Lambeth Fringe Interview: Alan Ho on Have I Returned?

Written and directed by Alan Ho, Have I Returned? follows Lucian, a blind man whose longed-for sight leaves him no closer to understanding the people around him. Alan told Red Bus Londinium why masks matter in a play where everyone can finally be seen, and why the body can say what words conceal. The production plays at the Lambeth Fringe on 18 October.

Red Bus: Lucian goes from navigating the world entirely by instinct to suddenly being able to see everything, and finding it doesn’t bring the clarity he expected. What drew you to blindness and sight specifically, rather than another way of exploring how we trust our own perception?

Alan Ho: I think blindness is a particularly interesting way of exploring the difference between perception and understanding, because sight is something most of us trust almost instinctively.

We tend to believe that if we can see something with our own eyes, then we must understand it. But I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Two people can witness exactly the same event and come away with completely different interpretations. Our emotions, memories and expectations often influence what we believe far more than what is actually happening in front of us.

What fascinates me is that a blind person has no eyesight to rely on, and therefore no visual impressions to deceive them. They have to understand the world through other senses, through trust, imagination and emotional connections. But once Lucian gains his sight, he begins to rely on something he has never needed before, and ironically, it doesn’t bring him any closer to the truth.

I remember one of our cast members asking me a very interesting question during our first discussions: “If Lucian can finally see, why do the other performers need to wear masks?”

And my answer was that the masks represent disguise. They symbolise the difference between what people appear to be and who they really are. Before Lucian could see, he had to feel the world around him. But now that he has eyes, he begins to trust appearances rather than his own emotional understanding.

And that’s the irony I wanted to explore. The moment we stop genuinely feeling and understanding the people and things around us, and start relying entirely on what our eyes tell us, we become vulnerable to deception.

Because, unfortunately, our eyes can lie to us.

For me, physical blindness is only the starting point. The real question is whether those of us who can see are actually any less blind.

Red Bus: You’ve said the idea grew from noticing how differently people can read the same event. Was there a particular incident, or a pattern you kept noticing, that got you thinking along these lines?

Alan Ho: I wouldn’t say there was one particular incident that inspired the story. It was more a pattern I kept noticing in everyday life, especially in the way people understand one another.

What fascinates me is that two people can experience exactly the same situation and come away with completely different interpretations. Sometimes, neither person is lying. They genuinely believe their own version of events. One person might think they’re protecting someone, while the other feels controlled. Someone might believe they’re showing love, without realising they’re causing harm.

I think we often underestimate how much our emotions, memories and personal experiences shape what we believe to be true. We don’t simply observe the world; we interpret it, and sometimes we mistake those interpretations for reality itself.

That made me wonder what would happen if someone suddenly gained the ability to see everything, yet became less capable of understanding the people around them.

I also didn’t want to create a story where one person is entirely right and everyone else is wrong. I’m much more interested in how people can make terrible decisions while sincerely believing they’re doing the right thing.

In a way, Have I Returned? grew out of a simple question: how much of what we call the truth is actually shaped by ourselves?

Red Bus: You’re both writing and directing this one. Does that make it easier to trust your instincts in the room, or harder to see the piece with any distance once you’re staging it?

Alan Ho: I think it’s a little bit of both.

As the writer, I know the world of the play incredibly well. I understand why each scene exists, what the characters are trying to achieve and what I want the audience to experience. That gives me confidence in the rehearsal room, particularly when I’m experimenting with ideas that might seem unusual or don’t follow conventional logic.

But as a director, I also have to accept that something which works perfectly in my imagination might not necessarily work on stage. I’ve spent so much time with these characters that certain things feel completely obvious to me, whereas someone encountering the story for the first time might see them very differently.

That’s why I value the perspectives of the actors and creative team. They sometimes challenge decisions I’ve never questioned, and although we don’t always agree, those conversations can reveal things I might otherwise have missed.

