An existential shrug of a play, ‘Bodies Unfinished’ makes life seem an extension of the gestation period. Like cells in a petri dish, we exist to reproduce. Beyond that, it’s an empty and angsty ride towards death. Insert food, add water and leave to breathe.
Aiming for barren desolation à la Simon Stephens, Lewis Hetherington can’t quite let go of feelings and flowery language. Middle-aged Alan (Francis Adams) clatters against the three women in his life – mother, ex-wife and prostitute-turned-girlfriend – but traces of sentiment means showdowns that ought to grate, ingratiate. We’re asked to care for the uncaring.
It’s a shame, because the core here is adamantly bleak and well-knit. Newly divorced Alan, a soft underbelly ripe for sticking, starts a relationship of convenience with his regular prostitute Stella (a fine-tuned Katerina Stearman). You’d call it a mid-life crisis were it not the norm. He gives up on reality and responsibility just as his mother, mute in a care home, has given up on life in toto.
Though slowed by its over-reliance on entrances and exits, Timothy Stubbs Hughes’s simple staging captures the pessimism and eventual hope sincerely. All ‘Bodies Unfinished’ needs is more grit and less pearl.