It perhaps says something about the nature of critique at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, that I embarked upon this review with a vague niggling notion that the smartly catchy title seemed oddly familiar. Having sat down to see the play again, I found a mild sense of deja-vu. But it was only while writing it up, that it became plain to me that I had already seen and reviewed it, some six years ago, and had completely forgotten its content.
Yet to look back through those words from six years ago, it’s hard to argue with myself. Jan Carey still comports herself with a sage grace and sombre sentiment that rings true as she portrays Marion Scott, sitting at her table, thumbing through old letters and books, occasionally slipping into a West Country accent while she recites the words of Scott’s lifelong friend, the soldier, composer and poet, Ivor Gurney.
It’s a feast of a play in terms of information, but one that does so without ever fully grounding the audience with a hook into who these people are. There’s something academic and unstoried about the performance that makes it feel more like a lecture than a wistful look back or a story. Which is not to say it isn’t good play, it’s as strong now as it has always been. But it almost feels like the evocation and exploration of the bipolar poet’s life maybe is too much at arm’s length, and that by trying to tell the story of both these intertwined lives, it does neither full justice. Which in the end makes it an interesting experience at the time, but one that is demonstrably also quite literally forgettable.