From its opening moments, Wrest is visceral and confronting, presenting itself as a theatrical dance work. It feels raw, and in many ways, still unhealed.

The ensemble cast of actors and dancers work hard to embody what feels like a very personal narrative. Narrative may be the wrong word however, as the action follows a disjointed timeline, rewinding on itself again and again in a search for answers, and ultimately a dawning reconciliation.

Red Leap Theatre has often mined alienation and helplessness as driving forces for their characters’ explorations. As might be expected from a company founded by, and continuing to be led by, working mothers, many of their work’s touch on the discomfort of parenting. Yet Wrest stands out among these for its unrelenting darkness.  Here there are no moments of quirk, humour or nostalgia to lighten the message. Instead, helplessness and confusion prevail until the closing scene. However, Wrest is packed full of the astonishing moments of stage craft and design that Red Leap has become known for, and these lift the work into something new, and often surprising.

Presented as a noir body-horror, Wrest showcases the well-established talent of Filament Eleven 11 (Brad Gledhill, here credited as the production manager, and Rachel Marlow credited for the production design). They present a strikingly lit series of tableaux-in-motion highlighting emotion, rather than story. Eden Mulholland’s original score is haunting and acts as guide through the ebbs and flows of the mother’s journey, though in a few places I noticed the loud volume enough to briefly take me out of the work.

The set pieces – a kitchen with a fluffy rug that extends silently across the stage whenever it is needed, a hostile black wall that swallows people whole, huge boxy platforms on wheels with trapdoors and hidden spaces – are cleverly engineered and appear and disappear flawlessly. I held my breath in moments of stage magic, when a character sank into pieces of furniture.  The movement of the performers in relation to these complex sets is polished, controlled and tightly executed. So much rehearsal and skill is evident.

There are some moments where the exposition could be clearer and at times I was confused as to what was happening. Some of this confusion felt planned, but the disjointedness took away from the emotional journey at the heart of the work. It took me reading the website afterwards to realise that the conceit was that of a ‘detective story’.  I didn’t get this from what I saw – instead I saw the descent of a parent into postnatal mental distress, catalysed by a traumatic hospital delivery, fatigue and a lack of support.

It’s a difficult and brave territory to explore, especially as we have seen a number of works exploring similar themes recently, such as the dance solo by Liv Tennet, Shadon Meredith’s spoken word testimony, and Sela Faletolu-Fasi’s luminous ensemble piece. Directors Ella Becroft and Tor Columbus have taken a different route with their hyper stylised cinematic approach, but for me it only partially worked. Some of the stylistic elements, such as the surreal ‘coat check’ where the central character is issued with a costume to help her look for versions of her past self, felt unnecessary and didn’t provide enough payoff in terms of telling us more about her past.

The pas-de-deux between Sharvon Mortimer and Ariāna Osborne show beautifully the central character of the mother looking for, and in conversation/conflict with, her pre-baby self. Shadon Meredith’s father character is shown as frustratingly impotent. Despite being aware of his wife’s plight and even trying to help ‘look’ for her, he fades away at her moment of greatest need. Three other performers – Tara Jarman, Louise Jiang and Olivia McGregor – play a variety of supporting roles as dream-world shadows and clinical staff, but none of these are shown enough to be distinguishable as characters. The dance work is beautiful and appropriately jarring.

I found the final scenes the most moving and truthful. Sharvon Mortimer’s frenetic solo – trying to escape her now-body and now-identity – is hard to watch and even harder to look away from. Her monologue, addressing the memory of when she meets her new baby and finds the experience alienating despite cultural pressure to fall ‘in love’ immediately, rang true for me.

In conversation with a friend after the show, we reflected how everyone’s experience of early motherhood is different. We both had supportive partners but saw others whose struggles felt less seen. My friend saw firsthand the impact of postnatal mental illness in a close friend.  For myself, while I have observed the experience of traumatic birth and its aftermath many times as a clinician, I am reminded that it is something I have luckily never personally experienced.  (Aside: it is always sobering to see theatrical representations of doctors – I have yet to see a positive portrayal!)

Here, maybe, is the real value of Wrest – a passionate counter to the saccharine stories we are told are the norms. In reality, every parents’ experience is different and deserves to be seen and validated.   We are not a homogenous glut of ‘parenthood’, we are individuals. I appreciated the section on the back of the programme pointing viewers to sources of support and counselling, should they need it.

Love, anger, frustration and a need to speak out radiate throughout Wrest. It’s a cry from the heart. An uncomfortable, but worthy watch.

Copyright © in the review belongs to the reviewer

Wrest, a dance theatre piece by Red Leap Theatre, offers a refreshingly raw and honest take on early motherhood.

The work opens with the ensemble of dancers heaving with their breath and body percussion accompanied by thundering sound. Initially perceived as snapshots, parts of the work organically weave themselves together to create a cohesive narrative, dipping into the genres of body horror and film noir.

The arresting imagery of a body on a table dimly lit in red, a conversation in a telephone box with a past self, and partners drinking coffee together at the kitchen table in the early hours of the morning, are but some of these snapshots- the latter in particular speaking to the relentless repetitiveness of routine in the first months of parenthood.

The metaphor of crime scene investigation is referenced throughout as a way of attempting to find the missing parts of the self. The performers move with a fitting slick quality during these moments. We see the splitting of the mother’s identity into pre and post-motherhood, and the wondering if that pre-metamorphosis version of herself will ever be found again.

Visually, the work is impressive, and clever set design integrates seamlessly with choreographed movement. Various set pieces move in and out of the space; performers come in and out of a table and a mirror that initially appears to be solid, or are moved around inside hollow tables, offering unique visual perspectives.

The emotions portrayed through movement, sound and visual images encompass the array of those felt in the fledgling stages of birthing and caring for a newborn: pain, joy, love, frustration, and denial. A particularly poignant quote occurs in a voiceover during a telephone box scene, linking love and terror together.

Subtleties in the sound design hint at the soundtrack of early motherhood: the droning hum of breast pumps, the shushing sound of the attempts to soothe an infant, and the whooshing of internal movement when heard through a Doppler machine. All of the performers are skilled in their craft, showcasing movement qualities of physical rawness and exertion, or gentle tenderness when required. A particularly beautiful sequence is the duet motif by Sharvon Mortimer and Ariāna Osborne, representing the past and present selves as mirror images – the present reflects parts of the past, yet is fundamentally changed forever.

I was especially touched by the emotional monologue towards the end of the work. Dancer Mortimer catches her breath after a physically exhausting movement sequence and then delves into describing a birth story in detail and the unexpected feelings associated with it.

I appreciated the honesty around how the feeling upon the birth of a child isn’t always a starry-eyed, immediate, and all-encompassing love like we are frequently shown in the media, especially following a traumatic birthing experience. This part created audible reactions from the audience, perhaps from mothers who had similar experiences.

On a personal note, as a new mum myself, I found Wrest to be real, relatable, and moving. The work sheds light on the parts of becoming a mother that people tend not to speak about. Aside from the thematics, it is simply a wonderfully crafted work in all aspects.

Copyright © in the review belongs to the reviewer