One Woman Wonderful

This weekend in Brighton I went to see the one-woman play; Stalin’s Daughter by Blue Brook Productions. It was intense, moving and energetic.

I’d have been impressed anyway, but I was more so, because earlier in the day we’d sat on the beach with the actor, Kirsty Cox, so I knew she was a real person. And she was lovely, and actually Scottish, not Russian. Talking to her made us consider the intensity and isolation of a one-person performance. Up there on stage on your own, nobody to fudge a line with, nobody to have adrenalined chatter with, nobody to lament an unresponsive audience with. Her collaboration had been solely with the writer and the director. The show was all on her shoulders. 

The writing was excellent (I notice that now) and Kirsty was incredible. She gave real pathos to Svetlana, played multiple parts and I was completely absorbed in her funny-sad-harrowing journey. Despite being an ex-thesp, these days my attention often drifts in the theatre, but not here. Here, I worried, I cared, I connected.

Photo by Zuleika Henry

I’m rather in awe of good actors. When they step off the stage I still think of them as their characters. My excitement and enthusiasm sometimes is hidden behind shyness and sometimes comes out sounding sycophantic and insincere.

Maybe because we’d met her before, maybe because I’d had half a Longman, I managed to talk to Kirsty like a human being and ask her more about the story. Stalin’s daughter really did live in Bristol for twenty years, she really did find out her mother didn't die of appendicitis but committed suicide by reading it a newspaper, she really did abandon her children. A story waiting to be written, to be told.

Seeing Kirsty perform was inspiring. The people I was with were too. Drama therapy, counselling, acting. These are creative and worthwhile; jobs and passions. And I am part of this party too now.
 

Writing can be isolating. Reading to others is always a performance. This trip into the dramatic arts fed my pen-scratched soul.