At the start of Shinjuku, Abby (Claudette Baker-Park) has stolen a few minutes away from her Deliveroo job (“it’s just temporary!”) so that she can meet with her class teacher Toni (Noa Gelb) to discuss warning signs that her 12-year-old son Baxter might have been “red-pilled” by male supremacist ideology. When they’re joined by head teacher Sam (James Matheson), the story shifts direction, widening out to incorporate the backstories of Abby and Sam, continuing to interrogate issues of power between men and women, but at a different level.
Gelb credibly conveys Toni’s complexity as a thin-skinned smiling busybody, an insecure educator motivated by a mixture of genuine concern and misplaced preoccupation with her own family issues. Baker-Park and Matheson have an enjoyable and fully believable chemistry, which helps them navigate a series of reveals that would otherwise edge uncomfortably close to melodrama.
There’s a nice amount of tension, dripped out teasingly, as the desperately concerned mother tries to get all the information about what her son is meant to have done. When it’s finally fully revealed, though, that narrative line is largely dropped. Nor does the script resolve questions it raises about the cause of the incident, trading them in at that point to follow other threads.
One of the more interesting aspects of Shinjuku, which takes its title from the sprawling Japanese rail station that made a younger Abby feel utterly lost, is the peculiarity of the dialogue. It just isn’t quite naturalistic. People suddenly volunteer personal disclosures; they ask and answer strange questions; they process bombshell revelations cheerfully and with ease. It lends a heightened air of artificiality and strangeness to the proceedings that borders on the Brechtian. As it isn’t apparent to what end the effect is employed, it is also not entirely clear that it has been done deliberately.
It’s easy to see the structure that writer/producer Claire Wood intends for this piece to have, but the execution is somewhat bumpy. There’s an early feint in expectations that’s funny but bewildering, followed later by a tumble into slightly painful predictability. Add in the strange dialogue and abrupt scene breaks, and the result can be a little bewildering.
There are many good ideas and enjoyable moments in Shinjuku, but the work still feels as though it’s in transit and hasn’t yet reached its final station.
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