I see this as a modern day folk tale; a fable that curls its lip at happy endings or a neatly packaged moral and nails a universal truth about an inescapable paradox of human existence.  

Given playwright Lucy O’Brien’s avowed commitment to a truthful portrayal of a character with a disability, and its episodic scene structure in settings that represent a real home with realistic characters, it is tempting to view Katydid as dramatising a more literal reality. But that would raise credibility issues.

In that it involves a daughter with cerebral palsy (CP) and the effect her condition has on her parents, Katydid invites comparison with Peter Nichols’ A Day in the Death of Joe Egg (1967) which, although non-naturalistic in its presentation, does depict a very real situation.

And given the catalyst of a young man breaking the hermetic seal of the household, Denis Potter’s allegorical Brimstone and Treacle (1977) – in which the speechless daughter has been brain-damaged by a car accident – is also worth noting, both for its content and its ‘realism but not naturalism’ style.*

All three plays characterise damaged family dynamics. While Nichols focuses on the father’s stress at not being free to live his own life, Potter and now O’Brien concern themselves with the challenged child, addressing the dilemma of protective incarceration versus danger-riddled liberty.  

The major difference (among many) in Katydid is that Katy, who turns 20 during the play, can speak. Her CP affects her limbs and, to some degree, her speech. Home-schooled by her doting and conveniently rich father, she has been ‘protected’ – held captive – from the ‘real’ world. Perceptions gleaned from limited access to books, a radio, TV and DVDs have blended with her inevitable naivety and stroppy teenage quest for freedom to produce a wicked sense of humour and an unnerving capacity to manipulate people emotionally.

Sophie Hambleton is outstanding as Katy, heroically outrageous one minute, helpless and vulnerable the next, compelling our empathy as she yearns and fights for independence – laced, with a fair whack of romance – while keeping us guessing on questions of truth versus the self-serving bullshit which is clearly a by-product of her lack of real life experience.

Lucy O’Brien has created a character of riveting truth and complexity, and it is exciting to engage with Hambleton riveting performance.  

The parents, however, are confined to dimensions that protect them from real world issues like having jobs to juggle, other children to raise, bills to pay and lifestyles to maintain alongside their responsibilities to Kate. This weakens the play’s grip on life as we know it. Thus they are better seen as modern versions of the ogre and witch in a folk tale, representing certain value systems and challenges to be overcome, rather than as complex individuals whose own wants and needs have to be accommodated.

Robert Tripe is alternately delightful and creepy as Daniel, the guilt-ridden and ailing Dad, whose dependence on keeping Kate dependent on him is entirely credible and increasingly distasteful. What becomes of him, however, in the same bathtub in which he has lovingly – too ‘lovingly’? – tended his daughter all her life, stretches credulity somewhat for me.

Perhaps that’s because I also feel, around this time, that the increasingly dramatic action is being unduly rushed, with too much reliance on telling the story through dialogue and not enough on exploring non-verbal dimensions. But that’s because I’m wanting it to seem real.

Lindsay, the mother, made real enough by Rachel More, has nothing better to do with her life than drink wine, gossip on the phone, watch TV and alleviate her boredom with the odd sexual fling: a Mrs Robinson clone. Her castigation of Daniel for being their daughter’s “trained doggie” and her exhortations to let Katy do more for herself would carry more weight – and be more interesting in terms of questioning whose interests she really has at heart – if she was doing something more productive with her own life. But as a mother in a folk tale, she serves a purpose.  

Much more fascinating is the totally non-heroic character of the failed science student cum home help, Benjamin (whose name makes me wonder whether a nod to The Graduate is intended, and if so, why?). Out of his depth in so many ways, and lacking a moral compass until Katy’s shocking accusations galvanise him into action, Ralph McCubbin Howell’s gripping portrayal demands we ask ourselves, what would we do in his position?

“You’ve got to take me away, Benjamin,” Katy demands within minutes of meeting him. “Steal me from the tower, ravish me. I’ll wear white.”

It’s this desire that drives the action forward, dynamically disported by director Charlotte Bradley on Robin Kerr’s shower-curtained and realistically furnished set, well lit by Rachel Marlow, and accompanied by Tane Upjohn-Beatson’s excellent sound design and original music featuring some especially haunting vocals from Elizabeth Judd. Accolades, too, to Allan Henry for his fight choreography, so well executed I expected to see real blood.

What’s missing is any follow through on the “ravish me” bit, which of course is the aspect that made Brimstone and Treacle so very contentious. All the set-ups are there for a powerful yet unpredictable payoff. Its absence reinforces my feeling that the pressure playwrights and producers feel to keep shows under 90 minutes (preferably under an hour most of the time at Bats) may be an unfair constraint as budding playwrights like O’Brien take on such major themes.

The ending we do get is not to be revealed here. Suffice to say it packs a different sort of punch and any credibility issues it raises for me are quickly dissipated by the absolute authenticity Hambleton brings to Katy’s emotional response.

What Katydid does is use Katy’s condition to magnify the family versus individual freedom conflict that invariably invades the lives of all involved as any teenager faces looming adulthood. It may even be seen as an allegory for protectionism versus libertarianism, offering a timely reminder as to why neither extreme can ever work alone.

Whichever way you come at it, Katydid packs a powerful punch that everyone should treat themselves to.  
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* The 1872 novel What Katy Did by Susan Coolidge, adapted for television a number of times, should also be mentioned. In it, a wilful young woman falls from a swing she’s been told not to use, damages her spine, is confined to a wheelchair and it changes her perspective on life. And given grasshoppers, cicadas and locusts are types of katydid, it’s intriguing to ponder the allusion in both works that play on the word. Is it the awkwardly angled limbs, its invisibility (due to camouflage) or the fact that the nymph goes through several moults before it becomes an adult? Take your pick.