B starts innocently enough with Marcela, a young woman, being comforted by Carmen, her older neighbour. Apparently, her boyfriend has been blown up by a terrorist bomb.
“Labour is fucked!” roars Goodman-Hill’s Owen to open Limehouse. And the next hour and forty minutes watching the Gang of Four debate ideologies, divided loyalties and political contexts, including the hard-left’s anti-EU stance, leave you in no doubt just how relevant the play is to the party’s woefully position today.
You could call it the Corbynisation of new writing. In the past couple of years, a series of plays have plumbed the lower depths, looking at the subject of good people trapped in zero-hour contracts and terrible working conditions. Like Ken Loach’s dreary film, I, Daniel Blake, these plays have integrity, but very little dramatic content.
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