Fringe review: Kirsty Mann – Corpse
Kirsty Mann: Corpse places us at the centre of a real-life ghost story that makes us consider the spiritual after-effects of property ownership. ★★★★
It was not unlike being back in Year 8, with the know-it-all 14 year old YouTube atheists sitting in the bleachers sneering at the more faithful souls in thfront row, when Kirsty Mann asked for a show of hands of who in the crowd did, and did not, believe in ghosts.
Kirsty Mann bought a house with a garden in London. Boy, was it cheap. Yes an old lady died there; yes, the taps run at random times, and the old lady’s disturbing paintings are littered throughout; but this might have been the only opportunity for her and her medical researcher spouse to own a home, so they were prepared to accept the potential side effects. It’s only when the chair lift seems to move on its own, banging starts being heard upstairs, and an old lady in a nightie can be seen picking apples in the garden, that Mann questions her choices.
A pure ghost story is rare in the contemporary theatre and Mann draws us through the story with a charismatic command of the space and her trademark self-deprecating humour. Her double life as a comedian and an intensive care doctor – detailed in her previous show Skeletons – undoubtedly gives her the surety to hold a remarkable stillness in low light and flawlessly move from one vignette to the other.
Though the crafted beats of the archetypal story are almost too perfect to be unfiltered truth, we nonetheless feel like children huddled around the campfire, jumping at each loud sound cue, and shuddering at the dread that Mann shares as she depicts her unwanted roommate driving her ever-closer to madness. Her medical knowledge again provides unique insight that structures the work, as Mann describes the lengthy legal medical process that goes into declaring a death, despite, in her words: “as soon as you enter the room, you know.”
As Mann grapples with the torment of a house in the UK haunted by its spectre with unfinished business, we start to wonder: How many souls are trapped beneath the California bungalows and McMansions that permeate our own cities – particularly given the added colonial context of our own urban sprawl? How many ghost stories are we yet to reckon with?
Kirsty Mann’s Corpse is a skilfully executed theatrical hour of coming to terms with a stranger’s human tragedy. As she draws you into the grim British storms, you might forget you were basking in the carefree Mad March sun a moment ago.
Kirsty Mann: Corpse is playing at The Gallery at the Courtyard of Curiosities at the Migration Museum until March 15
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