Kayla Sibanda
Dennis Kelly’s Girls & Boys does an excellent job of exploring the slow, insidious nature of domestic violence, the unreliability of memory, and the unwavering brutality of loss. From the moment the play begins, we are thrown into the world of an unnamed woman—played with intensity by Aisling Loftus. Loftus speaks to us with a bluntness that feels almost unnervingly intimate, especially at the start when she recants her days of promiscuity.
…she is crude, unfiltered, and warm…
There’s no filter in her way of speaking: she is crude, unfiltered, and warm in a way that makes it seem as though we are old friends rather than audience members. Loftus does such an incredibly job of being likeable and immediately loved. Something I could tell as I scanned my eyes around to see so many faces smiling. However, it makes me wonder, what the story could’ve been like if she wasn’t so likeable. At times, it felt very obviously written by a man—her character, while compelling, lacked complexity. She is likeable, funny, and charismatic, which makes her suffering all the more tragic. But what if she wasn’t? What if she was difficult, unlikeable? Would the story still hold the same weight?
There is a stark black backdrop behind her which isn’t necessarily solemn, but is strikingly empty, setting the tone for what is to come. As the play unfolds, it becomes clear that this minimalism is not just aesthetic—it is deeply thematic. We are now introduced to a new set, one that is sleek and simple: a kitchen, a table, a sofa. A picture frame with nothing in it. Books without words. A home that should be full of life but instead exudes a sense of emptiness that sort of lingers.
…it lulls us into comfort with its humour…
One of the factors that struck me most was the play’s pacing. It doesn’t rush towards tragedy. Instead, it lulls us into comfort with its humour, humour that, at first, feels slightly off. I initially wanted to critique some of the jokes that didn’t land, but over time, I realised that’s precisely the point. The awkwardness, the slight mistiming, the way laughter feels forced, it all serves to highlight the creeping unease that builds throughout the play.
Loftus’ performance is extraordinary. Her ability to shift from light-heartedness to devastation is seamless, and when there is a shift in tone, it is done so with the kind of abruptness that mirrors real-life experiences of abuse. For many victims, the violence seems to come out of nowhere—or at least, it feels that way. Kelly captures this horrifying shift with precision, showing how a relationship that once felt secure can become something unrecognisable. I also admired the way that, whilst there is this noticeable shift, it takes time for the narrator to understand why certain ‘justifications’ for the behaviour aren’t reasonable.
…we are taken on this journey in real time, unable to escape the growing tension
Furthermore, one of the most striking choices in the production is the decision to not have an interval. There is no break, which means no moment to collect ourselves. Instead, we are taken on this journey in real time, unable to escape the growing tension. The effect is almost suffocating. There were moments when I felt physically drained, knowing that the worst was coming and yet powerless to stop it. This sensation peaks when she finally breaks the fourth wall to acknowledge what we have been dreading: he killed their children.
What I found most moving was the fact that she never breaks down in tears. There’s no dramatic collapse; no outpouring of sobs that would make the audience feel comfortably cathartic. Instead, she tells us the truth of what happened with an almost unbearable level of control. I found this so unnerving as she tells us the details of how her children were killed, paying attention to even what type of knife was used.
That restraint makes it so much harder to watch. Because we know, deep down, that her grief is not absent, instead it’s just contained. And when pain is held like that, it feels sharper, heavier. It sits in the silence between her words, in the spaces where she pauses, in the breath she takes before moving on. I found myself almost wishing she would cry, that she would let it spill over, because at least then it would feel manageable, or at least somewhat.
The woman tells us stories about her children, recounting conversations with them, reliving their presence in her life. And yet, we begin to realise that these interactions aren’t real. They exist only in her mind. The only true conversations she has are with us, and even that is layered with artifice, since this is a play.
She is … constructing a version of her past that makes sense to her, one in which she can still hear their voices.
A moment that particularly stood out to me was when she speaks to her children, emphasising certain words so that we, the audience, can understand what they are saying—even though they are not actually speaking. At first, I simply appreciated the clarity of this choice. But as the play continued, I realised its deeper significance. She is shaping these memories for us, constructing a version of her past that makes sense to her, one in which she can still hear their voices.
This tension between reality and performance is part of what makes Girls & Boys so unsettling. The set itself reinforces this idea. The absence of writing on the books, the empty picture frames; they symbolise the way trauma distorts and erases. She is left trying to piece together a story that no longer fully exists, forced to reframe memories that have been permanently tainted by the knowledge of what came after.
By the end of the play, the stage is stripped down even further. She sits alone on a sofa, a lamp casting a dim light around her. Perhaps the dog is there too, but this isn’t something I can say with certainty since I was so certain her kids were also there.
… a story about survival, about the impossibility of making sense of the senseless.
Ultimately, Girls & Boys is not just a story about domestic violence; it is a story about survival, about the impossibility of making sense of the senseless. It does not offer easy answers, nor does it attempt to make its tragedy feel digestible. Instead, it forces us to sit in discomfort, to experience the overwhelming weight of grief and violence, just as she does.
I deliberately avoided reading too much about the play beforehand, and I’m glad I did. Experiencing it firsthand, without prior expectations, allowed its impact to hit me fully.
Kayla Sibanda
Featured image courtesy of Alex Watkin. Permission to use granted to Impact. No changes were made to this image.
In-article images courtesy of Johan Persson. No changes were made to these images.
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