It turns out that Let the Right One In is not in fact a fly-on-the-wall documentary about King Edward’s schools’ admissions. It is nonetheless a bold drama to stage in our (or any) schools: this year’s Senior Production is really a play about safeguarding. And vampires, of course.
As such, it makes for challenging viewing. The supernatural aspect of this horror story is embodied appropriately hauntingly by the frail-looking, bare-footed, vampire Eli (Dowsett). She drifts across the stage in an ethereal oversized white shirt, padding gently like a dancer, or a panther, calmly observing what fools these mortals are as she enthralls her victims, occasionally exploding into rage or violence.
Other monsters of the piece are all too human, such as the gang of school bullies. Yet they too are vampiric in appearance, with moussed hair, translucent veil make-up, and wide eyes evoking the Lost Boys of the 1980s Schumacher film and thereby blurring the line between human and monster. They target their victim with more straightforward, if not less disturbing, physical and emotional violence: Savu, Pandey, Mayo and Dyche are grimly convincing as gleeful teenage cowards left unchecked to torment the isolated Oskar (Ray). The crumbs of camaraderie offered by former friend Micke (Pandey) only go to show how much better he should know, and to sharpen the impact of his taunts (‘Pig! Don’t look at me, bitch!’) once he is amongst his gang.
For Oskar, there is no right one to let in. Vampires make it exotic, but Lindqvist’s drama is a portrayal of abuse. Neglected by his separated, alcoholic parents, he drifts away from even their sporadic attempts at engagement with him (‘I made your favourite.’ / ‘I don’t think it’s my favourite any more.’ / ‘Eat it anyway.’). Edwards portrays Oskar’s mother powerfully with a wraithlike vulnerability and desperation of her own, which combines with Dad’s (Hadley) convincingly soulless and fleeting bonhomie as he reneges on his paternal responsibilities and moves on to his new life with the callously indifferent Janne (Eccleston). They leave between them a stark sense for the audience of Oskar’s lack of domestic safety net.
The play provides a cautionary tale of red flags ignored or uninvestigated – other than by the manipulative vampire (‘Did somebody do that to you?’), who recognises in them vulnerability constituting opportunity. Ray’s Oskar is fearful, muted, poignant in his quiet hope for companionship and communication. His delight at sharing Morse code with Eli encapsulates his ache for interaction. His outbursts of rage at injustice and at being misunderstood are passionate and are punished through the cruel irony of misdirected, uninterested authority.
A lack of lines of demarcation, a blurring of boundaries and areas of responsibility and security, is also intrinsic to the set design. Reminiscent of Emma Rice’s 2024 production for the RSC of The Buddha of Suburbia, the split-level set allows the raised areas to provide facing apartments, between which Oskar and Eli can move, with a dramatic irony in the illusory image of parallel lives, seductive to Oskar. The main stage functions variously as the snowy outdoors of the Blackeberg estate, the school changing rooms and gym, and the gaudy sweetshop. The scene changes are slick and professional, hinting in their smooth rapidity at the absence of sanctuary to be found anywhere for the isolated protagonist. Hall’s put-upon sweetshop owner, Kurt, deserves a mention for his fine portrayal of another adult who vaguely notices something is wrong, throwing the woebegone Oskar a free chocolate bar but not asking any questions.
Perhaps most immediate and powerful on the Ruddock stage, though, is the rendering of school life. Parekh’s excellent performance as the predominantly self-interested and egocentric teacher, Mr Avila – all groomed moustache, chest hair, medallion, red tracksuit and deafening whistle blasts – is another depiction of neglect in the form of abrogation of responsibilities towards the vulnerable Oskar. He manages a brief, passing apology to his young charge, who continues to endure systematic and opportunistic cruelty from his peers, before ultimately being swept aside impotently as the bullying group gain momentum, leading up to the horrifying swimming pool scene.
The production is loud, in places – the 80s soundtrack, the baying school pupils, the angry and fearful public – perhaps inviting us to consider how hard it can be to hear the quiet voices, how carefully we need to listen amid all the noise and shouting. Agadagba, wholly convincing as the overwhelmed Police Chief Halmberg, manages to ask Oskar’s mother one question about her alcoholism, before being distracted by louder voices. Eli is a still small voice of calm for Oskar: seductive in part through contrast with the chaos of his community.
The play’s most subtle and haunting performance is given by Swanborough, as Hakan: Eli’s doomed, desperate, would-be lover. Initially a spooky predator slipping oleaginously through the shadows in his black overcoat and Homburg hat, murdering in order to harvest victims’ blood for Eli (Omar Mukhlis’ swansong to a distinguished career on the school stage is to be suspended and exsanguinated, it seems), it does not take long for his vulnerability to emerge. He pleads for affection, for love – Swanborough showing terrific range. Eli doles out what is required to keep him servile and infatuated. His destroyed identity, represented gruesomely on stage when he voluntarily burns away his own face with sulfuric acid (‘I carry this with me everywhere! For you!’) in order to protect Eli from identification by association, foreshadows Oskar’s future. The motif of the hat, taken from Hakan’s hospital bed and passed on to Oskar, leaves us with the chilling final image of the play: Oskar sits happily on a suitcase/coffin containing Eli, travelling by train to a new destination. A new start, an escape, at last, he imagines, as he taps out dot, dot-dash-dot-dot, dot-dot on the box. The hat sits beside him; his fate inherited, his future written. Directors Miss McKinley and Mrs Higgins, and their production team and stage crew, have delivered a chilling January parable.
Mr Leigh
