Dangerous Corner
Wheathampstead Dramatic Society
May 2018
**
Those
of you who read my piece on Redbourn’s Funny Money, there were a few, may be
wondering why I have not blogged Wheathampstead’s Dangerous Corner. After all, I was looking forward to it and
sharpening my pen in Redbourn was a mere theatrical taster following a winter
as fallow as my racing wins. Perhaps I didn’t go, you may say. Stayed indoors
watching some dreary reality show about Peruvian knitting or custard making in
the Cotswolds. Actually, the latter might be fun so look out for it on BBC Four
sometime soon. But I digress, as they say. I did go and see it, Dangerous
Corner that is, and came away thinking fondly of those Peruvian knitters and
that Cotswold custard. That comment is not meant to be cruel. It is said, or
written, with a heavy heart. I watched this favourite J B Priestly play and
thought, as some in the audience inappropriately chortled, that something
theatrically precious was being damaged. Wheathampstead Players should not have
staged it. They should have found something more suitable for the poor young
girl directing it. With some bizarre casting she never stood a chance of
pulling it off. Bear with me and I will tell you why. Either that or sod off
and make some custard.
The
good bits first. The characters in Priestley’s play are very nice 1930’s folk
who formally dress for dinner, even in private. Ladies in posh frocks, men in
evening dress, cocktails and canapés. It is an age long gone but always
pleasing to see recreated on stage. And Wheathampstead Players did that bit
well. No farty updating here on a modern council estate with girls in dungarees
and men in jeans. You could, given the narrative premise, but thankfully they
resisted and retained that old world charm. Smug, self satisfied, successful
folk, indulging in an evening soiree. Nothing could be nicer. What makes
Priestley’s famous first ‘time play’ grip is the stripping of the cosy veneer
following a casual remark regarding a musical box. By the end of the play these
nice people are as snarling snakes writhing in the bottom of some dark
emotional pit. I will not regale you with the details but it is all very
clever, especially the end when all returns to cosy normality, and endlessly
fascinates lovers of pure theatre. Are we all like that when the guard is
carelessly down? Do we all have dangerous conversational corners? Say what you
like about old John Boynton but he could certainly construct a play.
So
you may ask, assuming you are still awake, where did it all go wrong? Casting
folks, nothing more, nothing less. Jonathan Field made for a fine, straight
laced, Robert Caplan and Steve Leadbetter scored quite a few acting points for
the more worldly wise Charles Stanton. But much else displeased and
disappointed. Irene Morris, fine actress, was scuppered by her discombobulated
hair and Julie Field, fine director, portrayed an inappropriate heaviness to
hostess Freda. Lines which should have been as sharp as mustard merely dropped
as leaden weights. The Whitehouse pair, supposedly bright young things Betty
and Gordon, were simply much too old to convince. I felt sorry for the two
actors concerned. I have seen them both to better effect so will refrain from
damning them here. Viv Fairley made for a convincing, if slightly muted Miss
Mockridge, and her and Messrs Field and Leadbetter scored the only brownie
points I am offering. But overall this was a theatrical Dangerous Corner that
should have been sensibly swerved. Roy Hall
