Love and Other Acts of Violence, review: intriguing study of whether trauma is passed down in our genes

Cordelia Lynn’s new Love and Other Acts of Violence, which kicks off the reopening season of the newly refurbished Donmar Warehouse, hinges on the concept that trauma, such as genocide, slavery or famine, can change its survivors’ genomes in such a way that it can be passed down to their offspring for generations in a legacy that scientists call “transgenerational trauma”.

At one point, the Jewish, female astro-physicist – half of the nameless couple at the heart of the play, portrayed with riveting assurance by newcomer Abigail Weinstock – explicitly bemoans “how our genes betray us”. Lynn further emphasises this trope in the play’s script with an epigraph by Jewish-American writer Isaac Bashevis Singer: “The past generations are dybbuks. They sit within us and usually remain silent. But suddenly one of them cries out.”

The real-life antisemitic atrocity that triggers the trauma in question here is the pogrom that took place in the Ukrainian town of Lemberg in 1918. Its genetic repercussions begin to manifest immediately when the aforementioned astrophysicist (Her) and Tom Mothersdale’s left-wing activist poet (Him) first encounter each other as postgraduate students at a party that takes place “roughly now” in a country that roughly resembles Britain.

Him is leaning over Her, in full-on activist mode, as he attempts to hit on Her over loud music. It’s an overbearing physical gesture, along with a few others, that will become very significant for Lynn’s overarching notion of inherited trauma for both the descendants of perpetrator and victim, in the epilogue set during the pogrom. When designer Basia Bińkowska’s wooden platform descends from the lighting rig to reveal the historical setting of the epilogue, it’s an exact replica that overlays the one the actors have been performing the contemporary scenes on and a metaphorical reiteration of the notion of inheritance.

The couple embark on a relationship, roughly over the duration of a decade, that is defined by its raw, physical attraction. Along the way, they discover that their families can be traced back to Lemberg, although Her is quick to point out that their families are unlikely to have been friendly because Him is not Jewish.

Theirs is a dystopian world, captured in fractured snapshots of the relationship, in which tertiary education has been defunded, the political party in opposition has been designated a terrorist organisation and Jews are persecuted. By making her protagonists a Jewish woman and a left-wing activist, Lynn appears to be referencing the allegaitons of antisemitism that have fractured the Labour Party in recent years.

The couple’s powerful sexual interaction is also its undoing because “skin is an organ of memory.” In visceral, poetic interludes that collapse the intervening time and function like the ghosts of their ancestors in their DNA – “too much memory crying out in too much blood” – Her tongue poisons Him and Him has made Her ill. They do violence with their words, assumptions, expectations and omissions, all in the name of love. Soon, the distrust in this passive-aggressive relationship descends into physical violence.

The production, directed by Elayce Ismail, is whiplash fast, necessarily dictated by Lynn’s short, punchy lines of dialogue which frequently overlap each other. This speediness is very effective in the dystopian contemporary scenes and is handled with consummate aplomb by the two excellent lead actors. However, it’s more detrimental in the naturalistic, historical epilogue, which it makes feel rushed and underdeveloped.

Nevertheless, this is a thoughtful and intriguing play.

Until Nov 27. Tickets: 020 3282 3808; donmarwarehouse.com