London has made it again. You can see top quality theatre for the price of two hamburguers, like 13, the latest play by Mike Bartlett. 13, perfect number, number of points in the protocole to bombing Iran. At 2 pm the crowd gathered in Southbank takes over the National Theatre. And then you have an idea of how thick this theatre-loving demographics is in London. English theatre is always on top of things, making politicians and all the establishment look like rubbish (one could compare it to the clockwork-like job done by David Mitchell's column on Nick Clegg in The Observer). How many playwrights are ready to disect society. At times when the British government expels Iranian diplomats, 13 make us reflect precisely about the next war. Bad dreams, nightmares. We just cannot sleep at all. That's exactly how we we feel in these times of extreme decay.
Precise jewlery are all the artefacts that get played on stage. First and foremost is this black box that is an alarm clock, an apartment building, a platform for John, the head of the protesters, the facade of 10 Downing St, et cetera. The box contains God, according to a Richard Dawkins-like character, who eventually shows us that the box is empty. John seems just coming to stage from the tents placed by St Paul's occupiers accompanied by Rihanna's song Only girl (in the world), that fresh is this play directed by Thea Sharrock and designed by Tom Scutt.
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