Greek mythology has been mined so thoroughly by contemporary theatre that it’s a minor miracle when a new reinterpretation manages to feel fresh. Agnes Perry-Robinson’s Like Holding Water In Your Hand wants to join that legacy, presenting itself as a modern Orpheus and Eurydice set against environmental collapse, surveillance culture, and landlord-related dread. It’s an ambitious pitch, but unfortunately the execution feels less like a bold reimagining and more like a half-remembered Classics seminar, filtered through characters who speak in earnest, Instagram‑adjacent poetry rather than authentic dialogue.
We meet Maud and Alex, a couple living in a block of flats as wildfires rage… somewhere. Precisely where, why, and how badly remains frustratingly unclear. There are constant references to riots, mass casualties and a vaguely apocalyptic outside world, but the play holds this information at arm’s length, as though it might spoil the mood if we got too specific. The result is a lot of existential hand-wringing without anything solid to grip onto, rather like holding water in your hand, I suppose.
The mythology is not so much embedded in the narrative as repeatedly pointed out to us. Parallels are drawn, underlined, and highlighted, often at the expense of the story happening in front of us. Rather than allowing Greek myth to inform the characters’ choices, the script flattens the source material into a conceptual checklist. Maud is a journalist, Alex is an out-of-work musician, and together, they are two tortured creatives asking the Big Questions about meaning, purpose, and love in the face of destruction. The play desperately wants these questions to land as profound, but the tragedy, danger, and emotional stakes of Orpheus and Eurydice are conspicuously absent, replaced by characters taking turns psychoanalysing one another while very little actually happens.
Lot, the landlord and supposed Hades figure, should be the harbinger of doom here. He has leverage over Alex – having helped him erase his legal identity so he can avoid being drafted to aid with the fires – and holds the looming power of exposure over the pair. Alex is effectively owned, or at least blackmailed, yet the severity of this arrangement never fully lands. His threats are vague, the consequences unclear, and when Maud eventually tries to push back, Lot simply laughs it off. If the world is as corrupt and broken as the script suggests, does anything that happens in this room even truly matter? This message may be intentional, but it completely drains the drama of urgency.
The writing is heavily stylised, veering into overworked lyricism that feels unnatural and rehearsed. We open with Maud addressing the audience directly in a style that feels less raw confession and more slam poetry open mic night. Memories are shared in florid detail, but they’re so ornate they lose all warmth. The language throughout is agonisingly pretentious, full of grand proclamations and vague soliloquies that sound like a participant’s vows from Married At First Sight. It’s the theatrical equivalent of a horoscope: broad enough to gesture at insight, but too vague to reveal anything genuine.
Agnes Perry-Robinson’s direction matches this intensity with an enthusiasm for underlining every moment. Characters drape themselves across furniture in carefully choreographed despair, as if embodying the exhaustion the script insists upon. There’s a particularly clunky stretch where Lot delivers a series of “news reports” from the outside world, switching between spotlights and headlines. Given the presence of a projector already used at the start, I can’t help but wonder if pre-recording these moments might have spared everyone the awkwardness.
The performances rarely feel aligned. Alejandra Deane’s Maud is the most energetic presence, but the character’s constant huffing, puffing and self-importance become grating. Louis Street’s Alex is persistently passive, sporting a furrowed brow and the emotional range of someone who’s just been told their ASOS parcel has been delayed. This is not quite the Orpheus of legend, more “get out of my room, Mum” than “I will brave hell itself for love.” Chris Westgate has certainly made some choices in his portrayal of Lot. The character’s darker strands – loneliness, misogyny, obsession – are introduced without being meaningfully explored. The closest description I can come up with is to imagine if Don Vito Corleone was played by Robin Williams. Do with that information what you will.
By the end, the play circles its central question: if you could return to childhood, when the world felt smaller and safer, would you? It’s a compelling idea, but one smothered by vague storytelling and overworked dialogue. Despite endless insistence that Maud and Alex are trapped, you never really believe they couldn’t just leave. There’s no convincing imbalance of power, no real danger, and no emotional darkness to justify the gloom.
In trying to be profound, Like Holding Water In Your Hand forgets to be precise. The message is blunt, the structure is mushy, and the mythological framework is stretched so thin it barely holds. What remains is a dull story about two people who should probably get jobs, and a landlord who desperately needs a hobby. As Alex himself neatly puts it: “What’s this actually about?” Honestly, your guess is as good as mine.
Like Holding WaterIn Your Hand plays at the Drayton Arms Theatre home until 2nd May.
