Synopsis A divorced couple are reunited whilst honeymooning with their second spouses. Moonlight on the Mediterranean - a beautiful young woman drifts onto a hotel balcony. A young man joins her. They embrace, drink in the scene. This is a dream of a honey moon come true. They part. The young man is alone. A band plays. On the next balcony another young woman appears. She sings a song. The young man gives a horrified gasp and freezes. He knows that tune only too well. And he knows that voice. He used to be married to it.
The play, directed by Thea Sharrock, is coupled with Much Ado About Nothing, and they both feature a battle between two star-crossed lovers.
I have to confess to being largely unmoved by Coward's 'talent to amuse’. Master craftsman though he was, his work seems as dead to me as the Elizabethan madrigal, to quote Philip Larkin, became to the British public.
The production though is crisp enough with a fine performance from Michael Siberry as Elyot and excellent support from Charles Edwards as Victor. Greta Scacchi, languorously plush as Amanda, lends glamour - if not quite enough bite.
Alan Rickman and Lindsay Duncan in a production directed by Howard Davies in the West End a few years ago were revelatory in the principle roles, forgoing the customary clipped accents and over-archness for an approach that made the play seem more modern and less an object of period curiosity. Siberry in particular wisely follows this approach, which pays off with a performance which never seems in thrall to Coward's own performances.
There is, supposedly, a darkness lurking beneath the surface glitter of Coward's writing, but in truth this doesn't extend much beyond a "can't live with them; can't live without them" view of l'amour. Put Elyot and Amanda, who are divorced as the play opens, in the same room and sparks, and indeed furniture, will fly. But their efforts to find a 'wiser', more 'comfortable' love is doomed to fail, as their new squeezes, Victor and Sybil, find to their cost.
The play runs out of steam somewhat in the second half, before gathering itself for a final assault on the collective funny bone. If Coward is your cup of tea, this production provides beguiling enough diversion and the opening set, by Peter Mumford, transports one to the French Riviera. What was he thinking of, though, with the Paris apartment setting? Vincent Price would have loved it.
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