Created by Casey Jay Andrews

Review by Marina Funcasta

The Fringe festival is definitely not wanting in one-man shows about existential mid-life crises; scripts written by lost thirty-something-year-olds living in big cities with big dreams are rinsed and repeated, standing in self-deprecating solidarity year in and year out. 

And yet, ‘Oh my heart, Oh my home’ transcends this categorisation – be it because of Casey Jay Andrews’ fluidly free indirect discourse, Jack Brett’s hypnotising musical effects, or indeed, the little toy house which assumes a character of its own. Tying large-scale astrological themes to interpersonal relationships; the play cannot be said to be unambitious. But somewhere between the scattered meteorite trivia and projections of trees, honest characters and true feelings emerge in an authentic and relatable way. 

Following Freddie’s homecoming to the house, once inhabited by all their family, now only by Grandad Howard and his Scottish terrier, their reasons for returning and length of stay seem ambiguous; an unfulfilling job, hapless romance, age; it would seem Freddie procures refuge from modern life, seeking to rediscover their roots. It also happens to be the eve of their birthday. And the date for a fateful meteor shower. I say fateful as, it turns out, Howard and Freddie have bonded in the past over their fascination with astrology.

The house reveals itself in an elegant way; its layers are tentatively lifted by Andrews, who guides us through rooms indulgently digressing into vignettes of memories, creating ghosts of characters which haunt the audience with a sense of nostalgia.

The evocative power of the script is where Andrew’s genius emerges. The absence of unnamed characters brings tears to eyes and sniffles to noses. The hypnotic elements of Andrews’ narration lull the audience into a state of dazed safety, achieving the effect of something like a bedtime story – except, if this bedtime story was of Epic proportions.

The constant shifts in scales between universal, astrological and personal, internal thoughts can be said to be overwhelming at times, especially when Andrews speeds up, even if this is performed for effect. Nevertheless, in the small space afforded by Summerhall’s Women’s Locker Room, an intricate web of intimacy is constructed so carefully that it is almost imperceptible. That is, until lights go up, and Andrews thanks you, humbly, for listening to her story.