Theatre Royal, Glasgow
4 stars
As ripping yarns go, John Buchan’s 1915 spy romp is ripe for pastiche. But which version? Not the dry as cow-pats original, that’s for sure. Best off charting square-jawed hero-with-a-heart Richard Hannay’s flight to nowhere via one of three big-screen adaptations. All these reinvent Hannay’s boy’s own adventure in disguises of their own invention. While Patrick Barlow’s ingenious take on things may look to Hitchcock, it is itself whip-smart enough to warrant double agent status.
By having the entire tale played by four actors who work their way through a dressing-up box of hats, wigs and accents is bluff enough. Having them do it as if an am-dram outfit performing some ration-book matinee on the cheap is the real sleight-of-hand, however. Hannay is cast as a low-rent leading man for whom sporting a tweed suit and pencil moustache is itself an adventure, never mind the dead German vamp in his bed-sit who forces him to go on the run. If his leading lady plays it straight as fantasies allow, she’s more than compensated for by a double-act of trench-coated stooges who could have stepped from the equally arch imaginings of Dennis Potter’s The Singing Detective.
Maria Aitken’s production, originally seen at the tiny Tricycle Theatre, is a beautifully compact conceit that skirts just the right side of self-referential. Redirected for its commercial touring franchise by David Newman, some of the required scabbiness may be lost, but it’s consciously measured pacing still giddily dream-like. As played by David Michaels, Clare Swinburne, Alan Perrin and Colin Mace, this is a genuine crowd-pleaser, which Freudians would also have a field-day with.
The Herald, March 4th 2008
ends
4 stars
As ripping yarns go, John Buchan’s 1915 spy romp is ripe for pastiche. But which version? Not the dry as cow-pats original, that’s for sure. Best off charting square-jawed hero-with-a-heart Richard Hannay’s flight to nowhere via one of three big-screen adaptations. All these reinvent Hannay’s boy’s own adventure in disguises of their own invention. While Patrick Barlow’s ingenious take on things may look to Hitchcock, it is itself whip-smart enough to warrant double agent status.
By having the entire tale played by four actors who work their way through a dressing-up box of hats, wigs and accents is bluff enough. Having them do it as if an am-dram outfit performing some ration-book matinee on the cheap is the real sleight-of-hand, however. Hannay is cast as a low-rent leading man for whom sporting a tweed suit and pencil moustache is itself an adventure, never mind the dead German vamp in his bed-sit who forces him to go on the run. If his leading lady plays it straight as fantasies allow, she’s more than compensated for by a double-act of trench-coated stooges who could have stepped from the equally arch imaginings of Dennis Potter’s The Singing Detective.
Maria Aitken’s production, originally seen at the tiny Tricycle Theatre, is a beautifully compact conceit that skirts just the right side of self-referential. Redirected for its commercial touring franchise by David Newman, some of the required scabbiness may be lost, but it’s consciously measured pacing still giddily dream-like. As played by David Michaels, Clare Swinburne, Alan Perrin and Colin Mace, this is a genuine crowd-pleaser, which Freudians would also have a field-day with.
The Herald, March 4th 2008
ends
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