Interview with Laura Grillo
Some theatre begins with a grand idea, a historical event or a burning social question. What Would Jarvis Do? begins somewhere more unexpected: with grief, 90s memories, the music of Pulp, and a pair of very distinctive yellow trousers. Under its absurd premise, however, lies an intensely human exploration of loss, nostalgia, memory and the strange ways we try to make sense of what we can no longer have. Ahead of the production’s run at Omnibus Theatre, I spoke with the creator of What Would Jarvis Do? about turning personal grief into surreal comedy, the comfort of Britpop, the emotional power of objects and music, and why the most ridiculous theatrical journeys can sometimes lead us somewhere surprisingly honest.
I’d love to start with the title: where did What Would Jarvis Do? begin for you, and when did the idea of Jarvis Cocker’s yellow trousers become central to the story?
The title really came after my mother died, I was listening to a lot of Pulp and music from the 90s, and I suppose somewhere in all of that I started thinking, “What would Jarvis do?” It wasn't so much about Jarvis himself, but what he and Pulp represented to me from that time being young, having my family around me and feeling safe and optimistic.
The yellow trousers came soon after. I knew I wanted Didi and GG to become obsessed with getting hold of something that supposedly belonged to Jarvis. For a while it could have been a shoe, but Jarvis wears very cool trousers, so the trousers won.
The play is inspired by your own experiences of sudden loss and grief during lockdown. How difficult was it to take something so personal and turn it into a piece of theatre?
I don't think it was difficult to write because, at the time, it was actually helping me. I was grieving and writing gave me somewhere to put all of that.
I don't think I could have written directly about what had happened. Instead, it came out through Didi and GG and this ridiculous quest for Jarvis Cocker's trousers. I wasn't sitting there thinking, I'm writing a play about grief. I was just writing something that made sense to me at the time.
It was probably stranger when other people started reading it and then eventually seeing it on stage, because suddenly something that had felt quite private wasn't private anymore. But by then it had become its own thing.
What was it about Britpop and particularly the music of Pulp that gave you a sense of comfort and belonging during such an isolating period?
I think it took me back to a time when I felt safe. When I listened to that music, I could almost be back there for a little while I was young, my family were around me and everything still felt ahead of me.
Pulp in particular had always meant something to me. I remember watching Common People on Top of the Pops and feeling somehow seen. Jarvis didn't seem like a conventional pop star. He was a bit of an attractive oddball, and I think I connected with that.
So during lockdown, going back to that music wasn't really just nostalgia for a band. It connected me to a whole period of my life and to people who weren't there anymore.
I’m really interested in the relationship between grief and nostalgia in the play. Do you think nostalgia can genuinely help us process loss, or can it sometimes make it harder to let go?
Nostalgia is an interesting one because the word itself means a longing for the past, and historically it was even treated almost like an illness. I don't really know the answer to this because I think I'm still trying to work it out myself.
Thinking about the past can almost become a type of grief in itself because you're longing for something you can't get back. But if you change the word from nostalgia to memories, then somehow there seems to be more hope in it. I think it's important to remember people and times in our lives, and those memories can bring a lot of happiness.
Perhaps it's about finding a way to carry those memories with you while still moving forward. Otherwise, I suppose you can become a bit like Didi and GG, going round and round trying to get back to something that isn't there anymore.
Why was it important for the story to revolve around a physical object rather than the characters simply searching for a memory or feeling?
I think a physical object helps me process my thoughts and hopefully helps the audience too. Feelings like grief and longing are quite difficult to make tangible, whereas a pair of yellow trousers is something you can actually see, hold onto and chase after.
At what point did you realise that the story needed to become absurdist and surreal rather than being a more straightforward exploration of grief?
As soon as I started typing. I don't think there was ever really a straightforward version of the play. I think I briefly tried, but it just came out all wrong and didn't feel like me. The absurdity felt much more natural and somehow gave me more freedom to write about what I was actually feeling.
I’d love to know how you approached writing comedy around grief. Was it important to you that the audience could laugh at these characters while still understanding the emotional weight underneath what they are experiencing?
I think it's more about laughing at the situations rather than laughing at the characters. And I don't think the play is obviously about grief. It's a bit of an “if you know, you know” sort of thing. The emotional weight is there underneath, but you don't necessarily have to recognise it as grief to enjoy the play.
I think my experience of grief was often about trying to get from A to B and thinking that once I got to B, I would somehow feel better. But then you get there and you don't, so you find another B! There can be something quite funny about having this goal, desperately trying to achieve it, failing and then starting all over again. That's really what Didi and GG keep doing.
How did the writing change when you moved from the page into the two sold-out development performances? Was there anything you discovered through watching an audience experience the play that changed the script?
I added more material for some of the characters that audience enjoyed, and I also made some of the links within the story a little clearer. I didn't want to explain everything, because I like the ambiguity of the play, but watching it with an audience helped me see where they needed a little more to follow what was happening.
You’re working with director Maiya Pascouche on this production. What has that collaboration brought to the play, particularly when it comes to finding the balance between the absurd comedy and the more emotional material?
Everything really. Maiya has an amazing ability to get the actors to really feel the world of the play and move within it. What I love is that the absurdity isn't treated as something separate from the emotional side. The characters can be doing something completely ridiculous, but they still believe in what they're doing and what they want.
Maiya has really understood the strange logic of the play and helped the actors find a way to live inside it, which makes both the comedy and the emotional moments feel much more real.
I’m fascinated by the idea of a piece of music becoming almost like a place we can return to. What do you think it is about music, particularly music from our younger years, that can transport us back to a very specific person, place or version of ourselves?
I don't know, but I find it fascinating. I think music can be more powerful than almost any other medium in that way. You can hear the first few seconds of a song and suddenly you're somewhere else entirely. You remember who you were, who you were with, what your life felt like.
Maybe it's because music gets attached to moments without us even realising it's happening. Then years later you hear that song again and this whole little world comes back with it.
You’re also creating The Memory Lounge, which takes many of the ideas around memory, music, nostalgia and objects beyond the theatre. How did that project develop alongside the play, and what did you want people to experience when they entered that space?
Originally it was actually going to be called The Grief Lounge. I was exploring different ways people could gather together and communicate, and I was also looking at things like death cafés. But I eventually felt that The Memory Lounge was more optimistic and gave the idea more room to be playful.
I wanted people to come together, pick up an object or hear a piece of music that conjured up a memory and then actually talk to each other about it. We're so often glued to social media now that I liked the idea of creating a space where people could take a moment, remember something and communicate with one another face to face.
Finally, after spending so much time with Didi, GG, Jarvis, the trousers and this strange world of memory and grief, what is the one thing you most hope audiences take away from What Would Jarvis Do?, particularly those who might be carrying their own memories of someone or something they have lost?
I hope people come away feeling that we're allowed to feel up and down. We can miss people, hold onto memories and still laugh at things. Grief doesn't have to look or feel one particular way.
But I also hope there's a sense of hope at the end. We can carry the people and memories we've lost with us and still find a way to move forward.
A play that explores grief and memory through the increasingly ridiculous pursuit of a pair of yellow trousers feels wonderfully fitting. As our conversation makes clear, What Would Jarvis Do? isn't interested in telling us how grief should look or feel; instead, it embraces the contradictions of it, the sadness, the nostalgia, the frustration, the mirth and, ultimately, the possibility of moving forward while still carrying the past with us. With its amalgamation of nonsense, music and real emotional warmth, this feels like a story that could have audiences laughing one moment and thinking about their own memories the next. What Would Jarvis Do? will run at the Omnibus Theatre from 6th-16th October.
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