London
Classic Theatre at
the Civic
Theatre Chelmsford
20.05.2015
Old friends,
shared memories. They meet up, in this classic comedy, to support
Colin, who moved out of the locality, met Carol, popped the question,
but then lost her to a freak drowning accident.
They're gathered
in Di's lounge, the epitome of 70s style. It becomes clear that there
are tensions amongst the old crowd, and cheery, upbeat Colin, when he
arrives, is clearly the happiest of them all despite his loss.
Michael
Cabot's polished touring revival brings out the weaknesses in all six
characters. Ashley
Cook is the annoyingly positive Colin; Kevin Drury the sour,
unfaithful husband of Diana, whose valiant efforts to put on a brave
face for Colin's sake are at the heart of the drama. She's played
with wonderful depth and humanity by Catherine Harvey – the polar
opposite of Kathryn Ritchie's rudely laconic Evelyn. She's married to
John [John Dorney], insecure, restless, squirming at any mention of
death.Warm-hearted,
foot-in-mouth Marge is amusingly done by Alice Selwyn, with excellent
comic timing.
The excruciating
awkwardness of it all, the wrecked relationships and the domestic
disquiet, make for two hours of delightfully uncomfortable
entertainment.
Ayckbourn's
dark, tragical farce continues to draw audiences to its uneasy social
comedy.
The
Mercury's in-house production sets the action firmly in the 70s –
an incredibly evocative Foxton set, almost palatial ["now we
know where the money's going..."], tastefully done out in orange
and brown, with a bar area, a kitchen beyond, and even the back
garden beyond that. It's a home that Mike Leigh's estate agent
Laurence [Abigail's Party] would have loved to sell, and with which
he and Beverly would feel very comfortable.
The
irony of the piece is that Colin's happiness, despite his loss, is
the obverse of their marital difficulties, the familiar Ayckbourn
cocktail of infidelity and lack of understanding.
At
first, some of the characters seem less "right" than the
lounge and the music. But as the excellent ensemble work brings out
their hidden failings and frustrations, we get to know them better,
and come to accept the readings the actors give.
No
qualms at all about Ben Livingstone's Colin. He catches to perfection
the social, and physical, awkwardness of the man, his annoying
sincerity and his desperate worship of the late Carol. And he
remains, to the last, impervious to the emotional maelstrom to which
he brings his fond memories and his albums of snaps. Equally
impressive is Gina Isaac's Marge: nervy, uptight, outraged,
dispensing TLC over the phone to her overweight valetudinarian Gordon
[another absent friend], mopping up the spills, her body language
painfully well observed.
Our
hosts, owners of the spider plant and the hock glasses, are played by
Ignatius Anthony as the awful Paul – moustache, track suit, a bully
and a bastard. He is particularly strong in his final breakdown. A
nice unravelling, too, from Amanda Haberland as his wife Diana: the
cream jug moment, of course, but also her Mountie speech, which
manages to be moving, heart-rendingly sad, and funny at the same
time.
David
Tarkenter's John, restless, with an aversion to any mention of death,
nervously scoffing sandwiches, and Clare Humphrey's knowing Evelyn,
complete a very strong cast.
Gari
Jones's production is outstanding in its handling of the numbing
awkwardness of the situation – the players rigid with
mortification, or moving clumsily in a pussyfooting ballet of
embarrassment. Sometimes he has his characters shouting and pointing
lines where British suburban understatement might be more
appropriate, but the silences are poignantly eloquent, and tiny
moments of social observation [like the arguing over 20p] are
wonderfully done.
And
Seasons in the Sun – a hit the very same year as Ayckbourn's play,
if I recall – is an inspired choice for the final tableau of
despair before the curtain call.
