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Bump into one of these scarecrows at night and you’d be forgiven for running a mile. But stick around to listen to this hay-laden gang of crop-protector castaways, who no longer have crops to protect nor birds to scare thanks to the climate crisis, and you’ll see they have only good intentions.
The sensorily ambitious Farm Fatale joins five scarecrows with faces of melted plastic and voices of children swallowed by machines in the artificial studio of their pirate radio station. It is set in the near future, when the air is hard to breathe and birdsong is recorded. The only people getting by are the industrial farmers capitalising on the ruin of others. When the scarecrows interview a bee, with a microphone charmingly taped to a pitchfork, the little creature is described as one of the last in Europe.
Infused with a sense of ideas tossed like freshly mixed compost, this wistful French production was first created in Germany and is performed in English. Director Philippe Quesne, who curates decades-long collaborations with his actors, takes a sociologist’s eye to his work, relishing in watching what a group of oddball characters in an enclosed space will do.
The sprawling show’s first half is deliciously freaky and surprisingly sweet, setting up the rules of its own game as we learn why these scarecrows had to leave their independent farms and how their radio station is fuelling hope and protest. But as it progresses, on the bleached set of white plastic and hay bales designed with Nicole Marianna Wytyczak, it gets distracted by its own imagination. The story becomes restless, turning at one point to a sci-fi concert for eggs (a recurring motif in the director’s work), then to a violent vigilante attack. Neither set piece is as rooted in its own worldbuilding nor as absurdly entertaining as the rest.
As it makes its meandering case for art as salvation and farms as the lifeblood of humanity, and the scarecrows karaoke a cover of It’s Not Easy Bein’ Green, you begin to feel a little like you’re watching an overexcited improv troupe. But with an extraordinary aesthetic and a committed cast – Gaëtan Vourc’h’s gormless activist is a particular treat in his ebullient strangeness – these droll effigies are excellent company in their rejection of despair.
