Kings Theatre, Glasgow
3 stars
From the jauntily chirruping flute music that ushers in Peter Gill’s touring revival of Oscar Wilde’s late piece of mannered flamboyance, you know only too well how it’ll go. One is immediately disorientated, however, by the mirror images of Algernon and Jack, immaculately dapper as only such monied gentlemen of leisure can be. As it turns out, the double life they lead, awash with invented acquaintances, make-belief names and minor duplicitousness, is all any young man would stoop to when trying to woo the ladies.
The whimper of pleasure and smattering of applause on Penelope Keith’s entrance as Lady Bracknell, though, suggests this doyen of practiced superiority is all anyone is really here for. True enough, Keith lends a deadpan gravitas to the role where others might shriek it into being. Even the handbag line, when it comes, is merely swished understatedly into conversation rather than bludgeoned home.
Played as straight as all this, one can’t help missing some of the more obvious nudge-nudge revelling in the play’s own cleverness, and, given the verdant trappings of William Dudley’s design, some kind of reinvention in the bushes would be a bonus. The biggest faults, though, are Gwendolen and Cecily, and one questions the allure for the boys of such a pair of twitty drips as they’re played here. Because, while they may sport parasols in the manner of fragrant but deadly weapons, Cecily is insipidly sexless, while Gwendolen has the fashionista’s desperation only the dimmest of society gals believe to be an asset. If only Wilde’s cut-glass politesse had given way to handbags at dawn, that really would have been something seen in earnest.
The Herald, October 2nd 2007
ends
3 stars
From the jauntily chirruping flute music that ushers in Peter Gill’s touring revival of Oscar Wilde’s late piece of mannered flamboyance, you know only too well how it’ll go. One is immediately disorientated, however, by the mirror images of Algernon and Jack, immaculately dapper as only such monied gentlemen of leisure can be. As it turns out, the double life they lead, awash with invented acquaintances, make-belief names and minor duplicitousness, is all any young man would stoop to when trying to woo the ladies.
The whimper of pleasure and smattering of applause on Penelope Keith’s entrance as Lady Bracknell, though, suggests this doyen of practiced superiority is all anyone is really here for. True enough, Keith lends a deadpan gravitas to the role where others might shriek it into being. Even the handbag line, when it comes, is merely swished understatedly into conversation rather than bludgeoned home.
Played as straight as all this, one can’t help missing some of the more obvious nudge-nudge revelling in the play’s own cleverness, and, given the verdant trappings of William Dudley’s design, some kind of reinvention in the bushes would be a bonus. The biggest faults, though, are Gwendolen and Cecily, and one questions the allure for the boys of such a pair of twitty drips as they’re played here. Because, while they may sport parasols in the manner of fragrant but deadly weapons, Cecily is insipidly sexless, while Gwendolen has the fashionista’s desperation only the dimmest of society gals believe to be an asset. If only Wilde’s cut-glass politesse had given way to handbags at dawn, that really would have been something seen in earnest.
The Herald, October 2nd 2007
ends
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