CW: mentions of rape, sexual assault and addiction

by Anne-Charlotte Gerbaud

Recovery is rarely linear, and All the Worst Parts captures it as raw, painful, and unresolved. Created by Eden Theatre, this four-part play follows a young woman navigating the aftermath of sexual violence. What emerges is a layered and often unsettling portrait of trauma, intimacy, and the damage done
when no one listens.

The story begins at a house party where the protagonist, socially awkward and withdrawn, drinks heavily to loosen up. The rape that occurs that night is not shown but haunts everything that follows. It’s one of the production’s strengths: showing how something conveyed as unremarkable through setting can be devastating in impact.

From there, the audience follows her attempt to cope. She buries her feelings, falls into depression and addiction, and confuses intimacy with sexual performance. In her opening monologue, she defiantly links masturbation with “taking a shit” and argues that her relationship to porn is normal. It’s
uncomfortable, crude, and unexpectedly funny. This kind of dark humour threads through the play, offering both relief and discomfort. It’s laughter as detachment, as defence, as a way to say what cannot be said.

Her story explores how rom-coms and porn have shaped her idea of sexuality and heterosexual relationship. A memory of being assaulted during a school trip, by someone who later became her boyfriend, highlights how coercion often hides in plain sight. Her bed symbolises this tension, holding both safety and harm. Childhood memories of comfort sit uneasily with sexual encounters where the line between consent and pleasure is unclear. In one scene, a partner’s “You’re so sexy” feels more like a sentence. Another chokes her and asks, “Is it good?” The climax comes when she sees her reflection in a mirror and tells him to leave, a small but important moment of agency.

All the Worst Parts is fragmented and intentionally disorienting. Its four chapters loosely follow stages of grief or trauma recovery, but the structure sometimes falters. Switches between recorded dialogue and reported speech create a disjointed rhythm that occasionally weakens clarity. While this fragmentation mirrors the protagonist’s fractured psyche, it can also leave the audience detached. This ambiguity extends to the audience’s role, especially when she breaks the fourth wall by stealing banknotes from an empty seat, prompting us to question whether we are voyeurs, witnesses, or something else entirely.

One of the play’s boldest choices is refusing to make its character likeable. She is bitter, volatile, and often pushes others away. It’s a move that may alienate some, but it reflects how trauma isolates, and how society often demands victims be perfect to be believed.

While the play sometimes falters in structure and pacing, its insights are often sharp and unsettling. With more dramaturgical precision, All the Worst Parts could move from promising to profound. As it stands, it is a brave piece of theatre that echoes the experience of many victims of sexual assault.

All the Worst Parts ran through 20 April.

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