Lloyd Evans

Lloyd Evans

Lloyd Evans is The Spectator's sketch-writer and theatre critic

An unequal contest

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Hague for prime minister? According to one of the wilder Tory theories, a hung parliament could force a humiliated Cameron from office and put the trusted Hague into Number 10 at the head of a coalition government. On today’s showing Hague has lost his hunger for power. With Brown in Northern Ireland on Superman duty, Hague was pressed into service against Harriet Harman. The leader of the house arrived in a stiff tunic of imperial purple decorated with a butterfly brooch whose winged shape divided opinion. To some it suggested a phoenix-from-the-flames, to others a W-shaped recession. Hague had no trouble dominating her at PMQs. And because he knew he’d have no trouble, he took no trouble either. He was relaxed and fluent.

Balls’s god delusion

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Ed Balls has had enough. He’s finally decided to haul in Britain’s absentee fathers and teach them a thing or two about parenthood. ‘All the evidence,’ says the Families minister, ‘is if fathers are properly engaged and involved, then they stay, they’re supportive to their children, they do all the things which lead to better child outcomes.’ Balls has fallen victim to two whopping fallacies here. One is statistical. Labour’s tax system encourages cohabiting parents to pretend to be living apart, so large numbers of invisible dads are absent only in Whitehall graphs. In fact they are at home already, exactly where the government is spending money urging them to be.

Family tensions

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Greta Garbo Came to Donegal Tricycle Every Good Boy Deserves Favour Olivier Frank McGuinness, the world’s leading supplier of Celtic Kleenex drama, is back with a variation on his favourite theme. Misery upon misery bravely borne in a green, green island long, long ago. The twist is the addition of Greta Garbo. In 1967, the wandering superstar visited McGuinness’s home town of Buncrana in Donegal. This nugget of truth is decorated with fictional frills. McGuinness billets the melancholy hermit on an invented Irish family, the Hennessys, whose house has been bought by a society painter from England. The toiling Irish underlings are thus condemned to scrub and skivvy in a mansion their ancestors once owned. Family tensions are accentuated by this daily humiliation.

Cameron fails to even ruffle Brown’s feathers

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Here’s a phrase. Dave blew it today. That’s a harsh verdict because he used PMQs to focus on Haiti and the Doncaster torture case. Naturally Haiti dominates the news and we all know that vulnerable kids have a very special place in Dave’s heart. But this is a political scrap and he needed to show a bit of muscle in the house. Rather than cultivating his finer instincts he should have strutted into the cockfight and blasted some of Gordon’s feathers off. As it was he elicited little of value from the Doncaster case and dug himself into an unwinnable dispute about whether the review should be published in full. Gordon had a good day, bordering on excellent. At times it looked as if the entire show had been stage-managed to make him look in control and at ease.

Living dangerously

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Rope Almeida Generous Finborough Oh dear, not this again. I’ve seen Hitchcock’s wonderfully creepy film Rope several times and I had little appetite for the Patrick Hamilton play on which it’s based. Big surprise. The film script was radically customised to accommodate the timid tastes of 1940s film-goers. The original, from 1929, is more daring, subtle, profound and psychologically interesting in every way. In fact, this isn’t just a masterpiece. This is one of those rare occasions in art when a mind of extraordinary power takes a stale genre — the repertory thriller in this case — tosses aside all the conventions and raises the format to a previously unimaginable plane of sophistication. Right from the first line Hamilton rewrites the rule book.

An energetic contest

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At last, Cameron’s got it. He finally varied his tactics at PMQs today. Brown had no warning. That made the change doubly effective. First Cameron asked two easy-peasy questions about salt which the PM answered in his favourite strain of complacent pomposity. At one point I think I heard him say the nation’s supplies are so crucial that he may create a ‘salt cell’ in the middle of Britain so we never again run low on this vital condiment. Cameron then tossed aside the salt-pot and declined to ask a further question. Brown was unsettled by this. Realising the worst was yet to come, he waffled nervously through an answer to the next question from Dari Taylor (Lab, Stockton South) which focused on adoption and fostering.

Meddling with Molière

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The Misanthrope Comedy Molière is a genius but only in France. Play-goers here need some convincing that he belongs in the first rank. This new production of The Misanthrope shifts the action from 17th- century Paris to present-day London and turns the bickering upper-class lightweights into film-makers and their hangers-on. Gosh. What a breakthrough. Translator Martin Crimp has single-handedly discovered that the movie world is a sort of aristocracy. Call the Nobel committee. They need to hear about this guy. The most striking aspect of his translation is its incessant jangling lexical peculiarities. He’s decided to preserve one minor facet of Molière’s language, the rhyming couplets.

