Somewhere Beneath It All, A Small Fire Burns Still

Somewhere Beneath It All...’s initially locateable premise is seems straightforwar. A Joycean monologue microscopically recording the grisly sexual fantasies of a greasy spoon loser. Self-loathing Scot Kevin lusts after waitress Daina and draws intermittent snickers and grimaces from the audience with his claim that the 1966 World Cup final was staged.

But Royal Court Young Writer Dave Florez favours the pull-back-and-reveal narrative method. So much so that the audience stumbles rather helplessly through the manifold layers of the play’s reality. One minute Kevin’s in bed with Daina, next he's in a club. Then it’s apparent he’s merely ordering a chicken parmigiana from her via thriftily emotive gestures. 

The production hinges on an astonishing interlude in which the cafe window of a fourth wall is smashed. The floor lights go up and the one-man magic is abruptly demystified as Kevin unmasks himself as Edinburgh Comedy Award winning Phil Nichol self-professedly gunning for another trophy. The charisma-drenched comic relates the play's touching backstory—Kevin is a disabled teen Nichol once cared for—then resumes his act flawlessly. 

This should be the play’s weakest moment but it turns out to be its most devastating. Nichol is an engaging and unpredictable performer. His animation of Kevin is too unpalatable to feel cheaply exploitative while the play’s alienating format further serves to displace any gratuity. Somewhere Beneath It All... is the least sentimental show that you’ll leave with tears in your eyes.