Review: F**king Legend (Riverside Studios)

Review by Sam Waite

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

An Edinburgh Fringe success story (yes, another one) written and performed by a straight, white, cisgender man (yes, another one) makes its way to London. You are sat, waiting, anticipating, mere feet or even inches from the stage, where a microphone stands, and a playlist seemingly geared towards a millennial stag do blares. Because you’re watching F**king Legend, and writer-star Olly Hawes isn’t only willing to let you in on his cliches, he needs you to recognise them. Self-awareness and willingness to be judged makeup much of the hour and change we spend with Olly, and his skill with discomfort is immediately apparent.

Beginning with a brief introduction from the man himself – Caucasian, middle class, heterosexual, woefully aware of his own over-representation in the arts – Olly is there to tell a story. Perhaps it’s about him, perhaps a person of similar demographics, or perhaps any random member of the audience or their countless acquaintances. With the standing mic for narration and his central character’s dialogue spoken aloud into Riverside Studios’ River Room, he is quite literally surrounded by our bemused and possibly judgemental faces. As the story moves through infidelity, masculine power fantasy, and the fracturing of ego, we are repeatedly asked what kind of man we are envisioning – “if it’s me,” he says, “awkwaaaaard!”

If it begins to seem self-indulgent, that is more than likely the point of this theatrical exercise. Clear from the promotional materials is Hawes’ intention to explore contemporary masculinity, the “boys will be boys” mentality that allows the stag do central to his character’s unravelling to happen as it does, something immediately highlighted by the disconnect between his narration and his character’s interaction with the other party-goers. All the cliches find their way into the dialogue, the “lads lads lads” approach to a holiday, the off-colour jokes he recognises have aged like milk, even the shifts in pitch and tone that turn every exclamation into an overloud chanting. This character is self-indulgent, is only there to mine what easy pleasures he can from the weekend, and absolutely would relish the attentions of a paying audience.

This knack for characterisation is indicative of Olly Hawes’ strength as a writer, where his knowingness and understanding of cultures he benefits from serves him well. Early on, he pauses to inform us that someone previously stated that a key theme’s introduction was too easy to miss – he ought, he admits, to have gone back to rewrite this, but instead opted for a slower, louder repetition to hammer home the point. Of course, why should he be tasked with improving his writing, when the very point is how little his abilities or lack of are questioned in life? (For clarity, I am aware that this is a) a joke, and b) likely not a real occurrence, but kudos to Olly for such a nuanced, believable understanding of his demographic’s key weaknesses.)

His pace is also firm and purposeful, the moments where the story stops to linger only doing so to enhance our understanding. Hawes’ text introduces heavy, genuinely concerning themes about the state of the planet to come, the refugee crises likely to stem from this, and even the simpler, more close-to-home truth of how fragile our own sense of self can become. Mid-show, he seems to either break or entirely become his character, screaming into the audience to demand to know what someone has said, shrieking expletives before brushing the whole thing off as a joke. As the character within the story becomes more broken, less stable in his understanding of self and the world, so too does our storyteller.

With only so much to say, all credit from the pre-show playlist to the costuming choice of bare feet (Hawes begins the narration with his protagonist struggling to select a pair of socks) you’ll forgive my out-of-order approach of closing this review with the performance itself. Olly Hawes openly calls himself a bad actor, and F**king Legend a bad play, but this could not be further from the truth. So smooth is his transition into storyteller, into character, and back to himself, that it’s never truly clear what – if anything – is based in his own truth. The raw edge to every moment, the tears that stream down his face and the buffoonish comedian who moves straight past them, it’s all a marvel to behold. Yes, you find yourself thinking, the privileges of this man’s upbringing have wounded him, just as much as anyone else. It’s powerful, it’s commanding, and in its own way it feels utterly essential.

F**king Legend plays at Riverside Studios until December 21st

For tickets and information visit https://riversidestudios.co.uk/see-and-do/fking-legend-136800/