The Theatre Royal Bath sets out to entertain. As a producing house they have met with a great deal of success of late, both commercially and (particularly through their more adventurous arm at the Ustinov) critically. The recipe is simple; know your audience, give them what they want and get in the talent to deliver it. On paper then, the cast and director assembled for Stepping Out ought to do the trick.
The writer, Richard Harris, has had a long, prolific, successful, and to any writer, enviable, career working across stage, television and film. Last night’s offering is a revival of his vintage (1984) play, which was subsequently revamped into a musical and a film starring Liza Minnelli and Julie Walters. In it you might be forgiven for thinking he attempts to shoehorn into one play several episodes of a notional series about the life of modern (for 1984) women. We find our disparate group interacting in predictable ways, interspersed with little insights (all done with, theatrically speaking, nods and winks) into their characters scattered throughout the action. The first half of the show is thus taken up with this getting-to-know-you introductory stuff.
The scene is a church hall (lovingly recreated in Robert Jones’ detailed set) in which Mavis (Tamzin Outhwaite) an unfulfilled dancer has arranged tap dance lessons for a motley group of women and one, slightly gap-in-the-clouds, man (Dominic Rowan). We’re in Ayckbourn country, without the slightly jaundiced eye, but with hints at suburban angst which is revealed in tangential references to off-stage events. At the end of the act the group is galvanized by a request for them to perform at a local charity event.
As act two gets under way, Mavis initially finds that trying to choreograph her troupe is like juggling with jelly; a problem summed up by the lippy, forthright, Sylvia (Angela Griffin) when explaining her difficulty to get the steps right; “I know what it is in my head, I can’t get it through to my feet.” On the way to the expected well drilled final tap number we get a series of hissy fits which seem to spring from nowhere other than hints at ‘man problems’ at home which seem to blight the lives of most of the group. The whole cast are supreme in giving beautifully turned thumbnail sketches of potentially interesting characters, but none are given the materials to develop into anything substantial.. Maria Friedman has done a grand job in giving a sense of life, purpose and structure to somewhat thin pickings.
Amanda Holden comes nearest to a rounded tragic figure as the woman for whom the notion of middle class acts as a kind of sandpaper in her social interactions and politeness a pointed umbrella used to poke folk soundly in the ribs – in the sweetest and most innocent way possible. Her sense of benign hauteur has all the charm of one of the loo brushes she waves around in one of her OCD cleaning binges. In a moment of distracted revelation she lets on to her second marriage as being to a man twice her age and who would seem to be having a relationship with her daughter from a first marriage, but sadly that’s all we get.
In the end the tap routine is mastered in a final glittering performance and acts as a kind of balm which we suppose allows them the strength to pick up their lives and move forward; stepping out indeed with new strength as characters as recognisable and relevant today as back in the eighties. Last night’s audience response will no doubt – and justifiably – convince the Theatre Royal that they have another hit on their hands with a company of talented actresses delivering with some style in all departments. ★★★☆☆ Graham Wyles 20th October 2016
