24 – 29 April
Well they’re at it again – a bunch of actors having a whale of a time whilst tickling the funny bones of the audience into the bargain. It’s become a ‘thing’ a way of working, a sub genre of comedy. Take an existing idea or story, dismantle it, roughen up the edges of the constituent bits, shove it back together with enough gaps (a lot in this case) to fit in plenty of gags and dress it up for a top night at the village hall complete with nerves, mishaps, fumbles and episodes of general confusion. The original work gets lost in the mayhem and tangential goings-on. This isn’t ‘The Time Machine’ of Wells, it’s about a thespian descendant of Herbert George who has discovered, whilst rummaging through his illustrious ancestor’s papers, notes on the invention of an actual time machine. Said time machine is a kind of Blue Peter, ‘Here’s one I made earlier’, contraption made from a chair, a few knobs and something that appears to be a clock-face of sorts.
There is no lack of self-belief from the cast who, to a man and woman, attack the audience head on with a vim that brushes aside any critical thoughts about the general silliness of the whole thing. A life-size cutout of Brian Cox is brought on as the audience is given a lecture on the paradoxes which supposedly inhibit the possibility of time travel, and which are (obviously) pooh-poohed in deference to the memory and supposed discoveries of H.G.
The narrative thrust of the play gets going when Michael (Michael Dylan) is accidentally killed by a non-prop knife during rehearsals. (Here I’m a bit hazy, but I think it had something to do with The Importance of Being Ernest.) David (Dave Hearn) comes up with a plan to save him – having already gone back in time to when he was alive – involving the eponymous time machine, which unaccountably gets stuck in a one minute loop. Jeopardy ensues as the clock ticks down to the time when he dies (again) and the play descends (or rises if one is being kind) into pantomime with audience members being involved and lured onto stage.
The transition is not a difficult one since much of the play is in any case played directly to the audience in an inflated, larger-than-life style, with much self-important bombast from Dave who struts around jollying the audience along. Amy Revelle as Amy does her best to keep some kind of order and for reasons, which again escape me, manages to slip in a creditable Cher impersonation.
In an exercise of theatrical sleight-of-hand misdirection, the nifty work of director Orla O’Loughlin keeps the thing going at a lick that keeps us from giving too much thought to the general on-stage nonsense.
★★★☆☆ Graham Wyles, 25 April 2023
Photo credit: Manuel Harlan