An intriguing PMQs – overshadowed by events

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After the hubbub about Hewitt ‘n’ Hoon’s plot to unseat Gordon Brown, PMQs is perhaps a distant memory. It’s certainly made my review a little later than usual. But better late than never, as today’s clash was a bloody and intriguing contest with both party leaders on combative form. Cameron seemed unusually relaxed, glib and self-confident. Perhaps he’d been tipped off about the plot. Or perhaps he’d been thrilled by the sight of his beautifully groomed coiffure in the bathroom mirror this morning. If he spent as much time on his manifesto as he did on his hair there’d be no talk of a hung parliament. But this didn’t seem to bother him today and he laid happily into the Prime Minister over the budget deficit.

Fizzing with charisma

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Morecambe Duchess Red Donmar Peter Kay: ‘I’ve never met a person who didn’t at the very least love Eric Morecambe.’ Hello? Peter? Over here. I remember Eric and Ernie during the 1970s and they were as entertaining as a power cut. Perfunctory, passionless mother-in-law jokes. Semi-funny puns pouring out like weak tea. Nursery-rhyme repetition everywhere. The catchphrases. The trick with the paper bag. Eric slapping Ernie’s cheeks. Endless jibes about Ernie’s hairy legs and his playwriting ambitions, even though both gags were non sequiturs: we couldn’t see Ernie’s legs and we knew for sure he wasn’t a playwright because he was too busy being the country’s richest unfunny stand-up.

Turkeys fail to fly

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Hague was a washout at PMQs today. The wittiest performer on the front benches failed to lift the house with a single joke. Since ditching the after-dinner circuit, perhaps he no longer needs parliament to advertise his stand-up skills. Opposite him Hattie Harman was her usual lumpen self, slow and predictable, full of stumbles, repetitions and false starts. Her mental dexterity is so poor she gives the impression that talking in complete sentences is a skill she has only just mastered. Hague took her to task on footling, no-brainer issues. The house is rising too early, he said. Unbelievable. He wants to mount an attack on this knackered, directionless government and he chooses the calendar.

How vodka cured my fear of flying

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I’ve discovered a brilliant way to cure my phobias. It’s so easy, so ingenious and so cheap (it cost me nothing), that I want to share it with as many people as possible. My technique will work its magic on any trivial or unreasonable fear you suffer from. Mine happens to be flying. Or it used to be. Until 28 July this year I hadn’t travelled in a plane, or even visited an airport, for 16 years. I was perfectly content as a flightless species, but my wife likes to flit off to the Med whenever possible and enjoy a week of sunstroke and food poisoning, so she booked us a holiday in the island paradise of Gozo, a tuffet of volcanic rock near Malta.

Christmas cracker

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Sweet Charity Menier Pajama Men: The Last Stand to Reason Soho Shocking. Absolutely shocking. My state of preparedness for Sweet Charity at the Menier was so poor that we nearly had a critic-doesn’t-know-what-he’s-talking-about scandal on our hands. I’d never seen the show before. I’d missed the film version. I hadn’t the foggiest who the star, Tamzin Outhwaite, might be, although her name, with that funkily off-beat zed nestling provocatively in its midriff, had crossed my consciousness at some point. I arrived with no expectations whatever (though, of course, I’m quietly proud of the fact that musicals and soap actresses lie outside the daily scope of my intellect and its exacting preoccupations). And guess what? The show’s a blinder.

Slice of life

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Cat on a Hot Tin Roof Novello The Stefan Golaszewski Plays Bush Revolutionary republics, like the USA and Soviet Russia, never really get rid of royalty. They just appoint surrogates. America’s yearning for icons has accorded the actor James Earl Jones a rank somewhere between Richard the Lionheart and John the Baptist. The producers of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof approached him on bended knee (‘You don’t audition James Earl Jones,’ gushed one) and begged for the royal assent. Good King James was probably giggling behind his hand as he boomed out an affirmation with the famous Darth Vader rumble. I bet he was thrilled to smithereens to be offered a lead role on Broadway as he approached his 80th year. His voice is a marvel.

