Review: JILL'S TUPPERWARE PARTY, Underbelly Boulevard Soho

There's an indecently good chance that you will walk out of Jill's Tupperware Party very different to how you came in. It may be because you now have a brand new attitude to those leftovers that have been mouldering away in the back of the fridge for the past week. Or maybe its the shiny new hairnet over your head, the sticker on your chest proclaiming your name to be "Jill" and the contact details for a new friend. Or it could be because you want to spread the word about a show that survives on secrecy.

Not complete secrecy, of course. Before they step into the room, the waiting audience are warmly greeted by the two hosts (Jill and their colleague Jill) and welcomed to the 80th anniversary of the Tupperware company. Everyone is given a small paper packet containing a few gifts to enjoy during this celebratory convention, including the aforementioned hairnet, a written icebreaker and a filled-in name tag reading "Jill".

Once everyone has slapped on the tag, our host-Jills (Coral Bevan and Ricky Hunt, under Ewan Rodgers' enormous 1960s bouffant wigs, gravity-defying make-up and shiny foreheads one could land a 747 on) take to the stage and kick off this gathering. Standing is de rigueur and encouraged to get the most out of this, but seating is provided. Under an immense portrait of the CEO-Jill, we are first commanded to familiarise ourselves with our neighbours by way of the icebreakers in our bags. The questions range from the practical to the surreal, and soon enough informal connections are being formed around the room. It has all the feel of a proper convention without the palaver of hanging out with Herbert from Accounts Receivable.

Bevan and Hunt know just how to squeeze maximum humour out of this kooky setup: holding a roll call in a room full of Jills is a wicked touch that demonstrates how these two (and director David Alwyn) have an innate understanding of crowd dynamics, no doubt picked up from their years working on productions for Lost Estate and Secret Cinema.

The trio operate under the banner of Asparagus Mousse Productions, a name they came up with at Bevan's cult-themed birthday party after Hunt (who spent a decade travelling around the world as a professional Irish dancer) brought along a 1980s microwave cookbook. In their words, “the party descended into an immersive cult experience where we resurrected the author and she instructed us to sacrifice our friend Neil with one of her recipes (asparagus mousse)”. Quite what happened next to Neil is unknown.

What could have just been a series of barely connected interactive skits and general japery is kept rolling through Alwyn's smooth direction. So smooth, in fact, that it is hard to put one's finger on exactly when proceedings tip over from jolly and kitsch to dark humour. It's a pivot that feels both shocking and (in retrospect) well-earned. The ending comes with interactive features that will encourage those seeing it to want to come back and enjoy it all over again with friends, family and maybe even Herbert from Accounts Receivable if he behaves himself.

Jill's Tupperware Party is a masterclass in how to break through both the default awkwardness of the English and the aloofness of Londoners. That they have achieved this on a smidgeon of the budgets enjoyed by the immersive companies they worked for deserves applause all round. This is still a little rough around the edges, with some rushed moments and others stretched a bit too long, but there is enough here to kickstart a new cult show, or maybe even a new cult (the kind that, for example, does painful things to critics who write spoilers for shows like this).

Photo credit: Rah Petherbridge