The Glass Menagerie (Oldham)
St Louis: where the accents have no solid grounding, where the women are shrill and over emotional, where the little table of glass horses sits downstage as a patronising and metaphorical reminder and where depth and humanity are estranged from its inhabitants, or so director Sarah Punshon and the cast of The Glass Menagerie would have us believe.
The classic drama from one of America’s seminal playwrights opens with a magic trick and a soliloquy. It’s a fine start to a very fine play, however, quite quickly, the production takes over and the stage is swamped with tacky blue rose gobos and didactic performances.
Tom Wingfield (James Joyce) gives an eloquent, light touch to the troubled wannabe writer with just enough edge and boundless humility to be sympathetic. Unfortunately, the two female performers do not succeed quite so well with their turns.
True, they have the almost impossible task of making a smothering mother and wimpish girl likeable. Amanda (Louise Bangay) swoops on stage like a demented bird, trilling and wining about her lot, but underneath her waspish performance, the writer is saying something a little more affectionate about this creature; that perhaps her demeanour is only the effect of many disappointing years, of a life not quite all it was supposed to be. Katie Moore fairs better as the crippled Laura but seems to struggle with the subtleties of a girl afraid of the world outside.
It’s the handsome and devilishly talented Harry Livingstone as Jim who really focuses the show. Somewhere between Jimmy Stewart and a better looking Flanders from the Simpsons, he’s a flash of much needed light in the darkly claustrophobic apartment the Wingfield family pace around.
Some of the scenes between Amanda and Tom are moving and the candlelit moment between the ‘gentleman caller’ Jim and Laura flows beautifully. There’s honesty in these exchanges where the text is allowed to breathe and flourish. It’s here that the director shows she has skill. Such a shame, then that overall, it’s a smeared window rather than a sparkling mirror into the lives of the lost.
– Lucia Cox
