Lloyd Evans

Lloyd Evans

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

Fizzing with charisma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Parallel universe

Armistice Day suits Brown down to the ground. When everyone is obliged wear funeral-director garb, his grey hair and sombre jowls fit the mood perfectly while Dave’s polished and youthful glow looks a trifle out of place.  Gordon performed confidently at PMQs today. So did Dave, as it happens, but the skirmish came to nothing because neither was prepared to fight on the ground chosen by the other. Dave led on the youth unemployment figures. He wanted Brown to admit that his promise ‘to abolish youth unemployment’ had failed. Brown ignored this and took comfort from the thought that without Labour’s policies even more youngsters would be out of work. Dave went into sci-fi mode and told the PM he was ‘living in a parallel universe.

Darwin revisited

Origin of Species Arcola Seize the Day Tricycle Oh, not again. Yup, I’m afraid so. I had no wish to return to the vexed topic of Darwinism but a much-praised show in east London tempted me out on a frosty night to the Arcola theatre. Bryony Lavery’s new play has a storyline that’s as nutty as a Christmas cake in Broadmoor. Molly, an archaeologist working in Africa, smuggles the skeleton of a female hominid back to her home in the Yorkshire Dales. The unearthed Neanderthal springs to life and Molly proceeds to school her in the amazing truths of evolution. The characters in this bizarre educational farce are symbolic rather than human and the show is more a dramatised lecture than a play.

Facetious or scandalous?

Very funny guy, John O’Farrell. Very funny guy, John O’Farrell. His columns are a hoot and his excellent memoir, Things Can Only Get Better, turned me temporarily into an insomniac. His latest book, a facetious history of the last 60 years, lacks the cohesion of his memoir and the concentrated force of his columns. Because he feels obliged to cover the whole of the shoreline he finds himself writing about subjects, like Northern Ireland, that don’t engage his emotions, only his knack for mockery. If you tried writing to Bobby Sands MP at the House of Commons about getting your parking ticket rescinded, while he was starving himself to death in a cell smeared with excrement, he never even got back to you. That’s funny. It’s also quite distasteful.

How much longer must we wait?

Cameron had little choice today. At PMQs he played it sober and he played it statesmanlike. The Afghan issue, which is close to becoming a crisis, dominated the session. Both main party leaders were standing shoulder to shoulder, and Cameron used five of his six questions asking the same thing. ‘Are we both right in thinking we’re both right?’ Yes, said the PM, we’re right. Afghanistan’s salvation lies in the usual mantras. More ‘training up’ of security services, more help for the economy, greater attempts to root out corruption etc. It must all be ‘better targeted’ and ‘more focused’. The question of a ‘single, strong co-ordinating figure’ is being discussed in Washington. Nothing has been decided.

Street culture

What Fatima Did... Hampstead Mrs Klein Almeida What Fatima Did... is billed as a play. Really, it’s a fugue, a variation on a theme, a crude and boisterous tone poem. The plot is deliberately small-scale. A gang of fun-loving inner-city sixth-formers are shocked to learn that one of their pals, Fatima, has forsaken Western values and adopted the nijab. Her boyfriend George is hit hardest by her betrayal, and he retaliates by showing up at a costume party dressed as a medieval crusader. This gesture doesn’t quite work now that the flag of St George has been reinvented as a multicultural symbol. To freak Fatima out properly he’d have to dress as Adolf or Enoch. That aside, this slender and skilfully elaborated drama is an outstanding piece of entertainment.

Dave misses his opportunity

Does Cameron fluff PMQs on purpose? Some theorists say he lets Brown off the hook in order to keep the weakling in his job. I don’t buy that. A politician’s natural instinct makes him want to win every session, every question. But Brown sometimes sneaks through intact because Dave rarely varies his tactics. He doesn’t prepare ambushes. He never ponders what Brown wants to hear least. Today the Tories had a great opportunity. Brown’s recent flip-flop over the training of TA soldiers for Afghanistan was inspired, in part, by Dave himself, who raised the issue a fortnight ago. But Dave’s tone was wrong. He thought he was the point - not the soldiers.

Starry night

The Rise and Fall of Little Voice Vaudeville Life is a Dream Donmar Midnight in a northern slum. The pubs have closed and a boozy, blousy, past-it single mum is trying to seduce a handsome young talent scout. He deters her advances until he hears her teenage daughter, alone in her bedroom, singing jazz classics. The girl is an undiscovered star who can impersonate all the great 20th-century divas, Ella, Edith, Shirley, Dusty, Lulu. The talent scout decides to launch her career and prise her from the clutches of her bullying, drunken mother. Jim Cartwright’s 1992 play is an ingenious comic update of Cinderella. From the producer’s point of view it’s supremely difficult to revive.

Tin pot Griffin fluffs his lines

Mobs of howling protestors outside the BBC. Police cordons being smashed by anti-fascists. News clips of upended students being dragged across the foyer of the TV Centre shouting, ‘Shame on you for defending fascism.’ It was chaotic, it was emotive, it was anarchic. But, ultimately, it was a marvellously British occasion. Thanks to the BNP, we were given proof tonight of the rag-bag unity of our society. No one is quite sure how Nazi bogeyman Nick Griffin was smuggled into the Shepherds Bush studios for the recording of Question Time. The best evidence is that he stowed away in a lorry driven by an unsuspecting dupe who failed to check the back of his rig. When Griffin entered everyone was amazed that his suit was unsmeared by bunged eggs.