Walking each other home

Walking Each Other Home at the Old Red Lion Theatre feels less like a conventional play and more like being quietly pulled into someone else’s unresolved memories. The decision to set the play during the UK’s hottest recorded day is more than a backdrop, it becomes a pressure cooker. The heat is almost palpable, amplifying the claustrophobia of the Norfolk cottage and mirroring the simmering tensions between the characters. There’s no real escape for them, or for us. Christopher Poke’s Frank avoids the trap of portraying dementia as either purely tragic or sentimental. His performance flickers between cruelty, confusion and moments of unexpected clarity. It’s in those fleeting beats that the play lands some of its hardest punches, particularly when past prejudices resurface with unsettling sharpness. Poke is also great at breaking the tension with some light hearted humour providing light relief for the audience. Edward Fisher’s Michael is more complicated than the archetype of the wounded son. He’s not entirely sympathetic and that feels intentional. His spiritual seeking (rooted in Amazonian shamanism) comes across as both a genuine attempt at healing and a subtle form of avoidance. Fisher plays this duality well, allowing moments of vulnerability to coexist with a certain self absorption. Amrik Tumber’s Sandeep is perhaps the most intriguing presence. There’s a stillness to him that contrasts sharply with Michael’s volatility and Frank’s instability. The script keeps his full story just out of reach, which could be frustrating, but instead creates a quiet tension. His Sikh faith is woven into the narrative without feeling stereotyped consequently offering a third perspective that gently reframes the emotional chaos around him. Tumber adds some much needed light on an explosive relationship as the power shifts back and forth from characters Frank and Michael. Tim Graves’ writing is where the play takes its biggest risks and not all of them are comfortable, but that’s largely what makes the piece feel distinctive leaning into discomfort from the very beginning. The premise might suggest a familiar reconciliation story, but what unfolds is far less tidy. Michael’s return from Peru isn’t framed as a redemptive homecoming; instead, it’s a collision of emotional states he barely understands himself. The aftershocks of his ayahuasca experience bleed into the present in unpredictable ways keeping the audience uneasy and off balance. What’s most striking is how the play resists easy answers. The central questions, reconciliation, identity and belonging are never neatly resolved. Even the title, Walking Each Other Home, feels slightly ironic by the end. If there is a sense of “home” it’s not tied to a place or family in any straightforward way. Director Jason Marc-Williams is doing a lot of quiet, deliberate work beneath the surface and it’s arguably what holds the play together when the text starts to drift into more abstract territory. Keeping the staging deliberately tight and making effective use of the small space without overcomplicating it definitely works for this play, Marc-Williams’ minimalism forces attention onto the performances and the text rather than any theatrical embellishment and he has ensured the scenes and dialogue run at a good pace keeping the whole piece moving. This isn’t a comforting watch. At times, it feels fragmented, even disorienting but that seems to be the point. The play’s impact could be further strengthened through some careful pruning. At times, the script feels unnecessarily overextended; a tighter edit would help the narrative flow more cleanly. Stripping back some of the denser passages could bring greater focus and allow the most powerful moments to land with real precision, bringing a more cohesive journey for the audience. The play operates in emotional and spiritual grey areas, where healing is uncertain and understanding is partial at best. In the end, Walking Each Other Home lingers not because it resolves its tensions, but because it refuses to. It leaves you sitting with the uneasy possibility that some relationships aren’t meant to be fixed only witnessed and perhaps, in some imperfect way, endured.