Flimsy and pretentious sketches: Caryl Churchill’s Glass. Kill. Bluebeard. Imp. reviewed

Caryl Churchill is back at the Royal Court with a weird collection of sketches. The first is set on a mantelpiece where a clock, a vase, a statuette and a plastic dog discuss their lives. These ornaments morph into human teenagers. One is a lad who wants to die after being raped by his father. His girlfriend tries to comfort him but she’s harassed by two nasty bullies. These four youngsters have perhaps created alter egos as household ornaments in order to block out their nightmarish lives. Somewhat opaque.

In sketch two, a young chap seated on a cloud summarises the storyline of Aeschylus’s Oresteia in a glib and knowing manner. He treats every act of violence as an amusing in-joke. This monologue will mean little to those unfamiliar with the original.

Sketch three is a dinner party where the guests discuss a rich pal who has married eight times and murdered all eight brides. ‘He played the piano so beautifully,’ says one, describing the killer’s duplicitous charm. A female character wants to make cash by selling replicas of the dead wives’ blood-spattered dresses. Is this a satire on the commodification of murder? Hard to tell. The weakness of the script, as with sketch two, is that it’s a commentary on a drama rather than a drama itself.

What unites these efforts is a desire to extract puerile comedy from rape, murder and suicide. After the interval comes a longer play, Imp, about an elderly couple, Jimmy and Dot, who act as matchmakers to an Irish girl, Niamh, and her prospective lover. The play’s condescending tone is intended to please the smart London crowd.

Jimmy and Dot are a couple of provincial bumpkins, without university degrees, whose ill-informed witter is unintentionally amusing. ‘I remember sex, dimly,’ says Dot.