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'Continuous
eloquence is tedious' was Pascal's verdict a century or two
before Oscar Wilde was even born, and *Ideal Husbands* have a mournful
habit
of vindicating him. In the spirit of Groucho Marx I saw a spectacularly
tedious play; but it wasn't this one - and with very little to declare
but a
lingering prejudice that all things Wilde are wildly overrated, it
is fairly
comforting to be proved at least half-wrong on occasion.
Ben Levine's
production rarely works up enough speed to carry the script's
inbred stodginess comfortably; instruction manuals should be written
to
instruct any actor who strays within a mile of Oscar Wilde dialogue
that the
way to deliver Oscar Wilde dialogue (eyebrow flutter, pregnant pause)
is not
in fact to act as if delivering Oscar Wilde dialogue (suppressed giggle,
fumbled aphorism, ripple of uneasy laughter); and there is no excuse
for an
interval in a play this short.
Those quibbles
aside, this came as close to a raging comic triumph as
competence allowed, provided the moral rhetoric is allowed to fall
by the
wayside, as it should. Which leaves a cornucopic array of frocks,
requisitely hideous bonnets, and resident Honourable Gentleman Robert
Chiltern (David Stevens) delivering a rather wonderful Douglas Hurd
impression, a corncob stuck firmly up his thoroughly English arse.
Genteel
blackmailer Mrs Cheveley (Lena Al-Shammari) rides her rising tide
of
aphorisms beautifully while rescuing languidity from the brink of
the
soporific; the dialogue has flashes of agonising pedestrianism, but
always
rescued by the arrival of one of three Chilterns, lovable rake Lord
Goring -
not uninspired at times - or the walk-on clowns, milked for all their
(considerable) worth. Insane, geriatric Lord Caversham travels the
stage his
head permanently ensconced in a cloud of talcum powder; Phipps the
zombie-like manservant does a stirring work of conjuring persistent
laughter
from persistent repetition, and even theologically hypnotic virtue-bore
Lady
Chiltern (Rebecca Smith) is given the benefit of clergy and a grin
or two,
as well as the hint of moral perplexity happily absent elsewhere.
The net result
is that the physical comedy, such as it is, drives and
dominates the verbal swordfighting - and deprives Lord Goring, enticingly
languorous though he may be, of the starring role. So much the better:
making an interesting woman of Lady Chiltern is work enough for any
man, or,
more pertinently, woman; and that particular feat alone makes this
Husband
worth more than just its weight in wit.
Jasper Milvain
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