Reviews

North North North (Tour – The Drum, Plymouth)

Plymouth’s ”North North North” is a tale of Artic daring-do, mildly absorbing and amusing, but ultimately disappoints

Martin Bonger, Margit Szlavik and Elisabet Topp - North North North
Martin Bonger, Margit Szlavik and Elisabet Topp – North North North
© Elke Laleman

North North North is a tale of Arctic daring-do, breathtaking endeavour and consummate gung ho-ness condensed into 80 minutes and a small stage.

The co-production between New International Encounter, Key Theatre and The North Wall tells of Andree's state-of-the-art hydrogen balloon and his ill-fated, high altitude expedition to plant the Swedish flag at the North Pole.

With the massive balloon represented by ladders, hampers and chairs, augmented by projected grainy photographs of the real thing – its take off (leaving behind the patented, cutting edge ropes and sails), Arctic landscapes and ultimate descent – and sound effects including the relentless icy wind, an atmosphere is cleverly created.

Bicat & Rigby's set is effective – a huge white sheet with multi-purpose wooden stepladders and props illustrating the off-the-wall items chosen by the crew for the journey – mono-grammed handkerchief, evening wear, lemons, pineapple, mahogany chair, roubles, champagne and more.

Consummate storytellers Martin Bonger, Margit Szlavik and Elisabet Topp step in and out of character – and moustaches – to re-enact some of the more intimate tableaux of the doomed adventure (sending messages by homing pigeon, taking soundings, jettisoning myriad 'stuff', dealing with frostbite and pouring birthday champagne) spaced with folksy songs and slapstick.

And therein lies the problem for me. I'm not convinced the show is certain what it is.

Jumping in and out of character had comedic effect but disengaged the audience from the adventurers and the mounting bleakness of their plight, as indeed did the transgender motif. At times I was absorbed by the unfolding tragedy or amused by the comedy but overall found myself clockwatching. A shame.

– Karen Bussell