Care by Alexander Zeldin – Young Vic, London

Published at Plays International

Alexander Zeldin’s Care begins before the audience has realised. The Young Vic stage is transformed into a care home sitting room and, as they file in, Taru Devani’s Aditi sits slumped in a wheelchair, staring fixedly at nothing. Most people seem not to notice. The final stage of life when, as elderly, dependent people, we are looked after out of sight, is the focus of Care. It is notable how much of what Zeldin shows, despite being an inherent part of everyday life, is unfamiliar on stage.

Rosanna Vize’s set is hyper-realistic, down to the hand sanitiser, wipe-clean armchairs and reproduction pictures. It is a functional, depressing and entirely familiar setting. Here, a group of elderly people are looked after by two overworked members of staff. Each is in a different world of their own, struggling to understand where they have ended up, or to communicate. New arrival Joan, played by Linda Bassett, thinks her family will take her home soon. When they visit, it is soon clear she can never live with them again. The play is the story of her time in the care home and, without giving too much away, it is intimately concerned with death.

Zeldin, who also directs, has written a play which he describes as influenced by Harold Pinter, but also shows the influence of Caryl Churchill. The dialogue among the residents is fragmented, full of confusion, pauses and non-sequiturs as they wrestle with their diminishing realities, but it is also fully realistic and beautifully observed. The presence of Linda Bassett is a reminder of Churchill’s Escaped Alone, which she starred in: another play about aging and death which foregrounds the apparently inconsequential chatter of everyday life, revealing it to be full of significance. Care does something similar, examining the apparent banality of the strategies we use to cling onto life, Bassett’s performance is extraordinary, among an exceptional cast. Arriving confident but confused, she changes before our eyes, experiencing rage, despair, and strange, unexpected joy on her journey. 

Rosie Cavaliero is remarkable as her anguished daughter, Lynn, widowed and struggling with two teenage boys. William Lawlor plays elder son Laurie with the perfect blend of teen social terror and obnoxiousness, and his aggressive relationship with his younger brother Robbie (an excellent Ethan Malony on press night, alternating with Charlie Webb) is one of the most uncomfortable and convincing sibling relationships seen on stage.

The other care home residents give universally stunning performances, full of carefully physically observed movement: Diana Payan as a tiny Paula, Ann Mitchell as confused otter-fancier Agnes, Winston Sookham as Eugene, drifting through the background. Richard Durden is responsible for two of several heart-stopping moments during the evening, suddenly breaking into song, and stripping to his incontinence underwear to hug Joan, who settles for affection from someone who thinks she’s his dead wife. Hayley Carmichael, as Simone, is a disruptive force, constantly challenging authority, discussing sex and demanding wine, while Agnes accuses her of having been ‘a woman of the night’. Overseeing the residents is Llewella Gideon’s head nurse Hazel, a towering performance as the emotional centre of the play, and her naïve assistant Fanta (Aoife Gaston) who we delight in seeing grow into her job.

Zeldin’s direction is not perfect – the production has some pacing issues which may well be ironed out during the run, and the rhythm of the residents’ disconnected dialogue requires an intense precision which is not always achieved. The play also has occasional weaknesses, and the sub-plot around the death of Lynn’s husband feels like a distraction. However, Care is an impressive achievement. At times it is very funny. Hayley Carmichael has some of the best lines (“Your otters don’t mean shit to me”). 

It is also incredibly sad, and very moving. A lengthy, silent scene, in which Hazel gives Joan, naked to the waist, a bed bath is firstly shocking, then tender and moving. A final death scene represents the process of dying – rasping, alternate breaths as the body shuts down – with an accuracy perhaps never seen before on stage, despite the innumerable stage deaths across theatrical history. Zeldin’s decision to have characters who have died sit in the audience is a small piece of genius. No one who sees this play will forget it, and few will leave dry-eyed.