Reviews
festmag.co.uk
Natasha Noman
21
but equal; Taliban thugs who murder her editor; oh, and the small matter of the police and security services from whom she must hide her sexuality. “Times are tough in Pakistan,” she drawls, “for single ladies who like ladies.” There are two things going on here: Noman draws attention to the double standards of, say, the blanket coverage of the Charlie Hebdo shootings (11 dead) compared to the passing mentions of the attack on the town of Baga by Boko Haram militants (2000 dead). That’s shocking. But Noman (with co-writer and director Veda Kumarjiguda) takes a more interesting turn here, demonstrating that the point is less about how it impacts on our Western sensibilities, and more about the impact on those for whom the threat of terrorism is an everyday reality. How can Noman’s Tinder date, Jamal, talk so idly about her father’s kidnapping at the hands of the Taliban? Why does the Pakistani elite seem to care so little about a country which, against all odds, retains “oases of gentility in a desert of extremism and anarchy”? For Noman, it’s a question of coping strategies – you either become a victim, or a sociopath. And, despite best intentions, that’s exactly what happened to her before she left. “Pakistan chips away at anyone’s framework,” she laments. It’s a first-hand tale of human failure against forces beyond the ken of individuals. But Noman’s Land is, surprisingly, rarely maudlin. What a smart choice to present this informally – part standup, part theatre. Noman hasn’t even troubled to remove her venue lanyard. Sure, sections of this are still somewhat dry and preachy (a cod philosophical discussion on the difference between “compromise” and “compromising oneself”,
for instance). But mostly, this is warmly delivered with gentle comedy deployed at mostly the right time to grease the squeakier wheels. Over at Just the Tonic, Holly Burn has given up being herself. Entirely – at least for the entirety of the Fringe. Burn is, 100 per cent, Kirsty K, a chirpy, squeaky little bundle of dumb energy from Tyneside. We’re all attending the funeral for our friend, and K’s nan, Barbara. Kirsty—with a little help from Barbara’s friends—is delivering the eulogy. It’s unclear quite how Burn is going to maintain such heights of hyperactivity, 24/7, without resort to industrial quantities of Haribo. Mostly, though, it’s unclear what the point is of such commitment to the cause. At times, it all seems little more than indulgence. What should have given Burn hours and hours to flesh out Kirsty’s character appears instead to have given her a skewed perspective of what the passage of time feels like in the company of the young lady. There’s a long middle section during which it drags. There’s only so much mugging and yowling an hour can sustain. Where Burns pulls it back from the brink is with short demonstrations of how good a writer she can be. Excerpts from Barbara’s diary are beautifully observed mini travel thrillers, delivered (in character as Barbara) with icy sophistication – and a mouth made small from excessive oboe practice. K also plays a bit of a blinder towards the end with a madcap audience adventure (and by audience, I mean yours truly) involving hide and seek and elaborate rice painting. She found me very quickly. I was giggling like a little girl behind a bar table. ✏︎ Evan Beswick