Merry banter
Lloyd Evans
The Country Wife Courtyard Round the Horne Revisited The Venue Slave's Snowshow Hackney Empire
A cting. A profession or a disease? The question occurred to me as I sat on a damp bench in a converted archway near King's Cross watching The Countty Wife, a
Restoration comedy. Only a chain-gang of incurable exhibitionists would choose to stage this antique farce in such a grim location. But the Centurion Theatre Company didn't seem bothered, In full-bottomed wigs and satin tail-coats, they flounced about the slippery little stage, taking care not to tread on passing slugs, knocking out William Wycherley's merry banter with all the nonchalance of West End stars.
In the title role Maria de Caldas gave a sweetly assured comic turn. while Rebecca Ridgeway offered well-judged support. Around the edges there were a few performances which seemed excessive even for this all-swinging, all-prancing troupe of enthusiasts. But I was won over by their energy and charm. If acting is an illness, it's one we should be grateful for.
More gratitude at The Venue, just off Leicester Square. Brian Clarke's version of the radio classic Round the Home has brought together both critics and punters in a chorus of thanks and praise. From the press-cuttings I gather that one reviewer had to be stretchered off with mirth, while another shed so many tears of laughter that during the train journey home his trousers shrank, Intriguing to note that when a critic feels pleasure he describes it in terms of physical distress. Why? Because only a masochist would do this job. But anyway, back to the show, which is a hugely enjoyable jaunt in a time-machine. The set is a mock-up of a postwar radio studio. There are illuminated ON AIR signs overhead. On stage a quartet of plummy actors read their lines into those big, square, honeycomb microphones. Each is dressed in tailored clothes that recall the spare, grey, ration-coupon elegance of the era. Even when they're not speaking, every detail of their conduct is meticulously synchronised with the period. And so, as if by some miracle, we are presented with Horne and Williams as they were back then, the Kenneths at their zeniths. The scripts have been skilfully sifted. Every favourite character and every daring innuendo is replicated with zest and affection. One may quibble about its value as theatre but as a commercial operation it's brilliant.
There are swathes of aging Middle Englanders out there all yearning to revisit a vanished past. Doubtless the producers are casting around for another Lazarus to reheat. No prizes for guessing the prime candidate. A full-scale revival of Spike Milligan's great scripts, Not a Moment Too Goon, could fill a West End venue immediately — and indefinitely. But if you have a taste for such pleasures, I'd get along to this show now. Other reincarnations are bound to follow and the format will eventually become bloated and stale; and then people will say, .Ah. These sentimental reruns of radio classics. They're just not what they were.'
Highlight of the week is the rebirth of the Hackney Empire, my local music-hall. Three years have elapsed since the final curtain fell and the management sorrowfully admitted that it couldn't fill 1,300 fraying seats in the East End, even with such temptations as Bring Peace to Yugoslavia, with Jeremy Hardy. But the lights are back on and the crowds are returning. The opening extravaganza, Slava's Snowshow, is a superb piece of comic theatre by a troupe of Russian clowns. It's the kind of show kids will love, although the first-night audience consisted mainly of local councillors and the celebrities who have funded the refurbishment.
With the Empire our cultural rejuvenation is complete. Across the Town Hall Square sits a brand new Learning Centre on the splendidly named Reading Lane. Opposite lies the old library, a minor classic of art-nouveau, a building which Harold Pinter called 'the fountain of life'. In homage to his watery theme it now hears the name 'Ocean', and operates as a rock venue. New shops are opening, new people moving in. There are bars where buying a cup of coffee is as complicated as ordering a three-course meal. I've even seen uniformed constables walking the streets. Yes! With my own eyes. And there's no surer token of security than a policeman out of doors. If they're in any danger, according to new guidelines, they have to be kept inside.
So, please, come to Hackney, everyone, and banish all thoughts of being strafed with bullets. Statistically, remember, you're much more likely to be stabbed.
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