Driftwood review – emotions dialed up to 11 in a Trinidadian story of longing | Theater

THe lives rough in Alma, a drinking club in 1950s Port of Spain, Trinidad. Heat and rum bring their own kind of trouble – but in Martina Laird’s play, change is coming, to a broken family and to the world.

Alma is run by a mother and daughter. Ellen Thomas gives the indomitable Pearl the glow of a basilisk but not the instincts of a mother (“the only thing I did wrong was making children worthless”). Ruby (a happy, white cat) runs a trick for tourists, but she doesn’t want to “stay here in central hell”.

When Diamond’s long-abandoned son arrives, conflict erupts. The RSC’s warnings hint at intimate sex – so it’s no surprise Ruby and Diamond face each other. He stood in a golden lamp, and he approached, moths and flames. Martins big diamond Imhangbe moves in a slow, confident, shaky series and gets up on his toes.

Laird takes over a country on the brink of revolution. Nationalist Eric Williams (later the first prime minister of the independent island) stands in the election, urging voters to reject claims of British rule and interference in the American economy. Calypso music with a short play between scene changes.

Alma represents the country itself: used by the people of Trinidad, but which was British and used by Yankee power. The old English owner is an orotund bore, taking care of Pearl (“my tropical nightingale”) and Ruby (“you are a beautiful wolf”). But Pearl is ready to stand up for herself: “That wind is blowing like it’s kite season!”

Laird’s first play, the award-winning Verity Bargate, still feels like it needs some preparation. Plot and logic are dialed up to 11 but don’t shake you the way they shake you. A different design can turn on the sound of conversation; Justin Audibert’s energetic performance undercuts the music to emphasize dialogue and the rush to redemption that can disrupt personal and political history.

Driftwood is deep in the atmosphere, inspired by the lighting of Simon Spencer: amber floating on the walls of ink blue, or acknowledging the late night in the dark green. Laird’s best writing is vivid: the painful memory, the detail of a given dream.