The Wall of Death: A Way of Life

Peter Brook famously wrote that, in order for an act of theatre to happen, all one needed was for a person to watch someone else walk across a space.

Many may question whether or not Ken Fox and his troupe’s motorcycle performance counts as ‘theatre’, as the audience don’t just watch them walk but also glide and spin about.

But is the National Theatre of Scotland’s production good? The sad truth is that it’s a mixed bag, and that's a shame because there is no doubt how sincere everything is.

Artist Stephen Skrynka starts the production off with an impassioned speech about how inspired he was by a funfair attraction known as The Wall of Death: a circular wall that motorcyclists ride around while doing tricks and appearing to defy gravity. The audience are then treated to a few pieces of art installation before encountering the wall itself, and its riders.

The first half of the production feels like one huge missed opportunity. The history of the wall is clearly rich and interesting, and the use of art to enhance the overall experience is a great idea. There may be some fun concepts, but nothing comes across as remarkable and the result is, at best, flimsy.

However, that all changes when the audience comes face-to-face with the Ken Fox Troupe, with bright lights, loud revving engines, larger-than-life smiles and cheeky winks. Their Q&A session proves enlightening and the troupe come across as passionate and warm. It’s impossible not to like them, which makes the final part – watching the actual Wall of Death in action – all the more remarkable because the audience is emotionally invested in the troupe. We aren’t just amazed at what they do; we now personally care.

Skrynka has brought the Wall and the Ken Fox Troupe to an audience that would probably have usually passed on experiencing it. Judging by the surprised gasps and dropped jaws, the vast majority seemed to think it was pretty amazing.

However, we aren’t allowed much of a glimpse of Skrynka’s personal interaction, which is a shame. As a result, the great juxtaposition of performance and art that we have been promised does not materialise, and the loud screams from Fox’s motorcycles more than obliterate the almost feeble whisper of Skrynka’s attempts of hero worship.