IN THE REPUBLIC OF HAPPINESS
Jerwood
Theatre Downstairs at the Royal Court
12.12.2012
Could
this
be
Christmas
yet
to
come?
Six
family
members
sit
round
the
festive
board,
grimly
sporting
paper
hats.
Wine
flows,
but
gloom
descends
before
they
decide
to
break
open
the
box
of
light
bulbs
and
screw
them
in.
Silence,
significantly,
at
first,
then
some
brutal
home
truths.
Though
we
suspect
that
not
all
is
true,
spite
and
dementia
distorting
what
few
facts
emerge.
The
wallpaper
might
suggest
something
more,
or
less,
than
realism,
and
when
the
first
visitor
[the
mysterious
Uncle
Bob,
Paul
Ready]
materialises
from
the
wings,
we
know
we
have
left
Ayckbourn
behind.
"I
thought
I
would
just
suddenly
appear,
so
I
did.
I
suddenly
appeared."
Beaming
with
bonhomie,
he
has
a
message
of
hate
and
loathing
from
his
other
half,
Michelle
Terry's
superbly
played,
charmingly
cruel
Madeleine.
There
are
long
riffs
on
relationships,
often
wittily
done,
Anna
Calder
Marshall's
virtuoso
taxi
speech
just
one
example.
Long
and
difficult
to
remember,
like
Uncle
Bob's
second-hand
vitriol.
When
Madeleine
slips
in
from
stage
left,
she
too
is
sweetness
and
light
to
start
with
…
They
are
on
the
way
to
the
airport,
this
message
is
to
be
delivered
before
they
leave
for
ever,
for
a
new
life
which
will
be
like
a
pane
of
glass
– "Hard.
Sharp.
Clear.
Clean."
In
an
unsettling
epilogue,
we
see
the
two
of
them
in
a
light
box,
presumably
the
Republic
of
the
title,
as
bright
as
the
house
was
gloomy,
as
Bob
struggles
to
remember
who
he
is
and
why
he
is
there.
To
deliver
another
message,
it
seems,
to
"our
citizens",
prompted
by
the
manipulative
Madeleine.
In
song,
since
this
is
a
musical
play.
The
end
of
the
first
part
[back
in
the
Christmas
house]
is
marked
by
a
kiss,
the
first
song,
and
a
complete
change.
The
wallpaper,
and
the
walls,
disappear,
the
actors
lose
the
details
[scarf,
glasses]
which
define
their
character,
and
sit
in
comfortable
chairs
in
what
could
be
a
television
studio,
delivering
to
the
audience
the
Five
Essential
Freedoms
of
the
Individual,
the
central
part
of
the
play,
though
not
conventionally
dramatic.
As
in
Crimp's
earlier
work,
in
the
text
none
of
the
speeches
is
allocated
to
a
particular
actor.
Some
of
the
key
words
and
ideas
from
part
one
are
developed
in
themes
and
variations.
Poetically,
repetition
and
distortion
help
the
eight
voices
explore
their
thoughts.
There
are
lots
more
songs.
Computer
idioms
are
a
feature.
Plus,
an
annoying
use
of
"plus"
as
a
punctuating
conjunction.
The
mood
is
sometimes
angry
[though
suppressed
in
ironic
"reasonable"
acquiescence],
as
in
"It's
Nothing
Political",
sometimes
tearful
-
"The
Freedom
to
Experience
Horrid
Trauma".
Psycho-jargon
bubbles
up
in
the
later
Freedoms
especially.
Where
once
we
suffered
in
silence,
we
now
express
every
innermost
thought
and
feeling.
Pretentious
?
It
certainly
sometimes
has
the
feel
of
drama
school
work
about
it,
and
a
heavy
hint
of
the
Absurd.
But
the
experience
– almost
two
hours
without
a
break
– was
enlivened
by
the
inventive
use
of
language
and
structure,
the
provocative
'confessions'
[murmurs
of
disgust
from
the
stalls],
and
by
the
quality
of
the
performances,
and
Dominic
Cooke's
assured
direction.
Calder-Marshall
gets
plenty
of
laughs
from
Granny,
helped
by
immaculate
timing,
and
there
are
strong
performances
from
Ellie
Kendrick
as
a
punkish
teenager,
Stuart
McQuarrie
as
Dad,
Emma
Fielding
as
Mum
and
Peter
Wight
as
Grandad,
with
his
unreliable
memory
and
his
broken
dreams
– "the
moon
was
too
far
-
he
couldn't
be
bothered".
production photograph by Johan Persson
this piece first appeared on The Public Reviews
