Review: The Sh*theads (Royal Court, Jerwood Theatre Upstairs)

Review by Lily Melhuish

⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Descent of Man, Homo sapiens, The Book of Genesis: science, theories and myth all compounding to answer, when did it all begin? And how does looking back help us make sense of who we are now? Jack Nicholl’s debut play, The Sh*theads, catapults us back in time with a possibly-maybe-probably-not true story that delves deep into the absurd, violent, and blackberry-sweet origins of early man.

Lights flash, drums pound and flutes sing with that familiar raw and earthy rhythm we associate with prehistoric. We're plonked right in the middle of a hunt, watching a man and woman tag-team an elk, teeth bared and spears raised high. The elk they’re wrestling is a genuinely impressive piece of puppetry, Finn Caldwell’s design dominating the Jerwood Theatre, its antlers stretching wall‑to‑wall as the front row instinctively recoils. Its movements can look staccato in the tight space, but the scale and artistry remain effective, and Scarlet Wilderink (Puppetry Captain) completes the image with excellent deer cries.

Our freshly evolved apes hoot and holler, successfully discombobulating their supposed supper and backing the beast into a corner. With dinner secured, the play wastes no time diving into its central energy: absurdity. “What kind of dog is this?”, the man asks in bewilderment, and from there on out, every interaction becomes a power play. Who is the hunter and who is the prey? Who’s dumb and who’s dumber? These are humans at the very beginning, before civilisation, before cars and contactless payments and Ticketmaster queues. Honestly? Good for them.

The play divides its ensemble into two loosely defined tribes: the sh*theads and the not‑so‑sh*theads. The labels are relative, and everyone takes a turn being feral, foolish, or frightening. Clare (Jacoba Williams) sees herself as the alpha, clearly the more experienced hunter (knows what an elk is, for a start). Greg (Jonny Khan), meanwhile, is the human equivalent of a sugar rush, bolting around the elk carcass and spitting on its corpse with unbridled joy, blissfully unaware of concepts like shame. Their chemistry is oddly sweet, if you can overlook the trail of animal intestines painting the floor. They exchange lessons: he teaches her phrases like “Big Time,” and she teaches him empathy. Their worlds get a little bit bigger.

But Greg has places to be: Danielle and their baby are waiting, and there’s a deadly storm rolling in. Clare, unbothered and immovable, insists her cave is as indestructible as a nuclear bunker, and that she can basically magic the storm away. Greg is extremely easy to manipulate, so naturally he buys every word, and the trap is set. Without giving too much away, let’s just say if Sean Bean were cast in The Sh*theads, he’d definitely play Greg.

Madness and mayhem ensues, exasperated by Greg’s girlfriend Danielle (Ami Tredrea) and their terrifyingly large puppet baby with its fat, yet fast, legs. Again we’re confronted with the key question: who are the Neanderthals, and who are the Homo sapiens? Inside the cave a fire burns, and we meet Clare’s oddball family: Adrian (Peter Clements), her father, whose inexplicable transatlantic accent would give Matt Berry a run for his money, and Lisa (Annabel Smith), her younger sister. Lisa is kept there for safety; Adrian, because he can barely walk. Clare is their designated breadwinner, think Katniss Everdeen, BC. The dynamic works, unusual and unconventional, like so many families are behind cave doors.

But beneath the humour and puppet mayhem lies the thematic backbone: the stories we’re raised on. Clare and Lisa’s father has spent years spinning false narratives about the outside world to ensure his daughters don’t abandon him. It’s a prehistoric take on generational misinformation, and when the truth finally cracks it’s genuinely compelling. What do we do when the tales that shaped us collapse? When we’re forced to see the “sh*theads” not as monsters, but as people just like us?

This is where the play could soar into something resonant, but too often The Sh*theads seems unsure what it wants its audience to walk away with. The absurdity is joyful; the puppets are glorious; the performances are committed and often hilarious. Yet the narrative threads - conspiracy, inherited fear, the fragile birth of community - never quite tie themselves into a satisfying knot. Instead, the play opts for tonal whiplash and shock reveals that don’t fully earn their impact.

That being said, there’s plenty to admire. Nicholls’ writing is weird and queer, and frequently funny. The direction from Aneesa Srinivasan and David Byrne embraces the manic energy rather than trying to tame it. And the cast commits fearlessly, gnawing on every metaphorical bone. Annabel Smith’s Lisa is a certified scene-stealer, balancing childlike wonder with cheeky menace. Her head is on a constant tilt, like a dog that’s just heard “Wanna go for a w…?”, and her lemon-sucked expression paired with owlish blinking makes her endlessly watchable. Lisa’s adolescent innocence grounds the silliness with genuine curiosity and heart, asking questions simply for the thrill of knowing, with little malicious intent.

In the end, The Sh*theads is like watching the earliest sparks of civilisation: people learning in real time and occasionally hitting on something true. It doesn’t quite nail its own story, but it’s a lively, imaginative debut with enough charm and peculiarity to leave its mark.

The Sh*theads plays at The Royal Court, Jerwood Theatre Upstairs until 14th March. Tickets from https://royalcourttheatre.com/events/the-shitheads/

Photos by Camilla Greenwell