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Written
by
Keith Waterhouse
Director
Ned Sherrin
Designer
John Gunter
Jeffrey
Bernard
Tom Conti
With
Royce Mills
Elizabeth Payne
Tristan Gemmill
Nina Young
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The Garrick Theatre
From 12 June 2006 |
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Many
moons ago I met Jeffrey Bernard
through his Spectator compatriot,
the High Life columnist Taki.
Suffice to say that to my
then untutored eye he gave
every appearance of being
a testy, partially reconstituted
cadaver - little did I know
that this proverbial legend
in his own lunchtime would
live to inhabit another day
in Keith Waterhouse's popular
drama. With his somewhat eunuch-like
fleshiness (secondary sexual
characteristics a little too
evident beneath the wife-beater
vest), the charismatic figure
of Tom Conti could not be
more different. There however
the similarity begins, for
the (teetotal) actor inhabits
the late, lamented lush in
a role for which he has already
justifiably won plaudits.
On the night, I overheard
our American cousins' frequent
queries as to unfamiliar names
checked in the script, but
they were delighted nonethless
and this audience gave Conti
a standing ovation.
What not to like? The supporting
cast (representing the dramatis
personae of the journalist's
past life, recollected in
the relative tranquillity
of the Coach & Horses pub
where Bernard has apparently
been locked in for the night)
are excellent, with special
mention accorded to Royce
Mills and Nina Young for their
multiple personalities. John
Gunter's stage is similarly
pleasing. Aslant, with crooked
pictures on the walls, it
all too vividly recalls the
visual misconceptions of nightmarish
delirium tremens. Top right,
a hatch appears in the panelling
to showcase a variety of talking
heads - why, you might ask?
No rhyme or reason, but it
seems to work in the dream-like
context of the stream-of-consciousness
action.
This is a quintessentially
English play. Nowhere else
in the world would the visicittudes
of a relatively unknown, enebriated
hack, make it to west end
cult status. Waterhouse liked
to play down the aspects of
the play which suggested a
threnody for Soho's lost youth
('where you could wake up
drunk, penniless and alone
for less than a pound') but
today more than ever, it is
impossible not to make the
connection between the emasculation
of the area and Bernard's
disintegration. We the audience
cannot but be struck by this
passionate requiem - and the
onslaught of homogenisation
that threatens to rob London
of its gaudy idiosyncrasies
A poignant footnote to an
otherwise cracking revival.
Caroline Kellett Fraysse |
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