Review: Cow / Deer, Royal Court Theatre

Maverick director and maker Katie Mitchell completely commits to any new form of practice with a passion. The sound performance experiment Cow | Deer at The Royal Court’s Jerwood Theatre creates a world of extraordinary possibility, enabled by collaborators who appear to share her forensic appetite for the craft. 

This production explores a particular theatrical mindset. It prequels with a card handed out that reads: “You may not recognise each sound you hear. That’s understandable – you’re human”, to remind us that the act of listening is all. The audience is encouraged to shut their eyes to experience Mitchell’s latest experiment, in which she has co-collaborated with Nina Segal and Melanie Wilson to evoke one day in the lives of a heavily pregnant Cow and a Deer.

Raised in the country, this world is familiar to me and instantly, the sensory smells from bales of hay are reminiscent of a particular landscape. The set, designed by Alex Eales, uses tables supporting a row of bales as a practical platform for the foley performance, with a water tank in the middle and a line of microphones placed in front. Ceiling lamps hang down overhead to create a kind of outdoor sound lab, complete with an upstage booth and a display of various objects for a live foley score. 

Cow | Deer is described as a performance for sound with no words. It instead uses gathered field recordings and a sound design, plus the live foley work, to communicate. Finally, a Royal Court staff member begins the story by reading out the contextual narrative of an August day, as listened to by the two animals.

The ensemble (Pandora Colin, Tom Espiner, Tatenda Matsvai and Ruth Sullivan) enters the dimly lit space and moves into position. There follows a dilemma – to shut one’s eyes and deeply listen and imagine, or to witness fluid and beautifully punctuated choreography as the performers work and cue with the soundscapes, creating live foley effects. The evocative sounds of early morning birdsong, trees swaying in the wind and gentle rain successfully bring transcendent moments of ‘eyes closed calm’. Likewise, uncannily and inexplicably, the transition from day to night can be heard, and specific sounds clarify our listening narrative. The landscapes and terrains are also clearly listened to, particularly as the Deer moves across soft earth, through water and later tarmacked road surfaces. The more urgent themes of climate change are heard by intrusive human-made sound: pre-recorded planes, cars and trains obstruct and interrupt the narrative loudly – even farm sounds of tractors, quad bikes and metal fences are heard as intrusive for the Cow.  

Espiner and Sullivan are contemporary foley artists and originated the score. It is here that the real theatrical joy is both heard and seen: a pesky horsefly is flicked relentlessly by a leather chamois ‘tail’ before Cow goes into labour. The birth is sounded by a hot water bottle-type bladder: we hear her chewing, shitting and urinating into a plastic bucket through the use of a range of objects, accompanied by the endless licking of her calf. The object manipulation has a similar focus and intensity to puppeteering, and it is a skilful energy that creates believable actions here. Bobbins create the sound of Deer’s hooves or scurrying mice, whilst the flapping of gloves becomes birds skimming water. Interspersed field recordings of dogs barking, humans calling and loud cars on roadways foreshadow the climax of Deer’s story. 

If an audience can tune into the details, then there is much to gain from this impressive co-production, where deep listening and imagination are recommended to connect to the narrative and engage in a remarkable world of inventive possibility.

Co-creators: Katie Mitchell & Nina Segal
Co-creator & Sound Artist: Melanie Wilson
Designer: Alex Eales
Lighting Designer: Prema Mehta
Foley score originated by: Tom Espiner & Ruth Sullivan
Associate Sound Designer & Operator: Marie Zschommler

Cow | Deer plays at The Royal Court Theatre until Saturday October 11.