THE DRUNKARD
Performed at Luton Sixth Form College - November 2005
I have often been asked how I go about writing my reviews. Easy really. I just leave it for a couple of days and then jot down the bits I can remember. Only the really notable, good and bad, wash up on this writer’s beach. The rest floats away into the all consuming fog of an ageing brain. Given that CSYMT’s ‘The Drunkard’ was launched in the week of twenty four hour drinking I offer mitigation, in the form of a timely flask, for failing to remember much of this theatrical farrago.
To save those searching for their dictionary, a farrago is a disordered mess and I reckon that just about sums up a show that was wonderfully rich in talent but woefully short on focussed style. In fairness to Stuart Farrar I am not totally convinced that Victorian melodrama naturally lends itself to a coherent musical form. The best can do something with it but Barry Manilow is no Stephen Sondheim. His songs added nothing and the story, all villainous landlords and starving tenants, sunk in a narrative muddle. And in the fragile theatrical mix, Mr Farrar‘s musical inserts scuppered any meagre chance of an all embracing shape. As I sank further and further into my seat I felt a bit like Titanic passengers ogling the dishy members of the crew. I may be drowning but, by God, I am being sent down in style.
Lisa Lapidge turned in a first class acting and singing performance as the long suffering Mrs Wilson. In both Something Good and Do You Wanna Be Saved her renditions were little short of superb. Aimee Thompson played her fluttering daughter with Victorian aplomb and belted out her songs as well as anyone on the stage. I confess to not having a clue as to the dramatic purpose of Hannah Johnson’s dim sister Agnes or Caroline Fitch’s baby Julia but both delivered individual numbers with breathtaking comic style. Clues were even thinner on the ground with Lee Gauntlett’s William. He moved from gauche wimp to theatrical superman with consummate ease and displayed oodles of acting panache. In the interests of dramatic verisimilitude he should drop me a line to illuminate my puzzled admiration.
Elvis Mijkanavic was an engaging M.C. in true music hall style, Luke Storey a typical Hogarthian hero spiralling to drunken despair and Dale Stacey a mean and nasty Cribbs. Whether Mr Stacey’s malevolent ire was motivated by a desire for the mother, the daughter, the rent or the ticket money was never totally clear but he was every inch the hiss and boo factor of Mr Manilow’s piece. And Ben Clarke deserves special credit for the rich tones of his barman.
But the strength of this production, sprinkled with typical musical splash from Simon Tabert, was the collective energy and verve of the fourteen performers. They combined magnificently in Mrs Mary Middleton and Do You Wanna Be Saved and almost seduced the doubting with their theatrical fizz. But Mr Farrar’s staging of Barry Manilow’s ‘The Drunkard’ had too many unplugged holes to totally convince. Peter Collett has nicked my ‘Silk Purse/Sow’s Ear’ comment. I can live with that. And so, I am sure, can Mr Farrar. I have doffed my cap to him so often, not least for that magnificent ‘A Chorus Line’ earlier this year, I am sure he will survive my firmly pulling it down over his ears this time.
Roy Hall