A decade ago, in 2013, Neil Gaiman released The Ocean at the End of the Lane to largely positive critical acclaim. More importantly it was the first time that I have ever attended a book signing.
I was spending the summer taking in the sights of Dundee and by lucky chance, Gaiman was coming to the city to promote the release and sign copies for fans. I’ve been a big fan of Neil Gaiman for years now but at that point I was relatively new to his work. What I had read, though, I’d thoroughly enjoyed. How Gaiman wove the hauntingly fantastic with the beauty of mundanity was a huge inspiration for my own early 20s clumsy attempts at fiction; I admired him as a creative and was a devoted twitter follower.
So, I popped down to Waterstones and queued up with my meal deal and copy of American Gods to be signed along with the new book. There was definitely a vibe amongst his fans of the quirky and the unashamedly nerdy. I felt like a bit of a fraud; I’d only really seen Stardust and read American Gods. I didn’t feel like a proper fan.
As I crept closer to the man himself, trying to appear relaxed and cool about meeting someone whom I so admired, I tore my brain to pieces trying to come up with an interesting, insightful question or comment to hit him with. Something to make him go “Wow – how refreshing to have a question or comment that I haven’t heard n+1 times now. What a cool guy, we should go for a drink.”
I got to the front of the queue, he warmly asked me my name and made a Shakespeare reference. I seized up, pointed at his pen, eyes wide, and shouted “Nice pen!”
I think my voice may have cracked but I can’t be sure that that isn’t decades of hacky pop-culture dialogue rattling around my memory and getting tangled up with fact.
Anyway, he was lovely – told me the make and model of the pen and I pretended to take it in, while wanting to be crushed like a tiny Coke-can of shame. I slunk home and read the whole book that afternoon.
All this is to say that I have wanted to see the National Theatre production of Ocean at the End of the Lane for quite some time. Being an aspiring creative, though, meant that a trip to London was completely out of the question if I wanted to eat that month. A second stroke of luck, then, that the production is now on tour in the UK.
So last night my partner and I saw the opening night in Glasgow at the King’s Theatre. I failed, once again, to keep my enthusiasm at a cool distance and told our poor waiter at Sugo (a fantastic pasta place, by the way) all about our evening plans.
My partner tipped him well for his trouble – don’t worry.
To start, a word on the venue. The King’s Theatre in Glasgow is very hot and very cramped. I’m not a big person however you slice it and I was hunched throughout with knees crushed up against the seat in front. If you go, take plenty of water and stretch beforehand.
The show itself centres around the story of ‘Boy’ as he discovers a world of metaphysical sorcery and nightmarish malevolence in the comfort of his own home and that of the charming farmhouse down the road.
We open with a funeral and ‘Boy’ (now ‘Man’) rediscovering the farmhouse down the lane with no memory of the events of his childhood. We (and he) discover what happened all those years ago as the play unfolds. To tell much more would spoil the show – and it really is a show that shines when you go in with no preconceptions and watch the strange and puzzling turns unfold. It has been years since I’ve read the book, so, thanks to my appalling memory, there were still surprises for me too.
The cast is exceptionally strong all round, with standout performances from Daniel Cornish (Boy) and Finty Williams (Old Mrs Hempstock) in particular. Trevor Fox as ‘Dad’ is terrifying and touching and Millie Hikasa as Lettie Hempstock was an absolute joy to watch as Lettie tries to prove herself to her family, marrying cosmic power with clumsy childhood enthusiasm. Diction was clear as a bell throughout, if a bit shouty at times, though there were a couple of wandering accents here and there which resulted in a few tricky-to-hear lines.
Katy Rudd’s production is an absolute delight. Amongst the creatives listed are Magic and Illusions Director and Designer Jamie Harrison, and Costume and Puppet Designer Samuel Wyer – this gives you an idea of the treats you’re in for. Fly Davis deserves a special mention for the magical sets, including a personal highlight where our hero is faced with the nightmare logic of multiplying doors in an ironically claustrophobic sequence which bordered on sensory overload. Steven Hoggett and the ensemble deserve credit, too, for the ingenious use of movement and physical theatre elements which serve as stagehand, scenery, dance and puppetry throughout.
The show explores the relationship and dissonance between memory, and imagination. And, in the end, whether a distinction really needs to be made between the two at all. It asks us to experience joy, trauma, discovery, friendship, anger, and grief through the eyes of a child with an imagination as deep and wide as the titular ocean. The thematic emphasis on imagination versus reality keeps you questioning if what you are seeing is cold hard fact, or the jumbled rationalisations of a unique child’s imagination processing traumatic events. A particularly disturbing instance of this occurs in a gut-wrenching scene in which the father physically lashes out at the Boy and the Boy’s insistence that an evil force is behind it; this is all the more tragic when you consider that monsters and demons had nothing to do with it at all.
Ultimately, how far you want to wade into this ocean is up to you. If you are content to sit on the shore and delight in the lights, sounds, movement and magic, it is a stunning display sure to delight all audiences.
Or, if you’re feeling brave, you can push a bit further in until the cold locks your breath in your lungs and unseen things below the surface set your imagination on edge with the possibility of what just brushed against your shin.