I do believe in protecting the original artistic vision. I don’t think every creative decision needs to satisfy conventional expectations, especially in expressionist theatre. But I also believe there’s an important difference between something being deliberately unconventional and something simply failing to communicate.

For me, the challenge is finding that balance: remaining open to discovery without losing the imagination that made me want to create the piece in the first place.

Red Bus: The production draws on Expressionism and leans on movement and ensemble work alongside text. What can a body on stage tell an audience about mistrust or misreading that dialogue alone can’t?

Alan Ho: I think the body can reveal things that words are trying to conceal.

A character might say, “I trust you”, while instinctively stepping backwards. Someone might insist they’re not frightened, but their posture, breathing or hesitation tells us something entirely different. Those contradictions interest me because they reveal the distance between what people say, what they believe and what they actually feel.

In Have I Returned?, movement also allows the ensemble to become something larger than a group of individual characters. They can represent collective judgement, fear, suspicion or social pressure. A single person’s misunderstanding can gradually spread through a crowd until it becomes something everyone believes, even when nobody truly knows what happened.

That’s one of the reasons I’m drawn to Expressionism. I don’t always want to reproduce reality exactly as it appears. Sometimes exaggerating a gesture, distorting a movement or changing the rhythm of a scene can express an emotional truth more powerfully than realistic dialogue.

I’m also very interested in bringing cinematic techniques into theatre. In film, a camera can guide the audience towards a particular detail. On stage, we can achieve something similar through the relationship between performers, space, lighting and sound.

For me, movement isn’t simply there to support the dialogue. It’s another form of storytelling, and sometimes it can communicate what a character is unable, or unwilling, to put into words.

Red Bus: Lucian’s estranged father returns and offers him the chance to see, which sets everything in motion. What kind of father did you need him to be for that gift to feel like both a rescue and a threat?

Alan Ho: One thing about my writing is that characters often represent a certain kind of person, rather than simply an individual. Of course, that’s not always easy to achieve while keeping them human and believable.

For example, someone once asked me why I chose to hide Tommy within the crowd. He’s such an interesting character, so surely he deserves an entrance where everyone can see him. But to me, that’s precisely the point. Tommy is just one person within that crowd, representing a particular kind of person in society. I don’t necessarily want the audience to see him as someone exceptional.

Peregrine works in a similar way. I never wanted him to be a conventional villain. He genuinely believes in what he’s doing, but the irony is that when he looks at another human being, he doesn’t really see a person. He sees a pair of eyes. His logic is almost frighteningly simple: my son needs eyes, so I’ll find him a pair. Everything else becomes secondary.

What interests me is how Peregrine seems to become a different kind of person at different stages of the story.

At first, he’s almost like a gambler, willing to risk everything to save his child. Later, he becomes more like a devoted believer. Having spent years searching for his son, he comes to believe that all his suffering is a test, a form of redemption for his past mistakes. He convinces himself that if he remains faithful and never gives up, God will eventually return his child to him.

And remarkably, that’s exactly what happens. His son does return, reinforcing his belief that every sacrifice and every decision he’s made has been justified. His faith is no longer simply a hope; to him, it’s proof that he was right all along.

Finally, when he returns to Lucian, we see what appears to be a gentle, loving father.

But these aren’t three completely different people. They’re different expressions of the same man, someone who has always needed something to pursue and believe in.

That’s what makes him both loving and terrifying to me. His devotion is genuine, but his understanding of love is dangerously narrow. He’s so determined to give his son the ability to see that he fails to recognise the humanity of the people around him.

And perhaps that’s the greatest irony of all: Peregrine gives his son the gift of sight, yet he himself has never truly learnt how to see.

BOoking details

Date and time: Sunday 18 October 2026, 8.30pm
Running time: 60 minutes
Venue: Golden Goose Theatre
Content warnings: 16+, flashing lights, violence, profanity
Tickets: https://lambethfringe.com/events/have-i-returned

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