Exit the King

National Theatre, Olivier

4^th August, 2018, matinee

“What was the point of being born if only to die?”

I had low expectations of Patrick Marber’s new version of Ionesco’s absurdist play Exit the King (1962). I thought that Sean Foley’s version of Ionesco’s Amédée didn’t push the political resonances of chaos taking over reason and logic far enough. I also enjoyed (perhaps too much) Matt Trueman’s rather damning review of this production and second-guessed what to expect. Like Amédée, I thought that the comedy mostly fell flat. And the non-specific ‘house of cards’ setting seemed too conceited and a reminder of an old Children’s educational TV show, Megamaths. However, Exit the King’s interest in the crumbling of a kingdom is relevant, and I found its musings on death – and Anthony Ward’s visual representation of this – emotionally affecting.

It takes an NT stalwart of Marber’s calibre to have the nerve to get the audience to stand on King Bérénger’s entrance through the Olivier stalls on a regal red carpet which leads onto the stage. It was furthermore intriguing that not only did most stand but remained standing until invited to be seated by Ifans. I’m unsure whether this was due to the power of Ifans’ stage presence or a particularly royalist audience. I remained seated. Most of the characters – the doctor (Adrian Scarborough), the older queen (Indira Varma), the guard (Derek Griffiths) – are two dimensional puppets and so the actors can’t do much internalising and instead have fun with playing types, buffoons and veneers. Ifans does something similar, lurching around the stage like Shameless’ Frank Gallagher, a sense of dangerous unpredictability about his performance. The funniest moment, I found, was when he’s rolling about on the floor in denial of his pending death, reverting to his childhood and says in a toddler-like way ‘I want a biscuit’.

But occasionally Ifans’ performance is something more than just posturing, reaching something at least close to profundity as he begins to realise the inevitability of his situation. This 400 year old king, like all of us, must shuffle off his mortal coil. If he carries on, the country will only suffer. People are drowning, universities are falling into the abyss, and havoc is reaped across the land. Only death, and its opportunity for rebirth, will save it. As his two queens and court hands count down the minutes until the king’s death ‘at the end of the play’, the fascination with death’s finite and levelling nature take hold. What is afterwards? Anything? Nothing? Why do we tend not to prepare for death? What will we leave behind?

But overall, writing this a few weeks after seeing it, Marber’s version isn’t good enough. It is set in its own definite world and yet that world is too equivocal, with nothing and no one to really care about. Thus, it’s merely a literary exercise. Thankfully, there is Ward’s design: the throne room of a castle, the walls of which are complete with growing chasms, and hidden with nooks and crannies for the cast to play in. As the king and the kingdom continue to disintegrate, walls fly out and sink into the Olivier’s drum revolve, leaving only Bérénger’s throne. Finally persuaded to follow his destiny, Ifans slowly but surely follows the throne back on the red carpet into the distance. Eventually they fade away until, in the end, there is nothing, nothing… nothing… until 6^th October.

Rhys Ifans and Adrian Scarborough in Exit the King. Credit: Simon Annand

Allelujah!

Bridge, London

15^th August, 2018

“Caring is about shit”

If it weren’t for Alan Bennett this blog would not be what it is today. Flashback five years to an unseasonably warm September afternoon. The tour of People is playing at Curve and we, the two youngest people in the audience, meet for the first time. It’s safe to say, then, that Alan Bennett holds a special, sentimental significance for us, and last week we approached his latest offering with a not undue sense of nostalgia. While Allelujah! is by no means vintage Bennett (or Hytner, for that matter), he maintains a hard edge to his outwardly gentle comedy, and shows he still has the ability to surprise.

