Have you ever wondered what draws people to the brink of belief, especially when the world feels like it’s unraveling? Jack MacGregor’s Prophets tackles this question, but not in the way you’d expect. Set on the fictional island of Saint John, a remote British Overseas Territory in the South Pacific, the play begins with Kerris, a Scottish researcher, arriving to study ancient plant life. But, as is often the case in MacGregor’s work, the surface story is just a veneer. What really captivates Kerris—and us—is the island’s religious undercurrent, led by an enigmatic figure known only as the prophet.
Personally, I think what makes this setup particularly fascinating is MacGregor’s knack for placing his characters in liminal spaces—both physically and emotionally. From the deserted Russian base in Nightlands to the militias of Mali in Everything Under the Sun, MacGregor’s worlds are always on the edge of collapse. Saint John is no different. It’s a place where the past (Kerris’s archaeological work) collides with a present that feels increasingly apocalyptic. The islanders are preparing for the end of days, while Kerris, played with quiet intensity by Rebecca Wilkie, is more interested in the beginnings of time. This tension between creation and destruction is where the play’s true intrigue lies.
One thing that immediately stands out is the character of Joe, a former merchant seaman who welcomes Kerris to the island. Played by Xander Cowan, Joe is a multitasking marvel, but his affability feels like a mask. What many people don’t realize is that characters like Joe often serve as the audience’s guide, but here, he’s more of a gatekeeper. His warmth is tinged with unease, hinting at the cultish underbelly of the island’s religious practices. It’s a detail that I find especially interesting because it suggests that even in the most isolated places, there’s always someone watching, always someone guarding the truth.
But here’s where the play stumbles, in my opinion. As Kerris delves deeper into the island’s secrets, her own backstory remains frustratingly opaque. We learn she has a personal connection to charismatic religious leaders, but the trauma that drives her curiosity is only hinted at. If you take a step back and think about it, this lack of clarity distances us from her journey. We’re left observing from afar, never fully invested in her emotional stakes. This raises a deeper question: Can a play about faith and fanaticism succeed if its protagonist remains an enigma?
What this really suggests is that Prophets is more interested in the broader social forces at play than in individual psychology. The cult’s rewritten Bible, the slow-moving bureaucracy of the British empire’s remnants—these elements paint a picture of systemic decay. Yet, the play never fully commits to exploring why people turn to extreme belief systems in the first place. Instead, it settles for the uncontroversial takeaway that cults are dangerous. From my perspective, this feels like a missed opportunity.
If you ask me, the most compelling aspect of Prophets isn’t its plot but its atmosphere. Fraser Scott’s direction creates a sense of unease that lingers long after the curtain falls. The island itself becomes a character—isolated, mysterious, and on the verge of something cataclysmic. This raises a broader question: Are we, as a global society, not also on the brink of our own end of days? Climate change, political polarization, the rise of extremist ideologies—these are the modern-day apocalypses we’re facing.
In the end, Prophets is a play that asks more questions than it answers. And maybe that’s the point. Faith, after all, thrives in uncertainty. But as a piece of theater, it leaves me wanting more—more depth, more insight, more of the raw humanity that makes MacGregor’s other works so powerful. Still, it’s a reminder that sometimes, the most interesting stories are the ones that don’t tie up neatly. They linger, like a whisper in the wind, leaving us to ponder long after the lights go down.
