Is there anything left undiscussed in the post-#MeToo era? What else can we understand about the trauma of sexual assault, and what might be the remedy? Written by Ciara Elizabeth Smyth and directed by Oisín Kearney, Lie Low, further explores the potential and boundaries of such storytelling.
The exchange of positions and perspectives is a common device in plays discussing rape. Lie Low elevates it by cleverly portraying a pair of siblings as both victimised and accused. Faye (Charlotte McCurry) suffers from insomnia following a sexual assault at a party, while her brother Naoise (Thomas Finnegan) is accused of sexual assault for kissing a woman at his workplace.
Naoise comes to Faye for a character reference, and she enlists him in her “exposure therapy,” believing that re-enacting the assault will cure her insomnia. Truth excruciates both. Faye suspects Naoise as her assailant. She forces him to prove his innocence by showing his penis. The victim turns into the predator.
Compared to Faye, Naoise feels much less explored as a character. It would be more insightful if Naoise’s embodiment were further examined—pretending to assault Faye makes him feel sick. What changes occur in the rapist’s body? Why does he feel sick? What can this tell us about the nature of sexual assault, eroding our subjectivity and consumes both body and mind, distinct from a stabbing or knocking down? Instead, the play falls back on traditional male excuses: he’s just trying to be nice; it’s the woman’s seduction; he might lose his job, mortgage, and six-month pregnant wife.
Charlotte McCurry manoeuvres a hysterical and hyper-exhilarated Faye, while Thomas Finnegan compellingly depicts Naoise’s toxic masculinity and his inner fragility. His non-stop trembling at the end declares a reversal of the power. Faye pours her Rice Krispies on his head, claiming victory. But does she? Is it morally right, or at least useful, to turn the violence against the assaulter?
Lie Low provokes questions beyond the cliché that “anyone can be a predator regardless of gender.” This claim downplays the reality that the vast majority of victims are women. After assaulting Naoise, Faye transforms. She becomes overtly self-confident, taking control of her life—from couple therapy (with her girlfriend) to making Pavlova and avocado sandwiches—a self-empowered, successful neoliberal individual, almost like a man. She becomes the female “he.”
This transformed Faye gives a final monologue in response to her GP (voiceover by Rory Nolan), who was initially incapable of treating her insomnia. Walking on the messy ground of Rice Krispies, she leaves traces throughout the stage. The taint of her past, as either victim or assaulter, remains a part of her life she can never get rid of. The answer is not simply that “each gender can be a predator,” nor is it merely about using violence against violence. The play leaves it unanswered, replaced with a final dance that feels random and gratuitous.
Lie Low is a thought-provoking invitation to explore the complexities of sexual assault in a post-#MeToo era. Rather than providing standardised answers, we need to seek our own answers outside a theatre.
Lie Low is at the Royal Court until 8th June 2024
