Production Diary: '113' at the Interplay Theatre, Leeds
Production Diary: 113 at the Interplay Theatre, Leeds
Friday 23rd January: The Final Show
So, after almost a year of rehearsals and productions, we are finishing off our tour of 113 with one night at the Interplay Theatre in Leeds, our 7th venue. It's incredibly sad to be ending this journey, but exciting to have one last hurrah in a city that's totally new to me.
Isobel Glover, Sali Adams, and I take a direct train from Oxford at around 11am, which will get us into the city for the early afternoon. Mercifully, we've foregone additional rehearsals for this final production, so Isobel and I run lines on the journey (our usual tradition, which must make us seem like total nutters to everyone around us). It's nice to be reminded of how permanently ingrained every step of the show is in our brains, and we look forward to having as much fun as possible tonight. Sali is busied with editing sound cues for her upcoming play (My Dead Mum's AI Boyfriend, BT Studio 3rd-7th Feb!) - it makes me happy to know that we all have our own future projects to look forward to, even as we let go of this one.
Once we've navigated our way across Leeds, found our cozy flat for the night, and nipped out to a chippy in the rain, we are whisked into a cab to the theatre. The Interplay (which subtitles itself: 'The National Sensory Theatre') is a lovely space, though not what we're used to: the blacked-out converted church hall provides masses of space, and high ceilings amplify every sound with eerie echoes. We decide to perform in traverse (like in Bridgend), which feels like it fits the show's concept well, but brings its own difficulties (elaborated on in my last diary).
The show itself is a huge amount of fun, but even more emotional than usual. We have a brilliant big crowd in, largely comprised of 'industry people' (e.g., the Leeds Arts Centre, who invited us to perform in the city in the first place, people from Red Ladder Theatre, and the Northern Arts Review). I cry at the usual points, and as expected everything is tinged with the hurt of doing it for the last time. What I hadn't expected was getting quite so teary and emotional at one of the lighter moments in the show, when I slide a drawing of Isobel's character to her beneath the wall that separates us. Tonight, I take the opportunity to write a message to Isobel herself, and we both get a little sentimental on our own behalves. As our characters in that sequence realise how deeply they care for one another as friends, I'm unsure what's pretend and what's real.
Although assessing my own performance is far from the forefront of my mind tonight, I do feel like I've conquered a fear of final nights. The play I went to Fringe with in 2024, My Blood, was the first show I had worked on for an extended period, and covered about 8 months from when I first got involved with it. The play culminated in a huge, melodramatic sequence in which my character (called Oliver, a modernised Orestes) gave a tortured spiral of a monologue lasting pages of text interspersed with short scenes with other actors. It was totally exhausting (always caking my entire body in sweat by the end), tense, and mercilessly long (all-in-all gratuitous, perhaps), but with my unsophisticated 19-year-old-with-something-to-prove approach to acting I considered it a great test of performance ability. On the final night of the show, when this 30-minute sequence arrived, I was incapable of getting into it, and felt like it was my worst go at it ever. Instead of feeling any of the emotions I usually did, all I could think about was that I was giving the words for the final time.
That was a play we did 2 productions of - what was I going to be like doing for the last time a show like 113 that had played a huge part in defining the last year of my life? Thankfully, tonight is a very different experience. All the sadness of leaving behind this incredible journey with some of my most loved friends presses on me, but I'm also celebrating everything we've achieved, and it feels like both high and low moods throughout the show are amplified.
When I come offstage for the last time, I am genuinely sobbing because it's over, and the final moments of the play hit so much harder. This makes our post-bow sentimentalities even more embarrassing, but there's no way to be unemotional as we receive flowers and cards from our wonderful writer-director duo Rio Joubert and Ethan McLucas. A cab home, some beers for a final celebration, and the sofa-bed (eventually) claims me for the night. "We'll see each other again," I have to keep telling myself, "There are new projects around the corner." I truly love these people, and am so incredibly grateful for the opportunities and experiences they've given me. There is simply no way to deny how sad it is to say goodbye to this show.
Saturday 24th January: "You'll be here when I wake up, right?"
Today, I nip into the Carriageworks Theatre (a true behemoth of an arts/community centre, right in the middle of the city), to catch Ethan and Rio giving a workshop about the play for the Leeds Arts Centre group. This is something they seem to be experimenting with as they excitingly move forward with 113 with a new cast.
Since this isn't the end of 113 onstage, I am a little hesitant to spoil the plot in case anyone intends to see it at Edinburgh Fringe 2026. If you do plan on doing so, you probably ought to stop reading here. Finally, I will indulge in talking about what actually happens in this play.
113 is a story about the relationship between two people stuck in adjacent cells who know nothing about who they are, but are desperately trying to remember on the basis that doing so will allow them to leave. Fitting for a somewhat surreal, existential piece, we are never sure what is really going on. Ethan and Rio both insist that audiences aren't owed any concrete answers, and much is up to interpretation (I've always felt that they must be in some kind of afterlife scenario - their stories are over before we meet them). Ostensibly, though, this is some kind of clinical facility for those struggling to come to terms with the realities of their lives. Where 113 diverges from other cyclical, existential-dialogue-heavy plays is that we do, gradually, learn in plain terms who these people are and why they are here. 49 (real name Paris Deed), Isobel's character, is a military academy reject baffled by their failure to follow in the footsteps of a familial lineage of soldiers. Although 49 remembers all of this briefly, they outright deny their own backstory upon its resurfacing, and are actually trapped in a cycle of remembering-and-forgetting that keeps them in their cell indefinitely. The character I played, 64 (real name Casey Maxer), is a recovering addict who blames themself for their father's death, and subsequently has a breakdown at their mother's marriage to a new man. Where 49 rejects the truth, 64 manages to accept it despite the ugly self-portrait it paints ("What if I am a bad person?"). So, after a journey through indignation, cockiness, impulsivity, scribbling, existential dread, realisation and a healthy dose of tears, I managed on 22 evenings to bring Casey out of their cell.
I tell you all this for two purposes. The first is that I want to impress what this story and this character have meant to me. 113 gave me a way to ask questions about identity, friendship, and self-acceptance just around the time of my life when those questions were beginning to matter even more (teetering on the edge of post-uni professional life, somewhere between being a "proper" adult and still getting ID'd). For all their glaring flaws from aggression to entitlement, I truly love Casey, and it's genuinely been a pleasure coaxing them out of that room every performance night.
The second is that the play's ending is crucial to understanding the emotions of my final moments as a part of this cast. The final scene gives us a final conversation between 64 and 49, where the former can't bring themselves to tell the latter that they're leaving. Their time together is over, and Casey is crushed by having to delude the friend they've come to care so much about. You can see why it felt so poignant last night.
I must stop talking now, and move on to a million other things. I'll resist the temptation to end with the final lines from the play (far too downbeat), and instead leave you with a considerably lighter moment in the script, which I associate with all the fun I've had as part as part of this little gang. Thanks to everyone who came to watch, all the venues, and the people who made this experience so special. Thanks Casey.
64: But you know what else sounds like a joke?
49: What?
64: Two idiots stuck in two fucking boxes, right next to each other.
49: Speak for yourself, I’m no idiot.
64: You’re talking to me, you must be dumb...
Huge thanks are due to Ethan and Rio for looking after us and organising our trips over the past year; to Isobel and Sali for being the best castmates and friends one could ask for; and to Interplay Theatrre for having us.
You can find tickets for Sali's brilliant new one-person show, My Dead Mum's AI Boyfriend, here.
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