Even if they are not quite sure about the title, older theatregoers will certainly recall the explosive opening minutes of Christopher Hampton’s play, when a student who has just written a play and is reading it to two university dons blows his brains out in spectacular fashion.
This is the most alarming facet of this early Hampton work, the rest is one of the most delightful and subtle comedies of the last century, so much so that for most of its running time I found myself with a permanent smile on my face, despite the fact that it has no particularly funny lines or situations.
In the compass of two hours Hampton has adroitly captured the mentality of many dons, completely wrapped up in work which has little to do with the world in which we live and, in this case, with virtually no connection with other human beings.
The first act is built around a dinner party given by philology lecturer Philip, the second about its aftermath, the disastrous attempt at Philip’s seduction by one of the guests (Siobhan Hewlett) and the consequent disintegration of Philip’s proposed marriage to the lovely Celia (Anna Madeley).
But the subject is primarily Philip himself, played by Simon Russell Beale in a way that will surely bring him many nominations for this year’s awards. This a wonderful study of a man whose life is built around never hurting other people, or indeed paying much attention to them at all. So skilled is this brilliant actor that even his back, of which we see quite a lot in a piece written for an end stage, is expressive, and although we may not sympathise entirely with his approach to life, he certainly makes us understand it.
In near-matchless support are Danny Webb, as Philip’s best friend, Simon Day as a thoroughly unpleasant novelist, Simon Bubb as the would-be playwright, and even Bernadette Russell, who does not say a word throughout.
Director David Grindley handles his material in a masterly fashion and can also be placed on the awards shortlist.
Production information can change over the run of the show.
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