Constant Craving

Sarah Kane wrote Crave to be performance proof. It contains the most harrowing speech in twentieth century theatre, breaks down characters into fragments of despair, relishes sick humour and snatches of song, before delivering a final hopelessness. Her suicide, which is often used to prove the authenticity of her pain, is beside the point. She was the greatest writer of her generation, who scooped up popular culture, religious imagery and a keen sense of language to confront audiences with the horror of a society cast adrift in a meaningless universe. When existential doubt is a cliché, Kane re-invents the darkness and avoids Gothic melodrama for a crisp, savage anti-realism.

This version has four actors doing very little but deliver the lines. If their delivery is not always convincing – at times, the anguish is scaled down to petulance and the sexual violence feels like a game – they allow the language to bleed. The woman next to me begins to cry early: her boyfriend noticeably fails to comfort her, and the tragedy of male-female relationships has clambered off the stage. Unable to continue, I leave, knowing that I cannot face Kane's broken hearted characters as they wind their way to terminal misery.

Crave is like the most extreme Live Art, and the emotional wounds it displays are the verbal parallels of the Live Artist's physical self-harm. Kane slices the mechanics of desire ever thinner, culminating in that brutal speech. It is merely a list of lost possibilities, a description of the casual moments that constitute a loving relationship. Spoken from a position of separation, it is devastating, a catalogue of miseries.

ICU have used a rotating cast: this keeps the production fresh but also betrays a slight discomfort in the roles. It lends the performance another layer of anxiety, and contributes to the fear and awkwardness. Not only are all four characters loosing themselves, they seem to be noticeably acting the roles.

It is questionable whether Crave ought to be performed. It is so harsh that it has a visceral impact, regardless of the quality of the production. This explains why it is a popular choice for companies at The Fringe. It cannot be ignored, it always gets a reaction. Whether this is healthy for the audience is a problem. It is so skilful that it could be read as a celebration of depression.

More positively, it could be an inoculation against despair, a vision of hell as terrifying as any medieval painting. In an age where sexuality has become a toy, impatience is a virtue and success synonymous with a bland smile and a bank balance, Crave is a warning, a shrill blast of hell-fire preaching for a Godless reality.