The Intimacy of Forgetting: Why Corkscrew Theatre’s Latest Production Demands Your Attention
There’s something profoundly human about the way we cling to memories—or, more often, the way they slip through our fingers. Personally, I think this is why Corkscrew Theatre’s upcoming double bill at Cambridge Junction feels so timely. In a world obsessed with documenting every moment, Goldfish Girl and 13a, 13b dare to ask: What happens when memory fails us? What remains when the past is a blank slate?
What makes this particularly fascinating is the contrast between the two plays. Goldfish Girl grapples with the fragility of memory in a long-term relationship, while 13a, 13b explores the chaos of chance encounters and familial bonds. On the surface, they’re distinct stories. But if you take a step back and think about it, both plays are really about the same thing: the ways we connect—or fail to connect—with one another.
Memory as a Character
One thing that immediately stands out is how Peter Souter uses memory as a character in its own right. In Goldfish Girl, Ally’s amnesia isn’t just a plot device; it’s a mirror held up to the audience. What many people don’t realize is how often we romanticize the past, filling in gaps with what we wish happened rather than what did happen. Souter’s writing forces us to confront that discomfort.
From my perspective, this play isn’t just about love; it’s about the stories we tell ourselves to make sense of it. Ally’s blank slate becomes a canvas for Joe’s nostalgia, and in that tension, we see the fragility of human connection. This raises a deeper question: If memory is unreliable, what grounds us in our relationships?
Chance and Chaos in the Air
Now, let’s talk about 13a, 13b. What this play really suggests is that life’s most pivotal moments often happen in transit—literally and metaphorically. Two strangers, bound by family but not by choice, meet mid-flight and are forced to confront what matters most. It’s a high-stakes scenario, but what’s truly compelling is how Souter strips away the noise to focus on the raw, unfiltered human experience.
A detail that I find especially interesting is the setting. A plane is a liminal space, suspended between departure and arrival. It’s a metaphor for life itself, isn’t it? We’re all just passengers, trying to make sense of the journey. Souter uses this setting to explore how chaos—whether it’s turbulence or a stranger’s presence—can force us to reevaluate our priorities.
The Power of Intimacy in Theatre
Corkscrew Theatre’s decision to stage these plays in Cambridge Junction’s J3 space is, in my opinion, a masterstroke. By stripping away grand sets and leaning into the venue’s atmospheric intimacy, the production places the audience right in the heart of the characters’ private worlds. It’s a fly-on-the-wall experience, but one that feels deeply personal.
What many people don’t realize is how much theatre relies on spectacle to distract from weak storytelling. Corkscrew does the opposite. They trust the material and the actors, allowing the audience to focus on the emotional core of the plays. This approach isn’t just bold; it’s necessary. In a world where attention spans are shrinking, theatre like this reminds us of the power of stillness and reflection.
Why This Matters—Beyond the Stage
If you’re thinking this is just another theatre review, think again. These plays tap into something universal: the human struggle to hold onto what matters in a world that’s constantly changing. Memory, connection, chance—these aren’t just themes; they’re the fabric of our lives.
From a broader perspective, Corkscrew Theatre’s work is a reminder of why local, independent theatre is so vital. They’re not just staging plays; they’re creating spaces for us to reflect on our own lives. In an era dominated by blockbuster productions and streaming services, this kind of intimate, thought-provoking theatre feels like a rebellion—and I’m here for it.
Final Thoughts
As someone who’s spent years analyzing theatre, I can say this with confidence: Corkscrew’s double bill is more than just a night out. It’s an invitation to confront the fragility of memory, the chaos of chance, and the intimacy of human connection. If you’re in Cambridge next week, do yourself a favor and grab a ticket.
But even if you can’t make it, the questions these plays raise are worth pondering. What would you do if you couldn’t remember the love of your life? How would you choose what matters most in the face of chaos? These aren’t just theatrical dilemmas—they’re the stuff of life itself. And that, my friends, is why theatre like this matters.
Tickets are £15, and trust me, it’s worth every penny. Because sometimes, the most profound experiences are the ones that leave you with more questions than answers.
