The fear of thirteen, triskaidekaphobia, is a word our protagonist Nick Yarris learned on death row in a Pennsylvania penitentiary where gratuitous violence is the norm. As well as the word ‘incredulous’, which comes in handy in Lindsey Ferrentino’s darkly funny, tense, sympathetic and understated script. Yarris learned to read in prison and became a bookworm. He likes words.
As an aside, I might add, fear of Friday 13th is paraskevidekatriaphobia—handy for me, as it is my birthdate—in dire circumstances. Yes, we all have stories to tell, and Yarris (Adrien Brody making his London theatre debut) is a great storyteller. And a liar—which gets him out of mischief and into it, big time. The police lie, too. Brody / Yarris keeps us captive and captivated for nigh on two hours without an interval. On the “precipice” of life.
Yarris did time on death row, twenty-two years for a crime he didn't commit. Not so lucky. The wheels of justice are slow. He talks of time being a curious thing, sometimes years can fly by, whilst a day can be interminable. I call it concertina time. ‘Time’ is called time and time again by the burly prison guard (Aiden Kelly a threatening presence) when the volunteer prison visitor (Nana Mensah sincere and warm, her voice music to his ears) takes up his case. And falls in love with him. They bond over books.
Time in silent solitary, time stretched year after year in hope for a court decision to test his DNA. Tardy procedures, corruption, indifference, evidence lost or deteriorated: during this time, he gets married and divorced—she needs a life and a family.
His final, ultimately clever move is to beg, though innocent, the court to execute him in sixty days time. That is unprecedented. It’s those books, you know, they do give you ideas… A judge is galvanised into action. DNA is salvaged from the autopsy of the murdered and raped woman. At the end of his tether, he is freed. The guard, suddenly a polite, gentle soul, calls him by his name.
Justin Martin’s (Prima Facie director) production grabs you in a police headlock and doesn't let you go. Brody grabs your heart and doesn't let it go in a performance that is a masterclass of naturalistic, deceptively effortless acting. Magnetic. Brody squeezes every bit of juice out of a voluble situation, his body language supple, his open face full of innocent charm.
In Donmar’s 250-seater intimate theatre—in-the-round upstairs for this production—you are no further than four rows away from the actors. So close, there is nowhere to hide, eye contact has to be made and kept.
Brody’s humble man—stupid one, he says—from the sticks, a petty car thief, drunken joyrider—recounts his life backwards and forwards, a traumatised nine-year-old and a beaten up adult, in non-linear fashion, adding pieces of the jigsaw we didn't know we wanted to know.
A brilliant piece of writing and staging: five (Michael Fox, Posi Morakinyo, Cyril Nri, Ferdy Roberts, Tommy Sim’aan, all brilliant) bullied and bullying inmates play multiple roles, lovers, judge, counsel and heavenly choir up in the top tier. Popping up out of the stalls around the square central arena, lit dramatically by Jon Clark, and behind the glass partition at the back (compact set design by Miriam Buether).
Tight direction, a super cast choreographed to the last detail, a world première that is sold out (try for returns) on Brody’s name and Hollywood credentials no doubt, needs to be seen for its sensitivity in tackling “a true story” of a miscarriage of justice.
What an auspicious start this inaugural production is in Tim Sheader’s first season as Artistic Director of the Donmar Warehouse. The Fear of 13 has made its own luck with a tremendous cast and crew of creatives, including costume designer Brigitte Reiffenstuel and composer DJ Walde, whose lovely work I know from Kate Prince’s ZooNation.
There is a final surprise at the end: the real Yarris appears on several screens (TV news streams, police helicopter chase) in the auditorium, thanking us for coming. And the prison guard is a man after my own heart: he warns us at the start no mobiles, cameras, food or drink, no pen or paper (oops), and “for goodness sake wear a bra”…