The thing is, this performance was made incredibly eerie by the fact that Guy Clark, sole actor as Marlow, turned out to be my look-alike. Admittedly, a few facial features are different, but the similarity was still unnerving. In certain lights, it was like watching a video of myself. I therefore felt no guilt in checking out our muscle definition when he took his top off; and mercifully, I don't scrub up too bad. Lacan eat your heart out.

I suppose you could therefore argue that this review will be inherently biased, in that all the following praise may actually be a manifestation of ruthless narcissism. Nevertheless, Heart of Darkness is a brilliant translation of Conrad's haunting parable of idealism, adventure, morality, colonialism, and fathomless human nature, into the theatre; George Johnston has done a terrific job in making the cuts nearly imperceptible, achieving a powerful flow while allowing for easy comprehension.

Maddie Skipsey's directorial choices were brilliant. The simple set encouraged imagination; the occasional rasp of whispers intruded in at points of tension, enhancing the strong finale. The lighting was simple but atmospheric, painting the novel wonderfully; the use of candles too enhanced the performance. Recently a lecturer stated that he felt “every play should involve a box”; after seeing the imaginative use of crates in this production I wholeheartedly agree, as they embodied that key theme of untranslatable subjectivity in demanding a similar imaginative leap in the audience. This expression reached its climax in Marlow performing a gorgeous turning-of-the-back to the audience: (That's right, thesps, he went and broke the golden rule. Is that “the horror” I hear you crying?)

Clark had an impressive emotional range in his performance, despite uncertainties in the first half when his expressions wavered a little uncertainly between pathos, horror, and perhaps disgust when in the grove of the dying slaves, but from there on it was immersive; he captured the difficult racist/colonialist tensions in Marlow's opinion well, thereby highlighting the uncertain morality of the text in the way it should be highlighted.

I think the only real problem with the play was in the transition between the tones of different passages. After delivering a haunting passage brilliantly, Clark would leap into his standard eagerness again without allowing the feelings to linger on into the next passage. The most I can accuse him of is a passionate integrity to the emotions demanded by each separate section, which simply transitioned too quickly at times; but given the material he had to get through, this can be forgiven; if anything, his sprightliness captured Marlow's essential eagerness to spin his yarn.

Overall, Clarke's performance was remarkable, talented, and nearly flawless. I could hardly have done it better myself.