Eleven bemused and chronically attention-deficient theatre-goers stagger into comprehension as the play they are watching unfolds. They plague themselves with idle chatter, irrelevant personal concerns, contagious coughing and random distractions while observed by another character of vague composition — a detached yet exasperated man to
whom the audience is oblivious. Unable to interact with the audience he constantly bemoans their inability to simply enjoy their show.
This man, apparently the writer of the unseen play-within-a-play, is desperate for the audience to connect with the characters he’s created yet they suffer a string of misinterpretations, laugh in the wrong places, and basically don’t pay attention. Eventually (and somewhat arbitrarily) the ongoing derailment dissipates long enough for the audience to, together, find common ground with the characters they are watching and at last be emotionally moved. Ironically, “Audience” itself fails to do just that.
There is little to emphasize with in this fictional audience. These clichéd caricatures, although diligently, if inexpertly, realised (you can see the actors stumble around in character prior to the show) are neither entertaining in their own right nor exposing anything profound in being reflections of the real audience — quality in neither form nor content. So what’s the point?
The whole affair, sadly, is lightweight, half-baked, still runny. A few sparks splutter amidst the ashes but ultimately the script is thin, patchy, and anticlimactic, and stunted characters strain modest acting talent. It’s sub-amuter for the most part and basically boring.