Borderline

There's an awful lot of mixed messages flying around in Borderline. What is billed as a “One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest for the ecstasy generation” has less of the aforementioned masterpiece's subtle musings on the nature of insanity and more thinly-veiled endorsements of drug abuse.

The story follows one man's descent into a life of crime after being diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, which may or may not have been triggered by his frivolous drug use. It is the frivolity of the drug-taking shown here that is the most unsettling aspect of the show. While aspects of the story serve as a brutal cautionary tale, a polemic against the excesses of the '90s clubbing scene, there is a constant thread of nostalgia for the pills that the character pops every few minutes onstage.

Rob Benson delivers his self-written 50-minute monologue with skilled timing and a tangible intensity. He uses the floorspace and lighting to it's full effect, his only prop being a single chair in the centre of the room. The language often takes on the rhythmic pulse and rhyme of a beat poem, and Benson relishes each and every syllable. His acting ability does not, however, mask the disjointed nature of the plot.

Borderline is in equal measures a gangster tale, a hospital drama and an ode to the clubbing scene. It's just a shame that these ingredients never mix effectively. Benson himself has said that the play is about the “ecstasy generation's” collective comedown and their resulting mental health problems. But this is not really a production which makes us care.