The Author

“Contains graphic imagery” warns the Traverse, and although it takes a while to come, Tim Crouch's new play culminates with something truly horrible. There's no porn or fake blood –The abuse is only alluded to, but in our imaginations it becomes uncomfortably real. The Author is about the horrible images which surround us, a click away, waiting to worm into our minds.

There's no stage, just two ranks of seats we share with the characters: two actors, a theatre fan, and a playwright called Tim Crouch (played by Tim Crouch). They talk about a controversial play Crouch wrote which left the stage splattered in guts and a punter in hospital.

The fictional Crouch and his cast sat through hours of disturbing video in the name of research, and their minds were warped by what they saw. Vic Llewellyn's transformation from avuncular bit-part actor to near-psychopath (or rather, the revelation of the nice-guy's latent violence) is particularly memorable.

The imaginary play satirises the kind of art we have become immune to; it also adds an ironic counterpoint to the play we're watching, which disturbs without the need for fake gore. 

Sitting the actors among us leads us to interesting questions: is the audience responsible for what happens onstage? What is the distinction between real and portrayed evil? But this cleverness puts a lot of stress on the central narrative—that of “Tim Crouch” and his play. We're here to watch a play, but why are they here? This tension is resolved by postmodern fiat, and some will find it unsatisfying. But its originality and bravery makes this a powerful play.