Half documentary, half séance, this one turns testimony into theatre. The Arbor uses actors to lip-sync real interviews, a risky device that shouldn’t work and mostly does. Hearing the voices while watching performed faces creates a flicker of distance that sharpens what’s said: memory as performance, truth as edit.
The subject is Andrea Dunbar, Buttershaw estate, and the shockwaves that outlived her—talent, poverty, drink, fame, and a family trying to survive the lot. Barnard stages scenes from Dunbar’s plays on the estate streets, folding art back into the postcode it came from. The method lets contradictions sit without tidy verdicts: pride and resentment, love and damage, all audible in the same breath.
It’s not cosy and not tidy. The device can feel arch for a beat, but the cumulative power is undeniable. Barnard keeps her nerve and her distance, letting people speak and then letting silence do the rest. As a portrait, it’s clear-eyed; as an experiment, bracing. The Arbor isn’t a hagiography—more a hard listen that earns its feeling.