Lie Low. Royal Court Theatre.

First seen at Dublin Fringe in 2022, Ciara Elizabeth Smyth’s pitch dark and deeply unsettling absurdist comedy-drama Lie Low finally makes a London appearance Upstairs at the Royal Court. Director Oisín Kearney plays with audience expectations at every turn, foregrounding the jarring shifts in Smyth’s text between surreal, dream-like comedy and bitter, menacing conflict. The two-hander, which already enjoys something of a cult following, boasts the single most grotesque scene of unbridled, sexually fraught sibling powerplay you are likely to see on stage this or any year. Extraordinary performances from Charlotte McCurry and Thomas Finnegan make Lie Low a near unmissable, and at times almost unbearably uncomfortable, 70 minutes.

Mid-thirties Faye (a dynamic, all-consuming turn by a marvellously manic Charlotte McCurry), formerly “a copywriter for a vegan meat company” has not slept for 20 days. The exact details are hazy, but a year ago she awoke at home after a boozy night out to find herself without underwear and with a naked male intruder standing over her. “I was struggling for a bit afterwards, I’m fine now though” she claims, only she is not. What remains is an intense, unshakable feeling is that she is about to be raped and murdered. Pompous local GP Dr Houlihan (an unseen Rory Nolan) is not much help, but a Google search suggests something called exposure therapy might be of assistance with PTSD. But who can Faye trust to create an environment safe enough to recreate the experience she fears and avoids?

Enter Faye’s brother Naoise (finely judged bumptious whining from Thomas Finnegan), a university lecturer currently under investigation for sexually assaulting a colleague after a drunken evening at the pub. “Women don’t really like me” he tells us, by way of elucidating his vociferous denial of the assault allegation. The siblings have not seen each other for some time. Reasons for their estrangement soon become clear. Twists and unexpected turns reveal both the psychological consequences of trauma and the disconcertingly fine lines that may possibly exist between abused and abuser.

Lie Low’s themes, unreliable memory, culpability, and the nature of victimhood, are familiar territory.  But Smyth’s deeply ambiguous text and Kearney’s startling directorial conceits confound constantly. The sibling’s recollections become impossible to reconcile. Any simplistic identification of the injured party is continuously questioned. At times we are invited to commit that most venal of unwoke sins: questioning the words of a female accuser. Bleak, miserable memories are revealed though broad, acidic humour and unexpected dance interludes (never does Kelly Marie’s disco ditty It Feels Like I’m in Love feel so profoundly out of place). Painful, vital, astonishing theatre.

Writer:  Ciara Elizabeth Smyth

Director:  Oisín Kearney