This is a beautiful, haunting play. Most of its allure comes from the characters' inability to articulate their emotions; an impotence that draws a distinct boundary between us and the men. This separation is only heightened by the active role that the split versions of A and B take on. We're not only presented with the young and old embodiment of a single spirit, but also the assistants, who serve as physical reminders of the men's stubborn reliance on fading memory and silence.

Our sense of despair rises as the minutes continue to tick away, signalling the impending end of a shared life, as well as the death of expression. It's during these moments that we experience the tender violence of passing time, which leaves us gaping into space as we realise how much of Old B's suffering has come to rest on our shoulders. And we see that, using various mechanisms of narration, Bartlett has injected into us doses of the dread that's eating A and B alive.

Aside from the superb writing and subtlety of reference within the story, Bartlett creates a dynamic, visual experience. Working only with the text, I was able to lose myself in the switching images. Meanwhile, I found myself helpless against the dialogue taking place not so much between A and B, as through them. All in all, I've read a few plays in my life, but this one was by far one of the most captivating. ( )