The ley line is essentially a failed amateur archaeological concept: a straight line on a map that happens to include a significant number of natural and ancient sites and monuments. As a serious scientific theory – claiming there must be some great significance in the fact places of historical interest lie so perfectly adjusted – it’s been both criticised and disputed, often by means of sound logic: in the UK alone the number of appropriate sites is so great it would be difficult not to draw a straight line across half a dozen of them at any time.
As an idea however it makes a poignant symbol around which to base Write By Numbers’ Beneath the Albion Sky – the magical powers enforced onto a suspiciously empty concept are just what Paul, the sole character in the show, is after.
Paul embarks on a mission to walk the entirety of St Michael’s ley line – the longest one in England – after he finds a map in his dead father’s office. To begin with Beneath the Albion Sky is the story of his walk, but it is far more convincing as a story of just how much importance and significance can be given to vague concepts and coincidental occurrences – if enough determination and need is there.
In this case the determination comes from grief and quickly turns a random map into a symbol that will most definitely, at the end of a long journey, allow Paul to understand his father, their hinted failed relationship and life as we know it, if only he follows the rules and makes it to the end.
Along the way Paul avoids most of mankind but bumps into quite a few renditions of historical and mythical figures, including a modern-day Lancelot in a worn out fancy dress costume. If it wasn’t for the considerable finesse writers Corinne Furness and Charlie Whitworth show in their shaping of Paul he would quickly become a completely deluded and one dimensional character.
As it is however he is an image of complexity – he’s cynical and a bit of a loner, funny and disconnected from everyone around him, disappointed by how mundane his trip is turning out to be to the point of exaggerating silly encounters into fantasy, or perhaps just in a state of rediscovering his imagination after years of grinding and boring existence. Paul and his unravelling coping mechanisms are not only the epicentre of Beneath the Albion Sky – they are the beginning and the end of this performance. In line with that, performer Andy Kelly seems acutely aware that the onus of holding audiences for an hour is on him alone. He has Paul down to a tee and recognises every chance the text allows to add another nuance to the protagonist. He also never goes for easy laughs and solutions, opting instead to rely on a strong story and a challenging character.
The problem is that this touching and layered narrative doesn’t benefit at all from being staged, at least not in the way it is currently. Even without Kelly it would make for a good short story; even with Kelly – or at least his voice – it would make for a good Radio 4 programme. On stage, it remains those two things, and never quite finds its three-dimensional shape.
Whitworth, who not only co-wrote but also directed the show, resists the temptation of casually inserting projections, sounds and other easy-way-out props just for the sake of it, but Beneath the Albion Sky is so bare, and its text formally so embedded into the short story genre, it can’t help but resemble a not quite finished adaptation – one that ended up in theatre because its authors are theatre professionals, not because it yearned for theatre expression.
It’s almost as if what was intended as a play ended up being a short story instead. In print Beneath the Albion Sky is a human interest story that never once comes close to emotional blackmail, provoking instead some universal tribulations; as a performance it’s left feeling a bit unfinished and lost – searching for the missing piece, much like Paul.