Inside Pussy Riot is an intriguing premise for a show – billed, it seems, as an invitation into the mindset and idealism of the post-rock alternative feminist anarchist group. The reckless abandon and excitement of an immersive, nonconformist show getting a platform at the Saatchi Gallery almost feels like an event more than a play, an internationally symbolic experience. Even BBC Russia went to cover it.
Audience members fill in a form, signing away some details, add some social links, before being encouraged to don boldly-coloured balaclavas. From there they are led from a cathedral, with stained glass depictions of oppression – Trump, Putin, May, Grenfell – through to an arrest, a mock trial, an incarceration. It’s an intense, semi-autobiographical depiction of the real-life experiences of Pussy Riot co-founder Nadya Tolokonnikova.
The show works – creators Les Enfants Terribles, perhaps realising that they will never be able to fully recreate the horror of Tolokonnikova’s two-year ordeal, ham up how absurd and surreal the process is. It would be cultural voyeurism to try and authentically reproduce a Russian penal colony in a west London art gallery. The basic principles have to be laid bare.
This is where the show manages to make its salient point – authoritarianism is a vapid, uncultured phenomenon, and we should find abhorrent to experience, both in the abstract and in the real. The pastille colours of Zoe Koperski’s set work well, creating a surreal dichotomy between visual and sensual. One scene, in particular, stood out – a member of the audience is brought forward and told to take her clothes off. We stood there, in shocked silence, as she did it. We waited for someone to step forwards and complain. No one did. She went down to her underwear. A man stepped forwards, he said this was unfair. The actor-turned-guard replied that it was in the contract we signed. The shock turned into an anxiousness.
But Inside Pussy Riot really feels as though it never hits home as much as it could do – while artistic director Oliver Lansley and director Christa Harris know they can never reproduce the horrifying experiences of these incarcerated women, the show almost goes too far into the opposite direction, ending up somewhat flimsy. Its message of empowerment doesn’t emerge at the close of the show in the way it seems the company want it to. For all its heart and punch, I ended up feeling more nonplussed than galvanised.
I think this is in part due to the play’s location. Despite its cultural significance, the Saatchi, with its empty, clean, white spaces, gave the show an artificial feeling. It was an exhibit, to be viewed and toured around, probably cleaned after the show and left spotless. We never felt as though we were ‘inside’ Pussy Riot, but rather orbiting around it. Transplant the show to a warehouse in the suburbs, or out in Hackney, occupy a space and the disenfranchised roughness of the experience may have lent it that extra coarseness. This felt, unfortunately, somewhat sanitized.
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