A TANKFUL OF EMOTIONAL TENTACLES
Where better than Hampstead to watch the interplay of cutting-edge science with emotional intensity and philosophical unanswerables? Upstairs we have Gunderson’s ANTHROPOLOGY (scroll below) . In that , a grieving software engineer recreates her lost sister as an obliging algorithm without independent consciousness. Meanwhile down here in the studio you may meet an actual anthropologist : a chap arriving to study an animal-behaviourist’s relationship with an octopus called Frances which may, or may not, have a form of intelligent consciousness. The earlyish line “George, I am here to ascertain whether or not your octopus believes in God” was the moment I sank, ever so happily, into properly enjoying Marek Horn’s intriguingly weird two-hander.
For others the willing settling-down will be due to the occasional Bowie tracks, and for dedicated Whovians (there were several obviously present) the presence of Dr Who’s own Jemma Redgrave, always reliably flawless in both intensity and humour. So, all in all, a damn good time. And you learn a lot about octopi (though the scientists say octopuss-es). They are cephalopods of the deep ocean, who shed their shells long ago: who hunt and hide, camouflage and think, each tentacle having independent sensors and memories. Is this, scientists ask in their endearingly hair-ruffling way, an alternative form of intelligence? Why are we humans stuck with just one brain in our fragile skulls, when Frances the octopus spreads hers into new forms of perception? And perhaps of feeling, of thought…
It’s a deeply human story, though: Redgrave’s George is newly widowed, deep in grief; her husband was partner in the study of Frances, both living domestically alongside her tank. Harry the anthropologist (Ewan Miller) is apparently here to work out whether certain behaviours suggest that the creature is also grieving his lost master, and whether it therefore has a sense also of a Supreme Power. But he is also studying George’s co-dependent relationship with it.
Sorry, with her: possibly octopi have strong modern views on pronoun correctness.
The pair’s fraught, fascinating relationship is related in a past tense by him, and played out by them together; sometimes they dance, writhily octopoid. Her grief and touchiness are brilliantly shown by Redgrave, and Miller catches nicely the man’s more naif academicism and growing fascination with her. There are some very funny moments, usually her asides. My notebook is scrawled with “Where does intelligence lead?” And “Infertile eggs – chemically mandated triumph of hope over experience?”.
There’s a crisis, no spoilers, but it involves a lot of ink (all Frances’ colours are shown by a fine lit background, sometimes troubled by bubbles, but we never see a single tentacle). And the conclusion is emotionally very pleasing.
Box-office. hampsteadtheatre.com. to 28 October
Rating four (one for each two octopus-legs)
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