I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed an audience chortle and squirm so much at the same time. But the outfits on stage alone are capable of making us do both.
This is prime Ayckbourn territory. We’re in the suburban seventies and six deeply unlovable and badly dressed characters are spending an enforced afternoon together in a desperate, old-friends attempt to cheer up poor Colin, whose perfect fiancé has recently drowned at sea. Judging by his chronically and relentlessly pious cheerfulness, it may have been suicide.
This is his in-depth study of the comic potential of foot-putting embarrassment. It’s very a clever social chemistry of polarised outlooks. Five of the characters are definitely glass-half-empty types, and Colin’s glass is decidedly three quarters full. Nevertheless, all the depressives have to do to while away his Saturday afternoon is not to mention death, drowning, the sea or relationships. They fail miserably of course; enough to make you squirm. And it’s the forays through the painful squirm barrier that make this play so funny…and cutting.
Director Michael Cabot pushes Ayckbourn’s ‘types’ to the nervy edge of pantomime. There’s just enough realism to recognise them amongst one’s own social circle, and enough exaggeration for them to be safely beyond it.
Ashley Cook’s Colin is played as such a nerdy ‘pain’ it’s no wonder no one has seen him for years. But he’s known them all a long time, which is dangerous stuff; for Colin has whole tins of beans to spill and tables are bound to be turned.
Kathryn Ritchie’s taciturn Evelyn is a woman reduced to a monosyllabic shell and Catherine Harvey’s hostess Diane – in her unflatteringly shapeless, shifting, chiffon, floor-length dress – is such a confessionalist no priest would want to sit next to her.
But the best-invented character in this London Classic Theatre touring production is John Dorney’s ‘John’. In orange cords and kipper tie, he is a hopelessly, uncomfortable nervous wreck who is constantly on the move. His ants are not just in is pants. He bobs and bends and struggles with a serious case of cross-legged-itis. It’s a neat lesson in hyperactive physical comedy and annoyingly riveting. His scenes with his domineering boss Paul are a clear blue print for classic Ayckbourn plays still to be written.
The show gets off to a surprisingly pedestrian start and Mr Ayckbourn might wince at the occasional lost opportunity. Not all his knives are pushed firmly home. It also took time for the rhythm to settle; but the audience was biddable and generous and the company climbed on their shoulders to deliver a good night out.
I suspect, overall, the author would be more than content to sit back and watch yet another highly entertained audience enjoy a classic from his rich catalogue of remarkably well-observed plays.