Pondling

A young girl's fantasy world can be a frightening thing. It is in Pondling – frightening, and oddly pitiable too. As we watch the odd, awkward little girl in front of us repeatedly misread the world around her, we may laugh in horror but we also blush for her naivety and hurt at her loneliness.

Madeleine has turned herself into the 'swan-lady' heroine of her own romance – something that imbues her with an unwittingly amoral sense of self-entitlement. She is both Odette and Odile, although the echoes of Swan Lake never weigh too heavily and are more apparent in retrospect than during the play itself. She spends her days seeking "beauty" and "femininity" with amoral ruthlessness. "Beauty" and "femininity" are things she feels are sorely lacking from home on her Grandfather's farm in Ireland. Madeleine does her best, stringing daisy chains from barn doors, scaring the birds away from the feeders, and strangling a stray cat that roams around the yard.

Genevieve Hulme-Beaman's monologue is rich in irony and humour. In creating Madeleine, the ultimate in quixotic narrators, she has done something very impressive – make an audience laugh at the same time as they feel disturbed.

The totality of the narrative is less than the sum of its excellent parts. We learn nothing new about Madeleine's character from beginning to end. However, such is the sickeningly compulsive quality of Hulme-Beaman's performance that shocked interest is maintained throughout.