Kings Theatre, Edinburgh
3 stars
One could be forgiven just now for presuming the title of this review to relate to the alleged events currently being recounted on the centre stage of the Glasgow high court. As it is, audiences are treated to the infinitely less salacious if cleverer and possibly more depressing romp by Alan Ayckbourn originally seen at the fag-end of the 1970s, just as what was left of the so-called permissive society was trickling down the class scale into suburbia and onto prime time TV. This Bill Kenwright-backed touring revival reunites Ayckbourn’s play with its original director Peter Hall, then in charge of the National Theatre on London’s South Bank.
The result in this pan-generational tale of four couples nuptial-free sleepless night across three bedrooms is what looks like a costume designer’s facsimile of the era it was written in, with all the social mores of the time intact but with little in the way of context. So there’s a deliberately pukka sit-com archness to the acting styles of everyone involved, from the comfily sexless dotage of Juliet Mills and Bruce Montague’s parent figures to Maxwell Caulfield’s bed-bound but action-free Nick and the equally dull Malcolm and Kate. It is their party that provides the only hint of passion when Oliver Boot’s drippy Trevor snogs old flame Jan, much to the consternation of his uptight spouse Susannah.
As chirpily slick as it is, one can’t help but wonder whose play is this anyway? As a period piece it’s a telling litany of casual misogyny, emotional indifference and self-help manual neuroses. All passion is clearly spent, but, as with the relationships portrayed, somehow Ayckbourn’s play should never have lasted.
The Herald, October 13th 2010
ends
3 stars
One could be forgiven just now for presuming the title of this review to relate to the alleged events currently being recounted on the centre stage of the Glasgow high court. As it is, audiences are treated to the infinitely less salacious if cleverer and possibly more depressing romp by Alan Ayckbourn originally seen at the fag-end of the 1970s, just as what was left of the so-called permissive society was trickling down the class scale into suburbia and onto prime time TV. This Bill Kenwright-backed touring revival reunites Ayckbourn’s play with its original director Peter Hall, then in charge of the National Theatre on London’s South Bank.
The result in this pan-generational tale of four couples nuptial-free sleepless night across three bedrooms is what looks like a costume designer’s facsimile of the era it was written in, with all the social mores of the time intact but with little in the way of context. So there’s a deliberately pukka sit-com archness to the acting styles of everyone involved, from the comfily sexless dotage of Juliet Mills and Bruce Montague’s parent figures to Maxwell Caulfield’s bed-bound but action-free Nick and the equally dull Malcolm and Kate. It is their party that provides the only hint of passion when Oliver Boot’s drippy Trevor snogs old flame Jan, much to the consternation of his uptight spouse Susannah.
As chirpily slick as it is, one can’t help but wonder whose play is this anyway? As a period piece it’s a telling litany of casual misogyny, emotional indifference and self-help manual neuroses. All passion is clearly spent, but, as with the relationships portrayed, somehow Ayckbourn’s play should never have lasted.
The Herald, October 13th 2010
ends
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