The Real Inspector Hound, by Tom Stoppard.
Burton Taylor Theatre, 7.30, 20th-24th February 2001

One can imagine Tom Stoppard sitting down at his typewriter in 1967 trying to decide what sort of play to write next. A parody of the country house mystery? A meditation on the jealousy of the mediocre for the superlative and the dangers of sexual obsession? A satire against the pomposity of critics? Not being able to decide, he writes The Real Inspector Hound and combines all three. It would all be too clever by half if it wasn't also very funny.

Two critics watch a new sub-Mousetrap, who-done-it. Neither is paying too much attention, as one is obsessed by the actresses on stage (despite being married and of impeccable morals), and the other is dreaming of becoming the chief critic on his paper. In a bizarre twist, both of them end up taking part in the play they are watching, where nothing is quite what it seems. It is then that you realise just how clever Stoppard's writing is - by recycling the murder-mystery dialogue, but with new characters, he manages totally to change the meaning of what is being said as the 'real life' of the critics intrude into the play.

Stoppard writes quick, snappy, witty dialogue with the jokes coming at a pace, and on the whole the cast did well to keep the momentum of the play going (although it did slow down from time to time, especially in a not particularly funny bridge-parody). There was some wonderfully fruity over-acting in the play-within-the-play (which is a complement, by the way), and the cast (together with the audience) enjoyed the quirkiness of their characters. One might say that they attacked the genre with elan.

David Prosser, 20 / 2 / 01