In his comfort zone

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Today we saw just how tricky the game can be for opposition leaders. The government sets the parliamentary agenda and holds the keys to the war-chest. Cameron’s attempts to upset the PM looked diffuse and repetitive. On Afghanistan he offered support. On Kelly he flannelled about some footling detail of parliamentary timing. And on ministerial pay he drew attention to his gravest difficulty, namely that the pre-budget report was coming up next. Brown never looked in difficulty and he cruised easily towards his Six O’Clock sound-bite. ‘The opposition leader has lost the art of communication but not alas the gift of speech.’ A poor day for Dave. Nick Clegg did much better. Gosh he’s an angry beggar isn’t he?

Etonians and Bolsheviks

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A terrific PMQs today. This exchange had it all. Noise, laughter, rhetoric, anger, humiliation, jokes, and dramatic swings in the balance of advantage. We even had a sighting of that great Westminster rarity – a fact.  Cameron’s first question elicited simple information. Would our troops start returning from Afghanistan in 2010 or 2011? Brown didn’t quite answer it but said that by 2011 the combined forces, including Afghans, would number 300,000, by which point the military burden ‘will start to change’. Cameron clarified. ‘That sounds more like 2011.’ Brown didn’t demur.   Turning to the economy Cameron asked why Britain is the last G20 country to come out of recession.Brown: We aren’t. What about Spain?

Degas as mentor

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The Line Arcola The Priory Royal Court Sex, fame, glamour, success, genius, riches, dancing girls. It’s all there, every single bit of it, in The Line by Timberlake Wertenbaker. Her new play traces the off-kilter friendship between Edgar Degas and a gifted but unschooled prostitute-turned-artist. The cheeky little sexpot barges into the great man’s studio one day and presents him with her portfolio. Astonished by her untutored ability he buys a drawing on the spot and promises to become her mentor. With art-history plays like this, the trick is to find a storyline that’s both dramatically satisfying and factually illuminating. Timberlake’s talent doesn’t let her down here. The truth does.

A game of chess

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Fascinating details dominated PMQs today. Instead of the usual custard pie-fight this was a game of chess. Things began with talk of downpours and sandbags. Both leaders were concerned that the sodden folk of Cumbria are receiving enough hot soup and blankets. The PM reminded us that he’d recently popped up there to squelch around in his wellies shaking people’s hands and nodding sympathetically. Then Cameron pulled out a firecracker. He accused Brown of shambolic incompetence in allowing public money to flow into the hands of a front organization for Hizb ut-Tahrir, an extremist group whose constitution denounces non-Moslems in virulent terms. ‘They are combatants in the battlefield. Their blood is lawful, as is their property.’ One thing’s for sure.

Double vision | 25 November 2009

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The Habit of Art Lyttelton Cock Royal Court Upstairs Here’s my theory. Alan Bennett alighted on Auden and Britten as a promising theme. Two interesting old poofs collaborating on an opera shortly before their deaths. The first draft turned out to be static, chat-heavy and lacking in dramatic movement. Start again. Write a play about a company of actors rehearsing the Auden/Britten play. That’s better. That loosens things up. It adds gags. It adds layers, too. If we get bored with Auden and Britten we can watch the actors break character and make comments, discuss historical details and complain about the sorts of things actors complain about.

A paper-thin Queen’s Speech

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Even before the Queen had trundled back to Buckingham Palace, Mandy had let the cat out of the bag. Speaking on BBC News he said of the Gracious Speech, ‘All these laws are relevant … and achievable. It will be for the public to decide whether they want them or not.’  There you have it. The greatest power in the land admits the Queen’s Speech is Labour’s manifesto. The response to the Gracious Speech is an enjoyably ragged parliamentary occasion, full of ancient traditions and even more ancient jokes. Frank Dobson proposed the Humble Address and spoke with pride about his Holborn constituency where the anti-Apartheid movement had been born.

Feast for the senses

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Mixed Up North Wilton’s Music Hall Letting in Air Old Red Lion Do you love theatre and hate musicals? Let me recommend the work of Robin Soans. In the past five years Soans has established himself as the most successful practitioner of verbatim theatre, plays drawn from the testimony of eyewitnesses. Where musicals aim for escapist frivolity and sometimes collapse into an extreme and debased form of falsehood, verbatim theatre remains rooted in truth and realism. In previous plays Soans has interviewed terrorists and quizzed distressed celebrities. This time he’s visited Burnley to discover the causes of the 2001 riots. The physical structure of post-industrial Burnley reinforces division. Each mill was surrounded by a tight network of streets where the workers were housed.