Set in ‘The Beth’, a small hospital that treats locals ‘from birth to death’, and focal point of the community, the action takes place in the geriatric ward, which is the bane of NHS staff and officials nationwide. Elderly patients get sick. They get better. But they have nowhere to go so can’t be discharged. Thus, Bennett homes in on the ‘bed-blocking’ crisis seen in many a hospital and, rather typically, he finds the nub of the matter: an under-resourced NHS reduced to a numbers game of ‘patient turnover’. Patients pile up in the hallways as manic doctors compete in a race for the next bed every time a death occurs in geriatrics, buttering up the matriarchal Sister Gilchrist (Deborah Findlay) so they can get a head start on their rivals. With The Beth under threat of closure from the government, manager Salter (Peter Forbes) has hired in a film crew to record the patients’ views on the hospital, the hard-working NHS staff, and the joy that the geriatric choir gives them.

Bennett and Hytner produce touching episodes, from tentative dance routines, to pitilessly selfish families – latest arrival, the Pudsey Nightingale’s daughter and son-in-law want assurance that she’ll be kept alive only until they can fully inherit her property – to dementia-stricken Joe’s (Jeff Rawle) inability to recognise his son. There’s a touch of gallows humour to these proceedings – eg. the Pudsey Nightingale has lost all conversational ability, except for her frequent expulsions of ‘IT’S MY HOUSE!’ at (in)opportune moments – but much of Bennett’s comedy takes the form of affectionate ribs on aging, small-town Britain, and generation gaps. Injecting a dose of quaint fantasy, and staying on just the right side of twee, the patients partake in musical numbers ranging from ‘A, You’re Adorable’ to ‘Good Golly, Miss Molly’, forming pill-popping chorus lines and fantasy lindy hops. So, we’re all set for an evening of mildly political whimsy that doesn’t take itself too seriously.

But Bennett throws an unexpected curveball. A shock twist at the end of the first act alters the tone of the piece, and while rather gratuitous, fits the bill from a plot perspective. The second half whizzes by, perhaps a little too fast and certain plotlines seem tacked on – Sacha Dhawan’s friendly doctor facing deportation for failing an English proficiency test feels like an afterthought (or a plot for another play). An 11^th-hour speech of his featuring what should be a pertinent line – ‘Open your arms England, before it’s too late’ – feels tagged on. This is a pity considering most of Bennett’s plays ( from Forty Years On and People to Enjoy and The History Boys) all feature perceptive and original readings of England. Dhawan’s speech in Allelujah! is underwhelming by comparison. Furthermore, the aforementioned twist invokes yet another political jab (I’m trying to keep this review spoiler free!) and there’s a sense that Bennett is taking wild aim at anything and everything he can – race, sexuality, ageism, unemployment, institutionalised abuse, economic cutbacks, the ‘PC brigade’, euthanasia (to name but a few) – and the result seems unfocused and underfed. While Bennett’s other plays feature moments of lucid rhetoric that are not only insightful, but entertaining, Allelujah! fails to reach such intellectual or emotional heights. Of course I felt sympathy with the characters, but most remain two-dimensional mouth pieces.

Bennett’s most successful creations here are the proud, cantankerous, yet endearing Joe, and the no nonsense, iron-willed Sister Gilchrist. Having more to work with, Rawle and Findlay are inevitably the stand-outs among the cast. They sink their teeth into the characters and play off each other splendidly. Elsewhere, a lycra-clad Samuel Barnett has a pretty thankless role as Joe’s cold, (non)civil servant son that reluctantly returns to his hometown. Nicola Hughes makes a warm impression as the enthusiastically naïve Nurse Pinkney, while work experience teen, Andy (David Moorst) is sullen, contradictory and (it turns out) pretty nasty. The fact that this character is written and played for laughs perhaps sums up the sometimes queasy nature of Bennett’s play. I love a bit of black humour, but Allelujah! isn’t quite funny enough to pull it off. Compared with McDonagh’s The Lieutenant of Inishmore – another pitch dark comedy – which we saw earlier that day, it lacks the belly laughs required to boost the drama and relieve the tension. This may sound like I’m criticising Bennett for being too Bennett (too much whimsy and too many pithy retorts masquerading as character development), but I think his style would have been better suited had he pared down the plot slightly and gotten more under the skin of his characters.

