The Lounge

This is, in all likelihood, where we’ll all end up. If not in an institutional armchair in an institutional care home, blinking at daytime TV, then certainly in a body that won’t bend to our will; that creaks, aches and wets itself – shells of our former selves.

The thirtysomesthings of Inspector Sands fast-forward the process, adopting the ancient shapes of three clowns in cardigans. Gently sending up old age with affectionate humour, they never lose sight of its indignities and frustrations.

The Lounge is limbo. Fire exit signs shine tantalisingly bright and the TV blares on, its chitter-chatter—lifestyle shows, nature docs and Jeremy Kyle bust-ups—become a kind of commentary. The elderly inmates kill time waiting for it to kill them; infantilised and, worse, dehumanised. Their choices are limited to cereals, channels and biscuits. Battles wage over the remote control. Lunches are scooped out of sight. The surrealism comes laced with sadness, but there’s mischief and mayhem within; life in the old dogs yet.

Critical of an overstretched, understaffed system, where careworkers juggle meals on wheels and turn to tea as a catch-all solution, Inspector Sands reserve their real ire for us, the young. It’s keen to our discomfort, but The Lounge never excuses it.

The joy is in three beautifully articulated performances—each shaky step and jittery grip exactly calibrated—but with them comes the problem of pace. Moving at an arthritic crawl, The Lounge can’t cover enough ground to really fill its 80 minutes, but it’s a vital reminder of what lies ahead.