Review: That's Not My Name

Self-acclaimed sociopath Sammy Trotman takes her audience on a whiplash journey of mental disorder, chaos, discovery, and the reality of letting the little voice in your head take control.

With trigger warnings in abundance, this show is not for the faint of heart. Lacking any noticeable coherence or structure, it gives the impression of a raw, improvised breakdown. Crisp packets are emptied onto the floor as the performer shouts to no one under a domineering red spotlight, moments before the house lights go up, clarity is restored, and she is asking a couple on the front row how long they have been together.

Expect the unexpected, or, better still, leave expectations at the door.

This self-referential inflammatory piece goes beyond what is typically considered theatre, or interpretive dance, or any kind of scripted performance. The director comes and goes, the lighting manager rebuts abuses hurled at him from the stage, and full-frontal nudity is narrowly avoided with the presence of a Waitrose carrier bag.

While this performance cannot be categorised, its defiance of structure is its lynchpin. Serious, playful, and utterly ridiculous, Sammy Trotman forcefully withdraws herself from the ‘personality disorder’ box she has been placed in all her life. Despite feeling occasionally forced, this show is nonsensical, but absolutely necessary