By turns cynical, touching and with a rogue twinkle in its eye, Allelujah! doesn’t set the stage alight, and as both a black comedy and state-of-the-nation play it feels underpowered, but Bennett remains a bastion of not just British playwriting, but Britain as a whole and this peculiar production will remain a curio in his oeuvre. And as in The Lady in the Van (from which the line at the top of this review particularly comes to mind), he provides much prosaic insight. What’s more, Bennett and Hytner manage to pull off that most sought-after of coups, a truly bitter-sweet ending, and rather lovely it is at that.

Allelujah! plays at the Bridge Theatre until 29^th September , 2018.

Deborah Findlay and Jeff Rawle in Allelujah! Credit: Manuel Harlan

Othello

Shakespeare’s Globe

16th August, 2018, matinee

'And what's he then that says I play the villain?'

More often than not I have found myself guilty of greeting any new Shakespeare production with thoughts of lofty concept. ‘What’s the take?’ I ask, for these plays are so reputed and productions so abundant that in order to distinguish oneself from the pack directors take to conceptualising The Bard, often running the risk of falling foul to gimmick. Othello is no stranger to this. Take the RSC’s recent production featuring Lucian Msamati as Iago, or Jude Kelly’s decision to cast Patrick Stewart as Othello in a race-reversed production in Washington DC, or the National Theatre’s uprooting of the action to Iraq – no doubt these successful productions brought fresh ideas to the plate, and are memorable to even those not attuned to goings-on in theatre-land (I saw none of these productions, yet their reputation endures). Thus, Claire van Kampen’s decision to eschew gimmick/concept is a bold statement in a production that generously places the focus firmly on plot and character, and pays dividends for it.

A typically understated Mark Rylance breezes through proceedings with deceptive ease, playing Iago as amiable, modest and informal. Van Kampen’s heavy cuts to Iago’s soliloquys ensure the play zips along at the pace of a mad-cap thriller, yet by keeping the audience in the dark regarding Iago’s schemes we are somewhat robbed of insight into the character and his shady motives – our culpability is instead invoked through Rylance’s banter with audience members (impishly pointing out the ‘crooked knaves’ among us and enthusiastically shaking hands with two very excited ladies beside us). So affable, and with such an infectious grin, and the fact that Rylance utters the line ‘I hate the moor’ with such banal flippancy, you’d be forgiven for completely missing Iago’s true motives.

Hence, come the final act when Rylance finally lets rip the sheer power within him comes as a shock to all. Previously anonymous and impotent in his boyish toy-soldier uniform, it feels like a personal affront when Rylance’s Iago, figuratively and literally, reveals his hidden strength as he effortlessly breaks Rodrigo’s (a fabulously coiffured Steffan Donnelly, decked in resplendent New Romantic style baroque) neck before hauling the dead body over his shoulder and carrying him off stage. Gasps echo around the auditorium – where did this come from? Who knew he had it in him? – Rylance plays the long game and we are all his pawns. The character is all the more chilling for this; Iago is not an evil and cartoonish megalomaniac, but a seemingly innocuous little man – a joker feigning blithe naivety, but he conceals a deadly indifference, weaponised with soldierly dexterity.

Perhaps due to this subtle portrayal of Iago, André Holland’s Othello, also, is touched by humility. Far more prosaic than we’ve come to expect of the character, Holland lacks what is often referred to as the ‘Othello music’, the pomp, eloquence and hyperbolic rhetoric that epitomises both his unique status and hubristic fall from grace. But this is not to say his portrayal is ineffective. Holland affords our hero with solemn dignity and an attractive sexuality. He and Jessica Warbeck as Desdemona have a believable relationship, romantic and carnal, the sexual chemistry and ensuing jealousy simmers throughout.

