A rustic farmhouse. A couple - Sam and Judith Covey - sit anxiously at the kitchen table, awaiting the arrival of their houseguest. It’s quickly made evident why they feel such dread: William Bloor, a lofty and precocious government official and licensed ‘Foxfinder’ has been sent to investigate their farm after they’ve failed to meet governmental quotas.
From this first scene, we gather a few things: this is England, but not as we know it - rampant flooding has pushed the land to near ruin, and a seeming lack of imports means the environmental plight is put on the shoulders of the farmers. The Coveys have had a very, very bad year - their cat ran off, Sam fell sick with a long flu, and their four-year-old son, Dan, died in an accident (painfully, a red child-sized coat still hangs on the coat rack). Now, depending on the outcome of this investigation, they may lose their farm altogether.
Fox infestations are treated as a grave threat. For in the eyes of the government, the elusive (read: actually extinct) fox is not only a pest but a long-toothed demon, capable of mind control and changing the weather, a child killer intent on perverting the purest of minds. Based on this chilling criteria, the Foxfinder does not need to actually see the beast in the flesh to determine if a farm has been contaminated by its presence.
Foxfinder, written by Dawn King, debuted in 2011 at The Finborough, to critical acclaim. This was followed by a more tepidly received revival at The Ambassadors Theatre in 2018 - highlighting a key tenet of this play’s success: correct casting is crucial. Thankfully Ronin Productions - a local theatre company with a focus on mental health and modern plays (their oeuvre is made up entirely of works from the past three decades) - more than delivers on this front, giving us four nimble and deeply felt characterizations, spearheaded by a virtuoso performance from Niall Mcdaid as the pious, brittle and deeply damaged William Bloor. From his ramrod straight posture to the finicky precision with which he folds a map, Mcdaid goes beyond just the lines to fully embody this highly unsettling presence. In an extended monologue, addressed directly towards the audience, Bloor describes the Red Fox, or Vulpes vulpes, as he has been taught about it. Delivered by a lesser performer, the histrionics of the description could be wince-inducing, here, it’s hypnotically unnerving.
Like any good authoritarian government, the society of Foxfinder depends on shame and triangulation to keep its citizens in line. By turning its people against themselves, the only logic they can trust becomes that of the government. Resist any of the government’s declarations, and you’ll be declared a collaborator with the fox. There are strong parallels with religious fanaticism, but these methods of control are also prevalent in secular cults and countries: the play illuminates how timeless and banal this particular evil is: authoritarian regimes are in some ways all one and the same.
Raised and trained (groomed) in a governmental facility from the age of five, William wholeheartedly gives himself over to the government’s propaganda, even as it chafes against his own repressed desires, which he combats through whipping and starving himself. Bloor is far from a likeable or sympathetic character, but Mcdaid infuses him with such palpable vulnerability, that you find yourself feeling for him regardless.
Also excellent is Ashely Hunt as the brusque and blunt Sam, giving us a portrait of a man utterly unstrung by grief. Blaming himself for his son’s death, despite comforting infusions of common sense from his wife, the thoughtful and infinitely patient Judith (played with a grounding even keel by Layla Katib), Sam nearly turns himself inside out trying to make sense of the senseless.
The play has interesting things to say about male mental health in particular - how swallowed grief and rage can turn rancid. It also hints at how oppressive regimes can squish women back into patriarchal boxes - from the way we see Judith cooking and undertaking all manner of emotional labour to no real acknowledgement, to the entitled, incel-esque tint to William’s psychology.
Elsewhere, Lizzie Payn infuses beautiful range into Sarah Blox, a kind and quietly defiant neighbour, who extends the world’s dimensions outside of the claustrophobic tension of the Covey’s farmhouse.
While ostensibly set in a flooded-out future, there is a remarkable timelessness to the setting. There is no internet, no phone service - not even the radio is mentioned. A sense of the larger world is picked up through small details, rather than lengthy exposition. In crafting a minimalist dystopia, it can be very hard to stay on the right side between universal and just plain vague, and it’s a testament to King’s writing that the confined setting always feels organic rather than forced.
Director Alistair Nunn conducts the emotional beats with symphonic precision. As William attempts to pick away at the Coveys’ defences, the play becomes a masterclass in tension - even the softly spoken, mundane conversations are a minefield of potential threats. Then there are hair-raising interrogations, and when characters finally explode with emotion, their anguish grips you by the throat.
There are a couple of moments that felt blunted in their impact - neither an attempted assault late in the play nor a scene of self-flagellation hit with quite the horror they should. But overall, this is a haunting and thoughtful play, performed with beautiful intensity, and more resonant than ever in the age of fake news and Qanon.