I went to see ‘London Road’ at The National Theatre, a musical using verbatim language from residents of and around London Road. 79 London Road was where the serial killer Steven Wright was living when he was arrested for the murders of five women.
The play doesn’t really focus on the murderer, and those who have been killed hardly feature at all, and rarely with much compassion. In one sequence, one of the women from the road talked about how they were glad the women were killed – they had all been working on the street or the local area as sex workers – and the person living on the road found it uncomfortable and unpleasant living there. There were a number of extended silences, giving the audience time to contemplate what she’s saying, to feel the messy, difficult implications of it. The silences increased the sense of intimacy, hearing private views that she knows she ‘shouldn’t’ be feeling, or we would probably want to hear. It felt like the audience was holding it’s breath as she spoke. Letting her say what she had to say. Curious about it. Wondering if she would pull back, come to more socially acceptable views. Instead the kept restating her views, going further each time, the pauses giving more of an impression they were considered views.
An even bigger silence later on, as one of the sex workers reflected on how the murders had made them get out of that work, mostly – they still saw a few regulars. A moment that seemed to grow and grow, perpetually it felt, about to end, yet somehow continuing to expand. Like blowing a bubble, the shape of it wobbling as it grows, so fragile and ready to pop at any moment, yet somehow, for that fraction of a second which feels bigger, continuing to exist and grow. A reminder of how powerfully a silence can hold people, how rare it can be. Discomfort and waves of wondering when it will end, a tension at times that feels like it needs to end and then shifts into a wanting it to continue – it’s so big but surely we can make it ever bigger and larger. At times almost wanting to laugh because it felt so long, improbably so.
Moments of silence can be hard to experience, whether they are gentle ones like those in a safe, lovely theatre, or harder ones with other people where the stakes are high. Not knowing, filling it with our own dread panic. The voices of our insecurity, where it’s hard to be curious, there’s more risk in the response.
More and more there’s discussion about how smart phones and screen time generally are affecting our ability to sit with discomfort or boredom. Leaving us rushing to fill the silent moment with distraction and action, noise and other people doing things. Not having to wait to see what becomes of the silence because we can fast forward or scroll on through other people’s lives and thoughts.
The play was a reminder of the messiness of emotions and reactions. Not tidying things up for people but giving the people represented in the play the dignity and responsibility of their own emotions. Providing the audience the space to feel their own responses, however uncomfortable they might find them. The power of holding some space and allowing things to be as they are.
We need new stories... 