Theatre Review: The Prophet

The Gate Theatre's staging of Hassan Abdulrazzak’s play could not be more timely.

Is it a stroke of fate that the first run of Hassan Abdulrazzak’s play The Prophet, set in Cairo on the day of Egypt’s revolution, comes as the country experiences its first presidential election since the Arab Spring, and as Hosni Mubarak teeters between life and death?

It certainly makes the theme all the more topical. Such is the aim of the Gate Theatre’s "Resist" season, which attempts to dramatise a movement of uprisings across the globe. The Prophet, for which Abdulrazzak and director Christopher Haydon travelled to Cairo and interviewed prominent activists, is the second play in the season.

The premise is interesting enough: the plot unfolds on 28 January 2011, and zooms in on the domestic issues of Layla (Sasha Behar) and Hisham (Nitzan Sharron), a married couple cocooned in their claustrophobic apartment as revolt erupts around them. Central to the play is the motif of public versus private:  Layla’s opening speech considers the pros and cons of shaving her pubic hair, somewhat tenuously linking the word “pubic” to “public”; there are references to sexual repression, hijabs and what is considered appropriate behaviour for a woman in public; the very basis of the play is the focus on a private situation within a very public one. Unfortunately, placing a personal story within a political context feels like it has been done so many times before.

That being said, the acting is superb, and Abdulrazzak’s script is laced with witticisms and colourful symmetry. While at times this feels slightly contrived, there are some clever lines, particularly in the scenes between Layla and her boss Hani (Silas Carson). Their working at Vodafone is a nod to the crucial role that technology played throughout the Arab Spring. And Hani embodies perfectly the hypocrisy of international corporations, and governments, when he says, “This is a Western company, things like freedom, democracy and equality, they come with our company like Nokia accessories” – while asking Layla to cut off the mobile network moments later.

The characterisation is somewhat ambiguous. Layla, Hisham, Hani and Suzanne each espouse a different viewpoint regarding Egypt’s rule, its revolution, its democratic potential. Layla’s attitude is particularly complex: while she hates pandering to the west, and certainly doesn’t want an Egypt built on the US model, her gut feeling is that Mubarak must go, that the system must change. She bickers constantly with Hani, who is convinced that Egypt is not ready for democracy. Meanwhile, back home, Hisham takes pride in writing about the opposition movement, yet refuses to join Layla on the streets. The mysterious Suzanne (Melanie Jessop) is half-British, half-Egyptian, but rejects her Egyptian heritage for the reason that her British passport will not look suspicious at customs. She has adopted an arrogant, imperialistic view of the Arab world, insisting that British publishers aren’t interested in literature from the region, that it is neglected because it is unstable. 

But there are just too many clichés in the play. Suzanne is a Bond villain caricature with her red plastic anorak, Bellini in hand and forced smile. The Tarantino-esque torture scenes at the end of the play are excruciating to watch and seem unnecessary and gratuitous. It feels almost as though they are put in because it is what is expected of a play about the Arab world, a needless violence built on a lazy stereotype.

The Prophet’s biggest drawback is that it seems like a wasted opportunity. In Cairo, Abdulrazzak and Haydon interviewed demonstrators, journalists, and soldiers, but their impressive research has been condensed into a personal story that focuses mainly on the experience of two individuals. In the middle of the play Layla recites a long speech about the protests in what is an incredible performance from Behar, but a static and half-hearted attempt at audience engagement. The closest we get to witnessing the uprisings is blurred video footage which appears at the back of the stage now and then. It might have been more compelling to have see the interviews of various Egyptians dramatised onstage, but the venue of the Gate wouldn’t lend itself well to this. The stage is small and the audience seating feels cramped. It isn’t built for an extravagant, mass-ensemble production, and it is likely that the claustrophobic atmosphere is a deliberate reflection of the social repression in the plot. But this is a shame, because with limited scope comes what is always at risk with art that is trying to be as topical as possible: a lack of opportunity to reflect. Despite its occasional charm, The Prophet recycles what we already know.

The Prophet is at the Gate Theatre, Notting Hill until 21 July

 

Silas Carsen and Sasha Behar in "The Prophet" at the Gate Theatre, Notting Hill (Photo: Simon Kane)
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Why does food taste better when we Instagram it?

Delay leads to increased pleasure when you set up a perfect shot of your dinner.

Been on holiday? Take any snaps? Of course you did – but if you’re anything like me, your friends and family didn’t make it into many of them. Frankly, I can only hope that Mr Whippy and I will still be mates in sixty years, because I’m going to have an awful lot of pictures of him to look back on.

Once a decidedly niche pursuit, photographing food is now almost as popular as eating it, and if you thought that the habit was annoying at home, it is even worse when it intrudes on the sacred peace of a holiday. Buy an ice cream and you’ll find yourself alone with a cone as your companion rushes across a four-lane highway to capture his or hers against the azure sea. Reach for a chip before the bowl has been immortalised on social media and get your hand smacked for your trouble.

It’s a trend that sucks the joy out of every meal – unless, that is, you’re the one behind the camera. A new study published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology suggests that taking pictures of food enhances our pleasure in it. Diners at the food court of a farmers’ market in Philadelphia were asked either to photograph their meal or to eat “as you normally would”, then were questioned about how they found it. Those in the photography group reported that not only did they enjoy their meal more, but they were “significantly more immersed in the experience” of eating it.

This backs up evidence from previous studies, including one from this year in the Journal of Consumer Marketing, which found that participants who had been asked to photograph a red velvet cake – that bleeding behemoth of American overindulgence – later rated it as significantly tastier than those who had not.

Interestingly, taking a picture of a fruit salad had no effect on its perceived charms, but “when descriptive social norms regarding healthy eating [were] made salient”, photographing these healthier foods did lead to greater enjoyment. In other words, if you see lots of glossy, beautifully lit pictures of chia seed pudding on social media, you are more likely to believe that it’s edible, despite all the evidence to the contrary.
This may seem puzzling. After all, surely anything tastes better fresh from the kitchen rather than a protracted glamour shoot – runny yolks carefully split to capture that golden ooze, strips of bacon arranged just so atop plump hemispheres of avocado, pillowy burger buns posed to give a glimpse of meat beneath. It is hardly surprising that 95 million posts on Instagram, the photo-sharing site, proudly bear the hashtag #foodporn.

However, it is this delay that is apparently responsible for the increase in pleasure: the act of rearranging that parsley garnish, or moving the plate closer to the light, increases our anticipation of what we are about to eat, forcing us to consider how delicious it looks even as we forbid ourselves to take a bite until the perfect shot is in the bag. You could no doubt achieve the same heightened sense of satisfaction by saying grace before tucking in, but you would lose the gratification that comes from imagining other people ogling your grilled Ibizan sardines as they tuck in to an egg mayonnaise at their desk.

Bear in mind, though, that the food that is most successful on Instagram often has a freakish quality – lurid, rainbow-coloured bagel-croissant hybrids that look like something out of Frankenstein’s bakery are particularly popular at the moment – which may lead to some unwise menu choices in pursuit of online acclaim.

On the plus side, if a diet of giant burgers and salted-caramel lattes leaves you feeling queasy, take heart: if there is one thing that social media likes more than #avotoast, it is embarrassing oversharing. After a week of sickening ice-cream shots, a sickbed selfie is guaranteed to cheer up the rest of us. 

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser