Review: SNOWFLAKES, Park Theatre

Declared by The Guardian the "defining insult" of the 2010s, the term snowflake has been used and abused to classify what they regard as the softer generations, starting from millennials onwards. It's been politicised, turned into bona fide slander, and thrown around carelessly with degrading connotations. It's usually associated with cancel culture, the arbitrary indignation of the youth, et cetera. What does this have to do with this play? Very little, it's the title of a fictional book about reclaiming the word.

Robert Boulton's piece has inexplicably made its way from a cancelled run at the Old Red Lion in 2020 (then rescheduled for late 2021) to the Park Theatre. Unfortunately, the production is essentially the same 2-star show we saw three years ago (an eternity in pandemic years) down the road in Angel. Directed by Michael Cottrell, it's a rabid Black Mirror wannabe; it's #MeToo on steroids afflicted by a dearth of critical depth. The script stalls too much, avoiding any analytical exploration of the issues it's supposedly about.

Marcus and Sarah are hired guns who seek retribution on behalf of those who don't have the scope or willingness to do it themselves. He's a weathered veteran of the trade; she is the new recruit at her first job. They live-stream their vilifications, humiliations, and torture, bringing #content to their patrons, who vote on the ultimate outcome of their exploits. The results of their polls mostly end in death. We follow them as they barge in on Tony, an author dealing with abuse allegations and all-around Bad Man.

It's a striking concept, but its execution is largely disappointing. The logistics and logic of the whole arrangement remain obscure - even with two full acts and a running time that goes over by ten minutes. What's the play about? Everything and nothing. If we were to dig past the filler dialogue and weak attempts at comedy, it deals with: the consequences of one's actions, the fact that men shouldn't rape women, how public perception alters justice, and the media circus that surrounds celebrity accusations. Except that all of these barely get an acknowledgement.

A better actor than he is a writer, Boulton introduces a pair of jaded humans with psychopathic tendencies but the huge shotcomings of his world-building ask the viewer to take everything from the setting down to the characters at face value. Over two hours, he doesn't answer any of the pressing questions that arise when Marcus whistles away as he sets up the equipment for the livestream or during Sarah's revenge.

Its deadly lack of tension subsides only at the very end when something finally happens. A thrilleresque sound design and Jonathan Chan's lights swoop in with moody brushstrokes that accompany the action and manipulate its reception. The piece relies on a few philosophical tangents and doomsday speeches that become the only reason for the malarkey that lies at their periphery of the text. It's frankly astonishing and frustrating how much can be said about nothing of substance when you have a central theme so full of potential.

While the script is what it is, the performances are excellent. Boulton himself holds a deliciously sadistic vein as Marcus taunts Henry Davis's Tony and his posh vowels. He patronises Sarah with a wink and a smile while Louise Hoare hides her humanity behind her own vengeful quest. She is the real revelation. Her eyes amble between smirk and threat while Boulton talks for England with a Scottish brogue.

A few fun gimmicks liven up the second act after the first is spent chit-chatting. A live feed projected onto the closed blinds of Alys Whitehead's hotel room set design allows the audience to witness Tony's distress up close while they mention what the show should investigate. Hypothetical indignation is juxtaposed to the power to act, while the collective rage of online culture is defined by inertia. They barely skim the surface with empty cynicism, so Snowflakes remains a good concept in dire need of reshaping.

Snowflakes runs at the Park Theatre until 6 May.

Photo credit: Jennifer Evans

To post a comment, you must register and login.