Angels

121329 original

It takes some time to decipher the nub of this densely-written monologue by Ronan O’Donnell, which premiered as part of the Oran Mor’s A Play, a Pie and a Pint series last year. The words come thick and fast, delivered in a thick Scots brogue by Iain Robertson.

Persevere and you’ll extricate the story of Prentice (Robertson), a security guard who’s been lenient on a serial shoplifter. When this shoplifter is found dead, Prentice is hauled to the police station for questioning. It takes him, too, a while to discover exactly why he’s there; in the meantime he’s distraught to realise the police have searched his home and found a pornographic story he’s written, Angels, featuring his idea of womanly heaven, Scarlett Johansson. Feeling violated and embarrassed in front of the jeering, abusive police inspector, Prentice spends his time in the cells in semi-conscious confusion, thoughts of Johansson and the shoplifter entwined around each other.

Alone on a bare set, with words his only prop, Robertson puts in a visceral, highly physical performance totally devoid of self-consciousness. He spits and savours O’Donnell’s meaty, visual language, revelling in lines like “the inspector blow-dries into my face his beery breath.”

But despite this charismatic performance, Angels demands perhaps too much of its audience. Director Graeme Maley has put Robertson through the wringer, and he in turn passes this on to us. At times frustratingly impenetrable, Angels is exhausting to watch and, like Prentice realising he is free to go, the end comes as something of a relief.