but also the natural world. The ground begins to shake. Something is breaking, splitting, cracking.
Something is trying to push up and out.
Is all this real? Or just an extended metaphor, for the women’s squashed down frustration and misery at
their small, unfulfilled lives?
Smith’s play has its own degree of polish, and there’s a staccato poetry to the women’s short, repetitive
lines. Bryony Shanahan’s production is atmospheric, but I wished that Smith had committed more fully to
brooding strangeness of her text, which features striking images but rarely follows through. Louise Ludgate
and Amanda Wright have a cool command of this often stylish, suggestive material, but it’s not enough for
Enough to really take flight.