Written and Directed by Fraser Scott

Set and Costume Design by Mela Adela

Sound Design and Composition by Patricia Panther

Review by Dominic Corr

No one is better at insulting the Scots than, well, the Scots. Call it, self-preservation. Call it, a fine sense of humour and being able to handle the banter. Call it, beating them to the punch. Or call it self-commodification. No matter how you dress the Shortbread Tin, there isn’t a Scot alive who, at some point, hasn’t felt the necessity to tailor their speech or over-annunciate their dialect in a bid to have a more recognisable and easily accessible C*mmon Tongue.

A dual-meaning title, of the universal nature of both pride and shame Scottish folk have with their accents and the derogatory ‘working-class’ stamp which assigns itself to the nation from neighbours, Fraser Scott’s debut play is a snappy and witty exploration of cultural identity, language, and the intersections of some of Scotland’s most significant properties are mostly built on falsehoods.

It’s a story centred around Bonnie, a young woman who lives with her Papa and has done so since she was young. Her papa, for any of his faults, is a proud man – a charismatic man, and a man for whom the words of Robert Burns are akin to the gospel in papa’s more fluid and poetic use of his voice. However, Bonnie has never really felt too comfortable with how she speaks. It’s common or novel – that’s what’s implied by friends, strangers, and university chums. But Bonnie adores language, not in the continental sense, but of the rhythm and flow of Scots, but the harsh reality is that Bonnie doesn’t speak Scots. She speaks English.  

Following a stint at ‘Little England’ St. Andrews University, a jaunt over to the Americas, and a return to her hometown, which now feels ‘small’ and ‘claustrophobic’, Bonnie begins to not only find comfort with their voice but realises that even this voice has a fraudulent tone to it, and learns how many within the nation no longer hear themselves when they speak, in this quick-witted, damning, and gorgeous piece of theatre which weaves spoken word and comedy into its silvery speech pattern.

In recent years, the number of large-scale productions that pepper themselves with the dressing of Scots has increased dramatically – more often than not, to a distracting and thinly utilised effect. A line of Doric here, exclamations of Gaelic, or a humorous splash of Shetland dialect to showcase how thick and difficult a Scottish dialect can be to understand. And, as C*mmon Tongue earnestly expresses, this is to be encouraged rather than lampooned or besmirched, but Scott pins down something which still permeates Scottish theatre – the self-commodification of our language and culture to be marketable, accessible, and feedback into the Brigadoon loop of satire. It’s a biting script that spits the truth and refuses to apologise for it.

But for as talented and nuanced (and occasionally, subtle as a brick) as Scott’s script can be, what carries it is the pitched performance and recitation of the more spoken-word elements from Olivia Caw in a distressing and genuine performance, which manages to side-step any shortcomings which the cynics may attempt to pick out and bats them back with a firm resolve and dedicated performance. But beyond the dramatic, the comedy flows as heartily as a stand-up and is both disarming and clever, with plenty to say beneath the surface as the truth of Scott’s script and Bonnie’s relationships and character ‘evolution’ happens before our eyes. It’s brilliant stage-work and remarkably adept direction and characterisation, all threaded with light touches of sound and lighting from Patricia Panther and Benny Goodman, that just sell the show.

Now. The c-word. The word ‘cunt’. A word which may have stopped some people even reading further. A word which has connotations of humour and oxymoronic friendly greetings; just ask the Aussies. But Caw’s performance tackles the darkness and harrowingly truth of the purpose of tone and context – how this word, when used by men with cruel ill-intent, is powerfully violent. Caw’s performance, platforming, shrinking, or striding the plaid-tartan boxes and flooring of Mela Adela’s brilliant design work (as is the costuming for Caw) is a gloriously authentic one. One deserving of a bigger run, a bigger audience, and more accolades.

The nuanced changes in their speech patterns as Bonnie experiences new things in life and the cultural and perceptive alterations which come with this are gorgeously (and painfully) captured with Scott’s direction. But just as the show seems to have played its trump card and pathos-ridden moment, its expletive and bombastic finale is earned and deserved. The direction extends beyond the stage, Scott having an urge to draw out the infamous Scottish hospitality and ensure no one is left out – a few jokes with the front rows and a legally obligated linking arms rendition of Auld Lang Syne all tie into the story elements as Bonnie shifts continents or opens themselves to the audiences.

While C*mmon Tongue speaks with a voice of Scotland (whatever that may actually be), it’s a shared voice for those south of the border, into mainland Europe, and worldwide. A cracking debut play on language and the connotations and archaic inferences of class and culture which have stapled themselves to our speech. With a powerfully adept lead performance – tongues will, and should, be flapping about what Scott and Caw are doing next.

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