“It feels like a different person was going through that,” it’s a thought most of us have felt, especially when we get that dreaded ‘timehop’ notification and are forced to look at memories from 10+ years ago. Surely I was never that embarrassing? (I was). Or when your mum gleefully reminds you of your terrible teenage years, when your own children are knee deep in theirs, but you swear you are being unjustly punished because you were an angel? In Mary Page Marlowe, that sensation hits harder, as the person the 36 year old Mary Page (Rosy McEwen) is referring to, the younger version of herself - wasn’t actually her. Well, kind of.

The titular character is played by five actors; Alisha Weir, Eleanor Worthington-Cox, Rosy McEwen, Andrea Riseborough, and Susan Sarandon. We first meet Marlowe in middle age, as she tells her children of the practicalities of divorce, informing them - whilst her youngest is struggling with his geography homework - that they will be joining her in Kentucky next year. Her daughter, Wendy (Clare Hughes), is outraged. Her son, Louis, is nonplussed (which could be due to the aforementioned failing geography - he has no idea where it is or what it’s like…). From here were flung (after a quick scene change and actor swap) to Mary Page’s dorm room, she (Eleanor Worthington-Cox) is 19, and determined never to marry, having just turned down a proposal from the hottest boy on campus. She’s determined, idealistic, and a little terrified of the future - an energy we’ll see unravel and reform across the decades.

Throughout the eleven scenes of her life, from cradle to grave, we’re given glimpses but never the full picture. How did she meet her first husband? Why did she make the choices that led to heartbreak and regret? “I didn’t decide on any of it,” she tells the shrink at 36, “All of it happened to me and I went along with it.” We don’t get a detailed biography, and can’t chase the reasons behind every move and moment, because this is the reality for most. Sure, we can trace some of our personality back to a film or favourite teacher, but we can’t dissect everything we are. We just are. And what is more mysterious or magical than that?