THE experimental season at the Project continues with a one-man show called Urban Minefields, which gets off to a striking start.
A large white screen is suddenly transformed into a crimson velvet backdrop with a glowing white circle at its centre, and into that spotlight comes the author-narrator, Oscar McLennon.
Thereafter, the projected images of Anne Seagrave form an indispensable part of a novel entertainment.
The story begins in Glasgow, where the author observes the nature of his family set-tip. He thanks them for the gift of life, then leaves its donors behind for the world. He sees the violence, latent and actual, in the ordinary life of the city, a loner among the throngs. From that frying pan he moves to a fire, in New York, where all around people are snarling, at cars, buildings and each other.
Finally to Belfast, where an improbable account of a local committee meeting concerns itself with a eucalyptus tree and the anti-Christ. A dream only, which leads into cynical observations on the various gods men worship, and why. It is perhaps the weakest section, but not without its truths.
Experimental theatre must, like all experiment, occasionally fail. This performance, in style and substance, succeeds by dint of its differences. Its 60 minutes engage the mind and beguile the eye.
