The Society for New Cuisine, which is written by Chris Fung and directed by Rupert Hands, is a fascinating, mesmerising and intriguing piece that places man's unquenchable desire for more, alongside the steady decline into insanity, when external circumstances become too much to bear. In his debut piece, Fung highlights how truly horrific each additional avenue of stress can be, with a horror-movie like narrative that wraps around the plot, rendering the play as a whole into a drastic and chilling unique experience.
Fung chooses to launch the play into a non-linear narrative, with little explanation as to the present situation, leaving audiences scrambling to clue the pieces together. The play continues with this unusual structure, always several steps ahead of the audience, yet ensuring that each scene packs the emotional punch that it deserves. With scenes from his past relationships, an unusual daily routine, a constant call and pressure from his parents and unmined trauma building, the unnamed protagonist (Fung) becomes a sympathetic character that audiences are drawn to. Fung delves into each of these elements individually with great sensitivity, yet little context, creating a steady stream of individual scattered scenes.
This decision works both as a strength and weakness of the piece, with it contributing to the cloudy mental state of the protagonist as he shifts between reality and imagination, and memories flood. However, it does, unintentionally, at times alienate audiences who spend too long deciphering the timeline that they miss the brilliance of the scenes.
Fung proves himself to be one of London theatre's most extraordinary actors as his debut play is laced with strong craftsmanship. Fung is a storyteller at his core, and this comes pouring through, both through the dialogue and performance. Fung is irresistible, with audiences unable to tear their gaze from him for even a moment, as terrifying as the scenes themselves may be. Fung's delivery is laced with anger, frustration, desperation and dry wit as the depression and pressure get to the protagonist. Fung is immensely likeable on stage, and it's truly a feat to see the quick switches between the vulnerable son and husband, and the unrestrained man euphoric on his freedom. Fung's ability to not only highlight grief in men's mental health, but to twist that grief into something darker and more wicked, really shakes the play and its audience down to their core, challenging them to question everything.
The writing challenges audiences to think hard and dig deep within themselves and their own lives, allowing them to recognise and connect with moments in the show. Fung, admirably, brings in his own East Asian heritage to the story, explaining the day to day pressure of being a first generation migrant in a Western country, and using this to help emotionally anchor the show. The piece switches between scenes from the protagonist's lifes, wherein Fung plays all the roles, although uses voice overs to help distinguish between characters, a punctured interference from a laptop that holds his mother and life back home, and a surreal sub-plot is emotionally and physically drastic.
The intimate traverse staging at the Omnibus Theatre feels perfect for this show, with audiences placed on either side. The astoundingly brilliant set is the handiwork of Yimei Zhao, and becomes a huge successful element of the show. The long stage is strewn with lamps, laptops, speakers, chairs and wires that run amok, creating an almost alternate reality where technology has replaced human connection, along with the sinister sense of being under constant surveillance. Director Rupert Hands has managed to utilise this to a practical advantage, allowing for Fung to control certain visual and audible moments himself, with the help of a small remote.
Rajiv Pattani and Jamie Lu serve as lighting and sound designers respectively, creating a sensory landscape that rivals the biggest of shows, with blinding lights and shadowy hideaways, and a heavy beat that beats in the audience's own chests. Every single element of the play is extraordinary, and really elevates the script further, helping break down the complexities of Fung's writing into it's raw and core emotions.
Fung has outdone himself both as a writer and performer in the play, unafraid to delve into the dark and ugly side of being human. Using a frightening narrative of "the society", the protagonist quite literally sells parts of himself to attain a higher freedom, echoing the self-sacrificing nature than man just adhere to, in order to achieve further success. Fung allows for emotions and tensions to run high as he whips out the tape, the knife and the lights, along with the haunting posters of faces and teeth plastered along the back wall.
The Society for New Cuisine is by no means an easy watch, with its frankly disturbing tone that settles over the piece, yet this is the exact reason that piece thrives in a more intimate setting, with its niche crowd of theatre goers. The play holds up a shattered and tainted mirror to the inner struggles of men, and results in a thrilling piece of theatre that will leave audiences a changed person.
The Society for New Cuisine is currently playing at the Omnibus Theatre until 5th April.
★★★★☆ (4*)
Gifted tickets in return for an honest review | Photography by Kenny Kung
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