Van Kampen has crafted what in other worlds could easily pass as a bedroom farce. Othello fancies Desdemona who may fancy Cassio (Aaron Pierre) who beds Bianca (Catherine Bailey) while Iago suspects Othello of shagging Emilia (Sheila Atim) while suggesting that he also harbours feelings for Desdemona… and so on. This comedic and somewhat superficial set up ensures the final scene maintains its shock factor – the mix-ups and double dealings are no longer funny when a string of bodies adorn the stage.

Following her acclaimed performance in Girl from the North Country, once again, Sheila Atim steals every scene. Without uttering a word, her mere presence demands all eyes upon her, and from a purely shallow perspective I could have watched a whole 2 hours of Atim strutting her stuff in those varying jumpsuits of gold. She speaks with what I can only describe as a clarity of soul, making Emilia’s words echo with a banality that is poignant in its honesty. Her ‘wives do fall’ speech that closes Act 4 is a highlight, as is her reaction to Desdemona’s death – in fact, I’d go as far to say that it is Atim’s performance in the finale that creates the emotional electricity one craves from tragedy.

 As van Kampen clearly allows the language and performances speak for themselves, her stamp on the production is evident in the lively and colourful movement and musicality of the piece. As one might expect, van Kampen’s music is a high point, from the revelries held in Cyprus lead by a mandolin playing Iago, to the simple harmonies of the mournful Willow song. The concluding dance duet is a lovely play on the masque and dumbshow traditions.

While van Kampen doesn’t bring anything new to the play, hers is a solid and entertaining production that will be rightly remembered for its performances as opposed to any theatrical gimmick or zeitgeist-y politicism. Rylance and Atim in particular give remarkable performances that will linger in the mind due to their subtlety and conviction, while van Kampen excels in hearty musical interludes and juxtaposing the everyday joie de vivre with terrifying sobriety.

 Othello plays at Shakespeare’s Globe until 13th October.

Mark Rylance and André Holland in Othello. Credit: Simon Annand

Fiddler on the Roof

Curve, Leicester

14^th August, 2018

'To life! L'chaim!'

Tradition. A theme at the heart of Bock, Harmick and Stein's Fiddler on the Roof. A theme which also captures the annual community productions held at Curve every summer, a custom that has quite rightly become an institution in itself. From Bernstein to Shakespeare via Sondheim, Bart and Larson, Curve’s choice of production has always been impeccable; big shows for a big stage and even bigger companies, and there’s nothing that makes my heart sing more than seeing my local theatre populated with local people doing what they love. And with Fiddler Curve have excelled themselves yet again. Featuring their largest company on record, director Sarah Ingram’s production sees over 100 people from the community coming together to present what is arguably the greatest ‘community’ musical in the canon.

To say this production is epic would be an understatement. Populous, bustling, humming with life; Ingram has constructed an enclave of highly detailed, immersive communal existence. Anatevka is realised in Al Parkinson's ramshackle of houses, erected so tightly that the families literally live on top of each other. It's a smart and understated design (I know this may seem anomalous considering the enormity of the production as a whole) that allows the ensemble to become a living, breathing set piece. Throughout the action the everyday is omnipresent: wives and daughters sweep floors, a beggar steals bagels from the local baker, children play, locals kiss the Mezuzah on entering the home - these are just a few of the cultural minutiae that Ingram celebrates, details that may go unnoticed, but altogether enrich the piece.

I have always enjoyed the sheer scale of Curve's community productions. Choruses are full-bodied and hearty, crowds are raucous, and the eye is drawn to a multitude of entertaining titbits. Nevermore has this been evident than here in the spectacular wedding scene at the end of act 1. So joyous, so giddy, so sweeping, I could have lept up an danced along! Melanie Knott triumphs in reproducing Jerome Robbins' original choreography, drawing the best from a diverse cast. Movement and blocking for a cast that big must have been a logistical headache! Knott's sympathetic rendering of Robbins' classic routines is touching and organic, by turns pulsing with machismo and liltingly whimsical.

