Six into two
Lloyd Evans
Honeymoon Suite Royal Court Pugilist Specialist; Hurricane Soho Theatre
Good but not brilliant. That's how I found Honeymoon Suite, a new comedy-drama by Richard Bean. The setting is a hotel in Bridlington and the action traces the turbulent 50-year marriage of Eddie and Irene Witchell, They first arrive in the suite as newly-weds. They return on their 25th anniversary and they come back one last time in their late sixties to finalise their divorce. The trick is that the three sets of actors are on stage together, throughout. This sounds clumsy but it works perfectly. Expert feats of casting and cosmetics convince us that the three pairs are one aging couple and not six individuals. The narrative is ingeniously plotted but the show drags a bit for the first hour.
Bean writes some hilarious dialogue but he saves his best work for the closing scenes. John Alderton, looking handsomely wasted, is an actor who'd completely slipped off my radar. He's magnificent here as old Eddie Witchell, charming, wry, clever, charismatic — a huge and hugely neglected talent.
On to the Soho Theatre. A wonderful place. Cheap tickets, comfy seating and a roomy bar where you can get a decent glass of red wine for three quid. This paraphernalia is crucial to a theatre's success and the Soho is packed every night of the week. The management specialises in new productions, a risky strategy that it maintains by the thrifty expedient of squeezing two shows into a single evening. I went to a double-bill last Friday, which kicked off with the latest spectacular from the Riot Group, an American company. No, I hadn't heard of them either so I pored eagerly over their manifesto and discov ered that they 'are dedicated to maintaining an ongoing ensemble'. Okay. They exist. Handy that, in a theatre company, because otherwise they'll find themselves in difficulties.
The Rioters are a busy bunch, dashing around, performing in towns and cities everywhere and winning lots of awards. 'Best Play' from the Biggleswade Harbinger, 'Angriest Newcomer' from the Carlisle Blunderbuss, 'Most Searing Indictment' from the Dorking Nemesis. That kind of prize. Their latest play, Pugilist Specialist, has an ugly title and an ugly theme: the muddled ethics of the US army. Already it boasts one thundering accolade: 'a masterpiece', Time Out — four words that will strike dread in the hearts of most playgoers. Here's how it goes. A squad of marines on the eve of a deadly mission stare into space and enunciate gobbets of cold, clever, highly formalised dialogue. Their smart-alec chit-chat is accompanied by atmospheric bongings and twangings from the loudspeakers. Hard work? You bet. But every 20 minutes or so a decent one-liner emerges. Of the non-American world, a soldier says, 'They love us, or they love to hate us. Either way we're spreading love.'
Too narrow a reward for me, I'm afraid, but I'm keenly aware of my fallibility and I glanced around to assess the mood of the house. People often come to the theatre and instantly regret it, Coughing and fidgeting are the tell-tale signs, along with crosswords, Walkmans, knitting and Battleships. The chap beside me was sprawling on his boyfriend's shoulder, halfasleep. He woke up for the curtain-call but didn't applaud, which I thought was a bit rude. Mind you, I was clapping like a seal and I didn't mean a single clap. That's why bad plays are so infuriating, forcing you to choose between dishonesty and discourtesy.
But I had a treat in store. The next play, Hurricane, is a work of brilliance. A great performance somehow communicates itself instantly to a theatre. Up came the lights and there in a corner, smoking a fag, crouched the ruin of Alex Higgins, the Hurricane, snooker's broken prince. The show charts his astonishing rise from stable-mucker to world champion and all the way back to cancer-wrecked drunkard. Like all tragic heroes he is magnificent in defeat. His impersonator, Richard Dormer, has complete mastery of his subject and he bounds across the stage with such winning dominance that he leaves you helpless with gratitude and admiration. A gifted actor, a superb mime, a lithe and athletic dancer, Dormer can make his body respond to the most subtle and the most extravagant of demands. His 20-second imitation of Oliver Reed (Time is the fire in which we burn!') is a piece of comic artistry I will never forget. We rose at the end to salute him and I slapped my palms pink with pleasure. And every thwack, thank God, was the happy, happy truth.
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