Caryl Churchill’s 2002 play reads like a proto-Black Mirror. Written in the wake of Dolly the sheep, it is about a son (Paapa Essiedu) who discovers that he has been cloned from the firstborn of his father (Lennie James) and that he may be one of up to 20 clones, thanks to a feckless doctor. The dystopia is clear, but savvy revivals of this modern classic tend to focus less on its sci-fi trappings and instead use it as a metaphor for parental responsibility, creating a strange, haunting chamber piece about how little we will ever truly know our flesh and blood.
Churchill’s text remains a gift, 20 years on: it is elliptical and eerie, full of half-finished sentences and snatches of savagery alongside banality. Director Lyndsey Turner makes an effort to ground it, pulling away from its sharper absurdist edges. As a result, this production at the Old Vic feels more legible, but it also skates over some of the quiet linguistic recurrences that play out like musical motifs – though Essiedu, who has always been an excellent verse speaker, finds a pleasing elastic cadence in the dialogue.