Amidst the cast of local theatre-lovers, stand outs include Debbie Longley's Golde, the prosaic anchor to her hypothesising husband, Longley has a stellar voice and warmth of character; the trio of love-struck daughters are played with poise and youthful nobility by Lauren Russell (Tzeitel), Hannah Willars (Hodel) and Rose Caldwell (Chava); while Peter Larkin (no stranger to community theatre thanks to his experience at The Little Theatre) balances religious reverance with wanton eccentricity as the Priest. Fresh from playing Elizabeth Proctor in Curve's The Crucible, Eleanor Page's Fiddler has not a single line of dialogue, yet her impeccable playing and omnipresence is brimming with characterful expression, grounding her strange, moving and believable unspoken connection with Tevye. 

However, it is Bill Hinds' Tevye that provides a centre of gravity in the production. Hinds  displays a dry wit and oratory melifluousness, matched by his physicality in the role. Using his hands as philosophical instruments, Hinds reaches out to the heavens, wishing to pluck answers from the ether. His soliloquys grappling with the frictions of tradition, change and progression are engrossing and rather haunting.

For Curve's tenth anniversary, they have taken a musical with enduring appeal and great themes of the unifying powers of love and community in times of major social upheaval, and paired it with a production that embodies a hymn to these issues. The community of Anatevka is imbued with colour and depth thanks to Ingram and Knott's passionate storytelling. As always, the professionalism and commitment from all must be applauded, as does Curve for embracing such a diverse company and the logistical challenges that come with a large cast. Long may the 'tradition' continue!

Fiddler on the Roof plays at Curve until 19th August.

The company of Fiddler on the Roof. Photograph: Pamela Raith.

The Dead Leicester Chronicles

Leicester Guildhall 10th August, 2018 'Ay up, me duck!' The most multicultural city in Europe. Burial chamber of Kings. Fairytale setting for the unlikeliest sporting victory in British history… It’s no secret by now that I am immensely proud of Leicester. My hometown and the beating heart of all (any, to be honest) patriotic tendencies. So if, like me, the prospect of spending an evening indulging in all things Leicestershire is as heavenly as scoffing a Red Leicester and Walkers crisp sandwich while watching Harry Maguire head in another impossible goal, The Dead Leicester Chronicles won’t disappoint. The evening begins as we’re welcomed into the courtyard of the atmospheric Leicester Guildhall, a deliciously wonky 14th Century timber-beamed building that perfectly sets the tone for the irreverent historic jaunt. In the assured hands of intrepid duo Craig and Ryan Byrne we are whisked away on a whistle-stop tour of over two-thousand years of local heritage – from the mating rituals of the first men, to preparations for the Civil War, to Thomas Cook’s first ever package holiday – a trip to that far away land of Loughborough! Our guides are tireless and having a blast as they rush around in an energetic parade of hats and hosiery, their affection for the city evident in the torrent of in-jokes and gentle ribbing of Midlands foibles and eccentricities. We’re treated to jokes about Gary Lineker, Showaddywaddy, local dialect, and a fabulous round of provincial puns – the ‘Soar Valley’ one was a particular favourite (I’ll say no more, your imagination can do the hard work)! Entering the great hall the duo take aim at Shakespeare’s Richard III with comedic verve – you’ll never see the Princes in the Tower the same again. The smart structure of the piece produces ever escalating absurdities – Daniel Lambert as a stand-up-cum-balladeer, anyone? – culminating in the ingenious ‘Hosiery: the Musical’, possibly the most joyously surreal scene I’ve ever seen. As the show concludes in a shower of socks and space-age disco it’s best to stop trying to work out what’s going on and just embrace the silliness – my aching, grinning face said it all! With a mixture of comedy, live music and interesting info, Dead Leicester is a triumphant love letter to the city. Fun for all the family (I was reminded of the cross-generational appeal of the Horrible Histories series), chock-full of jokes and facts, this is a history lesson you’ll never forget! For information on upcoming shows please visit http://www.deadleicester.co.uk/ Craig Byrne and Ryan Byrne in The Dead Leicester Chronicles

The Lehman Trilogy

National Theatre, Lyttelton

28^th July, 2018, matinee

“He left with only an idea of America in his mind.

