"I know there’s a reviewer in tonight," says author and performer Sammy Trotman peering into the audience. Yes, but not one willing to identify himself to someone who claims to have sociopathic tendencies.
That’s Not My Name opens with a white-hot stream of consciousness, blank verse recital in which Trotman lacerates herself for her privileged white, wealthy background and lack of empathy and rages against the determination of health professionals to label her as one thing or another.
No, it doesn’t start like that. Director Jake Rix (who, like a trooper, provides on-stage support throughout) opens with a half-hearted content warning. Rix maintains this deliberately shambolic atmosphere, possibly to demonstrate directing Trotman is like herding cats. Her entrance involves dragging a patron on stage (who is then returned to her seat apologetically by Rix), doing the splits and generally wrecking the place.
This apparently piecemeal attitude conceals a slow-burn joke which demonstrates the care taken with the script. Acknowledging the shaky direction and inconsistent lighting (by Scott Ward), Trotman explains she employs neurodiverse staff to meet the criteria for an Arts Council grant. There are occasions when the distracted approach seems real—Trotman makes a noise like coughing up a hairball and demands the audience throw things at her should she repeat the sound. She never does.
That’s Not My Name is autobiographical and confrontational. Having struggled with her mental health and a drink problem, Trotman allowed herself to be institutionalised and turned to writing stand-up material as it was the only way she could talk to herself while under observation. She has withering opinions on the way her neuroses were categorised by health professionals, who seemed to believe such classification was a cure in itself.
There is the uncomfortable impression of being within a disturbed or distracted mind as Trotman jumps from one topic to another. An audience member is invited to share Trotman’s opinion that the stage floor is ‘itchy’. One lengthy digression involves Trotman dissecting the reasons why we initially politely refuse but eventually accept the offer of a crisp. She feels so strongly on the issue she stamps the crisps to powder.
The expensive private school education may be good for something, as Trotman revises Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs to trace the development from showbiz type to serial killer. Her underwear features the slogan, "I’m too Jung for this."
This is a striking, even shocking degree of honesty under the humour. Trotman is very open about the impact upon her development of her dysfunctional relationship with her father. Trotman’s longest relationship was with someone closer to a father-figure than a boyfriend. When she chats with a couple in the audience, she admits the purpose is to acquire parents and not start a threesome. Acknowledging her parents met the financial burden of her treatment, she points to the principle of if you break something, you ought to pay for repairs.
Hilarious, stingingly honest, downright weird but most of all stunningly original, That’s Not My Name is a fine addition to the Manchester Fringe.