Review by Giada
The ticket was gifted in return for an honest review.
I’ve never seen something quite like The Shithead before. It’s like being high on… mushrooms but without the unpleasant aftertaste.
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| Photo by Camilla Greenwell |
In prehistoric Britain, tens of thousands of years ago, people are either Shitheads or Magic. When Claire approaches Greg under the pretence of needing help to hunt an elk, it is he who ends up dead. And with his brain eaten. As Claire returns home to her “very lovely” family, something in her has shifted. It is as though she has absorbed Greg’s anxieties along with his flesh. Her decision to seek out and offer shelter to Greg’s wife, Danielle, and her baby sets off a chain of events that threatens the fragile survival of a household that has endured by adhering strictly to its own rules and rituals.
I remain uncertain about Jacoba Williams’ characterisation of Claire. Beyond being deliberately unlikeable, Clare speaks in a clipped, almost percussive rhythm that often sounds scolding or patronising. At times this feels intentional, particularly when she addresses the Shitheads or her younger sister, yet this persistent cadence flattens the psychological nuance of what is clearly intended to be a complex figure. The distinction between strategic harshness and emotional opacity feels crucial in a play that revolves so completely around her.
Especially in the beginning, I needed time to adjust to the world of the piece and decode its allusive dialogues. Watching it became something of an intellectual exercise: the brain working either against, or alongside, the gut. Considering this is a debut, Jack Nicholls’ dramaturgical vision is staggering. The story moves between legend and epic, its language oscillating between poetic and disarmingly familiar. There are unexpected turns throughout, and an ending that offers a curious kind of comfort. Almost like a warped echo of Night at the Museum, it is the girl who dreams of berries, warmth, and the domestication of animals through whom the species’ preservation is carried forward.
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| Photo by Camilla Greenwell |
The direction by Aneesha Srinivasan and David Byrne bears a clear and bold stylistic signature that allows both the irony and agony embedded in the writing to surface simultaneously. If such a term exists, I would call it “theatrical maximalism.” A host of seemingly incongruous elements coalesce into what feels like a collective hallucination: the mind-blowing puppetry by Nick Barnes, Finn Caldwell and Scarlett Wilderink; disco balls descending during a musical interlude; Ugg-like slippers slick with blood amid bursts of graphic violence. It is not immediately obvious what holds these elements in equilibrium. Perhaps it is remembrance. Or recognition. As the play taps into ritualistic violence and survival strategies written in our genetic memory, it ask the audience to access something visceral and collective. And make sense of it.
The Shithead demands a leap of faith. But once you accept the invitation, you are in for a truly singular wild-ride.
P.S. I know someone will roll their eyes at this, but the BC dating in the final scene is chronologically incorrect 😭 😭
⭐⭐⭐⭐
The Shitheads runs at the Jerwood Theatre Upstairs, as part of the Royal Court in London, until Saturday 14th March 2026. Tickets are available from https://royalcourttheatre.com/events/the-shitheads/
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| Photo by Camilla Greenwell. |
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