The Dip, The Space, review

I’ll keep this one short and sweet. Much like I gather Milk and Blood’s rehearsal process was.

‘Absurdism’, ‘clowning’, ‘theatrical chaos’ – however you want to label what The Dip aims for – requires so much (hidden) precision and control if you want anyone, other than your drama-school mates in the back row, to take something away from your piece. Humour, meaning, anything.

I’ve seen some lazy work before, but potentially nothing quite so unfocused or unfunny. On multiple occasions, performers snatch glances at the responsive back row of fellow loud (male, masc, some might say obnoxious) mates and corpse themselves. If you’ve made your show (or transferred it from Edinburgh to London) for that reason, that’s completely your prerogative. But why invite strangers in to review you.

For me, The Dip comes across like a private joke that these East 15 grads are not bothered about anyone else ever feeling included in. The sort of trying-super-hard-to-be-zany-but-if-you-pay-attention-actually-surprisingly-boring-and-unimaginative late night Edinburgh show that just doesn’t work outside of that context. And probably only ‘half’ did inside of it.

I could engage with the plot, or the audacity of the company to call it an ‘LGBTQ+ comedy’, when it reeks of privilege and (as a member of that community) I felt intensely intimidated. But it was all just such a waste of time.

So I’ll just wish them the best with it. But also that my bus had broken down enroute, because that’s a night I’m never going to get back.