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On the hottest day of the year, bonfire. The Young Vic studios are filled with smoke as decades of abuse against women go up in flames.
Even before the fire, Sophie Swithinbank’s fast-paced drama shimmers with danger. Ash (Adelle Leonce) took on her new job at an archive that collects historical accounts of women who have been treated unfairly. Ash is lairy, smart and sly – he shoots and spins files, distracting his boss Lily (Phoebe Ladenburg, in a paisley skirt and pom-pom slippers). But the two get closer, because of the awkward silence and the unspoken distrust.
Ash has a boyfriend, Dom (Nick Blood). He looks poised, his beard lines neat and strong. He saves Ash from an old predicament – he pulls him in, he says, like a rope from a well – but he’s a cop, and we slowly understand how he abuses his position.
In Debbie Duru’s classic design, shelves take center stage, filled with files and storage boxes. On the other hand, the database is collecting the history of injustice. On the other hand, Ash’s belongings packed up a few months after he moved into Dom’s house – on some level, he knows he doesn’t have a home. The two sides push in and talk to each other, as a warning.
Over 100 minutes, the rough sex turns into brutality; care becomes control; love destroys everything it touches. The old language of hurt is heard in the text, the old magic words and the sarcastic words: demonizing women is a trope that will not die (Germaine Greer’s line, “women have not the faintest idea how much men hate them” may be the truest thing she ever wrote).
Sting is a relative of other sports that connect with past and present violence, such as that of Ava Pickett. 1536 and The Witches of Manningtree. You come across Nancy Medina’s brilliant production with a feeling of dread in your stomach. Swithinbank’s design can be deliberately offensive – a murder investigation, Ash tries to escape but circles back to his dangerous protector. Rejecting a straight story is true, but it’s hard to see.
However, the performances are attractive: Leonce is spinning with an effortless energy. Swithinbank (author of bacon) describes his play as “shouting into nothing”. “Someone,” we are told, “has to listen.”
