Jo Randerson (recent Officer of the New Zealand Order of Merit, for services to the performing arts) has written an abstract, familiar yet mythical piece, grounded in the characters of Y (Anya Tate-Manning) and Z (Natano Keni).

A gun is the focal point, bringing each scene to a close as the ultimate end of discussion. As Y points out, she’s been shot 11 times, Z only 2. And have they progressed? Not really, the beginning is changing, the themes and points have changed, but the result is always the same. [More]

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The human race is profoundly perplexing and endlessly baffling. We are creatures of contradiction: capable of deep kindness and extraordinary malice, art and brutality, nobility and monstrosity. At root, our kind are tool-using, pack animals that have conjured a complex code of moral law and agreed-upon contrivances, in order to co-exist within some kind of society.

As a species we are self-obsessed, self-serving, self-aware and self-loathing. We devour the world even as we recoil in guilt from that very act of devouring. But if one were to strip away the layers of civilization, philosophy and artifice; our idealism, ambition and invention, what would be left but our basest impulses – anger, greed, jealousy and our readiness to resort to violence – revealing us to be as red in tooth and claw as any other exhibit in the bestiary? Are we, ultimately, just another mammal?

This is the first new play written by Jo Randerson in a substantial measure of time. Randerson surely requires no introduction, being an indefatigable and inspiring figure within the Arts – having served as a director, playwright, comedian, and performer.  

As with a previous work – the superb Lovin’ It – Randerson denies her characters names. In that play, the roles were designated by numbers. In this production, the primary characters are referred to only as those unknowns – Y (Anya Tate-Manning) and Z (Natano Keni). Later, a third figure emerges, credited simply as the Stage Manager (Erina Daniels).

Conflict is central to this narrative. Y and Z are locked into a duel, moving beyond reconciliation and into retribution, perhaps even revenge. One of them is armed. Violence awaits every moment, poised to strike.  

The show shifts beyond the tension of this stand-off and leaps into an abyss of absurdity, as the characters seek another means of conclusion. Surely violence need not be the only possible outcome, or the most appropriate solution. There must be another way. A better way.

The play opens in a room empty of all but essential props: a table, chairs, cups and teapot. Two doors. A window lit from behind. One wall is bare, unclad, un-plastered – just a thing of wooden bones. The Stage Manger bustles around, preparing the scene. Y waits. Presently Z enters. He is late. Very late. Y unleashes on him a flurry of accusations, swearwords and criticisms. Z shrugs and smirks throughout, saying little. Then … (spoiler averted). The lights drop and a classic Kiwi anthem plays. Z exits. The Stage Manager resets the stage. Y … resumes waiting.  

The sequence replays – this time with subtle differences, but the same jarring outcome. Reset. Again. We realize we are witnessing two characters trapped in a loop, a spiral. They are clearly aware of the absurdity of this situation, the surrealism of it. Yet they cannot break free of these events. Overt aggression doesn’t work. Passive aggression is also useless. Condescension, over-explaining, attempts at engagement…

Even when the power shifts and the weapon passes from Z over to Y, the scenes end the same, with Y seeking revenge for the frustrations and wrongs visited upon her within the previous power dynamic. But with every replay the narrative spirals wider, the net of symbolism cast further out, catching moments of caustic comedy. What begins as an illustration of a relationship turned toxic becomes a portrayal of humanity as a whole, encompassing colonialism, tribalism, isolationism, protectionism – all the isms of this strange and treacherous epoch we find ourselves navigating.

And outside, beyond the incomplete walls, another kind of mammal is gathering. They reach through the spaces, pressing their paws against the windows and doors, howling and gibbering. Occasionally they peer into the room. It is apparent that these creatures possess long unkempt hair, talons, and smudged eyes. Yet they do not seem predatory or hostile, merely curious. As the play unfurls they begin to enter the space, observing, influencing and eventually commenting upon the action.

Are they us? That is, the reptile-brain, animal-impulse version of us. Are they morlocks? Is this where the wild things truly are, beneath our veneer of civilization and rationality? Or are they somehow more whole than us? These wolf-apes (which is how they’re credited) certainly seem to have greater unity and community than the characters within the story, even if they do not agree on all matters.

Each early scene is structured around an intense monologue – with one character berating the other. As long as the weapon remains in play, this is the way of things. Only once it is surrendered – in a glorious bit of business that truly brings the Stage Manager into focus – do the characters begin to engage in actual dialogues. Daniels then steps into a new role – that of mediator and conciliator – working to bring this cycle of conflict closer to some kind of resolution.

Is that resolution ever accomplished? Well, to add too much would also risk spoilers. Suffice to say that Randerson is not a playwright given to easy answers and the matters that this production deals with are complex. Ultimately, the best we can hope for may simply be the quiet balm of distraction. 

The pandemic looms over the production. Whether it is in the exhausted, tense interactions between the characters, the sense of repetition, futility and imprisonment, or even in the amusing (lockdown business/casual?) costumes.

Another Mammal is a play inverted. The mechanisms are exposed, becoming the show itself. The stage manager is a crucial character, ubiquitous and influential. What would be the subtext within any other play is the only text in this one. It is a masterful mix of surrealism and realism; peppered with bright, brittle comedy and razor-sharp interplay.

Randerson’s writing – and her allusion to righting the world – challenges and confronts the audience in a way that empowers, inspires and motivates.

Anya Tate-Manning is a powerful force upon the stage: tireless and bold, with excellent delivery and expression. We feel her frustrations and fears. Her character appears to be the closest to a playwright-surrogate.

Natano Keni gives a complex and impactful performance – his smug sense of calm and tendency to trivialise Y’s concerns conceals a genuine vulnerability, an uncertainty that reveals itself only in glimpses.

Erina Daniels constructs a charming character. Her performance is perfectly pitched to the changing demands of her role. At first she seems like some mute enabler before latterly becoming an almost-parental figure – therapist and advisor. The final scene hints at something else though, a yearning that gnaws within her too.

The chorus of wolf-apes – Peter Burman, Sean Millward and Waitahi Aniwaniwa – are delightful and engaging. Each demonstrates excellent physicality, with Aniwaniwa also displaying some fine beatboxing skills.

The direction of Jane Yonge is honed and precise, urging the most resonant dynamics from each scenario. The production design by Meg Rollandi is effective, clever and wonderfully quirky. Lighting design by Joshua Tucker, in collaboration with acclaimed Light Artist Helen Todd, is evocative and immersive. 

‘Another Mammal’ is a puzzle box, a series of Russian nesting dolls, a spiral, and a cypher. This is hilarious, honest, eloquent and powerful theatre. Echoes of Randerson’s previous work resound within – I catch murmurs of Soft N Hard and Lovin’ It in particular. This is a bold, intelligent show that hits you in the gut and lingers in your brain. It is a fierce, funny triumph. Multiple viewings would be entirely worthwhile.

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