Cross-Stitching

The front row is a dangerous place to sit. When you get that close to the action, you run a few risks. Comedic jibes. Audience participation. Phlegm.

The worst fate, however, for anyone brave enough to spearhead the audience is to have nowhere to hide from absolute rubbish. Such is the plight of this reviewer while watching a play so chillingly awful that the audience leave utterly traumatised.

Cross-Stitching is a play about sex-change, homosexuality and identity. When dealing with issues of this depth it is important to have a strong and nuanced central performance – or at least some fun. What we instead get is 45 minutes—not the advertised 55, thank Goodness—of exasperated whining.

Stilted, childish scripting and artless direction inflict contrived set-piece after contrived set piece on the audience. But the wince-worthy scenes are easily the most exciting part of this production. Almost half of the time we're staring into the over-earnest eyes of actors spouting endless monologues, monologues that butcher any whisper of dramatic pace or emotional momentum.

This play wants to be dark and brooding, but never rises above its own self-importance. It thinks it's controversial, but don't be fooled. The only taboo Cross-Stitching breaks is when, for 45 agonising minutes, it flies in the face of the basic human desire to be entertained.