In terms of storytelling structure, it’s hard not to compare 24, 23, 22 to musical The Last Five Years - there’s one story moving forwards in time, one backwards, and they meet in the middle. Tonally, however, the two could not be more different. While the musical is a witty look at love and heartbreak, writer Doug Dean’s Fringe theatre show is about rage, despair, and anonymity. As the show begins, Brendan (Joe Matty) is breathing his last breath. Boom, goes his heart beat, boom, goes the rushing blood. The following hour of theatre explains how he got to this point, and how his life became intertwined with that of Fran (Ruth Page). Fran, whose story is told in parallel, begins having a bad day at work, which quickly goes from bad to worse. Alongside all this, ambient beats shift with the story. 24, 23, 22 is a confusing show. The music, one of the show’s key selling points and marks of originality, doesn’t seem to have any reason to it. With most works of gig theatre, as this claims to be, the music plays a pivotal role in the story: we see characters that are obsessed with punk music, play pub gigs, love karaoke. But here, there’s no mention of music in the script whatsoever. The score is just kind of…there, and isn’t very notable. It also means there’s a DJ (director Joe Strickland) onstage throughout the show - but his presence takes away from the story rather than adding interest. He awkwardly bobs at the back of the stage, vaguely interacting with the cast now and then but never in a significant way. 24, 23, 22 is awkward in other ways too - as the audience come in, the cast members are chatting to those near the front, asking them about the shows they’ve been seeing. It’s definitely a different choice to most Fringe shows, but once again there doesn’t seem to be any reason for it. Instead it creates an uneasy atmosphere, and a muddling break of the fourth wall. One of the main issues I had with this production was that none of the characters involved were particularly likeable, or detailed enough to feel real. Brendan is revealed to have some kind of "condition" - presumably a mental health one - but we never find out what. Fran’s rage is fuelled by what feels like a very surface level frustration with men’s sexism, making the action she takes seem unfounded. Additionally, she often feels like a somewhat stereotypical character, slightly 'woman-written-by-a-man'. In such a character-driven show, sympathetic - or at least compelling - characters are a must, and these two unfortunately fall a little short. The structure itself is a strong concept - the anticipation for the two lives to cross creates a sense of intrigue, and a driving force to hold our attention for the full hour. However, the revelation is a little underwhelming - the story feels like plot points have been plucked from thin air, rather than rooted in truth, leaving the script with a lack of authenticity. There’s nothing here that feels especially unique or worth writing a show about. Both actors give strong performances, even if they occasionally border on melodrama, and maintain an impressive level of energy throughout, as well as a great rapport. Strickland’s direction features some bold choices and creative blocking, but it feels as though there is something missing - perhaps the empty stage could do with something more for the actors to use, giving the show a more distinct identity. There is definitely potential here - a gig theatre show telling the story of two overlapping lives is a really exciting idea with so many possibilities. The end of the show does showcase some stronger writing, with thought-provoking reflections on how the most ordinary of days can end up changing our lives entirely. 24, 23, 22 has received several awards and nominations, so clearly for many there is lots of merit here. For this critic, unfortunately, it felt a little too hollow. 24, 23, 22 runs at Underbelly Cowgate until 27 August Image Credit: Brian Roberts
