Written and performed by Olly Hawes, and directed by P Burton-Morgan, Old Fat F**k Up is a one-hander about a middle-aged dad struggling with two children, his family and his masculinity. In essence, he is struggling with his male identity which feels more and more turbulent and insecure in today’s world.
Staged in a mini traverse, the opening ten minutes might be the most intriguing part. Hawes engages the audience with playful meta-theatricality: he insists that this is not a standup comedy, mocks the realistic theatres with sufficient budgets for luxurious designs, and requires us to imagine a Netflix series unfolding on this bare stage, immediately reminds you of Henry V’s Chorus. He also mocks himself as “a millennial middle-aged theatremaker” that feels most touching and resonant: though it is a fact, the phrasing itself appears as oddly contradictory and uncanny.
However, such playful exploration on theatrical genres doesn’t quite feed back to the narrative. The whole performance feels like an extended rant with little in-depth reflection. For men’s familial responsibilities, for instance, you probably would find better reflection in Sondheim’s Company. Instead, it treats the theatrical space like an afternoon party where the audiences are invited to listen to his self-deprecating roast. Although Hawes constantly reminds us that the story is fictional, this disclaimer adds little to its narrative intention.
Just like the moment in the urinal scene, the dad has the pulse to share his failures to his mate, but eventually, his masculinity forbids him. Instead, they just start boasting. Maybe that is the whole point of making it theatrical: exactly because men are socially conditioned not to confess vulnerability to wives, families, or friends, theatre seems to be the most ideal and safe place where they can rant about themselves.
There are also some moments clearly intended to be poignant or evocative, such as his unspoken “I love you” to his wife, or the troubling moment he strikes his young boy (un)intentionally. But these moments appear as underpowered and bland that fails to be either dramatically charged or emotionally affecting. Even when depicting violence, it lacks the visceral force needed to leave a powerful impact.
At the end of Old Fat F**k Up, there is a surreal wanking dream in which the man imagines himself as the ultimate successful, conventionally masculine figure adored by every woman. This could work as a moment of reflection, but it hardly reads like so.
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