When a play opens with gallows humor at a funeral, you know you're in for a ride that’s both uncomfortable and oddly comforting. Cathy, written by Eilidh Loan, is one such piece—a snappy family comedy that feels like a warm hug laced with barbed wire. Personally, I think what makes this play particularly fascinating is how it balances the razor-sharp wit of its protagonist with the quiet desperation of her grief. It’s a delicate dance, and Loan pulls it off with a maturity that belies her status as a relatively new playwright.
One thing that immediately stands out is the casting of Elaine C Smith as Cathy. It’s a decision so perfect it feels almost inevitable, as if the character were written specifically for her. What many people don’t realize is how rare it is for an actor to embody a role so completely without seeking the audience’s approval. Cathy doesn’t want your sympathy, your laughter, or even your understanding. She’s a woman who’s reached the point in life where she’s done playing nice, and Smith delivers her acerbic lines with a battle-hardened precision that’s both hilarious and heartbreaking.
If you take a step back and think about it, Cathy’s character is a masterclass in contradiction. On the surface, she’s a waspish, world-weary widow who’s lost her husband of 50 years and seems to be losing her will to live. But beneath the sourness lies a vulnerability that’s both raw and relatable. What this really suggests is that grief isn’t a linear process—it’s messy, it’s ugly, and it doesn’t care about your timeline. Loan’s portrayal of this is refreshingly honest, even if the play itself feels a bit emotionally constrained.
The supporting cast, including Michele Gallagher as Flo and Chloe Hodgson as Amy, does a solid job of grounding the story in the chaos of family dynamics. The set, which alternates between Cathy’s front room and a charity shop, is a clever metaphor for the way life continues even when you’re stuck in grief. But here’s where I think the play falls short: the stakes feel oddly low. Yes, there’s tension between Cathy and her daughter, and yes, Amy’s pregnancy adds a touch of hope, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that the resolution is more about tying a neat bow on things than exploring the depths of these characters’ pain.
What makes this particularly fascinating, though, is how Loan manages to infuse the play with humor without trivializing the subject matter. The gallows humor at the funeral, the awkward interactions between the Catholic clan and the Protestant intruder (Colin, played by Alan Orr)—these moments are sharply observed and genuinely funny. But they also serve as a reminder that laughter is often a coping mechanism, a way to keep the darkness at bay.
From my perspective, Cathy is a play that’s more about the journey than the destination. It doesn’t break new ground in terms of plot or emotional depth, but it does something far more important: it humanizes grief. It shows us that even in the midst of pain, there’s room for laughter, for love, and for the kind of messy, imperfect connections that make us human.
If you’re looking for a play that will leave you sobbing or cheering, this isn’t it. But if you want to spend an evening with characters who feel like real people—flawed, funny, and fiercely alive—then Cathy is well worth your time. Personally, I left the theater with a renewed appreciation for the power of humor in the face of adversity. And isn’t that what great theater is all about?
This raises a deeper question, though: why do we so often expect plays (and art in general) to be emotionally explosive? Cathy is a quiet play, but its quietness is its strength. It doesn’t need to shout to be heard. And in a world that’s constantly demanding our attention, that’s a rare and beautiful thing.
