'Funny, intimate, brave and visceral,' Lorna Irvine relishes the recent production at the Arches.
Pity poor man-child Scottee.
On this Hallow's Eve, when most freshers are off to experience the humiliation of vomit on skeleton costumes, and the indie fraternity are divided by Nick Cave/Parquet Courts/Sonica festival, he sits on stage confessing all to fewer than he should.
Director Chris Goode's The Worst of Scottee, an Edinburgh Fringe hit this August, awkwardly straddles performance art and confessional monologue, but is all the better for it: a truly raw experience.
The photo booth where Scottee sits acts as a changing room for costume and character flaws alike. Here, he sketches out stories of the rough area of Camden where he worked, which smells of ''fresh piss and talcum powder'', and which became the scene for his sacking. His response to losing his job: he pretended he had AIDS.
For Scottee, compulsive behaviour is threaded throughout his life: overeating as a method of coping; lying then lying on top of lying. Ex-friends, projected onto the side of the booth, bear witness to how his Jenga of untruths finally toppled over, pushing them away when he most needed them by his side. But he was young, gay, hurt, confused and living in an environment with loving but destructive parents. His final revelation is absolutely devastating.
And his singing voice is a gorgeous instrument, like Antony Hegarty without the affectation. In his hands, Madness' Embarrassment becomes a torch song and Cry Me a River grotesque parody as he chokes on streams of his own mascara.
Fantastically structured, like a kiss followed by a kick, its wounded cherub cabaret: funny, intimate, brave and visceral. A shame so few are getting to see it.
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