It is not easy to determine the intended nature of Christine Mackie’s Kin. The opening suggests a social-class comedy based around the concept of the guest who overstays their welcome, but this does not accord with later developments that shift towards a drama based upon an effort to redress a long-concealed family injustice.
Kay (Roberta Kerr), having just buried her husband, Robert, is not in the mood for company, particularly her over-entitled sister-in-law Steph (Kerry Willison-Parry). After ignoring unsubtle hints, and finally instructions, to leave, Steph reveals she is skint and homeless and, as Kay soon realises, has depended on financial support from Robert for some time. The ensuing arguments / discussions explore the reasons for Steph’s circumstances and also draw out some devastating revelations. But as Steph has been taking mysterious telephone calls, she may have a hidden agenda.
The initial antagonism between the characters can be explained by class consciousness. Steph is from a privileged background, is accustomed to other people resolving her mistakes and has never had to face up to consequences. Kay is a self-made businesswoman, proudly independent of her husband’s inherited wealth.
There are fine contrasting performances, with Roberta Kerr stubbornly retaining a working-class Yorkshire accent and her brittle body language reflecting moral judgement and disapproval. Kerr comes across as a grown-up compared to the childish approach of Kerry Willison-Parry, whose sulky self-pity and couldn’t-care-less attitude would irritate a saint.
There is irony with the apparently hard-bitten Kay becoming moved by Steph’s revelations and revealing an unexpectedly humane aspect. A particularly strong performance from Kerr demonstrates without words the sense of loss with which Kay is coping. Such brevity is welcome, as Kin is a play in which past events are described in long speeches rather than shown on stage.
Director Sue Jenkins is comfortable with the scenes showing the duo marking their territory with verbal digs. But Jenkins sets a leisurely pace, which is not appropriate as the play develops into a possible thriller. The plot twists are suitably surprising—one drawing verbal gasps from the audience—but the slow pace allows too much time to anticipate what is coming and lessens the impact.
It is not clear whether Steph is intended to be a traumatised survivor or a crafty manipulator or if her actions are a way of her coping with her experiences. The opening scenes with Steph as a card-carrying member of the elite class are hard to reconcile with the trauma survivor who materialises later. One wonders if Steph’s breezy tales of hedonism are part of a smokescreen to obscure her plans, but this is never clarified.
Steph’s method of gaining recompense means that Kay has to suffer financial loss, which is not dramatically satisfying. The script shies away from the dark possibility a victim could be so traumatised as to be able to justify to themselves victimising another person.
As the play is a two-hander, the guilty parties do not appear on stage, so the characters never achieve catharsis by confronting and challenging the offenders. Kin is a very well performed play, but one that might work better as an epic multipart television drama where the events could be shown without having to be described in lengthy speeches.