Faces in the Crowd
Royal Court, London
Flamenco Flamen’ka,
Lyric Theatre, London
Radio Golf
Tricycle Theatre, London
WITH the words “credit crunch” on everyone’s lips, there has been a notable deficit in plays which seek to account for that phenomenon. Doubtless, in the coming months, this will change and we will witness a mixed bag of verbatim plays, bank dramas and debt issue pieces. One of the first off the mark, however, is Leo Butler, whose new play, Faces in the Crowd, is a two-hander which has various forms of debt as its main theme.
Fortysomething Dave is a big success in London: he’s making lots of dosh, takes shed-loads of drugs and has a teenage blonde girlfriend. Well, it feels like success, anyway. However, as the play starts, we watch as his past catches up on him. Sheffield-born Dave is a northerner who walked out on his wife, Joanne, and his family 10 years ago. Now Joanne wants something back.
The play is a slow burn. At first, although it is clear that Dave left Joanne with a mountain of debts, it is less clear what she wants as a payback. Gradually, however, as the truth dawns, the play moves into some excruciatingly painful emotional territory. Emotional debts turn out to be much less easy to pay off than financial ones.
Faces in the Crowd works on several levels: it is a humorous glance at London life from the perspective of two northerners; it is a withering attack on the clichés of Yorkshire life from a playwright who was born in Sheffield; and it is a surprisingly delicate account of a marital relationship, nuanced, excruciating, tender, embarrassing and full-on violent – all in equal measure.
Butler’s profoundest political point is a good one: by showing how Dave and Joanne’s marriage was wrecked by easy credit and rapidly mounting financial debts, he suggests that the current credit crunch is not just down to this Labour Government’s mismanagement of the economy, but has its origins in the free-market policies of the Margaret Thatcher and John Major years.
He follows this up by giving a powerful picture of the poverty of consumerism and a truthful description of what couples give and owe to each other. At one point, there is a searing stage image as Joanne chops up Dave’s chorizo sausage using a Sabatier knife: it’s both a comment on masculinity in crisis and a joke about knives that are so expensive you can’t even use them for chopping.
If Butler’s text, detailed and convincing in its quiet and unassuming naturalism, is great, then so is this production, directed by Clare Lizzimore. Along with designers William Fricker and Rae Smith, she has created a perfect replica of Dave’s east London loft, with the audience ranged around it at ceiling level, gazing down like voyeurs on this twosome’s emotional tangle. Played by Con O’Neill and Amanda Drew, who looks a touch too young for the part, Dave and Joanne comes across as everyman figures, caught up in the British version of the American Dream.
When everything is possible, and all is available to be bought on what used to be called the Never-Never, it seems idiotic to save first and buy later. When everyone is screaming, “Buy me now”, it seems mad to refuse. But, as Butler so beautifully shows, there are some things that really can’t be got by credit alone. This is an excellent piece of new writing.
Aleks Sierz
ANOTHER West End show, another dud. Brought in by choreographer Craig Revel Horwood of Strictly Come Dancing fame, Flamenco Flamen’ka is taken from several stories by Argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges and narrated by Karen Rumy.
If there is a plot, it focuses on Juliana (Sharon Sultan), a prostitute who is involved with two brothers, Eduardo and Cristian (Manuel Gutierrez Cabello and Francisco Hidalgo), and this entanglement leads to fatal consequences.
The dancing, which is staged by three choreographers – Marjorie Ascione, Manuel Gutierrez Cabello and Jerome Zerbi – who also perform in the show, is mildly better than the story. Still it’s a hotpotch of flamenco, tango and contemporary dance with little else.
Before I start on Radio Golf, I need to make a confession. Horror of horrors, I left Paulette Randall’s production of August Wilson’s play in the interval. The production wasn’t awful – it was passionate and engaging – but my companion, a new boyfriend, got the shakes. Initially, I thought it was because he was in such effervescent company. However, subsequently realising it was something more serious, I thought I’d better do the right thing and show some compassion. He was genuinely ill and I escorted him home – reluctantly.
At its Broadway debut last year, Wilson’s final play, which focuses on black America’s social progress and money, received four Tony nominations. Even with only seeing half the show, it is easy to tell why. As I didn’t stay for too long, it would be wrong to give a proper assessment of the production. Nevertheless, of the fine cast, Joseph Marcell, Danny Sapani and Julie Saunders give especially compelling performances. I’d like to go back to watch the whole thing (without the boyfriend) and I suggest you go and see it, too.
Sharon Garfinkel
