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Marjorie Prime: a fascinating AI fable that could do with an upgrade

Richard Fleeshman and Anne Reid in Marjorie Prime, at the Menier - Manuel Harlan
Richard Fleeshman and Anne Reid in Marjorie Prime, at the Menier - Manuel Harlan

It’s just over a hundred years since Karel Capek gave the world the sci-fi play RUR and the word “robot”, conjuring a slave class of synthetic humans.

One striking thing about Marjorie Prime, a Pulitzer-shortlisted American drama by Jordan Harrison, first staged in 2014 and now getting its UK premiere, is that it’s not mind-blowing. The “What if?” of yesteryear has become “What will happen when…?”.

In theatrically conceiving AI-enabled androids that serve as copies of the deceased and surrogate companions for the bereft, Harrison bypasses specifics of gadgetry and society and focuses on the emotional and philosophical by-products of the advance. Marjorie Prime has already been made into a decent film – freely available, incidentally, for Amazon Prime members. But in reintroducing it to its natural habitat, director Dominic Dromgoole has done something valuable. Firstly, because TV and film have long raced ahead to explore these brave new worlds. Secondly, because it’s a big play of ideas housed in a modest domestic interior, its individual predicaments inviting a shared response, its unnerving propositions offset by flickers of reassuring comedy.

Anne Reid, 87, is the frail, touching titular character, losing mind and memories to Alzheimer’s but having a shoulder to cry on in the shape of Walter, a benign, beaming replica of her late husband’s younger self. Though not old-school dystopian, there’s still something disquieting as Richard Fleeshman’s fixedly attentive helpmeet passes the time like a glorified pet –  tutored on his and her pasts the better to serve as an aide-memoire.

Reid impressively delineates the psychological grey-zone between calm acceptance and lurking apprehension, combining a compos mentis grasp of Walter’s simulated nature with an irrational, if relatable, politesse and solicitude. There are shades of Florian Zeller’s The Father, but full anguish is kept out of sight.

Instead, the evening follows its own internal logic to keep probing questions about what makes us “us”. Nancy Carroll and Tony Jayawardena as Marjorie’s daughter and son-in-law are contending with the tricksy present, incendiary baggage from the past and future-shocks of grief and loss, the AI “fix” re-applied until, eerily, we’re just left with the equivalent of chatbots conversing, all the humans departed, their likenesses remaining.

It’s a satisfyingly understated and well-played evening, albeit a rather cheerless one. I’d recommend it but would also advise an upgrade next time. Given the power of music and that virtual assistants like Alexa are here to stay, a prime selection of relevant numbers wouldn’t hurt, countering the chill spectre of algorithms with rhythms that bypass our emotional firewalls.


Until May 6. Tickets: 020 7378 1713; menierchocolatefactory.com