What makes us who we are? When you fill out any sort of form that requires data about your identity, the usual categories consist of name, age, gender, ethnicity, sexual orientation etc. So, if you were unsure about one or more of these things – if there was no definitive answer – how would you know ‘who you are’? Well, you would not. Award-winning playwright Mike Bartlett explores the intricacies of this hypothesis in his rather crudely named play, Cock. Following the life of the main protagonist John (Gwydion Calder), this witty drama questions the very notion of sexuality and the uncertainty that comes with that.  

From an in media res beginning to an unforeseeable end, the first half of the play was nothing short of a migraine. Separated only by an ominous organ chord and a blinding flash of light, the conversations John had with his long-term partner, M (Peter Neenan) – a well-to-do stockbroker with the immaculate taste that can only be found in a gay man – and his new romantic interest, W (Annie Swift) – a divorced classroom assistant who epitomised femininity (despite the droll rumour that she was a Neanderthal) – were consciously chaotic and contradictory. The energy in the Ron Barber Studio was electric, and Calder managed to harness this tension and convert it to his liking, seamlessly shifting from the incandescent distance between himself and Neenan to an orgasmic sexual intimacy with Swift. Every moment seemed to increase with pace, billowing up into a whirlwind of tension that was ready to wreak havoc by the interval.

The energy in the Ron Barber Studio was electric

The second half was the climax the entire audience had been waiting for: the dinner party. Although there was a complete absence of props and the stage was restlessly naked, the physicality of each performer was more than enough to fill the space. Whether it was Calder’s antsy fidgeting from head to toe, Swift’s hunched-up back accompanied by a set of defensive crossed arms or Neenan’s relentless pacing to and from the kitchen, each body told a story of unquenchable anxiety.

The only thing more jarring than overlapping screaming and shouting in the theatre is absolute, pin-drop silence

The intimacy of the studio heightened this, too, as it provided the audience with a magnifying glass with which they could inspect all of the minutiae. However, not everything was all doom and gloom thanks to F, M’s father (Phil Rea). Whilst the other characters were walking on eggshells, F was more than happy to fry eggs with his facetious one-liners and finger-wagging interferences that reflected the generational divide. Rea’s deliverance of these moments were spot-on, punctuating the line of awkwardness with some much-needed comic relief. Yet of course, this was merely intermittent, and the audience was brutally reminded of this by the end of the play, which featured a desperate M pleading with a reticent, cross-legged John. Undeniably, the only thing more jarring than overlapping screaming and shouting in the theatre is absolute, pin-drop silence.

In short, Cock is not exactly enjoyable to watch. If anything, it is one of the most unnerving plays to sit through, but that is the point. You are supposed to be constantly on the edge of your seat, uncomfortable with the events that have just taken place and overwhelmingly concerned about what is to follow. That is also why Bartlett entirely avoids resolution: to keep us in a state of perturbation. There is no way to solve John’s problem, because there is no black-and-white when it comes to identity. Gender and sexuality are social constructs that are constantly evolving as we move through time and Bartlett captures this reality beautifully in Cock.

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