Frank isn’t the worst show I’ve ever seen but it’s down there. Is it really meant to entertain an audience or simply indulge Nigel Charnock himself? Whichever, it’s not be to be taken seriously. He describes himself as “an old queen messing about onstage” and that’s what you get.
He comes on in darkness and thwacks a shovel about. In no particular order, he prances, puts a plastic bag on his head (ooh, scary), and stuffs a flag down his trousers. He throws a bag of Quality Street into the crowd and covers himself with a sheet, ghost-like. He sings as if in musical theatre, dahling, he strips off a couple of times but keeps his pants on.
He douses himself with water and throws the rest over the audience. He stomps and swears, (ooh, shocking), and makes frequent forays into the crowd to drape them with his sweaty ghost sheet, rip up programme notes, or clamber over them like Pat Cash at Wimbledon. He rants on about the meaning of life.
He is full of vitriol, whether real or feigned and thinks it all so clever, because, you see, it’s improvised.
Dance wise, there is a lot flinging himself about, loose-limbed walks, high kicks, leaps, spins and splits. Later, some shudders under the sheet.
Nigel has wasted his time with Frank. Though this confrontational monlogue isn’t remotely engaging, a large part of the audience thought it was. Poor lambs didn’t realise he was just ‘avin’ a larf.
Production information can change over the run of the show.
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