This wickedly fun monologue from Georgina Collins – aka burlesque performer Strawberry Duvall – slips down almost indecently easy. The body count is… not low, as Collins details how her meek, mousy protagonist becomes overtaken by terrible cravings that can only be slaked by literally devouring the various men who intrude upon her quiet existence.
But the wide-eyed Collins has such a delightful, almost screwball comedy charisma to her that even in the blood-soaked show’s gristliest moments Grainne Robson’s production feels enormously fun, as our heroine skedaddles from the demise of one toxic man to the next. She has the air of not a cold-blooded murderer but a woman holding on for dear life to a rollercoaster that’s largely outside of her control. Somewhat more in control is her eventual mentor, a cynical, inevitably Eastern European accented older succubus (or whatever they are), whose brutally pragmatic – not to mention sociopathic – view of the world attracts and repulses Collins’ unnamed protagonist in varying measures.
Originally intended as a response to medical misogyny the author had experienced, Succubus is a little bit Dracula, a little bit Buffy, but the work that most came to mind was Naomi Alderman’s The Power. In that book, women the world over gain the ability to administer fatal electrical shocks, which completely tips the balance of the world. Here Collins’ character at first scurries meekly though a universe of condescending doctors and tedious, horny men. But as the body count notches up, a panic sets in in the neighbourhood, a fear of women that leads to… even more misogyny.
Some of the plotting is a bit fast and loose – the logistics of how exactly she’s killing and eating these men are pretty hazy – and there’s certainly the odd cliche at play, as Collins goes from being dowdy and bespectacled to glasses free and hot. But that’s all kind of the joy of Succubus, which has a really great time gesturing at something serious: misogyny has never been so fun!