A chandelier hovers precariously over a half moon table. Before which stand six closed doors. What are they concealing? Where do they lead? A chessboard floor hints that mind games await, later confirmed in a cryptic quip: “Truth is but a fatalistic lie.”

Holidaymaker Murdo (Tim Licata) finds himself lost and alone in a Highland storm. In his pocket, a crumpled address of an old friend whose half-forgotten invitation he reluctantly accepts.

Knock knock. Who’s there? Murdo. A lawyer? No, Murdo. A lawyer? No, Murdo.

He is not who he seems. Neither are his hosts: a quintet of twinkly-eyed step-siblings who together with their pencil-moustached servant cast a watchful eye over their enigmatic father who it would appear has had more jobs than Douglas Ross. Musician, soldier and farmer to name but three.

Best Wordpress Gallery Plugin

After being forced to strip for fear of contracting a deadly disease, Murdo is led into a labyrinth of darkened doorways and claustrophobic corridors to the “new sofa” which is far from new. Never ever ever touch the cellar door, he is warned. But the key to which he does, after a bout of unexpected hiccups.

A series of absurd encounters follow. Each more outlandish than the other. Which as Andrew Cruickshank’s jangling live score suggests and one of the quirky quintet articulates: “there is a fine line between eccentric and sinister”.

Quite what this Covid-delayed co-production by Plutôt la Vie and Lung Ha means, is anyone’s guess. But Tim Licata is at his clownish best as he struggles to join the dots of the spirited ensemble’s antics. And Ian Cameron and Maria Oller’s socially-distanced direction injects physicality and suspense into Michael Duke’s frequently farcical script.

The walls have ears and the toilet has eyes, we are told. To which I would add: the siblings have noses as long as Pinocchio.

Peter Callaghan
Latest posts by Peter Callaghan (see all)