The Invisible Elderly: A Play That Forces Us to Confront Our Collective Shame
There’s something profoundly unsettling about Alexander Zeldin’s latest work, Care Review. It’s not just the raw portrayal of dementia or the stark reality of life in a care home—though those elements are undeniably powerful. What haunts me most is how it holds a mirror up to society, forcing us to ask: How did we let this become the norm?
Personally, I think what makes this play so searing is its refusal to romanticize old age. Zeldin doesn’t give us the comforting image of golden years spent in tranquility. Instead, he presents a world of loneliness, confusion, and systemic neglect. The characters aren’t just elderly people; they’re the socially invisible, the forgotten. And in their invisibility, they become a stark reminder of our collective failure.
One thing that immediately stands out is the way Zeldin humanizes his characters. Take Joan, for instance. Linda Bassett’s performance is nothing short of extraordinary, but it’s not just her acting that moves us. It’s the character’s disorientation, her belief that she’s only there temporarily, her desperate attempts to cling to autonomy. What many people don’t realize is how easily we strip older individuals of their agency. We justify it in the name of care, but as Atul Gawande asks in Being Mortal, why should aging and illness mean giving up control? This play doesn’t just ask that question—it screams it.
The family dynamics are equally compelling. Lynn, Joan’s daughter, is a character I found particularly fascinating. Her emotions are hard to read, and I’m still debating whether that’s a deliberate choice or a performance issue. But her sons—oh, her sons. Their grief and anger are palpable, a raw contrast to Lynn’s detachment. It raises a deeper question: How do families cope with the slow disappearance of their loved ones? And more importantly, why are they left to navigate this alone?
The other residents are a mosaic of forgotten lives. Agnes, with her otter colony memories; Paula, the curmudgeonly midwife—each has a story, but those stories are fragmented, lost in the maze of dementia. What this really suggests is that we’ve created a system that reduces individuals to their ailments, not their histories. When they die, they join the audience, a haunting metaphor for how we treat the elderly: out of sight, out of mind.
The humor in the play is both a relief and a trap. The confused, crisscrossing conversations are initially amusing, but the laughter quickly turns uncomfortable. Are we laughing with them, or at them? It’s a fine line, and Zeldin walks it masterfully. Personally, I think this tension is what makes the play so effective. It doesn’t let us off the hook. It forces us to confront our own discomfort, our own complicity.
The transformative moment between Joan and John is, in my opinion, the heart of the play. He mistakes her for his late wife, and she doesn’t correct him. They share a hug, and in that moment, loneliness meets love. It’s a reminder that human connection can transcend even the most profound confusion. But it’s also a gut punch. Because in that hug, we see the desperation of their situation. They’re not just craving physical touch—they’re craving acknowledgment, dignity, humanity.
The political commentary is subtle but impossible to ignore. The lack of resources, the slow passage of time, the sense of being hidden away—these aren’t just plot points. They’re indictments. Simone’s line, “Someone has to be responsible for what’s happening to us,” is a call to action. But it’s also a cry of despair. What many people don’t realize is how easily we dismiss these issues as ‘someone else’s problem.’ This play doesn’t let us do that.
If you take a step back and think about it, the set design itself is a character. Rosanna Vize’s institutional space is cold, uninviting, inescapable. It’s a physical manifestation of the emotional void these characters inhabit. And yet, there are moments of beauty—like the bed bath scene between Joan and Hazel. Hazel’s care is a kind of love, and Joan’s kiss is a thank you, a recognition of humanity in a dehumanizing system. It’s a detail that I find especially interesting, because it shows that even in the bleakest places, compassion can exist.
But here’s the thing: compassion isn’t enough. The heroism of carers like Hazel is undeniable, but it’s not a solution. The system is broken, and we’re all responsible for fixing it. What this play really suggests is that we need to reimagine how we care for the elderly. Not as a burden, but as a collective duty.
In my opinion, Care Review isn’t just a play—it’s a wake-up call. It’s a reminder that the way we treat our elderly says everything about our society. And right now, that reflection is not pretty. But there’s hope in that, too. Because if we can see the problem, we can start to fix it. The question is: Will we?
