In a bare rehearsal space near Southwark tube station, south London, 11 people are in the process of forming a circle, ready for a read-through of a new play. On the top of a nearby piano is a small mountain of tea, coffee and biscuits; for two or three minutes, everything is drowned out by the wheezing and groaning of a very loud kettle. The mood is upbeat and energetic; everyone here seems to be happily immersed in the strange magic of turning the script resting on their laps into something full of life.
It is quite a job. The play in question, Laughing Boy, encompasses both everyday joy and the most awful kind of sadness: some of it is about life at its most intense, but its defining event is a senseless and unimaginably tragic death. It also pulls off the rare achievement of being political – at least with a small “p” – but also full of human emotion. The preamble to the script speaks volumes: “It’s a terrible story,” it says, “but it must be performed with optimism, laughter, satire and energy.”
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