’ve got until the 18th June to catch it here in Edinburgh – and to say “bye the nou” to the Old Lady of Leven Street.

4.3 stars

Susan Singfield