The artifical dilemma of binaries: Robert Reid on Fifteen Minutes from Anywhere’s return season of Cock

The return season of 15 Minutes from Anywhere’s production of Mike Bartlett’s Cock gives us a satirical take on gender, identity and politics staged as a soap opera in the round. I’m reminded of Come Dine with Me crossed with Queer Eye.

I didn’t love this text when I read it a few years ago. It struck me as very much the mid-to-late 2000s British play: the tell-tale halting, interrupted rhythms of the dialogue feel typical of its period. On the page, the style seemed to get in the way of the characters, and the issues override the drama. But in the hands of Beng Oh and his cast, once we get past the first two scenes (which are more exposition than drama) and find ourselves in the confrontation of the dinner party – which feels like the real play – the whole thing comes alive.

John (Matthew Connell), the only named character in the show, has only ever been in homosexual relationships. For seven years he’s been in a committed relationship with M (Shaun Goss), with whom he lives. He has met M’s father, F (Scott Gooding) and has gained his love, or at least his enlightened middle class acceptance.

Then John fucks a woman, W (Marissa O’Reilly). Or falls in love with her. He’s not sure. Everyone else, on the other hand, is sure about who they think John is and who he should be, and John finds himself torn between his two lovers and his two sexualities. As a way to resolve the chaos caused by the fluidity of John’s identity, M demands a dinner where he can meet W and they can talk through their situation.

M is anxious and controlling, in a caring kind of way. It’s one of those relationships where they define each other, though John needs this definition more and thus pushes M into a defining role. When the dinner inevitably hits the fan, M enlists his father as back up.

John is lying to preserve everyone’s feelings and keep from tipping the tricky balance – the kind of balance created by trying to keep a triangle upright on its point. Often we lie when we find that who we are has been undermined by who we might be. As Cock shows, our shadow selves, the parts of ourselves we deny because we’ve already constructed an identity out of the reactions and decisions of the people who have surrounded and shaped us, are much closer to the surface of our day-to-day realities than we like to admit.

Who John is, who he has become, has been socially defined for him early on. There’s a monologue where John describes his coming out in college: his acceptance by the educated middle class, the back patting, the sense of belonging to a community, has shaped who he is, even down to the way he walks.

The four characters feel like sketched responses to gender fluidity. F makes the assertion from early on that John must decide “what” he is, presumably straight or gay. Does he like men or girls (tellingly not women)? The father cares for both his son and John, that much seems genuine, but his generational adherence to binaries restricts even this comparatively open minded and accepting man.

Each case feels under-argued as emotions get in the way, rather like every heightened over-emotional argument I had in my twenties. It’s a drama of unclear heads, clouded by feelings, ego, hurt, selfishness, sentimentality and, most of all, by the crushing weight of patriarchy demanding that we be one thing or another: gay/straight, male/female, faithful/unfaithful.

The past five or so years of gender revolution and generational change makes Cock feel a little dated. To be or not to be: that’s John’s dilemma and, like the Danish prince, he vacillates in indecision. Destruction follows in the wake of his inability to decide between an impossible binary. John might be a villain in the work, causing hurt to his girlfriend, boyfriend and the boyfriend’s father, but my sympathy throughout is with him. I spend the entire show feeling with John that he might be either, neither or both, that who he loves is not about gender, but about people.

These days non-binary identifications and polyamorous relationships, once inconceivable in a rigidly defined patriarchal society, seems more mainstream than fringe. Perhaps they’re not fully mainstream yet; but if the younger generations make it past the changing climate, it’s possible that there will be no boundaries more meaningful than those we define for ourselves amongst each other. Who we are and who we love is a kind of play, and play is a form of constant negotiation. The arbitrary rules that simplify collective understanding are the things that really lead to trouble: taken to their logical extreme, they evolve into fundamentalism.

At one point the father demands to know if John is now saying he’s bisexual, which feels like an old fashioned assessment, and John, as confused as ever, can’t settle there either. He can see M’s faults, as seven years of relationship has bred some contempt between them. W on the other hand is new, so seems more exciting, less flawed; though there’s little doubt that John would find faults with W in time. Eventually John chooses M, not because he loves him more, but because it seems easier.

Beng Oh’s staging is bare, simple and elegant. No seats, no set: just the four actors in the round, shifting the space of the flat and the surrounding London streets around them. It’s not important where they are, where the front door is, where dinner has been set or if they are inside or outside. Only the argument persists, as each M, W and F tries to shape John into what thinks he should be or is (because he’s told them he is – because everyone wants him to be one thing or another). The performances are uniformly strong and the production itself is solid.

Also, how good is it to be sitting in an audience that knows when the show has ended and recognises when to applaud rather than leaving a long, confused pause before the eventual tentative clapping from back stage starts them off.

Cock, by Mike Bartlett, directed by Beng Oh. Set and Costume design by Emily Collet, lighting by Andy Turner, sound design by Tom Backhaus. Performed by Matthew Connell, Shaun Goss, Marissa O’Reilly and Scott Gooding. At 45 Downstairs as part of Midsumma Festival. Closed.