The Adventures of Wound Man and Shirley
Chris Goode

Tobacco Factory
12th-13th May

Reviewed by Chris Gylee for theatrebristol.net

Editor’s note: All reviews are contributed by users of theatrebristol.net. They are the independent and unedited work of their authors and do not constitute the views, opinions or endorsement of Theatre Bristol as an organisation

I’ve just wolfed down half a chip butty and settled into my seat at the Tobacco Factory when one of the guys chatting at the lighting desk next to me turns around, ambles down the scuffed steps to the stage, and, suddenly spot-lit, blinks out at the audience. This is Chris Goode it seems, and we have unceremoniously begun. There’s a short, casual introduction. Goode wonders about the starting point for the story he’s about to tell: Shirley (and Wound Man)’s tale isn’t about himself, he’s keen to point out, but perhaps it began when he, the storyteller, first fell in love. He wonders this twice, and I’m not convinced that Shirley isn’t a version of our narrator. We’re also introduced to the visual inspiration for the character of Wound Man. An image from a school history book is projected up onto the white curtain behind Goode – a drawing of a man in pants, his body perforated at every conceivable point by all manner of weapons. He doesn’t look too impressed, understandably. As Goode talks the projection rolls his eyes, and his mutilated hands flop around. Neat simple stuff. The lights dim, Goode exits and a lovingly animated title sequence (like a teenage boy’s doodles brought to life) draws us into Shirley’s world. The white curtain pulls away and Goode is revealed on the set behind, lying on Shirley’s bed, in his poster-clad attic bedroom. I’m sitting comfortably and so his story begins.

Shirley is an odd-one-out teenager (surely how we all felt?), with a girl’s name in a boring suburbia. But today, very early, on his hockey stick shaped cul-de-sac the strangely clanking superhero Wound Man moves in. This new neighbour has a penchant for wearing neatly ironed silver thongs, but with their oddnesses balanced Shirley becomes Wound Man’s skinny sidekick and an unlikely friendship is formed. All of this is narrated by Goode in the tone of the very best bedtime storyteller, and it would be a shame to tell you what happens. Listening to the narrative unfold is most of the charm of this piece. Suffice to say that there’s unrequited love, twitchy neighbours, a parade of unleashed animals, awkward school teachers, hospitals and heartbreak, cross country runs and the ever elusive object of Shirley’s affections: the equally oddly-named Subway Darling.

Goode’s storytelling is gentle but engaging, and it felt as though there was a soft complicity in the theatre, with everyone quietly rooting for underdog Shirley. It’s a fairy story really, or magic realism, but probably because of this familiar framework Goode manages to get his audience to care about his weedy teenage hero, his slightly inappropriate older friend, and his gay crush on the cross country captain at school. It’s impressive that Goode holds everyone’s attention for well over an hour, and it’s a story with a heart, about a point in our lives we often decide to forget. It’s a shame, to some extent, that Goode’s connection with the audience has to stretch from Shirley’s room through a bulky frame, only used for the opening and closing animations. It suggests a barrier, which is odd for a tale that is deliberately intimate, and ultimately about the connection between storyteller and audience. The bedroom itself, packed with unused details, also seems to hem Goode in, as he shuffles between bed and stool and chair and back again, and when we’re transported to Wound Man’s house, or school, or the airport, the specifics of Shirley’s room make it harder to imagine these new places. I’d like to see Goode perform this with less. Perhaps just a chair or bed, and a suggestion of (even animated) place would let this story breathe more. There’s a gem caught inside all the clunky trimmings: Shirley’s small but important story and the real care with which Goode tells it. As Wound Man might say: Be brave. Let it out.