Casper by name, Casper the ghost by nature. That’s our Billy. A “nearly sixteen” paperboy forever on the run. Disappearing round a corner, through a door, over a hill. Likewise his mother into a cloud of perfume. And his brother down a perilous mine-shaft.

And what they are running from is life. Or rather a measly manner of existence in the “smudge” of a pit town devoid of hope. The essence of which is subtly distilled in Kenneth MacLeod’s industrial colour scheme of grey slabs and rusted metal. In stark contrast to the fiery red and blinding white lighting states of Lizzie Powell which reflect the growing anger and despair that bubbles under the surface before exploding in a burst of violence.

But through the cracks in the clouds, a glimmer of light appears in the form of a kestrel which much like Billy has fallen (or been shoved) out of its nest. But rather than submit the bird to the same levels of bullying, humiliation and neglect that have corroded his childhood, he cups it in his warm hands, nourishes it with food and affection, and encourages it to fly. To soar.

If only his parents, his teachers and by extension the state had afforded him the same care. Rather than write him off as someone who will amount to “nowt”.

Adapted from Barry Hines’ novel A Kestrel for a Knave, which gave rise to Ken Loach’s breakthrough film Kes, Lu Kemp’s production of Robert Alan Evans’ hour-long two-hander for Perth Theatre is expertly staged. And like the stick-thin legs of the big-headed “pile of scruff” that is Kes, there’s not an ounce of fat in the writing, direction or performances.

Danny Hughes is quietly impressive as the dour yet determined Billy. His blank face masking a myriad of emotions which escape in a stolen glance or a skyward reflection. And Matthew Barker does a fine job of delineating a host of colourful characters, from Billy’s mother and brother to his teachers and employer, with nothing more than a shift in physicality and change of tone.

There’s no pulse-racing dramatic climax and the emotions are rarely stirred, but it’s nonetheless a powerful production, bolstered by Matt Padden’s intricately-woven sound design, which though set fifty years ago is as relevant today in its depiction of the limited choices faced by working class men and the empty rhetoric of a Northern Powerhouse.

Peter Callaghan
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