Review: THE OLIVE BOY, Southwark Playhouse

Life doesn’t stop when 15-year-old Ollie’s mum dies suddenly. Ollie Maddigan’s autobiographical one-man play returns to London after a shower of praise around the country. The Olive Boy tells the story of a young boy attempting to navigate grief and an estranged father against a tsunami of adolescent hormones. Forced to move to the big city and change schools, he decides that his next step is to get a girlfriend. Directed by Scott Le Crass, Maddigan delivers an intense 75-minute rollercoaster of a performance.

It’s difficult to pin down the genre of this show. ‘Gloomy tragicomedy’ might be a stretch, but Maddigan writes a surprisingly tonally balanced mix of grim humour and healthy mournfulness. Cast inside the body of a teenager who’s fighting the danger of being perceived as uncool with his whole being, he perfectly portrays the universal teenage experience. The ugly misogyny that’s sprinkled throughout the piece is utterly inexcusable but, unfortunately, time appropriate too. 

Ollie conceals his struggle with upbeat bleakness, which drives Maddigan to a layered portrayal. There’s a visible, harrowing difference between his demeanour as our direct narrator — cocky and petulant, worried about revealing his inner emotions more than anything else — and his downcast attitude during the cold, mandated therapy sessions led by a robotic voice (Ronni Ancona). Written with intent and purpose, the language is eloquent and precise.

When Ollie finally leans into his grief, his heart breaks open. It’s an opportunity for Maddigan to delve into the nature of grief. When honesty and depth take over, he provides a number of tear-jerking moments that change the trajectory of the play’s tone; Le Crass’s direction follows suit. While he has Maddigan constantly moving, fidgeting, repositioning himself on a chair (the only set piece alongside two pillars of spotlights) in the first part, he slows him down now: a sign that the character is incapable of outrunning his feelings anymore.

Lighting designer Adam Jefferys emphasises the swift emotional sidesteps with truly commendable work. Lights dim imperceptibly when Ollie talks about his mum (our heart aches when he slips and speaks of her in the present tense), then grow blinding to signal scene changes and other plot movements. It’s the only visual aid in Maddigan’s arsenal, and it’s enough to make him shine. Magnetic and assured in his performance, he wouldn’t need to hide behind a theatrical gimmick even if he had the chance to. 

While it’s a slow and steady build, the payoff is remarkably profound. The resolution, however, might be a bit hasty compared to the rest, and a longer running time would allow Maddigan to dig into the aftermath of the events more firmly. Nonetheless, he succeeds in his goal. He turns the audience into a confidant, trusting them to further his own personal work and bring it into their own lives. By introducing grief as the price of love, he reframes loss most powerfully.

The Olive Boy runs at Southward Playhouse (Borough) until 31 January.