I am terribly well behaved, so my
mother said. Always do as I am told. Listen to authority I do. Directors, lots
of ‘em, regularly earwig me and say ‘whatever you do, don’t mention the
whatever.’ Flat trombone player, fat dancer, actor wearing odd socks. Whatever.
Don’t mention it. So I don’t. Except obliquely. A little hint, the odd word, a
slight nudge somewhere in the text. Because although terribly well behaved, I
am also mischievous. So my mother said. And this one had a funny mirror. But I won’t
mention it.
What I will mention is that the
characters in Noel Coward’s Hay Fever
were terribly ill behaved. At least the family was. So their mother said. And she
was as bad, if not worse. The upper class Bliss family are so self centred and egocentric
they are almost on a separate planet to normal mortals. In their closed
theatrical world, playwright husband and actress wife, they infuriate and bemuse
unwary guests in equal proportions. And whether play acting at life or merely
playing games they and their precious children give no quarter. Subscribe to
their rules or flounder. Underlying cruelty twisted, with Cowards clever pen,
to super high comedy. If you do it right.
And boy, this lot did. Under
Nicki Pope’s superb direction the Queen Mother Theatre gave me one of the
classiest and pleasing productions since I started blogging. For pace, timing,
characterisation, set and costumes it oozed quality throughout. Practically
every scene, especially the madcap wordgame, zinged with precision and clarity.
I made no notes. I did not need to. This lot gobsmacked for acting skills. Natalie Gordon was an insufferably
majestic Judith Bliss, ageing and shallow actress in equal proportions. I would
have liked her taller but you can’t have everything. And she packed an
incredible punch in everything she did. Charles
Plester, equally insufferable husband, beautifully served up the best sort
of ham. Sort of a cross between Robert Morley face and Noel Coward voice. A
lesser actor would have destroyed it. Mr Plester pulled it off with style.
This
revolting couple were well matched by their equally revolting children, Simon
and Sorel. Beautifully attired in twenties style and with crisp and affected
voices you could bottle and sell at John Lewis. Paul Wade played Simon Bliss with energetic verve and affectation
and Laura Eason matched him all the
way as a sibling who knew her place in life. Firmly at the top. Their interchanges
electrified and their playacting with Mama in reprises of one of her theatrical
turkeys was an absolute joy. It is hardly surprising that this dysfunctional
quartet was shepherded by an ageing and reluctant maid with the diplomatic
skills of an arthritic piranha. Clara the maid was Mrs Bliss’s theatre dresser
and in Barbie Gardiner’s lovely cameo
that is what she still is. In demeanour and voice Miss Gardiner conveyed looking
after families, especially this one, was best done with electrified barbed wire
fencing.
But however scintillating and
clever the Bliss family are, Hay Fever
needs those unfortunate weekend houseguests. They create oodles of romantic
permutations, all totally unbelievable, and a semblance of normality in the
human condition. Or most of them do. Neglect them, in casting or
characterisation, and the play would stall or at least stutter. Nicki Pope is
no mug. She roped in a classy quartet who etched out some beautifully
individual portrayals. Becky Leonard
as Myra Arundel, the vamp with the sexual shrimping net, probably took the edge
because of her magnificent costumes and nicking the only taxi but the others
were up there with her. Greg Jones
was a nicely judged gormless boxer, Chloe
Maddox an excellent nervous ingénue, and Doug Brooker an effectively boring diplomat. Mr Brooker’s suit
looked slightly ill fitting, thereby demoting his status, but that is my only
nitpick in a nine star cast which constantly fired on all cylinders.
In the interest of balance, I do
get read by lots of societies you know, I should now completely tear apart the
set, the lighting, and the sound. Can’t. Loved the set (Rosemary Bianchi),
especially the realistic back garden. Loved the sound, especially the realistic
rain. And I am sure I heard bacon sizzling in the breakfast scene. My imagination
often gets the better of me. And loved the lighting, except the inexplicable
changes on the landing stairs. Perhaps Judith Bliss insisted on it. But most of
all I loved these bright young and not so young things from the nineteen twenties.
Captured in consummate style by Miss Pope and her team. Even if none of them
could see themselves in the perplexing pseudo mirror. Damn. I said I wouldn’t
mention it. Told you I was mischievous. Ask my mother. Roy Hall
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