Theatre
Prole gawping
Lloyd Evans
Market Boy Olivier Sunday in the Park with George Wyndham’s Too2Much Cabaret Walker’s Court, London W1 The Olivier’s new show is all about the 1980s. Back then the playwright, David Eldridge, was a teenager and at first I thought he’d pulled a fast one. Written the play at the time and now calling it new work. The main character is a boy called ‘Boy’ who works in Romford market and his teenage preoccupations dominate the text. There’s swearing, bullying, experimental drug-taking, copious discussions of sexual explorations and a few boring punch-ups. The characters are charmless and shallow, and the level of emotional insight is on a par with Grange Hill. But I’ve now realised that I was wrong. This sprawling and infinitely tedious farrago is indeed a recent work. That’s why it feels so dated. The aim is to present an ironic record of the Thatcher years through the prism of an Essex market (and I’m already yawning at the banality of the symbolism). Eldridge — a son of Romford himself cruelly pillories his own people. East End stall-holders tend to be canny, humorous, subtle and charming. He gives us a population of sly, thick, greedy brutes. Their aggressive exchanges have a weird effect in the theatre. Scenes that would be ugly and depressing in real life raise cackles of happy laughter. The stall-holders chase off a pickpocket. ‘F–— off, you thieving gipsy.’ Massive guffaws all round. What’s funny? Nothing. Bear in mind that no member of this prosperous Home Counties audience would go near Romford without a biological warfare suit and you start to realise what’s really hap pening — prole-gawping from a safe distance.
Luckily, this strange pleasure is not widespread, and if this show were mounted in the commercial theatre it would close before I reached the end of this sentence. At the Olivier it will run until July. Nor will it come cheap. The staging is flashy, extravagant and complex. And with 31 actors on stage — and god knows how many support staff — the budget must rival a production at the Royal Opera House. The gulf between the sums invested and the artistic result is even redolent of the Dome. Never fear. At the National the public purse is supplemented by a co-sponsor, Travelex. They make money by encouraging people to go abroad. This play is the perfect advertisement.
I was similarly underwhelmed by the much-praised Sondheim show, Sunday in the Park with George. I could appreciate the delicacy and intricacy of the staging, and I was greatly taken with Jenna Russell’s tender and passionate account of George’s wife, Dot. But I wasn’t moved by any of it. If, like me, you aren’t a Sondheim disciple this may not be the show that converts you. But for those who keep the faith, this is not just a musical. This is an act of pilgrimage.
Talking of Sundays, I took a break from regular duty last week and went to a new cabaret in Soho. The idea is simple. Because most musicals have no Sunday performances there are dozens of worldclass singers in the West End who are glad to belt out a few old favourites in return for a modest fee. Chuck in a few sketches, add some stand-up, and the result is a richly entertaining mix. The show is compèred by Chris Fitchew, a wonderfully unpredictable high-camp charmer from Derby. He projects so much warmth and informal friendliness that he makes the show feel more like a private party than a staged performance. I particularly enjoyed the two filthy female comedians whose material I accidentally memorised. I recited it later to my spouse who listened with thin-lipped and mirthless tolerance. But that was just my delivery. See what you think. ‘I’ve been reading a book on obsessive compulsive disorder. I just can’t put it down. [Beat] I love that joke. Trouble is I have to tell it again and again.’ Well, it was hilarious on the night.
The finale involved a group singalong in which various gay footballers and film stars were outed to the tune of ‘YMCA’. Usually I can’t bear singalongs but — in between bursts of refreshing laughter — I sang my bitchy little heart out. ‘—– —– is gay!’ we chorused. God it was fun. The lawyers won’t let me repeat the names here — which is exactly what made it so liberating. Communal slander — a new type of entertainment. Awful to admit, but it cheers the heart.
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