Breach’s latest show brilliantly conveys the hysteria and outrage of Section 28 in propulsive musical form
Section 28 – enacted in 1988 to prevent the ‘promotion’ of homosexuality by schools and local authorities in the UK – was one of the most heinous pieces of legislation introduced in the 20th century. So it might seem strange that award-winning devised theatre company Breach has turned it into the focus of a new musical, debuting at London’s New Diorama Theatre.
However, in keeping with Breach’s previous work – such as It’s True, It’s True, It’s True – co-writers Ellice Stevens and Billy Barrett have brilliantly shaped the words of real people into a high-energy, rock-operatic indictment of the media exploitation and politically motivated hysteria that produced Section 28, blighting the lives of LGBTQ+ people in the UK.
Interviews conducted with students, activists and teachers, as well as the words of hate-filled tabloid headlines, are used to tell the story of how Section 28 evolved from a perfect storm of homophobia and ignorance in the mid-1980s, encompassing deliberately distorted reporting of children’s book Jenny Lives With Eric and Martin and the fear and stigma surrounding HIV/AIDS. The recurring use of the word ordinary is an insidious part of the targeted campaign to portray gay adults as perverts looking to ‘convert’ kids.
Performed by a queer cast of four, all of whom grew up under Section 28, the show combines bombastic, sardonic set-pieces centred on the proponents of the legislation with heart-rending accounts of teachers and ex-students who still grapple with the guilt and shame of being tongue-tied in the classroom or forced into secret lives until it was repealed in the early 2000s. This change in tempo reminds us of Section 28’s harm and its absurdity. Importantly, the show also links its underlying attitudes with today’s rampant transphobia. However, it would be good to see more of a spotlight on why the law was repealed.
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Composer and musical director Frew gives the 1980s-set first half a propulsive, electro-synth backdrop, as Section 28 comes malignantly into being while evoking bands such as Underworld as the show moves into the 1990s and explores the law’s impact. The music captures a freneticism that Barrett, as director as well as co-writer, marries well to the visual impact of projected headlines and the cast’s fluidly choreographed character changes. The songs are less neatly formed numbers and more outbursts of feeling – in sadness, hatred or anger.
The talented cast neatly defines the differing roles they play. Stevens – acting as well as writing – is horribly funny as a writhing Margaret Thatcher, in a bitingly pitch-perfect parody of the cult-like frenzy surrounding her reactionary views. In contrast, Zachary Willis and EM Williams are quietly devastating as gay and non-binary people still processing Section 28’s impact today – albeit with Willis’ character, brilliantly and joyfully, relishing his sex-positive memory of cottaging while protesting against the legislation in Manchester.
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