He arrived with it there in front of him”

Italian playwright Stefano Massini’s The Lehman Trilogy (2013) has made it to the National Theatre, in a translation by Deputy Artistic Director Ben Power and in a starry production, after previously being well received in different productions in Paris and Milan. It’s a history – his-story – play, chronicling Lehman Brothers, from an Alabama fabric store ran by three German immigrant brothers, to the globally renowned (and now vilified) stock brokers.

But although this is directed by Hollywood heavyweight Sam Mendes, The Lehman Trilogy doesn’t have much cinematic quality. It doesn’t arouse the boardroom sharks of J.C. Chandor’s Margin Call (2011), nor does it glorify the lives of bankers as in Martin Scorsese’s The Wolf of Wall Street (2013). It doesn’t really reach the heights of Caryl Churchill’s Serious Money (1987) at portraying the thrill of the trading floor. And considering the whole play is basically mansplaining, it falls short of the audacious bravura of Adam McKay and Charles Randolph’s The Big Short (2015). It’s more a play about immigrants’ tenacity to make something of their lives, the family’s continued effort to make more money, and how the ceiling of ambition rises with each new generation.

Es Devlin’s set and Luke Halls’ video design keep the production moving. The skyscraper office with floor to ceiling windows spins to match the play’s pace; the minimalist offices become stores and houses from state to state; grey cardboard storage boxes become shop counters and stairs. But this playfulness is conservative, leaving me now wondering what James Graham or Headlong would’ve done with the idea. Mendes firmly keeps his eye on the story, and it is a fascinating story, it’s more that Massini’s script occasionally feels rushed and lacking its own definite sense of identity.

I am also unconvinced by the play’s structure. It’s neatly satisfying that the Trilogy of the title refers to the three founding Lehman brothers as well as its three parts. But these three parts – Three Brothers, Fathers and Sons, The Immortal – don’t feel distinguishable enough to be considered as making up a triptych. Ben Power has provided a sturdy translation but I’m still a bit cynical. For example, the play is excellently underscored by Candida Caldicot on the piano (music by Nick Powell). Just as Powell’s musical phrases are made up occasional repetition, concordant notes and leitmotifs, Powell continuously returns to lines in his script. Here is a smattering of those which stand out:

The brain         the arm           the potato

The ticking clock was deafening

The yellow and black sign and the slightly stiff door handle

Henry is always right

I think it’s harsh but not disingenuous of me to say that I think these merely give it the illusion of structural strength, something to stop it completely being a rambling yarn of 160 years.

Although I don’t feel it was a massively rewarding *shivers* piece of theatre, it is enjoyable while it lasts, mainly because of the assured direction and performances. Simon Russell Beale, Ben Miles and Adam Godley have fun showboating their top acting skills. All three of them, as well as playing the original Lehman brothers and their descendants, take on the roles of supporting characters: crying children and would-be wives, southern plantation owners and New York tycoons. Best of all is Godley; his rubbery face and dynamic performance leaves a memorable impression, as he goes from the more tentative mediator ‘potato’ brother Mayer to the more forward-thinking, disco-loving, elderly final Lehman to be involved in the business. Elsewhere, I can’t imagine what it’s like to be one of the supernumeraries who don’t appear until the play’s dying moments, probably thinking of how quickly they can get to Waterloo as much as they are about life after the 2008 financial crisis.

In the bigger picture, this may be a play about family and the seed of the American Dream. When we visited Liberty and Ellis Islands earlier this year, it was hard not to be impressed by the clustered verticality of Manhattan. Like America promises so much to Henry Lehman when he stands on the dock side, this play promised so much as well. *Insert neat phrase in the semantic field of stocks and shares here*.

The Lehman Trilogy plays at the National Theatre until 20^th October.

