The Art of Falling Apart

Callum's life has driven him to dissatisfaction and despair. By the end of The Art of Falling Apart, you'll know how he feels.

The Art of Falling Apart clocks in at 80 minutes, with every one of them dragging like a passing aeon. Excessive length is what kills this ostensible comedy, since there is no chance of missing its flaws: instead we get to scrutinise them again and again.

What do you do when life seems meaningless and suffocating? Callum, a salesman in his mid-30s, suddenly cannot escape the question, or where it leads him. Woefully undeveloped as a character, Callum's main role is that of audience surrogate, a voice of rationality amid the increasingly weird figures he encounters in his journey for clarity. Chief among these is puckish chatterbox Brian O'Really, who seems to have been devised in a concerted attempt to be as annoying as possible. What's worse is that the most teeth-grinding gags never go away. By the time you hear your third "Oh really" joke, you'll understand this all too well.

The scenes wherein nights of debauched intoxication are enacted via a manic live montage are probably the play's biggest success, but still suffer from punishing length. The Art of Falling Apart fails to articulate its central question well, and also to provide any satisfying, relatable or even thought-provoking answers. If it was funny, that might not matter. Unfortunately, that is not the case.

"Have I outstayed my welcome?" asks O'Really at one point. Alas, yes.