Review: NO I.D, Royal Court

It started at the Peckham Fringe before a run at this year's VAULT Festival. Now it has received perhaps the greatest stamp of approval any up and coming theatre maker can wish for: a slot at the hallowed halls of the Royal Court. Can Tatenda Shamiso's one man show NO I.D. step up to the plate?

NO I.D. outlines Tatenda's childhood, precocious musical theatre obsessed girl, to university at Goldsmiths, to deciding to transition to a man via a maze of medical authorities and administrative hoops to jump through. We see collage of childhood pictures, hear recordings from of their journey on testosterone supplements, and songs they wrote whilst transitioning.

Tatenda opens the door to his world, an undeniable fuzzy warmth emanates from within despite the psychological and political hardship they must overcome. He is surrounded by white cardboard boxes, the contents of which, documents and forms, are soon strewn over the floor in a visual cacophony of bureaucratic paperwork. There is a sense of the transitory, of passing through. It's like he is moving house, soon he will have found his home.

There are curious ideas here. At its core is a philosophical paradox, a conversation between two selves, the male Tatenda and female Tandiwe (their former name) who have inhabited one body. A letter written from Tandiwe to her future self, the male Tatenda, is a lynchpin between time. But the moment of uplifting tenderness goes frustratingly, like many other ideas, underdeveloped in favour of impasto autobiography.

For all its undeniable heart and Tatenda's courage in splaying their inner life across the stage, it's a shame that so much of the play's focus is solipsistic. The writing treats its audience as if we know nothing. We get a crash course on transgender identities, Colonialism and Judith Butler get some lip service. Much of it remains inward looking to the point of tediousness.

We are constantly waiting for Tatenda to reach beyond the theatrical self-indulgence and interrogate something grandiose. There are weighty questions about the nature of gender, modern masculinity, and identity lurking beneath the surface ripe for theatrical examination. Why does NO I.D. shy away from exploring them? It feels like a wasted opportunity.

It's yet another offering from the Royal Court that refuses to challenge its audience politically or intellectually. We've had a plenty a platitude and frequent finger wags: what happened to the theatre that was unafraid to goad, lacerate, and raise whirlwinds?

Shamiso's story is undeniably an important one to tell. But there shouldn't be an artistic trade off to do so.

NO I.D. plays at the Royal Court until 6 May

Photo credit: Marc Brenner

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