I am constantly (pleasantly) reminded of theatre’s ability to connect with audiences on the flimsiest of pretexts and by the same token, the willingness of audiences to be entertained on the slenderest of devices. Last night the Plague of Idiots gave an object lesson in what you can do and indeed what you can get away with on stage. Using no more than a collection of simple conceits of the sort that occupy the labours of actors at drama school and the kind of silliness that infests umpteen fringe shows the length and breadth of the land the troupe have whisked up a concoction that flirts with incomprehension at every turn.
Last night’s performance finally got under way having been delayed whilst every last seat was being fitted out with one of the patient theatregoers waiting for returns. The hubbub of good natured, time-killing chat, was silenced by the sudden blackout. On stage it soon became clear that this was not going to be a ’performance’ in the usual sense. No, the cast were here to play with the audience with a tease of expectation that was somehow self-fulfilling. ‘Liam, got up like a hiker, mooched around bashfully and in a little-boy squeaky voice announced he was going to do something ‘dangerous’, having first got the audience to do some ‘scary’ growling at each other. The fire eating never happened, but some people got wet – to everybody’s amusement. Simple pleasures.
‘Jaques le Pipi’ gave us a kind of Olivier in Richard III impression and a ‘mime artist’ did what all mime artists are supposed to do, Marceau-like in an invisible box. Another chap, dressed somewhat randomly in merely a towel and shower-cap arranged a ‘fight’ between himself and a female member of the audience. For the rest of it the general approach was that of not being sure what they were doing or how they were doing it. Except perhaps ‘India’, a ‘transformational yoga’, instructor who selected a member of the audience – for purposes of demonstration – who then appeared to fart with every manoeuvre and position. Such was the audience’s delight at this that they seemed to regress to the age of about eight, so hilarious did this seem.
‘Lulu’, with curly, tousled hair and sheepish grin, looking a little like a dark-haired Harpo Marx, proceeded to not play the violin whilst shamelessly milking the audience. At each giggle he would acknowledge the giggler with a nod of thanks, provoking more giggles – and on it went. Eventually he started a kind of scratching sound, like fingernails on a blackboard, as he drew the bow, oh so slowly, across a single string. His pop-eyed surprise at producing something resembling a proper note had my neighbours rocking in their seats. Never was so much accomplished with so little.
Here was a troupe who new just how far to take an audience – and then dangle them over the edge. Now that really is scary. ★★★☆☆ Graham Wyles 25th January 2016
