Vexatious frivolity
Lloyd Evans
Camille
Lyric, Hammersmith
Funny Black Women On The Edge
Theatre Royal, Stratford East
Early Morning
Oval House
Daniele Nardini has given herself a L./mountain to descend. The delectably tough-minded barrister from This Life has filled out a little since her TV debut, and it's hard to fathom why she chose to play Camille, a Parisian hooker who dies of consumption. At curtain up she glides onto the Lyric's main stage, the loveliest lovegoddess in the city of love. Two hours later she has to shrink to a bag of bones, coughing and drowning in the blood of her putrefying lungs. Quite a challenge, n'est cc pas? It would help if she were 24 rather than 34 but her insurmountable difficulty, is to make the transformation convincing. No metamorphosis eludes the finest actors, of course. The great Larry, it's said, could weep, lose weight, go bald, get a tan, contract virus pneumonia and acquire a portwine birthmark in the space of eight lines of dialogue. Nardini isn't quite in that
league. The closing scene finds her sagging voluptuously beneath an anti-aircraft searchlight and meditating on the approach of death. But the audience knows what it is looking at — a plump young beauty meditating on the approach of supper. Benefits will flow from this sad hiccup. Nardini has so much screen presence that she will scoot straight back to her natural medium. And Camille — a vexatious frivolity — will never again be presented on the English stage. If you have tickets, prepare to shred them now.
At Stratford East, Funny Black Women On The Edge is a recklessly funny cabaret. Thankfully it has no truck with good taste. In a spoof of Stars In Their Eyes, Josephine Melville impersonates the singer Gabrielle, who is partially sighted. She keeps bumping into the furniture. This needless piece of cruelty is hilarious to watch, The show is written by Angie Le Mar, a terrific performer who dashes off hosts of characters effortlessly. Her repertoire of black female archetypes includes a pin-striped businesswoman denounced as 'a Bounty bar' (white on the inside); a West African earth mother accusing her sisters of betraying their roots; a teenage sex bomb scouting for a sugar daddy; a posh crystal-gazing Hampstead therapist and a Jamaican granny contemplating a final fling, 'Me old, but me not cold.'
The second half consists of four extended sketches. One is set at a media-prize ceremony. Five women are seated anxiously round a table waiting to discover who has been given the 'Annual Award for Female Blackness'. The successful candidate ascends the podium and yukkily dedicates the honour to her fellow nominees. They all smile and clap at her politely. Then they descend into a beautifully vicious bitching session.
Could this outstanding show move west? Probably not. Its interests are too narrow — too black, too urban and too female — for a mainstream audience. Le Mar confesses to being a lazy writer. Someone should sit her down at a keyboard and force her to complete a full-length comedy. Unencumbered by the set-changes that a cabaret requires, it would be cheaper to stage than this excellent but ultimately parochial show.
It's been a great week in the ghetto. At the Oval House I saw something I never expected. Theatrical perfection. Not everyone agrees with me (in fact everyone disagrees with me) when I contend that the most powerful and satisfying dramatic form is the slapstick comedy with serious intentions. Early Morning is exactly that. The plot is simple. Three Nigerian cleaners working a late shift in a City skyscraper decide to kidnap their supervisor and take over the world. 'No going back! Only going black!' is their absurd battle-cry. No sooner has the new empire been declared, than a power struggle emerges between the rebels. The comedy is witty, astute and sublimely irresponsible. The climax of the play must be unique in the theatrical repertoire. A sidesplitting rape scene. The perpetrator claims to be acting for Black Africa. 'Can you feel the power!' he shrieks over his victim, She remains nonchalant throughout and lies there clucking and accusing him of being gay. To call this bold writing would be an understatement. It's absolute madness. The author portrays Nigerians as childish, paranoid, hysterical, sick-minded, violent racists — i.e. as human beings. Squeamish white folk are bound to take offence and scupper this play's chances of a wider audience. But make note of the playwright's name — Dipo Agboluaje. No, I couldn't pronounce it either because I haven't heard it out loud. I expect I will though, many times over.
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