Interiors @ The Lyceum

We’re fascinated by our fellow humans, says Interiors. We know this already, from Gogglebox, the Olympics, even, and our punishing obsession with a morbid daily news cycle… but formidable Glasgow theatre makers Vanishing Point elaborate with eerie, unsettling force.

A beautifully constructed dining room rises from the Lyceum’s boards, reimagining a literal fourth wall as a window; we’re looking in, barred from sound by glass, watching an elderly man and his granddaughter host a dinner party in the middle of a hard winter. As they welcome five visitors to their home, we watch (and giggle) as a guest discreetly checks his armpits for a mystery odour and recognise well the awkwardness of initiating a toast with nothing else to say.

It’s impossible to take in all the subtle, heartbreaking detail of seven people clumsily trying to communicate – and a narrator steps in to assist. A ghostly presence joins us ‘outside’ the family unit, offering initially light-hearted commentary like a bitchy, witty pal. But as the night gets longer, cracks reveal themselves. Our ghost guide predicts the fates of our human guineapigs, and simplifies the point that living is hard. She laments at length that spirits are denied the warmth of an embrace or the buttery feeling of flirting with a stranger – but counters that she wouldn't trade them for her simpler solitude. 

In combination with Vanishing Point's much more recent work, The Destroyed Room, Interiors provides the company with a tightly fisted double punch, cutting straight to the embarrassing nub of our voyeuristic habits. More importantly still, they remind us that the act of 'watching' is never innocent: it's not necessarily easier to be a witness than a participant.