What if parenting came with a manual? Children could be assembled with the same precision as flat-pack furniture—complete with instructions, settings, and a reset button? Would that make raising them easier? Or would it erase everything that makes us human? Instructions for Correct Assembly unpacks these questions in a darkly funny, emotionally charged exploration of parental grief, perfectionism, and the quiet terror of letting go.

Written by British playwright Thomas Eccleshare in 2018—just before AI, automation, and emotional outsourcing exploded into public discourse—this play now feels eerily prescient. In a post-ChatGPT world, the offbeat premise lands with sharp new relevance. What was once delightfully far-fetched now feels unsettlingly close to reality.

After losing their son Nick, Max and Hari attempt to rebuild their shattered lives by assembling a humanoid, Jan. Engineered as the flawless replacement of Nick, Jan’s unpredictable glitches soon unravel their hopes and control. It’s funny and disturbing in equal measure. A metaphor for how we try to ‘fix’ life with quick, artificial solutions, often avoiding the real, deeper work inside ourselves.

Jane Wallace as Max and Nick Curnow as Hari deliver touching portrayals of an ordinary, flawed suburban couple caught between hope and denial—living every parent’s nightmare. Alongside their son (Ben Chapple), this trio carries the emotional core of the production, blending sharp humour with poignant moments.

David Allsopp and Jacki Mison bring crisp delivery to Paul and Laurie, the smug, upper-middle-class friends. Initially comic relief and wry observers of Max and Hari’s unravelling household, they ultimately embody the social pressures driving the couple’s quest for perfection. Both actors skillfully embrace the absurdity of their roles without slipping into caricature, highlighting the growing bizarreness of the situation.

Their daughter Amy, played by Kyra Belford-Thomas, plays a small but necessary role as another child caught in the emotional crossfire, quietly shouldering the pressure of parents intent on one-upping each other—a sharp reflection of a society where success is too often measured by the performance of our children rather than their wellbeing.

Ben Chapple steals the show as the linchpin of the production in his dual roles. He effortlessly switches (at times mid-word or sentence) between Jan’s robotic precision and Nick’s authentic human fragility. Chapple masterfully sustains the suspension of disbelief, navigating the complexities and arcs of his dual characters, their emotions, and glitches. His striking physicality and vocal versatility inject crackling wit and comedic timing with subtle emotional layers, grounding the play’s shifts and ensuring fluid transitions between humour and heartbreak. This is an actor to watch—undeniably on the rise.

Beneath the cold, clinical sheen of the all-white set simmers a chaotic emotional world. Mouldy walls quietly signal the decay and tension concealed beneath the pristine exterior. Charlotte Leamon’s soundscape merges mechanical tones with lively retro jingles, highlighting the ironic contrast between appearance and reality. Victor Kalka’s precise lighting carves out distinct spaces, expertly steering the audience through the shifting timeline.

Crisp scenes keep the pace brisk and audience engagement high, delivering laugh-out-loud moments alongside unexpected tenderness. However, the emotional swings—between satire, domestic drama, and absurdity—sometimes cause whiplash, with little space for key moments to fully resonate. Some narrative threads feel underdeveloped and lack clear motivation. Nick’s story is mostly told in flashbacks, but these glimpses lack the emotional detail needed to understand his spiral into addiction—especially in contrast to Jan’s overly managed development. Still, director Hailey McQueen’s confident vision and tight blocking steer the production, keeping performances strong and the story compelling.

This darkly funny and painfully honest production lays bare love, loss, and vulnerability. It pushes us to accept our flaws as the doorway to healing. It asks whether the pursuit of control—especially through artificial means can ever truly protect us from pain, or if it just robs us of what makes us real. And the irony rings loud and clear: AI does not transcend life—it only reflects it.

For further details see : https://www.flightpaththeatre.org/whats-on/instructions-for-correct-assembly

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