Written by Mark Ravenhill

Directed by Conor O’ Cuinn

Assistant Direction by Gemima Iseka-Bekano

Musical Direction by Falk Meier

Intimacy Direction by Rebecca Mahar

Tickets from £6.00

Purses of all sorts command the world. Whether it’s coin or sex: London in the 18th century or a swanky drug-fuelled orgy of the 21st. The exuberant lust for the flesh or the glint of a quick buck all remain tempting. Though the price we pay for the dirty business of it all changes.

From the flourish of Émilie Noël’s set dressings to the strike of the initial notes from the live band (located just off stage), the sheer dedication and commitment to the production is evident from the outset. And they’ll need it for Mark Ravenhill’s black comedy, Mother Clap’s Molly House, that explores the endless diversities and intricacies of human sexuality, family, and the commodification of sex. It’s filthy, raucous, and damn right raunchy at times as it uses sexual actions in its staging, with some spicy language used to both blushing and intelligent effect.

But where better to revel in all that is carnal and intimate than in London 1726, where a dressmaker’s (a departure from the real Margaret Clap’s Coffee House) becomes a beacon for the gay subcultures of the city, and a potential new profit away from their usual daily business of renting out dresses to whores for a daily fee. Brimming with hilarious escapades and plentiful songs thanks to Matthew Scott, Mother Clap’s Molly House narrows in on the loss of these houses and other Queer spaces as we progress forward in time, losing something along the way. 

Slathered head to unmentionables in Queerness, Conor O’Cuinn’s direction plunges itself headfirst in parodic verse and sexual subversions of expectation – all under the gaze of God (a personified sense of commerce) and Eros, the god of erotic love and endless desire. Chelsea Laurik brings an initial distance between the omnipotent and the people in a strikingly effective costume design (Carmen Harkness), with tighter vocals than some of the cast, which cement their place as the centre of dutiful life. But it is Nash Norgaard’s Eros is the deity with the staying power here. Armed with nothing but their smile and a short golden skirt, this Eros is a combination of the physicality masculine, the more effeminate movements and control, and even a touch of the androgynous seduction – toeing a non-binary line as they hold, caress, and well, the rest of it with the cast.

There’s no wonder that even the most stalwarts fall under this influence. Reluctantly inheriting the shop, Mrs Tull (Olivia Martin) is left with only the most basic of understandings of the business after her husband gives up the ghost after one last erotic spark is too much for his heart to cope with. Leo Shaw’s Mr Tull is a bundle of nervous itching (we know where that came from) and hits the ground running for the show’s humour, but it’s Martin’s utterly outstanding performance which cements the show’s integrity and dimensions. An initially despairing performance where the quivers and genuine concern are within the voice – make way for a steadfast woman who is more than capable of standing up against the worst of the lot and embracing the best of the downtrodden.

With a spot of help from the shop’s apprentice, Martin (Benny Harrison) and Princess Serpahina (another excellent performance from Ted Akery as a dress-wearing man of aggression and reliance), Mrs Tull starts to make a modest earning negotiating with the local sex workers. And it’s not an easy task – especially when Madam Amelia, played by the always precise and developed character of Lucy Melrose, holds a tight purse and leash on her girls with terrific supporting roles from Elham Khosravipour and Rosalyn Harper. But the ‘new stock’, young country girl Amy, has a yearning to explore her (and others) body, leads to the prospect of a terminated child – Madam Amelia agreeing to it for a price, Mrs Tull desperate for the child to be saved – an insight into the life she wishes she had led but was unable to. It’s a heartfelt performance from Eli Kiakides, one which gives their entire being – body and heart – to the performance, utilising Greta Abbey’s choreography to offer intimacy in the less obvious ways.

This alone could have sparked an entire play-text’s worth of drama, but we’re far from done. A little lost lamb, but a jackal beneath, another apprentice lad follows Martin back to the shop after spotting him in the cruising spot. Thomas is everything Martin is not. Well, not everything. Openly effeminate, camp, and in complete control of the physicality and who they share it with, Seb Elder has zero concerns with their spectacular stage presence, even their more explosive moments and movements all timed and paced perfectly through O’Cuinn’s sharp direction and Gemima Iseka–Bekano’s assistant direction – the level of intimacy, thought, and work which has gone into the character alone is outstanding.

A stark contrast to Harrison’s innocence and puppy-like curiosity to it all, eventually he and Elder lead a band of gay men (the titular mollies) in securing Mrs Tully’s shop as a space, a home for them to be themselves and meet without fear of retribution and attack. For a price, of course. Here we see the first of the production’s major dual-roles from Harrison, Elder, Lucy Lane and Amiran Antadze as Thomas’s ‘mother and father’, who lunge themselves from character performances of giddy glee and cross-dressing to a far more intimate portrayal of the cost of affection in the production’s penetration of a modern-day setting, which takes Act two away from the Molly House (for now) and into the 21st century.

In a revelling sense, Ravenhill wants to have it both ways – and by Eros, they get what they want. It’s a palette cleanser (though some activities may leave a bad taste in the mouth) away from period drama elements, where romanticism and debauchery can overwhelm even the steeliest of stomachs. It’s a tip of the scale, one which almost wanders into the moralistic realms for this second half – as the narrative catapults into 20021, London, where a gay couple is staging a night of drugs and sex in as nonchalant a manner as a monthly dinner party. Featuring some stellar comedic, and heartfelt performances from Harrison, Antadze, and Shaw, it’s a welcome addition that, while pushing the runtime, is certainly managed well by the production team.

Gone is a world of earthly desire and frivolous game and splendour, stripped down to a fetishised ritual where love and romance often cower in the corner, clutching to their memories as the ribald ecstasy erupts around them. The white sofa and almost conceited nature of the guests of this orgy certainly bring some audiences back to Queer as Folk and offers some of the more minor roles in the initial half a stronger presence and character, and some exceptionally tight-minded dual casting from Lane, Antadze, and Ellie Moore as the homophobic Tina, to tie the messaging between the periods to a more obvious finesse (if occasionally too obvious).

Kudos to the entire cast for their quick changes and scene alterations for the now penetrating period scenes, which come and go as cleanly as possible for the team. Much is down to Abbey’s movement design again, here aiding as we duck and weave between the two eras. It’s in these contemporary scenes where Harrison gets the opportunity to demonstrate their brilliant range, drugged to within an inch of reality, it’s a far cry from Queerness from the original settings, but a more familiar one as Martha Barrow sound design helps to weave between the time periods.

Across the production, particularly with ‘molly’ Louis Handley’s sensual moments with Norgaard and Harrison’s scenes with Antadze later into the productions, one person has a pivotal role to play: Rebecca Mahar. Their commendable intimacy direction is the vital crux of the performance. Without this, the show wouldn’t have worked to the insatiable and raw levels it manages. Equally, while not strictly a musical, more show with songs, musical director Falk Meier brings the small band (Daniel Bloom, Dan Bryant, and Lalit Mistry) together in a commendable manner that keeps pace and liveliness throughout. Located just offstage, these interludes of song and dance bring the jovial theatrical nature of it all together and affirm that period setting in familiar realms of the celebration of queerness, of the body, of love and lust.

Oh Mother, what wonders you house. Amour and contradiction sit together as bare as the day they were birthed in Bedlam Theatre’s remarkably adept and convincing staging of Ravenhill’s sincerely dark comedy. An enormous production, there isn’t a member of this house who shouldn’t be beaming with pride at the show. From the whores to the mollies and to everyone on (and behind) that stage who can hear the appreciative howls and cheers from a very thirsty audience: a bloody well done all around.

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