One of the notable things about Feydeau was his ability to spin a piece of fluff into a complete suit of clothes. His art is to set up a ridiculously flimsy premise by way of a plot, which then develops its own logic in which the characters are caught up with apparently no means of escape. His is a world of entitlement and ease flavoured, in some quarters, with a certain license occasioned by the Enlightenment and the subsequent loosening of the grip of the Catholic church over the minds and morals of the middle and upper classes. It was a time during which, as in any era of opulence and leisure, there was exploration of the bounds of the acceptable in all areas of society including the arts. A Feydeau farce is of its age and if it requires anything it requires style.
The plots are so silly that any sensible person would say, ‘Hang on a minute…’ So the art of the farceur is to create plots for characters who whilst being rational people, nevertheless completely ‘lose the plot’ and behave as anything but. The art of the director is to make it all seem plausible.
This, the second in the Ustinov’s season of French farce, is directed by Laurence Boswell and I can’t help thinking he has not, for this production, quite finished the journey from inner to outer. His earlier successes like The Mother and Exit the King have concerned the inner world of the mind. For me, Moricet (Richard Clothier) was trying to reason rather than charm his way into the knickers of Léontine, the wife of his best friend. There was too much thinking going on which got in the way of the breezy nature of this louche character. The thinking was accompanied by too many tiny pauses which slowed down the flow making it seem to drag in places. None of this was helped by some rather clunky blocking and self-conscious business; the poetry reading for example seemed rather laboured in its context. This was followed by some manufactured anger where some comical petulance would have sufficed. The overall impression was of being in a costume Ayckbourn rather than a frothy piece of joie de vivre. Where were the wing collars, elegant shoes, spats and pommade?
However, halfway through act two the writer came to the rescue. As the dextrously convoluted plot began to bend the characters to its will and grind their resolve so other considerations began to fall away. Actors and audience were caught up in the sheer absurdity and energy of the twists and turns. Frances McNamee as the glamorous and hesitant love object, Léontine, who is unwilling to stray into the arms of Moricet without her gormless hubby having done the same, gives a beautifully expressive and animated comedy performance, no broader than deeded yet broad enough to stand her ground.
Other performances by Joe Alessi as the dolt of a trusting/cheating husband, Victoria Wickes as the purveyor of love nests and Oscar Batterham as the impecunious and profligate nephew each played in the right style and pace required to lubricate the nonsense. The show is at the beginning of a longish run and there is no reason why, having found its stride, it shouldn’t go on to add to the Ustinov’s roll of hits. ★★★☆☆ Graham Wyles 19th November 2015