 

Simon Russell Beale, Ben Miles and Adam Godley in The Lehman Trilogy. Credit: Marc Douet

Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em

Curve, Leicester

17^th July, 2018

“Wherever there’s trouble, I can guarantee you I’ll be there”

Apparently this stage adaptation of Raymond Allen’s 1970s’ classic sitcom was conceived when writer/director Guy Unsworth was directing Joe Pasquale in Monty Python’s Spamalot in London. It was a hot summer’s day, the story goes, and Pasquale's unsuccessful attempts to fix a fan gave Unsworth a lightbulb moment of casting Pasquale as hapless Frank Spencer and making him fall down a set of stairs seven shows a week. If only Unsworth missed a train that day and couldn’t make it to that sweltering matinee of Spamalot. If only the dressing rooms weren’t in the basement at the Playhouse and not so stuffy. If only the Playhouse's management invested in a better fan to cool the company down. If only Unsworth was directing Stewart Lee in a play and he ended up playing the role immortalised by Michael Crawford. Any number of slight changes to that day and this production of Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em might not have graced the stage and where oh where would British theatre be then? It seems churlish to be this po-faced about the production even if I am cynical in the endeavour of adapting old sitcoms rather than creating new comedies that appeal to family audiences. Although it’s certainly not without criticism, Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em has a relentless giddy charm. Born in 1992, I had an avid interest in comedy from a young age, including watching repeats of Some Mothers, and going to see Joe Pasquale perform live. Although my tastes might have since altered, this is an odd nostalgia trip to see the mash-up of the two.

Unsworth has taken Allen’s scripts and amalgamated some memorable moments from throughout the series as well as focusing on the episode(s) where Betty tries to tell Frank he’s going to be a dad and the one where the BBC films his DIY achievements for a new TV show. Add to that Betty’s mother (played very well by Susie Blake) who has become alcoholic and desperate for a man, a vicar and a rather implausible through-line of a missing ring and some stolen money, and you have the ingredients of a classic farce. Add to this Simon Higlett’s comedic playground of a set complete with 70s wallpaper and a loaded staircase and you would think it’s enough to give Mischief Theatre a run for their money.

Pasquale has an affable quality that makes him easy to warm to, but he doesn’t quite match Crawford’s performance. Pasquale does great service to the part by capturing Frank’s innocence, his optimism, performing the malapropisms believably, and getting through verbally dexterous tautological speeches. It’s to be applauded that he doesn’t do a carbon copy of Crawford – hearing Pasquale say ‘I’m a man’ in his trademark squeaky voice has its own joys – but there are also flaws in the performance. Pasquale sets off at such a pace there’s no wonder the whole thing comes in at under two hours. The problem with this is that it occasionally feels like he is regurgitating the script and it means that the humour found in Crawford’s pauses, as you saw him working thoughts through, is lost. Having said that, Pasquale sure knows how to slide down some bannister railings. Aside from the slapstick, he boasts a strong quality for farce, trying to keep the whole thing together whilst it’s simultaneously falling apart. The whole company is strong, especially Sarah Earnshaw is as Frank’s long-suffering and devout wife, Betty. Praise also has to be given to the stage management team led by Nik Ryal; I can imagine them running around the back of Higlett’s set throwing chicken feathers, squirting water, exploding kitchens, and knocking things off walls.

In sitcom, there are often no consequences, as explored to great effect in Terry Johnson’s play Cleo, Camping, Emmanuelle and Dick. But by the end of this two hours, Unsworth throws in a surreal dance routine made of several Frank Spencers as well as a contrived tidying up of the plot – as if the plot was anything we were ever bothered about! In the last couple of months, I’ve seen a gamut of what small-mid scale touring theatre has to offer from the superb Fleabag to the wasted Sherlock Holmes. Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em, thanks to clever casting, a popular TV show of yesteryear, and amplified microphones so no one can complain of audibility issues, is sure to pack in and satisfy audiences for the remainder of its tour.

Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em is playing at Curve, Leicester until 21^st July and touring the UK.

Joe Pasquale as Frank Spencer. Credit: Scott Rylander