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I Am Tiger
I Am Tiger
by Alistair Maxwell
Teenager Laura is given a tiger by her parents to cope with the sudden loss of her older brother Danny. Not a metaphorical tiger, not a symbolic tiger, not a stuffed tiger or one that burns bright in the forests of the night. A literal tiger. One that starts out as big as a border collie and is intent on staying for more than just tea.
The bizarre concept is rooted by a tremendous, grounded, performance from its lead, Chloe-Ann Taylor, who mines not only Laura’s confusion at the two earth-shattering events in her life, but also her rage. She brings Oliver Emanuel’s script to life and also finds the time to play both parents, a therapist and her own school friends.
Oliver Emanuel’s new play I am Tiger, commissioned by Imaginate and staged as part of the Edinburgh Children's Festival is a combination of two awful, pertinent 21st century facts. One is that the leading cause of death in men under 40 is suicide. The other is that there are currently more tigers owned privately as pets than there are tigers in the wild.
As great as the script is, the moments that really stand out are the silences. The plot is full of people who don’t know how to speak or what to speak about. Laura’s Dad disappears into D.I.Y, Laura’s Mum disappears into a full time Tiger Mum duty. The only thing they don’t speak about is that which unites them all but has also torn a hole in the family unit: the loss of Danny. The play is full of pregnant pauses as everyone skirts around that which they don’t know how to deal with. It’s full of “Well, y’know…”’s. “And…”’s. “Eh…”’s. The idea of the unspoken subject hangs over the audience’s heads at all times, like a sword of Damocles forged from grief itself. The tiger is almost a relief. At least, as Laura learns, a tiger is a real tangible thing that can be dealt with, unlike suicide.
This idea is wonderfully reinforced by Jamie Vartan’s one-point perspective set. Laura runs and jumps across a series of identical squares that shrink smaller and smaller into the background leading towards this empty void, almost in reach, but which can never be discussed. It’s a wonderfully evocative set, only hindered by the lighting that unfortunately reveals that the set is not in fact floating in space.
I am Tiger is a well-written, wonderfully acted and beautifully staged addition to the conversation about suicide. It has a simple purview and never oversteps the mark on what is a very difficult subject. Its beauty lies in its theatrical extravagance as well as a simple poetry. “Moments pass. Even bad ones” is the closest thing to a manifesto in the play, and it’s all the better for it. There is nothing to do to bring people back, to live and continue to live, to love and continue to love. And if looking after a tiger is a way to learn how to cope and live again, then it’s better than never moving on.
