Written for Exeunt Magazine
A man soils himself on stage and the sweet tang of excrement fills the polished Barbican auditorium as brown begins to smudge the pristine white set. A son wipes his father clean as Jesus smiles his Mona Lisa smile on the pair of them, an observer like us, and also the creator of creatures with bodies that bleed and shit, or people who love and despair.
It is a surprisingly intimate beginning for a practitioner known for his iconoclastic visual extravaganzas. Watching a son look after his sobbing incontinent father is as bizarrely sweet as the stench Romeo Castellucci sprays out into the audience. This smell, as with much of Castellucci’s work, could be seen as simply a shock tactic, the best way to horrify a predominantly middle class SPILL audience, but instead it grounds the imagery on stage, making it more tangible, all the more real. We become very aware of our own bodies and of the social embarrassment this shattered old man is feeling; we also become aware of how voyeuristic our viewing of this intimate degradation is.