Review: Privates on Parade (Union Theatre)
Since its Olivier Award-winning opening in 1977, Privates on Parade has been a regular staple for British theatre audiences, being such a solid bet that Michael Grandage even opened his company with the show back in 2012. On its fortieth anniversary, it reappears in London, in an intimate revival overseen by director Kirk Jameson.
Writer and lyricist Peter Nichols' use of form is smart – imitating the style and staging of military entertainment units (groups of British soldiers sent around the country to deliver staged revels for the fighting troops) to depict the lives and problems of a fictional bunch of those same performers as they cross Malaysia in 1948.
The show fits the Union snugly, allowing us to feel in cahoots with the thespian bunch. Designer Mike Lees really transforms the space into a veritable replica of the stage spaces those units would have been accustomed to. And some play the space well – Tom Pearce’s pianist Charles is at times heartbreaking, especially towards the end of the play, while Martha Pothen makes the most of the only female role, one which feels wholly underwritten at that.
The rest of the cast don’t fare as well. Samuel Curry’s central protagonist Private Steve Flowers is largely one note, while Simon Green's Captain Terri Dennis, who should be wholly flamboyant and captivating, feels almost morose during most of his numbers. The ensemble isn’t helped by the show’s choreography, repetitive and cyclical, with lots of marching and pivoting.
It’s a shame because Nichols has some conceptually interesting points about performative masculinity, homosexuality, and the gendered nature of war all rippling through the script. But Jameson skips over these in what can be largely classed as a pedestrian revival – lots of walking around but little imagination. Even the remarks comparing the theatre of war with the theatre onstage, as well as the satirical depiction of post-imperial mindsets, feel underdeveloped.
It’s fair to say that in its forty year history, the show has not aged well. Sweeping generalisations about south-east Asian populations and politics, complete pigeonholing of a single female character (while depriving her of any sense of agency), and a musty comprehension of the role of drag (in a week where Jamie has lit up the West End) all make this more passé than pastiche. But what grates is the fact that Jameson, rather than interrogate these archaic lines, instead plays them for laughs, with remarks about individuals being half-caste or the skin colour of a Malay audience drawing nervous titters from the audience. The whole experience erred, consistently.
It means that you leave the play bemused as to why a piece more offensive and dated than a profanity-riddled rosetta stone still gets performed. Compared with intense, profound and far-reaching military commentaries such as Oh! What A Lovely War, this has a lot less satirical bite. There may be talent and charm onstage, but it is saddled by an adaptation that feels, at best, off the mark.
Privates on Parade runs until 17 December.
