On the hottest day of the year, a conflagration. The Young Vic’s studio space fills with smoke as records of violence against women across the centuries are consumed by flames.
Even before the fire, Sophie Swithinbank’s urgent drama shimmers with spark and danger. Ash (an outstanding Adelle Leonce) barrels into her new job at an archive collecting historic material about women failed by justice. Ash is lairy, smart and cheeky – she bobs and bops around the files, disconcerting her boss Lily (Phoebe Ladenburg, in paisley skirt and pom-pom slippers). But the pair grow closer, through awkward silences and blurted confidences.
Ash has a boyfriend, Dom (Nick Blood). He looks contained, the lines of his beard neat and rigid. He rescued Ash from a previous bad situation – pulled her up, she says, like a rope from a well – but he’s a cop, and we gradually understand how he abuses his position.
In Debbie Duru’s acute design, shelves bookend the stage, stacked high with files and storage boxes. On one side, the archive assembling a history of injustice. On the other, Ash’s possessions still packed months after moving into Dom’s flat – at some level, she knows this place isn’t home. The two sides press in and speak to each other, like a warning.
Over 100 minutes, rough sex turns cruel; care becomes control; love poisons everything it touches. Pungent old language bubbles up through the text, archaic words of sorcery and slur: demonising women is a trope that won’t die (Germaine Greer’s line, “women have very little idea of how much men hate them” may be the truest thing she ever wrote).
Sting is kin to other plays that connect misogyny past and present, such as Ava Pickett’s 1536 and The Manningtree Witches. You experience Nancy Medina’s fine production with dread knotting your stomach. Swithinbank’s structure can be deliberately frustrating – a murder investigation sputters, Ash attempts to flee but circles back to her perilous protector. Refusing a straightforward narrative feels true, but can be hard to watch.
The performances, though, are captivating: Leonce whirls with unmoored energy. Swithinbank (author of Bacon) describes her play as “a scream into the void”. “Someone,” we’re told, “needs to listen.”
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At the Young Vic, London, until 18 July
