The stage adaptation based on Knut Hamsun’sHunger is a raw, unrelenting descent into the mind of a man undone by poverty and obsession. From the opening moments, where the Writer looks back at Oslo (then Kristiania) as he sails for England, the production plants us in the uneasy space between memory and creation. What unfolds is not simply the story of physical hunger, though that is always present, but the spiritual hunger of a man who longs to transform the chaos of his suffering into literature. This tension between torment and creativity drives the piece forward, and the audience is asked to endure the same turbulence of mind and body as the Writer himself.

Roland Reynolds takes on the role of the Writer, and his performance is nothing short of magnetic. He begins with energy and confidence, full of the hopeful arrogance of youth, but as hunger and humiliation corrode his spirit, we see him unravel with painful precision. Reynolds gives us a man torn between lofty artistic dreams and the cruel demands of survival, and he makes the audience feel every pang of his descent. Around him, Zaza Bagley, Angel Lopez-Silva, and Anastasiya Zinovieva each step into multiple characters with fluid ease. At times comic, at others brutal, they shape the shifting landscape through which the Writer stumbles—landladies, sailors, strangers, and the enigmatic Ylajali all appear and vanish in their hands, adding to the hallucinatory feel of the piece.

Visually and physically, the production is relentless. Movement is choreographed to reflect the pulse of a restless city and the jolts of a nervous system under siege. At times the stage feels like a crowded street, full of noise and agitation, and at other moments it collapses into stark silence and stillness, a reflection of the Writer’s isolation. Lighting and sound deepen the hallucinatory quality, sometimes overwhelming in their intensity, at other times fading into shadow as the character drifts further from reality. The piece offers no easy relief or moments of sentimentality; instead, it insists on immersing the audience in the exhausting repetition of despair, humiliation, and fleeting hope that defines the Writer’s days.

What gives the production its force is its absolute refusal to soften the source material. This is not an easy watch, nor is it designed to be. It is as if the audience is being asked to inhabit hunger itself: the gnawing absence, the disorientation, the obsession with scraps of food or words or moments of connection that quickly turn sour. That relentlessness is both the production’s greatest strength and, at times, its weakness. Some might long for a pause, a breath, a moment of counterpoint that never comes. Yet to insert such relief might betray the integrity of Hamsun’s vision, which is about the endurance of suffering without escape.

There is, too, an unease that hangs over the work because of Hamsun himself. His later support for fascism and Nazism casts a long shadow, and the adaptation does not explicitly engage with that fact. For some, this absence may feel like a glaring omission. But perhaps the choice is deliberate: to focus solely on the psychological terrain ofHunger, rather than the politics of its author. The result is a piece that remains faithful to the original novel’s intensity while leaving the ethical questions hovering unspoken in the background.

In the end,Hunger is both a brutal endurance test and a strangely exhilarating work of theatre. It strips away comfort, forcing the audience to confront the raw edges of desperation and the dangerous allure of artistic obsession. Reynolds holds the stage with a performance of fragile brilliance, while Bagley, Lopez-Silva and Zinovieva conjure a city that both feeds on him and reflects his collapse. Watching it is not a pleasant experience, but it is a powerful one, and it lingers long after the lights fade. As if to underline that impact, Richard Demarco himself was in the audience, shouting“Bravo!” at the end—a fitting endorsement from a man who has championed challenging art for decades. It is a mirror held up to anyone who has ever felt unseen, unwanted, or consumed by the need to create, and it leaves you shaken by its honesty.

Reviewed by Pat Harrington

More information and ticketshere

Read an interview with Roland Reynoldshere

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