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Written
by
Neil
LaBute
Director
David Grindley
Design
Jonathan
Fensom
Lighting
Jason Taylor
Sound
Gregory Clarke
Cast
David Scwimmer
Saffron Burrows
Lesley Manville
Sara Powell
Catherine Tate
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Gielgud
Theatre
12 May - 13 August 2005 |
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There
is something both sick, and
gloriously fascinating about
watching a character so self-deceived
as David Schwimmer's in Some
Girl(s), the new play by American
dramatist Neil LaBute. This
slick, elegantly-constructed
comedy is about an archetypal
'love rat' who compulsively
revisits his old flames to,
in his own words, "make
some sort of complete reparation"
for all his bad behaviour.
It is, he maintains, part
of an effort to work on "this
honesty thing". But there
is more to it than meets the
eye, for he is about to get
married, and seems deep down
to be anxious to know that
there is nothing he has missed.
What becomes obvious during
this 100-minute journey into
the world of one guy, four
girls, and a trendy rotating
set, is that LaBute's knack
of writing on psychological
and emotional nastiness (The
Shape Of Things, Bash!) is
still very much in tact. It
is witty, painful, seat-squirming
stuff.
On the surface Schwimmer's
character is cool, cute, and
successful. He is a 30-something
academic-cum-writer who is
about to be married to a nurse
10 years his junior. He is
known only as 'Man' ‚ any
man, possibly 'every' man.
He breezes about in the first
scene with an air of child-like
charm and flippancy, reminding
us of Ross from Friends: cute
and clueless, but ultimately
harmless. His charm soon evaporates
however as his true self ‚
or rather lack of any true,
honest self - emerges. And
though the play may seem a
bit stiff at first, it soon
gets interesting as the gloves
between Man and Girl(s) come
off.
Each short, snappy scene takes
place in an anonymous hotel
room, as our protagonist meets
his former lovers in cities
from Boston to Los Angeles.
There is Catherine Tate's
fragile but sweet Sam, the
girl he abandoned in high
school, who is now married
with kids; and there is Sara
Powell's Tyler, an extrovert
'hippy chick' who helped complete
his sex education. Then there
are the two who seem to (partially,
anyway) get their revenge:
Lesley Manville, playing a
splendidly wicked Lindsay,
who threatens to turn the
tables on Man and contact
his fiancÈ if he doesn't do
as she asks; and finally Saffron
Burrows's intelligent, beautiful
Bobbi, who ends up breaking
his heart even though he doesn't
quite dare to realise it.
Throughout the play we see
how women have been wounded
by his carelessness, his lack
of insight, his inability
to self-reflect. As one ex
puts it: "Hurt? You leave
a whole bunch of hurt in your
boyish wake. I'll bet hurt
is your number one by-product."
But there is no doubt that,
as each woman steps through
the bedroom door and in a
sense back in time, the flames
of dormant desire re-ignite.
The women are not only despising
but also tempted. And this
is where the play feels most
real. Neither woman nor man
'wins', they just both leave
a little bit weaker, a little
bit more scarred.
'I'm sorry,' Man proffers
time and again. The woman
glares. Despite getting variations
of his own medicine towards
the end, LaBute portrays Man
as safe, but ultimately useless;
sheathed by his own world
of ignorance and delusion,
wrapped in a heavy cloak of
denial. His lack of self-awareness
seems to shield him from pain
or humiliation, but causes
a whole pile of grief along
the way. By the end we see
him scuttle back to the fiancÈ
who is never seen, only talked
about, and clearly not really
cared for, much.
In his preface to the play
LaBute explains that it is
his attempt to capture the
"gentle, wise and funny
spirit" of the films
of French director Eric Rohmer.
But this play, by the end,
seems anything but gentle.
It left me feeling hot, vengeful,
angry, depressed - and something
else too. The words of Burrows's
Bobbi rang in my ears: something
about the irreparable injuries
that those in relationships
- "warriors, killers,
emotional terrorists"
- wreak on each other. And
I felt liberated by her words,
that matters of love must
never be trivialised, and
I could go home with a sense
that all those forceful, frightening,
overwhelming feelings are
justified, somehow. At least,
that is, according to LaBute.
Claudia Goulder |
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