The titular artist who is the subject of DR Hill’s play has only received attention relatively recently. Speculation about Claude Cahun’s sexuality and gender has appeal for academics, while her life makes for an interesting story. From Paris in the 1930s to resistance work in occupied Jersey during World War II, this is a story worth telling. It is a great shame that here, despite a lot of effort, that it is not told well.
Rivkah Bunker, who takes the title role, and Amelia Armande, who plays Cahun’s partner Marcel Moore, are hampered by a script that is both worthy and wooden. Maybe Hill has read the anti-war messages his subjects wrote as a form of protest too often – there were posters and banners, as well as writing secreted in magazines and even on cigarette papers. But surely, Cahun and Moore didn’t speak like that in real life. The problem is compounded by an eye on theory – the word ‘identity’ is used far too often – which takes us out of the world of the play. Nearly all the dialogue is poor. Lines such as “open up, it’s the Gestapo” are close to embarrassing.
There is no shortage of ideas in the piece. Juliette Demoulin’s set is effective and the video design by Jeffrey Choy uses Cahun’s artwork well. Director David Furlong highlights movement a lot and manages to create some intriguing moments, inspired by Cahun’s performance work, expressing intimacy and emotion. But there is a reliance on presenting Cahun as a troubled genius. Too much background information is taken for granted, with a difficult childhood and time in a chauvinistic Paris presented in short scenes that are hard to digest. The trio that makes up the remaining cast – Gethin Alderman, Ben Bela Böhm and Sharon Drain – are overworked and the results unpleasant. There are a lot of accents and poor attempts at establishing weakly written characters.
Things improve… a little. As the Resistance work becomes riskier, causing concern to the paranoid Germans, Cahun and Moore are captured and undergo interrogation, imprisonment and almost execution. At times it is hard to believe they were taken so seriously (the “Soldier with no name” Cahun took as her identity was presumed to be German and part of a whole terrorist cell). But it really is a compelling story and that Cahun’s confession was not believed a fine touch.
Again, though, the delivery isn’t strong enough. Bringing out farcical moments is a good idea. Like the art Cahun left behind in Paris, you might say the situation was surreal. But the comedy lacks bite and detracts from the tension. Furlong tries to keep up a pace, but the effect is clumsy. There’s a final twist that is strong. In the search for who Cahun is, do we forget the identity of their companion? It’s Moore’s photography that has made Cahun memorable, yet her name is even less well known. Such insight into the perils of biography is admirable, but not enough to compensate for so many mistakes.
Until 12 July 2025
Photo by Paddy Gormley
